There are memories that creep up on me. Potent memories—the kind that are etched in vivid color—that pull me, sometimes rather unexpectedly, into a past reality for a time.
~There is this memory I have of, after a long run, taking baby Isaac into the shower with me. I would lift his squirmy little self into the stream of warm water so his face was just above mine, and he would giggle in sheer delight. I remember soaking in that moment: The way his eyes lit up; the way the water trickled in little drops off his nose; his wide-open smile with his little waggly tongue hanging out of his mouth; the joy and closeness of that simple moment has become part of me forever.
~Isaac has always loved singing. Little Isaac had just learned the art of the round. He had an uncanny ability to hear and sing perfectly pitched notes and reveled in sweet harmonies. “Row Row Row Your Boat” became a fast favorite of his, and he loved to orchestrate Brian, himself and me in a three-part round. “Mommy to sing; Daddy to sing?!” He would say in his sweet sing-song way. So, I would start “Row, Row, Row your boat….” Brian would add his voice with Isaac’s fingers flapping in joyous anticipation of his entry into the trio. Complete concentration would furrow his brow as he’d tip toe around the room joining in at the perfect moment to complete our round. When the last note was sung, he would fling his little body up and down in a joy so complete, it would make my heart overflow.
~I had a dear friend who passed away several years ago. I wanted to attend her funeral, but wasn’t sure how I could leave Isaac home without me—at that time, he was heavily reliant on me for his care and had a very difficult time sleeping at night when I was not present. So, I decided to bring him with me. Traveling during that season of life was simple. Isaac felt safe with me. In unfamiliar places and amidst changes in routine, all he needed at that time was a snuggle from me, and all was right in the world. He came with me to the funeral and snuggled right up, content to play with “Telly,” the new blue robot clock I had bought especially for this trip. My mother snapped a picture of his face squished up next to mine as I pulled him close to me at the funeral. It became one of my favorite snapshots, and I tucked that simple moment away deep into my heart. Isaac was my bud. I could provide him the security and stability he needed. I was confident in this, and he was confident in me.
I imagine most mothers feel this way about their babies. I feel like God allows us this sacred space and time where a lasting bond can be forged between the helpless purity, and the steward. That relationship between mother and son then morphs and shifts and deepens in complexity and hopefully also in strength as the years tumble by until one day he may have the privilege to care for the aged one who once bore him.
The relationship between a profoundly autistic son and a mother plays out very differently. As age and development bring change and high emotion and lots of questions, autism remains to meddle with senses, heighten the potency of the perception of change, and tangle the attempts to understand and ask and share. To me, that sacred mother-son relationship sometimes feels like it has become a complex puzzle with shape shifting pieces.
How do I even begin to understand what his experience is like? How can I help him if I don’t understand? And how can he possibly walk through this life feeling things and thinking things that cannot find their way out? It is in these moments when the memories of earlier days soak through to the present and gently, sometimes painfully, pull me back to the simplicity that once was. These memories play in vivid detail and the clash of sweet and bitter swirl around in my heart for a while. It’s not that I want to go back to those earlier days. What I want more than anything is to find deep connection and security with him in the present like I felt in the past, and I don’t know how. I don’t know how to do autism—where there are far more questions than answers. Where I feel heavily blocked in my many attempts to understand and connect and move forward.
One thing that I do know is that God lets us wrestle. He lets us wonder. He lets us want and wait. There is purpose in this. I am wondering if waiting in the uncomfortable space of uncertainty grows us into patience. Maybe this is the space where love grows more pure. Perhaps faith flourishes on the ground made sacred by choosing to believe in the goodness and surety of His purposes even when we don’t yet understand. Perhaps this is the space where we can truly become oriented to and acquainted with Him.
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