Sometimes pain is palpable. It is treacherous and abhorrent. I want to kill it. The world will tell me its God’s fault, but the world is idiotic. The same world will tell me everything is someone else’s fault.
It’s not my son’s fault he is who he is. It’s not mine either. And it’s certainly not God’s. The in between thoughts came into my head that heaven was silent today. Maybe God expected me not to drink wine. Maybe He let me because, well maybe it was o.k. The sting the pain brings of your child suffering is harsher than the innermost pain of bitterness. I never thought I could love anything more than my grandmother. And then I had my children. And it wasn’t that I loved them more, it is that I loved them without explanation. Maybe that explains why she loved me so much. I came from her daughter, and so I came from her.
But my son is different. He suffers. I suffer. I, on occasion drink wine after sending him to his room. I want him to get it, but he doesn’t. I don’t know why I think it will change. You don’t expect someone in a wheelchair to get up and walk. I want him to get up and walk. But somewhere in there he is sometimes trapped. And I cry. And then there are the calls. I become defensive. Why is my parenting on trial? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just the constancy of defending my son that’s got me here. I am always defending something. A client, an agency, my children, my decisions, my Jesus. I’m always defending Jesus. Why don’t people just leave him alone; him and Jesus.
There is a light inside of my son that I can’t explain. I can see it from far away. He is St. Francis to me. He’s so smart, and it’s natural. Everything about Him is naturally smart. But he fights with own emotions and then I fight with his emotions and I can’t seem to control my emotions, well because now I am emotional.
I want to shake my fist at heaven, but I talk a big game. I can’t. He is sitting right there seeing what I will do. Am I going to drink myself into oblivion or run headfirst into the pain? They both hurt, and so does my head.
But pain is transparent. It is all over my face. Yet, nobody sees it, but Him.
I won’t blame the one who saved me, or curse him for making my son imperfect. I find shame in myself for blaming Him. I can’t blame Him. He expects so much more of me…
If we can’t be honest with our pain, how will we ever make it to His throne? The foot of the cross exists just for these things. I am in quiet desperation, and my son is sleeping, and the wine is dwindling down to slivers of ice cubes. I am still completely coherent. I am still hurting. I am still human.
How do you watch someone suffer? You don’t. You punish yourself. You grit your teeth. You attempt to tell Jesus what you really think of Him. Until you realize that He’s been the one sitting there listening the entire time. And He’s crying too…
I don’t need my son to be perfect, I need the world to be less cruel. I’ll love him whoever he is. I love him more because he’s different, because I’m different. I don’t understand what goes on in his head, but I don’t have to. I trust that God made him and will care for him even when I want to cry myself to sleep. Full times jobs for working moms who have special needs kids fit round peg in square hole. I don’t want to answer any more calls about why my son can’t control himself, I just want you to understand.