The wisdom to know the difference

On By skrosenfeldLeave a comment


Dear Danny,

Do you remember that time, right before Christmas in the middle of your first grade year, when I quit my job to pursue a career in Special Education and everything changed?

Well, of course you don’t right now.  But you will.

As I write this letter to you, Danny, you are 3 months into your first year in the Gen Ed classroom.  I’ve put off writing to you about it because I have been waiting for the dust to settle; waiting for a satisfying end to a frustrating and difficult story.  We aren’t there yet.

Last year was an amazingly successful year for you, kiddo.  If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed what was happening in that classroom.  I hadn’t expected to hear the words “General Education” for at least 2 more years so as I sat at that IEP meeting, with your team of teachers, specialists and administrators gushing over your progress, I got swept up in the excitement.  We had our concerns, of course, but in the end everyone was on board – indulging in the kind of reckless hope that I’ve come to associate with the best moments in education.

But now…3 months wiser…the truth is that we did everything wrong.  So far this year has been so in line with my doubts and fears that if I didn’t know better I would think we were all following a script – perfecting our lines for a daily performance of the worst-case scenario.  Acknowledging that, there are only two options available:  change the play, or change our parts in it.

And honestly…I like the play the way it is.

One of the side effects of you being in school for the entire day last year was that by the time we saw you again in the evening, most of your energy had already been exhausted trying to hold it together for school.  That is how it should be, of course, but it made for difficult nights and weekends.  I accepted this behavior from you as something I could not change – the price of your effort to be your best where it “counts”.  But then…something unexpected happened.

Over the summer I had the opportunity to spend a lot of quality time with you while I was home on maternity leave.  I had planned to take almost the full 12 weeks allowed under FMLA because I wanted to make sure that I’d had enough time with you as well as the new baby.  I knew that this was going to be the biggest transition of your life, and that cutting corners in the beginning was going to make for a flawed foundation.   I expected that it would be difficult to return to work at the end of my leave.

And yet…

I did not plan for the terrifying and dangerous way that your brother came into the world.

I did not know that after Ezra was born I would never see the world or anything in it the same way again.

I did not expect to look at you 3 days later, impossibly taller and stronger than I had left you on the morning of April 28th, and feel with absolute certainty that you were the reason that we survived.

The summer was a challenge – a difficult and necessary series of growing pains and adjustments.  But in the midst of it all something amazing was happening: you were talking to me.  Not all of the time, and not without effort, but more than any other time in your short life I was hearing your real voice.   Maybe it was the shock of a new little person in the house that needed a lot of attention, maybe it was the extra space left in your mind when school was out, or maybe it was just your time.  Whatever it was, you were finding words – in your way – to tell me what you needed.

And in the moments when you couldn’t convey what you needed with the words you could reach, I would hear you call out:  “Mommy! Can you come find me?”

Recently, in school, you have had a few spectacularly bad days.  One of those days, the first one, caused your teachers to feel as though they needed to clear the classroom and call an administrator down to help work through the situation.  You didn’t understand it; you wanted to go with your class when they all lined up to leave and as they sat in the hall resuming the reading lesson that had been disrupted, you paced the classroom – asking if everyone was ok.

Later that evening we tried to talk to you about what had happened but you weren’t interested – you asked us to “turn our voices down”, which is the specific phrase you use when someone is saying something you don’t want to hear.  We let it go but I continued to bring it up over the next few days, just to see if you could tell me anything about what had happened or, better yet, why.   Two days later on the way to school in the morning I asked again, simply, with no leading questions or implications:  “Danny, what happened at school on Tuesday?”  2 minutes of silence later, the response came:

“I’m a fire drill, Mommy.”

These insightful, beautiful, heartbreaking moments of genius…you only say these things to me, Danny.  These gifts have always been entrusted just to me.

So what can I do but receive them?  What else can I possibly do but move Heaven and Earth to make sure I never miss a single one?

