One Year Living With Autism

After two years of growing concerns, Jude was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder last October. (You can read my bio if you you are unfamiliar with our family’s story.) This diagnosis gave my wife and me an immediate sense of relief. We kept saying to each other, “At least now we know what we are up against.” As the English proverb goes, “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.” Now one year into this journey, I want to record where we’ve been and look ahead to where we are going.

Over the past year, we have experimented with so many treatments and therapies that I’ve lost count. While a great number of recommendations helped Jude only minimally if at all, others have made some improvements in Jude’s language, social skills, and behaviors. Our greatest successes have come with dietary changes and supplements. Some sensory-seeking behavior and repetitive behaviors (like dropping rocks directly in front of his face or shaking his head rapidly) have been reduced, if not ended all together. Socially, we get the chance to look straight into his bright eyes much more now than ever before, and he consistently seeks us out for interactive playtime, whereas before we often felt like inanimate props in his own impenetrable world. Although we still want to see him engage with other kids more, overall he is more present today than he was a year ago. The fog he was living in seems to have begun to lift.

For us, the first red flags raised were in the area of language. By two years old, he did not speak any intelligible words, and he understood no more than ten words consistently. Today, Jude understands a good portion of what we say, although exactly how much is hard to determine, and he has also started using some words in play. He is like a non-stop jukebox of Veggie Tales songs. However, he still does not utilize language to communicate his needs or desires.

As we look forward, there are a few areas that we would like to ask readers to pray for:

Sleep. As is typical of children on the spectrum, Jude sleeps very poorly. We have experimented in numerous ways but have not achieved consistent sleep. Needless to say, lack of sleep inhibits Jude’s progress in learning social and language skills, and furthermore, over three and a half years, poor sleep wears on nerves and relationships.

Diet/Biomedical. We have made significant progress in this area, but there remains much needed wisdom to customize his diet and supplements even further. Thankfully, we have an appointment this year with a pediatrician who specializes in Autism. We hope that with her help we can fine tune what we are already doing as well as move forward with some physician-directed changes and treatments as well.

Therapies. Good sleep and the right diet only prepare Jude’s mind and body for learning. Learning actually takes place in therapy. Over the past year a psychologist and a speech therapist taught us to do TEACCH and play-based speech therapies on our own, and just this week we started utilizing a grant to hire therapy helpers. We hope to significantly increase the amount of time Jude has someone “in his face” over the next few months, but we know that this transition will challenge and frustrate him in the short-term.

Long-term. In only two more years, Jude will start kindergarten, and while we are thankful for the great number of educational options available for him, we are equally intimidated by these choices. Also, ultimately, our family desires to serve God again on the international mission field. Please pray for us as we seek God’s guidance in these big choices and seek to balance faithfulness both as parents and as those who are called to gospel ministry.

Lover of My Soul

Tiny lights twinkled, woven into twisted tree branches while flames flickered from countless candles embedded in the wet sandy beach.  A floating flotilla of candles on the dark lake mirrored shimmering stars in the night sky. Large Chinese lanterns lazily swayed, glowing slowly, silently rising until they disappeared somewhere to the right of the moon. Romantic music gently wooed her soul while a white tablecloth gleamed softly in the warm candlelight … a fragrant white bouquet was given … a sparkling diamond ring was accepted.  Fireworks exploded!

Then my son’s jubilant shout split the night air, “SHE SAID YES!”

Jesus? Is this how YOU felt when I said “YES” to You?

It stuns me. I’ve never connected those dots before. Did this much thrill, joy, relief wash over You? Were You this excited to hear ME say, “yes”?!

“….as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride, (my son with his bride-to-be)

SO YOUR GOD WILL REJOICE OVER YOU…

He will exult over YOU

with shouts of joy.”

(Is 62:5b, Zeph 3:17)

I know these verses, but now I am humbled by this personal glimpse into Jesus’ delight over me, His loved one, saying Yes to Him. It’s true, and my soul instinctively knows this … because even with all of my son’s love, creativity, planning, joy, delight – no earthly lover could ever outdo Love Himself.

I need to soak this in.

