Messages

Maybe one of the hardest things for us to do as people is to admit wrongs that we have done - wrongs that no one else would ever know. Our thoughts are ours. No one can hear them, know them, judge them unless we allow them to. 

Unless we "put them out there" for the world to "see". 

I didn't know why he mumbled when he spoke. It took three times of asking him "I'm sorry?" to understand that he was complimenting my dress. He didn't quite look at me when he spoke. Something about him made me feel "off" and I said a quick "thank you" and broke contact. 

He opened the door when we left a bit later. He mumbled something but I didn't hear it. I just kept walking and said another quick "thank you" while we moved past. 

When we came back the next day, I (shamefully) attempted to avoid him. Sitting Logan and I further down the waiting area, not looking his way. He was nice. Kind, even. But for whatever reason, I just couldn't shake how "strange" I felt around him. 

Again, we left when lessons were over, and again he held the door open for us and I said a quick and polite "thank you." 

The next day I paid attention. 

I noticed how he continually wrung his hands together again and again and again. How he shuffled his feet from one to the other, back and forth, back and forth. How he had to make an effort to make eye-contact when he spoke to people. About how he really had to make an effort to speak loud enough for people to hear him. I noticed that when he did speak, he did all of those things at the same time. 

I noticed him for the first time and I realized every gesture that I questioned or tried to ignore or considered "off" was a coping mechanism, what he needed to do to be able to speak to strangers surrounding him. 

I realized that every single gesture of kindness and inclusion and socializing was a struggle and triumph for him. That every word uttered that was accompanied by eye-contact was a BIG deal. I realized that I had judged this man - a man so much like my child. 

A man who was trying his best.

How humbling.

I spent most of the lesson talking to him. I noticed how he tried to slow his speech when he became focused on a topic. I noticed how he made every effort to look me in the eye and how it only lasted for a split second when he did. I noticed how hard he must be working every second of every day to do the simplest things that I take for granted. 

I noticed how quick I was to judge. I felt ashamed and saddened. I knew that what I had "thought" of him is what I fear any stranger will think of my son. 

That's he's "off," that he makes them uncomfortable. That "something isn't right".

When we left I asked his name and shook his hand. I told him I looked forward to seeing him again.

Tomorrow I will sit near him and ask him how his day has been. And I will listen when he gets lost in whatever topic he fixates on. I will try to make up for the ugliness that only I could have known in my mind. I will see him as another little giant battling to demand a place in the world around him. I will think of whoever his mother is - because I know she fought for him. I know she must love him intensely to get him to this point. I know that she must be so proud that he opens doors for strangers, and speaks to them, and tries like hell to look them in the eye. I know that she would cry if she could have heard my thoughts. They would break her heart the same way they break mine. 

I know this woman must be one strong woman. I know his parents must have given every part of who they are to make him who he is. 

I know that him being at the gym, greeting people, opening doors, takes everything out of him. I know someone will one day think my son is "off" and I know I will remember this lesson. This humbling lesson.  

Everyone is someone's child . Every "little giant" is fighting to find their place in this world. And it is hard and painful and then so incredible to see progress and triumph. 

I am learning so much with this diagnosis. We are growing so much with this journey. It is humbling and eye-opening and knee-bending. 

I got the message. Loud and clear.