This past fall in church we have been talking a lot about the Serenity Prayer – a sermon series that could not have come at a better time in our lives.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

In a letter that I wrote to you 3 years ago, on your first day of preschool, I vowed that I would no longer bury my head in the sand and hope from the sidelines.  That I would never again look at any part of your life and assume that it was out of my control to change it for the better.  In the years since I have certainly had moments of wishing that something could be different for you or your situation, but I genuinely believed that we were doing all that we could with the resources that we had available to us.

This summer I realized that of all the things we have offered you, the one resource that you need is the one I never seem to have enough of – the one that is running through my fingers like sand at every moment.

Time.

I could no longer pretend that anything would benefit you more than my time, but I was only given the opportunity to see it because I was home on a paid maternity leave – a limited luxury with a rapidly approaching expiration date.  I spent weeks staring at spreadsheets with all of our bills laid out desperately searching for some way to remove my income and still end up in the clear.  I never found it, so I went back to work and told myself that it was the best I could do.

But…allowing a toxic situation to persist because you are comfortable isn’t serenity any more than making rash, poorly planned decisions is courage.  When I returned to work in July I accepted my circumstances because it was necessary to do so, but I was no longer willing to believe that it was something I couldn’t change.

So, here we are.  I have worked in finance now for nearly 15 years and this Friday will be my last day.  Next week I move on to a new career as a teaching assistant in a classroom much like the classrooms that have taught you over the years.  In time I hope to become a licensed Special Education teacher – a profession that I have felt a calling toward ever since I first placed you into the hands of such a person 3 years ago and realized that she saw you the way I did.

And yes, for now…it will be a lot less money.

But in exchange I will have the privilege of helping my new little friends find their place in school while finally having time to help you find your place in the world.  Only time will tell if these changes are the right ones to make and, even if they are, what is right now may be all wrong later.  If that is the case, then we will pray again for the wisdom to know the difference.  This leap of faith we are taking is made with equal parts peace and panic and, though it comes with no guarantees, I am certain that looking back years down the line I will not regret it.

I will remember this as the time when I realized that happiness was absolutely for sale, and that all it would cost me was a job.

You will remember this as the time your Mommy finally found a way to step out of her nest to come and find you.

We will remember this as the time, right before Christmas in the middle of your first grade year, when I quit my job.

And it changed everything.

Brother Ezra

On By skrosenfeld1 Comment
Dear Danny,

 

 
Two weeks ago your little brother came into the world on a beautiful afternoon, despite our best efforts to welcome him 2 days later.  We’d had a solid plan – one that was full of your familiar routines, your favorite places and people.  Your Dad and I had planned for 3 days off before the baby’s arrival to prepare for our growing family, and we were enjoying the 2nd of those days together.  We ran errands, went to lunch, and picked up a few last minute items for you and your brother.  We sat at our favorite coffee shop – a small quiet place completely incompatible with kids – and enjoyed the peace and stillness of being 2 on the cusp of becoming 4.  

 

 
I think I will always remember that it was trash day – a day that our HOA expects us to bring in the empty cans before dark.  As we drove away from the house that Tuesday afternoon – headed for the hospital – we saw that the trash had been collected and considered stopping to put the can back into our yard.  We didn’t.  

 

 
And if we had, even that 5 minutes could have changed everything.  

 

 
*****  

 

 
It was just over a year ago that our family was mourning a miscarriage; our 3rd loss and my 4th pregnancy.  It was devastating, especially so because I had such high expectations for how having a sibling would affect you.  

 

 
It wasn’t easy to make the decision to expand our family, especially once we were truly face to face with an Autism diagnosis.  How would we cope if our next child were also on the spectrum?  What if we had a child more profoundly affected?  I can’t lie and tell you that it didn’t, and doesn’t, keep me up at night from time to time.  