I don’t know all that goes on behind the scenes in Heaven. I DO know my daily life, and it’s far from romantic. In fact, it’s more like this -

WHILE those lovers embraced on that lake shore, pledging their undying love,

there were ALSO accomplices hiding in the bushes, talking in frantic WHISPERS as they traipsed through murky swampy lake edges, thinking mostly of SNAKES, shoes OOZING slime, fighting thorns and thistles in the DARK, and BURNING themselves trying to unpack, unfold, and light Chinese lanterns, which were supposed to lift gracefully UP into the air, pass the lovers’ field of vision, then float into oblivion. BUT, instead, showed a distinct inclination to float just OUT of reach, then gently DESCEND into the dry brush …sparking visions of California-size WILD FIRES out in the middle of nowhere!

Meantime, floating on the lake (along with whatever ELSE slinks in and around large bodies of water at night) were clunky canoes, filled to overflowing with loyal friends, NOT dressed for this task, precariously TIPPING as they (burning themselves also) set floating candles into the WATER (water and candles don’t go together) splashing out a good many wicks in the process….

Now THIS sounds familiar. Between sin, self, and hidden disabilities, I live in thorn bushes, get my shoes muddy, tip over and get burned – sometimes all in the same day. All while (get this) trying to live life in such a way that it blesses SOMEbody, for Jesus. I want them to know He LOVES them!

I never intend to burn the woods down, as I try to bless my family. But sometimes I do. I wish I was a more skillful journey mate to my loved ones with hidden disabilities. But I’m not.

There are more ways to go wrong than right, through hidden disabilities, this side of heaven.

But —– it was ALL WORTH IT WHEN SHE SAID “YES!”

Every scratched up, soaked,  hidden loved one, on both land and lake, CHEERED!!

Listen. When the earth’s stage is all set, Jesus WILL come back for His bride – all those who have said YES to Him.

He won’t need fireworks to announce Him.

We will cheer :) .

We will be inseparable. It will be worth it.

Jesus told this behind-the-scene-of-heaven story (having lived in heaven, He should know) … “imagine a woman who has ten coins and loses one. Won’t she light a lamp and scour the house, looking in every nook and cranny until she FINDS it? And when she finds it you can be SURE she’ll call her friends and neighbors: “Celebrate with me! I found my lost coin!” Count on it – that’s the kind of party God’s angels throw every time one lost soul turns to God.”

(whole story Luke 15:4-10)

If you have never said “YES!” to the Lover of your soul, will you?

(Heaven is leaning down, listening, waiting to cheer.  Me too.)

Loved and listening,

Joan

 

Sibling Sorrow

“You number my wanderings;”

I wonder which number I am on, God … 140? or more like 2,589,380? Why number them?

“put my tears into Your bottle …” Psalm 56:8

Do You have separate bottles for each cause of my tears?

If so, one is definitely labeled Sibling Sorrows. It should be about full by now, holding my tears for the sorrow I feel whenever I watch pain between my children.

We have amazing children. We don’t deserve them, and can’t thank God enough for their lives. Personally, I admire how they valiantly wade through life muddied by hidden disabilities without giving up. Just this spring they proved themselves again, as young adults, playing crucial roles on the search and rescue team for my husband’s lost mind.  I wish you knew them. (If you’re reading this site, then you know something of what they have weathered.)

But they are human too. And you better believe this journey has wounded them. Some of the defenses they formed, against their confusion and pain,  has caused and continues to cause pain to each other. It hurts me to witness it. When they were young, many times I should’ve intervened long before I did. Now I want to fix it (of course) but can’t. Jesus has brought us a long way, but we’ve far to go. I want each one to really BE there for each other (in healthy ways) so they can experience family the way they deeply long for, and God intended … but

anger at the injustices,

confusion about the causes,

mistrust and fear of speaking up,

disappointments over dashed dreams,

pain seeking a blame,

shame and sins …

all these can trigger them. Then, like an armed heat seeking missile with no target to lock on, the closest target within range often is a………SIBLING, who is dealing with their own pain, and cannot absorb more.

Some don’t rant and rave. They retreat … hiding way inside themselves (or others) seeking safety, til there’s no finding them. I miss them, when they do that.

When I cry out to You

THEN my enemies will turn back,

This I know because

God is FOR me.

Ps 56:9

As for me, I will call upon God, and the LORD shall save me.

Evening and morning and at noon I will pray,

and cry aloud,

and

He       shall          hear          my            voice.

Ps 56:16,17

Just had a comforting thought … (thankyou, Father).

