“How many doors will suddenly close as we go down the hall today?”
“How many stares will we get along the way?”
“What if he stops to squeal, make his loud noises, or stomp his feet so forcefully every few steps?”
“Oh God, please let us make it out of the building today without any hurtful incidents.”
Our son’s Comprehensive Development Classroom was at the very end of what I was convinced was the longest hallway in any school.
Despite his cerebral palsy and autism, we felt it was important for his developing motor skills for my wife to hold onto him and allow him to walk down that hall to and from his classroom every day, under her assistance.
Some days it was absolutely agonizing.
Some days it was arduous.
Some days it was heart breaking.
In our household, autism seems to introduce itself at the worst possible moments.
While at the drive-in window.
While at a restaurant.
While at a quiet, otherwise peaceful place like church.
While walking down the hallway from the school’s entrance to my son’s classroom.
Becky would count the number of teachers who suddenly closed their own classroom doors shut as she and my son slowly made the trek down the hallway.
She could feel the stares, the glares, and the fear in her own heart every day.
Some days, fear would slip into the car and ride along like a passenger on the drive to school, whispering in her ear the entire time.
She wished more people understood. She wished more people would take the time to learn and understand what was happening.
My son was making happy noises. He was expressing his excitement, his joy, and his genuine pleasure when he made those sounds. They were the only way he could express himself.
At the end of each day, when he would see his mother open the door to the classroom and call his name, he would squeal with delight. He would gingerly raise his arms, crippled by cerebral palsy, and hug her neck. As she lifted him up into her arms he would kiss her cheek over and over.
God breathed, God ordained love. Mother and son with a bond that defied any fear, any pre-dispositions, any attempt by the world to undermine it.
What God had put together before the beginning of time would not be ripped apart by any special-need or reaction of others to the special need.
I call it his “happy dance.”
Beth is one of those teachers whose classroom my wife and son walked by with dread for so many years.
She heard my son’s loud noises, and felt his yelps echoing off the hallway’s walls. She listened to his feet stomping every few feet.
But instead of closing her classroom door, she opened her classroom door.
This is what she told my wife.
“Once I learned that he was squealing when he heard your voice, it just made my day to hear him. He loves you so much and he is so blessed to be yours and he knows it! I had to open my door just so I could hear it.”
God opened her eyes.
With her eyes open, God then opened her heart.
With eyes wide open, and her heart then wide with love, she opened her door to grace and understanding.
As parents of children with special needs, we have been given gifts. Too often we try to hide those gifts. Too often we make excuses or try to explain ourselves. We become defensive or defeated.
My son’s “happy dance” is an example of how that even though our pain runs so deep as special-needs parents, our purpose runs even deeper. His expressions are a gateway to grace and understanding.
We have a choice.
Our circumstances do not define us. We can choose instead to be defined by the way we respond to our circumstances.
It’s not so much the journey we are on, but the fact that we are on this journey with the hand of God and his presence in our lives.
We are not just caregivers. We are sojourners.
We are on a temporary stay, a temporary journey.
When we rise above our circumstances with grace, dignity, and pride in our calling, God uses our sojourn to impact, inspire, and teach others around us.
We can choose to hide behind closed doors, closed hearts, and closed minds.
Or we can choose to open the doors and proudly display our gift to the world. Sometimes you may need to unwrap your gift right in the middle of the hallway.
Latest posts by Jeff Davidson (see all)
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Thank you for your kind words Julie! Nice to meet a fellow traveler on the autism journey. Blessings to you and Noah!
Julie Winkle says
What joy it brought to my heart to read your blog! As a fellow autism road traveler, my son Noah and I are yet another of God’s gifts! Thank you for sharing your story.
My son is severely MR with autistic tendencies! He does not speak , but that does not stop him from expressing himself:) He is the love of our lives and a gift from God! People who do not take the time to understand our children are missing out on the unconditional love and friendship that they have to offer. Everyone assumes that our kids don’t understand what is going on around them/ that is a bad assumption to make ,I believe their understanding is better than most so called normal people. They see the world with open innocence and with all their hearts. I wish everyone could love as deeply as our kids do, it would change the world!!!
Jeff Davidson says
You are so right Donna! Our children are gifts from God. They are also as you described, world-changers. Thanks for reading!
Sheila Chaffin says
Being a friend of Beth Anderson’s, I have to comment and say her heart has always been open! She has the most loving, giving heart of anyone I have ever know. All teachers should be so accommodating and understanding!
Ann Holmes says
Great post, Jeff! You always reach into your heart and pull out a treasure! Thanks!
Thanks so much Ann! Beth is the real treasure here. I’m just glad to be able to tell her story!
Thanks Ann! Beth is the real treasure…just glad to be able to share her story!
Lauri Khdabandehloo says
Amen! What a lonely story, that so many of us who have walked in your shoes, down your “halls” and felt the same as you so eloquently describe…blessings to you and your family!
Jeff Davidson says
Thank you for reading Lauri! Blessings to you and your family as well!