 

 
When we found ourselves pregnant last spring, I took it as a sign that we had made the right call – that having a second baby was part of God’s plan for our family – and we were immediately in love.  Months later, when we saw that small, still baby with no heartbeat, we were broken on every level.  I honestly wasn’t sure I could go through it again, so our dream of being a family of four was further away than ever.

 

 
*****

 

 
When we arrived at the hospital, the first thing we did was take a few pictures.  It only seemed fitting to do some of the stereotypical things that people do when they are in labor.  We didn’t run any red lights or get followed in by the police or anything, but we had some fun with the experience.  I never went into proper labor with you, Danny, so it seemed completely absurd to me that this time – the time I had birth planned to the minute – would be the time that I found myself having the textbook experience.  Even as the contractions became more intense and frequent, I found it hard to believe that it was really happening – I was sure the doctors were going to tell us to pack up, go home and wait for the “real thing”.  

 

 
*****

 

 
As spring turned into summer, our grief faded into the background and the collection of months that followed were some of my favorite of your life.  We went to the beach, spent hours at the pool, had a big party at your Grandma’s house – all of this while you excelled in your summer programs at school and church.  We started to realize that we weren’t as afraid anymore – that you were thriving and growing, listening and learning.  Your Dad and I refer to those months as our family “surfacing” – a time when we finally came up for air after years of allowing ourselves to be suffocated and trapped by Autism. 
 

 

And, as we were nearing the surface, we realized that as terrified as we were of having another loss…we simply couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was missing. 

 

 
*****

 

 
The very first time that I was pregnant in 2006 I prayed for a girl.  Such a silly thing to ask of God, but I couldn’t help it – I felt completely unprepared to raise a boy.  When we lost that pregnancy the only thing we knew was that the baby was a girl.  I blamed myself immediately for praying the wrong prayer. 

 

 
When I was pregnant again later in 2009 I wiled away the miserable late summer months of my pregnancy by reading various parenting blogs – one of which chronicled the author’s struggles with her autistic son.  I prayed again:  “Please Lord, not that.  I don’t know if I can handle it.”

 

As it turned out, I could.  

 
Leading up to my pregnancy last spring, my prayers were about how much we wanted to be a family of four, but also how concerned I was that you would suffer for our inability to manage the needs of two children.  “Please Lord, give me only the load that I can carry.”  Our loss felt like the answer to that prayer, so by the summer…I didn’t know what to pray. 

 

 
*****

 

 
We were only at the hospital for a few minutes before things started moving very fast.  They took us back immediately and my water broke as I changed into my hospital gown.  Not having seen the danger yet, I laughed as I yelled through the door to your Dad that we were definitely having a baby that night.  Then, my nurse came in and I saw the expression on her face evolve from excitement to solemn professionalism to pure panic right before my eyes.  Her speed, efficiency and care most likely saved our lives.  

 

 
Before we could even contact our families and tell them what was going on we had an emergency on our hands – a series of circumstances that escalated to the worst possible scenario faster than seemed possible. 

 

 
There are things about the minutes that followed that I will remember for the rest of my life.  The nurse’s constant reassurance that your brother’s vital signs were strong.  The feeling of your Dad’s hands taking off my earrings; a small piece of gentleness in the midst of the frantic push to insert IVs, catheters and monitors.  The moment when I realized that, though I was trying desperately, I was not able to speak.  

 

 
The look on your Father’s face as he forced himself to continue breathing.

 

 

 
In the operating room, a mere 8 minutes later, in the midst of the tubes and the terror of it all that same nurse leaned in close to my face so that I could focus on her eyes.  She said: “Remember what you have to live for, Sharon.  We’ll see you in a few hours”.   My eyes closed against my will; my last thoughts in that moment were of you.    

 

 
*****

 

 
One of the ways that I learned to survive your diagnosis was to force myself to stop attempting to project your future.  I decided to embrace what I think is the least dangerous assumption – that you will be brilliant, strong, and happy – and not indulge myself in pity assuming that any expectations I’d had for you will or won’t be met.  Who you will be in 10 years, next month or next week is not in my hands.  It would never have been – Autism or not.

