When I was pregnant with my first son — before a doctor ever wrote the diagnosis Autism Spectrum Disorder alongside my son’s name — I dreamed of a family that the powers-that-be would eventually tell me wasn’t possible. I dreamed of boys who built stick forts and coordinated backyard missions via walkie-talkies. The powers-that-be reminded me that my son, at twelve years old, still couldn’t speak. I dreamed of the aroma of homemade bread wafting through my home while I read aloud to a passel of children, gathered on the living-room rug. The powers-that-be reminded me that my son couldn’t tolerate gluten or dairy. I dreamed of farmland, of pygmy goats bleating outside my kitchen window, of rural churches with steeples. The powers-that-be reminded me that my son couldn’t hold his body still or echo back liturgies. I dreamed of floral sheets billowing over clotheslines, inflating and deflating as the wind changes – white-haired legs darting in and out of fitted and flat. The powers-that-be reminded me that it wasn’t safe for my son to play alone, that he needed constant supervision. I dreamed of dark secrets made untrue. I dreamed of innocence. Perhaps I dreamed of heaven.
My dreams are interrupted, each morning, by the sound of my son’s bedroom-door alarm. It alerts me of my son’s movements – that he is out of bed and, as such, needs my help. I wake up every morning relieved that we’ve survived another night. Every single 24-hour cycle, to me, feels like a miracle. I am very, very afraid of what might happen to my son while I’m asleep — I hear stories of autistic children learning how to beat every lock and latch money can buy, of opening their front doors in the middle of the night, and entering the darkness, unhindered. I hear stories of police deputies finding an autistic child, sans clothing, wandering ink-black streets. The moment I hear my son’s bedroom-door alarm, I exhale. As I slide on house slippers and shuffle toward the kitchen, I offer a prayer of gratitude: Thank God nothing happened last night. I pour a mug of black coffee. We survived. I breathe in and out. Thank God we're all here. I can’t help but feel intense relief. If this sounds like paranoia, you simply haven’t seen the things I’ve seen.
Maybe every longing is a prophecy — that what we want is good, but the journey to find it will be long. That, in fact, we’ll need to enter a different dimension to find it. And entering that dimension will mean leaving behind every person, place, thing, and idea we hold. Do we love God that much, trust Him that much? Do I trust a God who, in all likelihood, will ask me to leave behind a son who cannot live on his own? Do I trust that He will keep my son safe, after I’m buried six feet underground? Do I trust that physical pain is not the worst thing that can happen to me, to my son – that, instead, it is separation from the One who stitched together my skin and breathed life into my body, my son’s body? That we can bear all things – breath-stealing loneliness, physical suffering so tangible it overtakes the brain and leaves us limp and thoughtless – if only we are never taken from our loving Christ? Maybe every unfulfilled ache is a foretelling, a clue – a banner lifted high: something better is coming.