Jesus is also their sibling. So technically, spiritually and family-wise (stick with me here) it’s our kids plus one more. Jesus shoulders being Firstborn for my firstborn, He’s the I’ll-defend-you Brother, their enthusiastic-I-want-to-spend-time-with-you-sibling.  AND He is completely healthy emotionally and spiritually — so He can take whatever they give Him without hurting them in return. In short, He is everything they can’t find in each other. He’s the perfect brother, who can and will always show up (no excuses), invest (no matter the cost), listen (with undivided attention), inspire (by example), be patient and kind (in attitude and word), pour life giving words into them when they lose hope, serve (their smallest needs) — and do it all because He is so overwhelmed with LOVE for them (not because He must)….

Thankyou, Jesus. We really need You.

Joan

And They’rrrre Off!

Our children grow up too quickly. It was only yesterday that I was changing the diaper on our first son Tucker. Actually, it was fourteen years ago. Now, I see him only when he is on the way to the refrigerator or when he needs to discuss the deeper things that matter in life; you know… girls. At the same time, our younger son Fletcher has kept up with his big brother in the growth department. Lets just say that Fletcher will never be confused for a jockey. This doesn’t mean that Fletch doesn’t enjoy horseback riding. Well, at least it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like his Daddy being the horse.

This used to be a great deal of fun for me. I would get home from a long day at work and Fletch would come in the room, climb up on the ottoman, turn me around, jump on my back, and then we’d be off to the races. As the years have passed though, the jockey has gotten too portly and the stallion needs to be put out to pasture. He jumped on my back the other night and I thought I was carrying a sack of wet cement! I don’t know where he found those rocks for his pockets, but at a dense 110 pounds, Fletch is a formidable rider for all but the heartiest Clydesdales.

Reflecting on this, I know that it won’t be too many years before Dad’s pony rides will come to a conclusion. I’ll be too old and Fletch will be too big. Some parents might feel excited about their kids moving on from such childlike games; but I say this with a twinge of sadness because I truly love his giggle as we ride through the frontier of our home.

These days, instead of galloping down our hallway as Fletcher’s trusty steed, I now have to stagger under his enormous weight. As I trot at my rider’s behest, I now feel muscles tear that I forgot that I owned. As I struggle to stay on my feet, I feel the desire to set Fletcher down. But just as I want to bring our game to an end, I remember Jesus’ words to his disciples: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

As I ponder this passage, I come to a new conclusion: Fletcher isn’t a burden, he’s my boy! With renewed resolve, I’d like to go for another gallop; but I need to get my hamstring checked first!

~ Todd

How Sweet It Is

Noah’s Asperger’s Syndrome (AS) is merely a shadow now, barely visible except to those who know him best. This may change as he gets older and variables like driving, dating, and sports continue to distinguish him from his peers. We celebrated his 8th birthday yesterday, and he got the bike he wanted. He also got the basket and the bell he had requested for the bike. Now, I’m not sure how he’s going to pull off a basket and a bell on a Mongoose dirt bike. It doesn’t quite scream “bad to the bone,” as was his original intent, but we gave him what he asked for. It’s tantamount to his wearing knee-high Christmas socks to camp the other day, or changing his pj’s twice a night because the feeling of a waistband on his skin drives him batty. It’s the little things like this that distinguish him, that whisper of his uniqueness, that make us smile.

Noah met a new friend last week who is virtually his twin. A wonderful woman who boards her horse with mine encouraged her 9-year old Aspie son to meet Noah. As we suspected, they were off and running from the start. They made a point of interrupting our lesson to speculate to my trainer how she might solve the ant infestation problem in her tack room, as they had located the source and thought they had developed a solution. I was elated the rest of the day. Here were two boys who “got” each other right from the start. Their silences were not awkward. Their conversation wasn’t forced. They were alternatively content to ramble on one subject or another.

And then a few days ago at the pool, I met a woman whose son was severely autistic. I watched him in the pool, bobbing in place. He slapped the back of his hands together in a rhythm only he understood. His slack mouth hung open and wide in a smile. His mother told me he didn’t speak. She received her diagnosis from the Kennedy Krieger Institute – the same place where we received Noah’s.  Then, Noah came over in a flurry, asking for money so that he could buy a snow cone with the other boys. I was almost embarrassed to admit to her that he, too, was on the autism spectrum. Noah’s flapping has abated, his eye contact is better. Except for the barrage of words and his tendency to interrupt us (a characteristic that is shared by many neuro-typical 8 year olds, not just Aspies), his disability is well hidden. How could two mothers bear sons with the same disability, and there be such a disparity in circumstances? How could her life be so much harder than mine?