 

 
Still, your Dad and I could not stop talking about what your world might look like when we are not in it anymore. 

 

 
We desperately wanted someone else on the Earth to see you – to love you and know you the way that we do.  We longed for you to have a brother or sister – a friend to grow up and old with. 

 

 
So when we were ready to pray again, we didn’t pray for a baby or for ourselves any more – we simply prayed for you.  We asked God to give you a sibling to love.  We asked God to see your burden and lighten it through companionship.  We asked God to send another child into our family because we believed with all our hearts that it would help you in every way.   

 

 
We prayed for help.  And right before your 5th birthday, I was pregnant again.

 

 
*****

 

 
When I woke up it was hours later – I was in the ICU, your brother was in the NICU.  For the first 12 hours that I was awake I couldn’t speak because of the respirator, and as you know, silence is not something that I excel at.  I started off signing letter by letter with my one free hand and when that wasn’t fast enough, the nurses brought me a clipboard and paper so that I could write out my questions.  I learned a lot of things in the first few hours – a story that played out in a series of miracles.  It was immediately obvious that we were very, very blessed and – truthfully – very, very lucky.

 

 
Our human bodies are frail, Danny.  Don’t ever let anyone tell you that prayer is not one of the most powerful tools in your kit, but there are some things that our flesh and blood just can’t overcome.  I came close to that edge kiddo, and I will never take it for granted that I didn’t take that one extra step.  Many beautiful, worthy, prayerful people do. 

 

 
My Doctor the next morning told me that God must have a great plan for my life yet – that I must have something amazing to live for.  I told them of course I did.

 

 
I had you.

 

 
*****

 

 
Daniel was my Granddad’s middle name.  He was a strong, brave, gentle man who left us before you had a chance to know him.  Your middle name is Luke after the Gospel that tells the beautiful story of Christmas, as it was Christmas Eve when I learned that I was viably pregnant after years of infertility and loss.

 

 
When we found out that we were having another little boy, I panicked a bit because I didn’t want the new baby to have a second choice name.  I panicked again when the name that immediately came to my heart was decidedly different.  We knew his middle name would be Martin – for your Grandpa, your Papa – but his first name stayed a mystery for a long time.  As my pregnancy went on and the personality of your little brother started to shine through his movements, I realized that I constantly thought of him with that one name.   

 

 
When your Dad and I looked up the meaning, I knew immediately why I had not been able to shake it.  The name means help; your little brother’s name means “God’s help”.  

 

Ezra is named after the prayer that brought him into our family and your life.

 
*****

 

 
Danny, on Tuesday, April 28th you woke up, got dressed, and went about your day as you normally would.   By the time I saw you again 3 days later many, many things had changed.   What had not changed, and will never change, is my love and devotion to you – my first baby, the little boy who made me a Mother.  My pulse is forever closer to the surface because of you, and there is never a moment that there is not a part of my soul devoted to you; to wondering how you are doing, and if you are happy. 

 

 
Now I am Ezra’s Mommy too and that is probably the biggest adjustment you have ever had to make.  It isn’t even the last of the changes facing you in the months to come.  In September you will leave the contained classroom and venture out into the general education world for the first time; in the next month you will see some of our dearest friends move out of town – just a few hours away but, to you, they might as well be moving to Jupiter.  Considering that we have spent the last two weeks desperately trying to convince you to make the change to wearing shorts instead of “long pants” unsuccessfully, I am not kidding myself that all of these transitions are going to go well.  I know that you are eventually going to reach the breaking point with these things you can’t control, because change is more than inconvenient for you – it is painful. 

 

 
And I understand, baby, because what hurts you is painful for me too.       

 

 
There will be great days and frustrating days ahead.  When we are in the sun, we will savor it and when we are in the desert…we will hold steady and work to do better in the morning. 

