Dust and Air

I think things started to unravel the summer of my son Samuel's 2nd birthday. The kids and I were visiting my family in Minnesota, they being three out of thirteen cousins on my side of the family. All the cousins are close in age and each child's developmental milestone piggybacks the next child in line, creating a domino effect of first teeth, first words and first steps. Samuel, however, was the exception. He was two years old and still not speaking a single decipherable word, not even saying "Mama". His behavior was erratic, aloof and hyperactive. He vocalized only unintelligible jargon. He had no interest in playing with other kids. He was an anomaly amongst his peers.

In the months that followed, my husband and I sought to identify what was inhibiting our son. We heard terms like developmental delay, verbal apraxia, attachment disorder and ADHD. As more time passed and his peculiar behavior increased, the reality of his condition became heartbreakingly clear. Samuel is autistic.

Coming to terms with Sam's diagnosis has been a painful journey. On this road I've felt sadness, anger, regret, fear, embarrassment, guilt and despair. Probably one of the most difficult things to grapple with is the feeling of powerlessness. As a woman, my natural inclination is to want to control everything, therefore ensuring that all will be well. "Controlling" autism, however, is something I have failed miserably at. Though we have spent thousands of dollars and tried every remedy in the book to free our son from autism's hold, he still remains firmly in its grip. The scripture in Ecclesiastes 7:13 rings true, "Consider what God has done: Who can straighten what God has made crooked?"

As a parent, I don't want anything to be crooked for my kids. I want smooth, straight paths for them. I want cloudless skies. I want happy endings. I want everything to be absolutely perfect. The sick disease of perfectionism has no place in parenting, or anywhere else for that matter. There's a reason why God made us fragile jars of clay instead of steel mugs.

Often it's through our imperfections and weaknesses that God chooses to work. In 2Kings 5, Naaman was a man who could attest to this. Commander of the Aramean army, God had given him many victories and had granted him the admiration of many, even the king. He was arguably one of the most powerful men in Aram at that time and yet, in his own private arena, he was powerless against an unconquerable foe. It was literally eating him alive. 2kings 5:1b (NLT) reads, "But though Naaman was a mighty warrior, he suffered from leprosy." Swords and spears could not bring this enemy down. His earthly strength was useless. Fortunately for him, he had a very compassionate slave girl tending to his wife. That young girl encouraged him to seek the help of Elisha, the prophet of God. After swallowing a hefty piece of humble pie and obeying Elisha's simple instruction to dip in the Jordan River seven times, Naaman was healed. Something even more important than being cured of leprosy happened that day, though. Naaman became a believer in the God of the universe, the God who made him well. Ironically, Naaman's deadly disease may actually have saved his life, spiritually speaking. If God has made something crooked, He's done that for a reason, a very good reason.

That being said, I've still felt tempted to ask, "Why God?" After all, didn't we do a good thing by adopting a child? Why would He allow this to happen? I've tortured myself with questions like, "Am I somehow responsible for causing Samuel's condition? What if Sam had remained in Ethiopia, would he not have become autistic? Have I actually done him more harm than good?" These are questions I will never have the answers to. I am just a mother seeking to make sense of it all and laboring to do right by my son. I have made Romans 8:28 my mantra, "And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God..."

In 2Corinthians 12:7-10, the apostle Paul gained clarity as to why the Lord made a stretch of his path crooked and refused to remove a painful thorn from his side. He concluded the thorn's purpose was to foster humility and to keep him on his knees before his Maker. He had become perfectly content with his powerlessness for Jesus said to Him, "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." (2Cor. 12:9) God knows I need all the grace I can get.

I am beginning to see Jesus at work in my powerless condition. He is exposing dark corners of my heart that need to be swept clean. He is teaching me to celebrate little victories and to value progress, not perfection. He is carving a more compassionate heart within me and summoning me to give love continuously, regardless of what I receive in return. He has opened my eyes to an alienated population of people effected by this condition who otherwise would have remained invisible to me if not for Sam's autism, a population so desperate to be ministered to and understood. The truth is that we all have something in our lives that cannot be vanquished, something that reminds us we are only dust and air. May that something cause us to remain securely fastened to God's side. For when we are weak, we are truly strong. (2Cor. 12:10)