I realized then how sweet our circumstances are. Our son’s progress – with the help of talented teachers, therapists, and doctors – has been remarkable. An early diagnosis and parents with a fierce determination to give Noah every advantage also contributed. We struggle with much, but not nearly as much as others. Life is indeed sweet.

Gratitude is the twin of sweetness. I am humbled by how the Lord has stayed his hand on us and given us no more than we could possibly bear. I am grateful that Noah is on the upswing. I thank God for Noah’s uniqueness, and though our neurologist said there is no “curing autism, but managing it,” we seem to have reached some kind of happy, managed stasis.

I am grateful for the sweetness. I thank the Author for it. I’ll take it while it lasts.

- Sarah

Minimum Distance

Motherhood is not for those of us with personal space issues. The moment those little sea monkeys start to grow behind your navel, you’ve got to make peace with the fact that your entire endocrine system exists for the benefit of another human being. They come out clawing for food from YOUR body, they are only comforted by the laying on of YOUR shoulder, they are possessed of scrupulous aim when it comes to projecting every possible bodily fluid onto YOU. They pull your clothes, they follow you into the bathroom, they trip you up. For the most part, children do not understand the concept of maintaining a minimum distance.

Now, as a physically affectionate person, I might be less bothered by this than most. Jesse sitting on my lap while he eats his dinner (because this is the only way I can seduce him into finishing what’s left on his plate); Grace playing with my hair as I read her a bedtime story; even the foot pressed into my side when Jesse scrambles into my bed like a puppy in the early morning hours and falls back to sleep – none of this annoys. I love the physical closeness of my children. I long for it. As they grow, I have become keenly aware of when it is absent.

The Bed Thief

The Bed Thief

Noah’s method of hugging is now tilting his head toward me and letting my arms surround him, or turning away from me, and backing in toward my trunk. These do not feel like real hugs. When I kiss him, he looks away. He does not touch me of his own accord. I must always initiate. Grace tears toward me at the end of the camp day to squeeze my middle and lift her face for a kiss. Noah strides by me, headed for the corner chair and his Nintendo DS. He always maintains a minimum distance from me – and from others. Unless he is torturing his siblings. He can sit on Jesse without batting an eye.

I’m aware that part of this could be that burgeoning distinction that all nearly-eight-year-old boys must make from their mothers. There is a part of him that has begun to recognize that holding my hand is no longer kosher. And then there is the part of him that simply shies from certain forms of physical touch because of his unique circuitry. He loves horseplay, for example – rough housing, being thrown in the air, banging into other kids on the trampoline. But the light touch of a kiss on the cheek, or gently holding his hand creeps him out. He’d much rather I squeeze the living daylights out of him, or mash my entire face against his (which I have done, in an attempt to steal a kiss from him). Not that he enjoys these at all – I believe he more “tolerates” them. But the harder the touch, the more he giggles. There is a direct relationship between pressure and pleasure for my boy. So, when I want nothing more than to physically connect with him at the end of the day, it’s usually a flying body-slam onto the couch, or a twirling bear hug that gives me just a few seconds longer in his arms. And it works out okay. Because the few seconds he tolerates are the few seconds I need.

- Sarah

On Strength and Weakness

There is a popular song on the radio now with an upbeat chorus that repeats, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger….”  It’s a catchy melody, and I find myself humming this tune at odd times.  I’ve even taken to obnoxiously singing these words to my kids when they begin to complain about things I’ve asked them to do.

 

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”  This is such a common cliche.  But the more I’ve been thinking about it, I’m not sure it’s true.

 

When I first started experiencing trials, in my late twenties, I DID feel that trials made me stronger.  As a young adult, these trials were some of my first life experiences, and I learned from them.  I learned about faith, about God, and I learned about the need for support in my community.  These early trials taught me about my own tendencies in responding to difficulties.  In learning about myself, I learned about God.  I DID grow stronger.