 

 
I just can’t wait for Ezra to learn all about you – your big heart; your magical sense of the world; the beauty that you see, and teach us to see, in the simplest patterns of a very complex universe. 

 

 
 

You are God’s gifts to each other; His help and His shelter.  We love you both with all of our hearts. 

 

Love, 
 
Mommy

Light It Up (again)

On By skrosenfeld2 Comments
Dear Danny,
 
You are now 5 ½ years old.  You love music, playgrounds, cars and milkshakes.  You are in the home stretch of your Kindergarten school year, and you read and write a year ahead of your grade.  You hate haircuts and the word “no”.  Your life is entirely literal and genuine and you err on the side of love almost all of the time.  You are completely incapable of lying.  When you are awake, you are singing or laughing almost every minute – something that has not changed since you were 6 months old.
 
And, yes, you have been diagnosed with Autism.
 

There was a time when I might have listed that first – even considered it your most defining attribute.

What a mistake that would have been.
 
 
“But…he doesn’t look Autistic.”
 
You would be surprised how often we hear that, Danny.  Or then again maybe you wouldn’t be, since it has become increasingly obvious in the last year that you hear and understand more of what is said around you than we’d realized.  I’m never sure how to respond to that statement when I hear it because, in most cases, it comes from a place of kindness.  And I agree – you don’t look like “Autism” at all.  You look like our Danny: a perfect gift of God’s creation, the best of your Father and I, greater than the sum of our parts.
 

In many ways we are lucky.  You do not have many of the outward quirks that people are looking for to make a quick judgment about your abilities, or your intelligence.  That your doctors are as quick to label you “high functioning” as they are anything else is a gift that we do not take for granted.  And yet, there is a burden to it that you must carry.  You have your feet planted on both the spectrum and in the neurotypical world, and that balancing act is more obvious with every passing day.  We watch you work to create routines out of chaos; we hear you craft sentences like an artist – choosing your words carefully from a palette it has taken you years to create.  We watch you struggle in a world that doesn’t always want to understand you as well as you are trying to understand it.  If it is possible for us to “see“ autism in you it is because we are witnesses to this work.  And it is work, no doubt about it.

 
But when someone says to me: “He doesn’t look Autistic”, I know that these well-intentioned people are looking for something else.  They believe they should be able to see Autism in the faces around them and whether they realize it or not, they are waiting for some kind of physical sign before showing compassion.
 
We have been taught so thoroughly to show love and acceptance to those who don’t look or act like “us”, we seem to miss it entirely when we are called to show empathy to a person who, at first glance, may not stand out at all.

In less than a month now Danny, you will be a big brother.  And goodness, are you excited.  Now that the house is overrun with baby stuff you ask about your baby brother every day.  We’d told you the baby was coming in April, so yesterday when you realized it was April 1st, you pointed expectantly at the car seat primed and ready in the back seat next to yours.  You already love this baby as much as we do, and that takes my breath away because there were days not that long ago when I didn’t feel like I could trust you with the cat, let alone another tiny, helpless human being.

 
Early on in this pregnancy someone asked me what I was planning to do if this baby showed signs of Autism.
 
Raise him?  Love him?  Release him to the wild?  Again, it came from a place of concerned kindness, but I couldn’t figure out what kind of response a question like that should elicit.  Am I worried about it?  Of course.
 
Of course.
 
But then, I am more worried that I have given the world a reason to believe that Autism is the “worst case scenario”.  That, in our actions as your parents, we have given the impression that you are a burden – an insurmountable obstacle – when the truth is that you are so easy to love.  When the truth is that we spend our days in awe of you.  When the truth is that we are different people than we were when we heard “autism” for the first time.
 
We are not scared to light it up again if that is what it takes.
 


The other day while we were driving in the car I had my window rolled down to enjoy the breezy, 60 degree spring day.
 
