You asked to sleep with me tonight, and I was happy to say, “Yes.” As you lay next to me, I marveled in your beauty. You are magnificent! You have my white hair. You have my eyes; you have your father’s strong jaw line, and my mother’s high cheekbones. You are beautiful! But, they tell me there are things wrong with you. They tell me you have dyspraxia. They tell me you have A.D.D. They tell me you are autistic. I don’t know what these things mean. These labels confuse me. You are my boy, and you are my perfection.
You cannot be still, so I rub your back. I marvel at your muscle tone, at your overdeveloped traps, and I kneed the knots out. How hard you must have worked today to cause such stress on these muscles. Your body jerks. You fight against the release, and then you finally fall into it. I reach for my lotion and begin to work on your overdeveloped back muscles. No boy at the age of 7 should have such a strong back, and shoulders. Your body continues to jerk. I continue to work and to marvel at the beauty that is you, my son. I work my way down your arms to your wrists. They lay limp. Weak. I pick them up, and they fall. The contrast to your shoulders, neck, and back, is startling. I work your hands, and your fingers. They are the same. They do not respond to my fingers. They lay open and unaware. My heart lurches. What they say is true! They tell me that underneath this beautiful crown of white hair your brain does not communicate with these precious hands I now hold. They tell me scientific names like dyspraxia, and so on, but I cannot hear them. I only know you. I pick up your fingers and will them to encircle mine…they do not. They never did. I know this because when the doctors first placed you in my arms I noticed this about you, my stunning boy!
And so, I continue to massage your tight muscles, the ones, which have done all the work all day long, making up for their counterparts. You are quiet for the first time since you opened your eyes at 4:45 a.m. I am cherishing this moment with you. Then, I begin to weep, to sob. To worry, to question, to marvel at how far you have come, and how wonderfully God has protected and taken care of you, my dear boy! You turn suddenly, I had thought you were asleep, and you find my mouth and kiss me. You ask, “Are you crying, momma?” You go on to inquire about a litany of pets and animals from our past, which may have died and if I am upset about them. I just squeeze you. And as if on cue… KoKo, our Jack Russell Terrier, enters the room, hops up next to you and lies down. You ask if I love Koko, and if KoKo knows when I am sad, and I just say, “Yes,” my precious son.
One day you may know what you have overcome. You may never know what I have overcome. But my prayer for you, my boy, is this…. that you always know that any overcoming has only ever been done because of Jesus Christ in our lives.