But I am no longer in my twenties.  As a seasoned wife and mother in her forties, I feel far more fragile than I did when I was twenty.  I no longer experience trials in the same way that I did when I was younger.  The trials in my life no longer serve to make me stronger.  They’ve left me feeling weak, beaten down, occasionally defeated … but they have always left me more dependent.  My trials make me dependent on others … doctors, kind friends and neighbors, therapists, caregivers … most importantly, my trials also make me more dependent on God.  They do not make ME stronger.  They make me stronger IN HIM.

“When I am weak then He is strong.”

2 Cor 12:9

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

 

Lord, I pray that the trials of hidden disabilities and all that we experience bring us closer to you.  I pray that we become more dependent, and even more thankful for our trials, as they are a way that You help us to fall at your feet and bring you glory.  May we grow stronger, not in ourselves, but in You.

 

~Nancy

Pound of Flesh

“NOAH! Jesse is touching your Nintendo!” Grace is sitting at breakfast, munching her toaster strudel. She is our meddler, our fire starter. She is very good at her job.

Noah comes tearing over from the couch, bent on annihilation. I try to stop him in his tracks – “Noah, NO! He barely touched it – he’s already put it back!” But I am too late. Noah flies past me to his brother with open hands; hands that grab his brother’s arms and squeeze and pinch in unison. Noah shakes with the effort. His teeth are gritted. He says nothing – only squeezes. This is almost worse than yelling alone, because I can subdue yelling quicker than physical violence. There is no need to tell you, of course, what this did to Jesse. He still bears the bruise.

Jesse receives M&M’s for using the potty. Noah is sure to ask for his own. Grace gets something from the treasure box for cleaning her room. Noah screams it’s unfair, that he needs something, too. If a friend is picked as classroom helper, Noah will make sure to inform his teacher of when it ought to be his turn. Anything he deems unjust warrants hitting or squeezing or pinching. He can go from quiet to raging in a blink.

Noah always gets his pound of flesh.

I’ve often thought how foolish these struggles are between my children: the fighting over a television channel, the screaming over the last honey bun, the terrorizing that accompanies a stolen toy. They don’t speak to each other afterwards. They slam doors and throttle each other.   I slide unwillingly into my role as referee multiple times a day. How easy it would be to compromise and be done with it!

Enter conviction, stage left. Funny how these miniature people magnify our own shortcomings.

“Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against anyone among your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the LORD.” Leviticus 19:18

“Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.” Romans 12:19

Sometimes God’s word requires a bit of interpretation. But you don’t need a Master’s of Divinity to figure out that the Lord is telling us to stop the fighting and let it go, already.

I’m prone to blue-face parenting just like everyone else. I repeat and cajole and sometimes it’s like screaming into a hurricane for all the good it does. Really, the only way for me to get this message through to my kids at this malleable stage in their lives is to model it first.

A very good friend of mine recently closed off certain areas of her life – and certain people – for no apparent reason. She took up with other friends, completely redirected her interests, and let other relationships (including ours) completely lapse. I was shattered. We had lived our lives side-by-side. We had traveled together. Our children were in the same class. But now she was suddenly shutting me out as easily as turning off a light. For weeks, I fumed and deliberated. I complained to Matt and my other friends. I grumbled constantly and carried a grudge that I’m certain seeped through my skin each time I saw her.

Finally, I gave up. I realized two things: (1) there’s no art, as Shakespeare said, to find the mind’s construction in the face. I didn’t know what was going on behind the scenes. She was searching for something. Maybe she just needed time to find it. (2) There is no injury so great that the Lord cannot repair it. Whatever she’s done to me is not mine to repay.

Lord, may my life be a paradigm of forgiveness and grace. May I learn to let things go and practice loving over grudge-holding.

And please, Lord. Let Jesse stop touching Noah’s Nintendo.

~ Sarah

Silence is Golden

I swear sometimes, I’d pull a Van Gogh to get a little quiet in my house.  I’ve tried every permutation of “Be quiet!” I can think of, including but not limited to, “Zip it!,” “Let’s play the quiet game!,” and “You make me want to stab my eardrums with an ice pick!” I am not proud of these of course, but there is only so much volume a human can take.  There is a reason air traffic controllers wear protective headgear, after all.  Not a one of my children is a quiet personality, preferring to observe rather than partake.  In fact, they all partake so much that I’m often tempted to hide in my closet when they start a screaming tattle fest so that Matt has to break it up.