“Mommy, put the window up – it’s cold outside.”
“Do you really think it is cold outside, Danny?”
“It isn’t hot.”
“Well, I think it is nice outside.”
“I think it is loud.  Put the window up, please?”
 
So I did.
 
It was an hour or so later in recounting the story to your Dad that it hit me, this incredibly typical and wonderful conversation that we’d just had.  It wasn’t work; it wasn’t therapy.  It wasn’t meant to teach us lessons in how to communicate with each other or scripted to serve a higher purpose of safety or security.  We were just talking – a decadent use of words and attention, the kind of conversation that goes by 100 times a day in many households completely un-celebrated; the kind of conversation that, as I thought about it through the night, brought tears to my eyes.
 
It wasn’t the first time in recent months that your behaviors and achievements – not your diagnosis – have had that effect on me.  I cried at Christmas when you enthusiastically opened presents for the first time.  I cried when we received your first amazing progress report from Kindergarten – the first time they were able to test you and see how amazingly smart you truly are.  I cried when a simple oversight at school caused you to go to class with a sack full of lovingly crafted Valentines only to come home with an empty box.  I cried when I scanned your IEP for first grade and I read the words “General Education Classroom” for the first time in your short life.
I cry a lot these days, I guess.  But this I can say with certainty:  I never cry about Autism anymore.  The big, powerful, hopeless word that entered our lives 2 short years ago, is losing its power over me.
 
 
And it’s about time, because it never had any power over you.
 
 

Five (Unlocked)

On By skrosenfeldLeave a comment
Dear Danny,

 

On September 2nd 2014 my alarm went off at 4:45 AM, signaling the beginning of the school year schedule and the end of calm, peaceful mornings as we had come to know them.  I packed up the supplies that hadn’t made it with us to Back to School Night, and put together a lunch full of your favorite things for your first day of school.  The last step was to get you out of bed, dressed and into the car by 6:05.  At 6:06 I turned around to face you in the back seat.  “Happy Birthday, buddy!”

You returned two long blinks and an outstretched hand:  “Thanks.  Pop tart?”
 
And so began your 5th year on the earth – with a flurry of activity, a haze of exhaustion, and an entirely – amazingly – typical conversation.
 
It has been quite a year, kiddo.
 
 
 
Since your last birthday you have mastered many things – the list of skills that you add to your repertoire every week is astounding to me.  You have become independent and confident.  You can read and write your name.  You can ride your scooter around the block so fast that your Daddy has to ride a bike to keep up with you.    You “watch for cars” when you get to a road.  You can navigate nearly any electronic device you encounter. You can watch TV programs and movies and truly understand what is going on.  You talk.
 
You talk.
 
And while we still have a long way to go with that last one, the progress you have made in the last year has been nothing short of a miracle.   This year you are going to Kindergarten – a full day program filled to the brim with content, therapy, field trips and special programs.  Your teachers are positive and energetic and your classmates are bright, happy, chatty little people – just like you.
 
Right around your 4th birthday, something really exciting happened in your life: you made some new friends.  We all did, really, and those friends have had such an impact on our family that it would be impossible to explain this past year of your life without talking about them.
I am completely certain that you will remember Miss Jen – her family, her friends, and her beautiful children – for the rest of your life.
You see Danny, about 6 months before we met Miss Jen, a lot of things went wrong – things that made me question how we were spending our time as a family and how I would continue being a part of some of the things I loved.  I was so emotionally worn that I’d convinced myself that the only solution for both of us was a total withdrawal from anything that wasn’t mandatory.  I was wrong, of course.  I was just too tired and scared to see it.
 
There is a popular writing that surfaces from time to time called “Welcome to Holland”.  It is an essay that tries to explain what it is like to parent a special needs child by comparing it to planning an elaborate vacation to Italy, only to arrive fully prepared for the time of your life…in Holland.  That essay shows up in Autism communities a lot and while it rings true for many, I’m sure, I just never accepted it as our story.  I always felt like I’d gotten off the plane in “Italy”; I just never seemed to know where I was going.

