A View From Above

"We're looking at autism."

He said it before I had a chance to compute that our four-month long odyssey with our county's regional center was over.  Four months ago we met with an intake coordinator to begin the assessment process of diagnosing a developmental disability.  Various clinicians assessed Daniel over these past four months and now I was sitting in the office of a retired pediatrician and a second clinical psychologist watching Daniel line up Legos on the floor.  I heard him say it, and as many parents of autistic children will say, I was strangely relieved.  I knew for certain now that I wasn't just an overly concerned mother.  My base instincts were confirmed:  My child has a lifelong neurological  disorder.

We left and did what we always do:  We found the nearest elevator so Daniel could watch the doors open and close ten, twelve, fifteen times.  It would be at least ten minutes before my husband came back for us after my cryptic text of "we're done."  We rode up and down the elevator.  This is how it goes.  

"Push the button, honey."

"Push," he says.

He pushes the button with zeal with one little index finger.  He waits in eager -- and I mean eager -- anticipation for the elevator to arrive.  His superior hearing detects its impending arrival.  He gasps "Uhhh!" and his eyes get big.  He flaps his arms in excitement.  The doors open and he runs inside.

"Push 2, honey."

"Push 2," he says.

He pushes 2 precisely and happily and as the doors close he puts his face an inch from the door.  This is problematic when there are other passengers on the elevator, especially other mothers.  I used to say, "Don't worry, he won't get his nose stuck.  We do this all the time."  I don't say it anymore.  I just do what my dad used to do -- I people-watch and get a kick out of their horrified expressions.  Daniel is an expert elevator door watcher.  He never misses.

We rode up and down the elevator I don't know how many times.  This time I was robotic instead of enjoying it with him.  I thought how apropos it was that after receiving the news that our son has autism that I would be doing this mindless activity.  I knew he had autism before anyone told me he did and yet I was overwhelmed with a sense of sadness in this moment.  It was official.  It was in writing.  I have a very good track record for having correct instincts; this is one time I wish my instincts were wrong.  It said to me that deep in my heart I hoped the news would be different.

I looked at my son, this precious little person pushing elevator buttons, and was reminded that this isn't happening to me so much as it is to him.  This is his life.  This is his fight.  This is his world and I'm in it.   It is not a world that we ever thought we would be in and suddenly we are thrust into it without a seat belt.  It is not a bad place, but it's a foreign place.  It's a place with labels and a new vocabulary, and road signs that read "try this, next right" and "try that, road closed," and "detour ahead."  And at the end of each day of travelling, I get out of my car and I'm not sure if I was even driving.  How did I get here?

You know those scenes you sometimes see on television and in the movies where someone is standing on a rooftop and then suddenly the camera pans up and out and the person gets smaller and smaller and smaller and the space around you gets bigger and bigger and bigger?  That's what I pictured.  I felt incredibly small with a big space around me as we rode up and down in this elevator. 

But there is Another who has a better view from above.  Jesus said, "I am the Way and the Truth and the Life."  He is the Door.  He is the Bread of Life.  He is the Alpha and the Omega and the Great I Am.  He is the Beginning and the End.  He is the Living Water.  He is the Good Shepherd.  He is the Lamb of God and the Savior of the world.  He is Daniel's God.  He is the Great Physician.  He is Faithful and True.  And He made Daniel exactly the way Daniel is.  Daniel is not a genetic accident.  Daniel is not less.  Daniel is a singular, unique and beautiful child of the King and I throw myself on His mercy and grace to give us strength and vision and purpose to help him thrive.  With all that is within me through His great enabling, I will never stop.  I will never give up.  I will continue to fight to give him a purposeful life, and I will continue to beat down the doors of heaven for him.  His love never fails.  God doesn't use labels like "autistic" and "ADD" and "Down Syndrome."  He calls them sons and daughters, and He loves them -- He loves our child -- with an everlasting love.

Give me a view from above.