I marvel at other people’s quiet children.  When visiting my brother in California a few months ago, I asked him where his three daughters had gone to – it was so quiet in the house!  Like, 30 straight minutes of quiet. “Oh, they’re in Jozy’s bedroom, playing.”  “Why can’t we hear them?”  “I don’t know…” he trailed off.  “SAM! I don’t understand it! WHY ARE THEY SO QUIET?!”  Sam, who is likewise quiet, shrugged his shoulders.  “Beats me.”  My friend Rhonda’s children are also
perfectly tame-tongued angels.  She well remembers the weekend we spent at the beach and all 10 of us were seated around the table, with my three in the throes of torturous wailing, and her three, sitting quietly and coloring on their placemats.  I was bereft for weeks, thinking I’d been doing something wrong.  My kids can’t even whisper quietly.  You’d think they were raised in a wind tunnel.

Our house occasions a constant stream of chatter.  Take Noah’s recent report on George Washington Carver.  Lines like – “would you want to hear this remorcibill [sic] story? Ok then.” – demonstrate the way he is as much a presenter as anything else.  I guess this is part of who he is as a kid with Asperger’s – the stream of chatter is one-sided, oratorical in nature.  There is nothing he loves more than an audience.  Ask him how his day was, and he will relay the whole thing down to the detail of what peg he hung his coat on, what chair he sat in, what the student next to him had for lunch, and how long their recess was.  His is not the quiet form of autism.  But it’s apparently the best possible form for our uniquely woven family, loud as we are.

As a natural introvert, I have prayed often for a quiet house.  I am energized by solitude and silence.  But I didn’t marry a quiet man (ostensibly, the first of my mistakes in this regard).  And then comes the realization that were my prayer to be granted, my mother’s quandary wouldn’t disappear, it would simply be different.  My brother’s youngest struggles to speak at all, and she is almost five.  Another mother-friend of mine tells me that while her middle child is quiet and introverted his emotions are locked tight beneath his studious exterior, and she angsts over pulling him out.  Quiet children are no easier than loud children.  They just require earlier cochlear implants.

It’s times like this when my children’s screeching provides a setting for my writing that I can’t do anything but laugh.  Even as I typed that last sentence, my daughter Grace said to Matt as he was toweling her off in the bathroom, “Daddy, it’s hard having three kids, isn’t it?”  To which he and I burst into simultaneous laughter.  It’s the loud kids, the vocal kids, the verbally expressive kids who often come up with the most hilarious stuff.  Stuff we might have missed if our house were more serenely silent.  Psalm 32:3: “When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long.”  My children aren’t ones for internal groaning.  They’ve learned that sometimes, a kid has just gotta let it fly.

- Sarah

Love Me

“Mama, can you lay with me? Just for a little bit?”

Grace is lying under a drift of blankets and dolls. Her head is cocked to one side, eyes squinted. She cannot make me out without her glasses.

“Yes, love. But just for one minute, okay?”

“Just for one minute. Okay.”

One minute is always ten, and I’m the one who adds the extra nine. She whispers to me as I face her in the warmth of a small rose-colored gooseneck lamp that acts as her nightlight. She pets my hair and plays with my slack fingers, putting her hand in mine. Grace is my lover (and also my fighter, so don’t get any ideas). She communicates her affection in choke-hold hugs and the “seven kisses” we exchange every night before she falls asleep. And I am so glad for it, because often, my verbal, funny, sociable son Noah will prove harder to connect with than an electrical outlet in a foreign country.

There are moments when Noah is classically “Aspie:” those times when I pick him up from school and he does not utter a word to me but stares blankly out the window, the times when he comes in from outside and flies awkwardly to his room to slam the door and open his Nintendo DS. There are times when he hugs me stiffly with a plastered smile, not wanting to disappoint me, and I do not get much more. Sometimes, the world proves too much for him, and his mind is quieted by solitude and silence.

I must be (and am) grateful for what I have. I encourage Noah to engage. I squeeze him when he lets me and savor the hugs, though they are sometimes rare. I relish the daughter and her Giver. I thank the Lord that He knew me well enough to give me a child that speaks my language of touch, and remind myself that though his ways are different, Noah does not love me any less. I must learn to speak his language, too.

- Sarah