 

 
But this year we met someone in this foreign land who was speaking our language.  Who already knew where to find good music and cool coffee shops.  Sure, we may travel in different parts of the city than our typical counterparts, but that is because we aren’t tourists – our trip has no defined ending, or guaranteed flight home.

 

 
So now instead of isolating ourselves we take risks – we go to the playgrounds, malls and parties.  We send you to camps and choir practices and trust you with your peers.  We push you further than we would have ever imagined a year ago and slowly the walls are coming down.  We try everything, and then we try it again.

 

Physically you have grown into a strong and athletic boy – full of long legs and elbows.  Save for the mass of red curls all over your head, there is not a trace of the tiny, chubby baby we met 5 years ago.  You are 100% kid, whether we like it or not.  I have worried for years that your looks and strength betray you – that people expect more of you because at first glance they believe you to be older and more capable than you are.  I knew that I was relying on words like “toddler” and “preschooler” to explain your behavior, and I dreaded the time when I would have to reach for “Autism” instead.
It isn’t always popular in the ASD community to acknowledge that this life is not easy.  Not for you.  Not for us.  Yes, there are those great days.  When the routine goes smoothly and plans work out and everyone eats well and gets enough sleep…I look around and sigh and say, “yes, this is perfect.”  I rally behind puzzle pieces and internet memes and I think – I know – that we can conquer the world.
 
But other days…when transitions are hard and fun activities disintegrate into melt downs.  When a non-preferred activity causes a tantrum that lasts the entire weekend, or when a request to play outside is denied because of a thunderstorm and we spend the next hour in bed huddled under a therapy blanket.  On those days I fight to keep this singular thought from taking root in my heart:  We don’t deserve this.

 

Because of course, no one does.

 
And for better or worse…Autism is a part of who you are.  If it was possible to separate this dragon from your castle I would slay it with my bare hands just to hear you tell me about your day.  Just to know that you would tell me if you were hurt, scared, or sad.  Just to be sure that you understand us when we tell you how much we love you.
 

But the fact of the matter is that this dragon is both strong, and wonderfully magical.  And since he has made his home in you we’ve had no choice but to befriend him, admire his beauty, and do our best to avoid the flames.

One day I hope you will find the words to tell us the whole story, the one I know is forming in your beautiful mind.  I hope your bright eyes and endless laughter mean that the story is a happy one, and that you don’t hold the bad moments against us.  That you will forgive us for the things that we have had to say and do to keep you safe in these years where our communication has been so limited and your behavior so unpredictable.

 
“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in…”   Revelation 3:20
We have a picture in our house, Danny: Christ at Heart’s Door by Warner Sallman.  It came from my Grandparent’s house – a place as sacred to me as a child as my parent’s house is to you now.  I asked to keep it because the lesson behind the picture has always been profound to me.  In the image, Jesus is standing outside a closed door surrounded by flowers and light.  I remember staring at this picture as a little girl trying to figure out what was so special about it.  When I eventually realized that the wooden door didn’t have a knob, I asked my Grandmom why.  She answered that it was the door to the heart – those doors can only be opened from the inside.
 
You are a fan of doors, little man.  It was your very first interest and is still your “go-to” activity when you are stressed or upset.  Your doors have enabled many things in our lives.  They were the foundation that our first games and communications were built on so your Dad and I…well, we’re fans of doors too.  The thing is – most of the time no one is allowed to touch your doors.  You stand on one side of whatever you have created and call for us to come through.  You have always been the gate keeper.

 
So it is with your games, so it is with your mind.  So it is with your heart.In the beginning the door was so imposing and you were so far away.  We’d stand at the door and knock but you couldn’t hear us; we’d press our faces to the wood but you couldn’t see us.

 

But now more and more I feel like I see you peeking through the slats from the other side.  We’re so close now, Danny.  You’ve unlocked the door; we just need you to open it.
Knock knock.