My mother, my sisters, my neighbor’s cousin’s friend, we consulted them all to no avail. That was him — untouchable, unreachable from the youngest age. He shared in our world in the most unpredictable of ways, alternately delighting us with his “tricks” and quickly retreating at our hopeful overtures. So we lived day by day, seeking out moments of light and of joy and fighting the hard-enduring patterns that tore us apart.

Creation: A moment of dedication, a prayer of words, and from the corners of the universe bursts the glowing warmth of connecting light.
Funny as it sounds, our light came with a (informal) diagnosis. From a wise old friend who said, “Leah, these are patterns.”
“All kids have their things,” I said, “why must you see patterns?”
“Leah, you see it,” she countered. “You can acknowledge it now, or you can acknowledge it later, but it’s there. It’s not going away.”
I was quiet, but in my heart, I said, “Okay.”
Suddenly the years of shushing the skeptical voices in my mind, them ever-mocking, “It’s just normal kid stuff, why are you making a big fuss?” were over. Now the challenge was real and present, and I was free to see it — and deal with it. I was also free to see my precious, innocent son beneath all this… mess? I set my sights on him.
It was then I discovered how our thoughts and our words are endowed with the power of light. First to envision it, then to bring it into being. To see a hurting little boy beneath the screaming. To intuit the cute and creative child who couldn’t fathom where he’d fallen apart and to bring his strengths to the fore. The power to take a deep shuddering breath (or two) and say, “It’s okay. This is not the real ‘him.’ My son is sweet, he’s funny, he’s kind. His challenges have brought him here.”
I think that’s the sentence I repeated most, through bedtimes and mealtimes and midnight wakings. “This is not him.” This is not who he is. He’s lovable, he’s good, he’s adorable. He’s… loving even?
My son loves to learn; he doesn’t love to cry. My son thrives on friendship; he doesn’t mean to fight. He’s been dealt a challenge, he’s having a tantrum, but this isn’t him. He doesn’t know how he started, and he definitely does not know how to stop. But this isn’t him! It’s not him.
The consultations continued, the tips and the tricks and the therapy, but through the good days and the bad days I said it: “This isn’t him.”

Today was one of those mornings. Pair-less shoe, stuck zippers, definitely the wrong lunch! Strain to fasten the seatbelt on a sullen, squirmy child and drive to school. Muttering in the back seat, rhythmic kicks to my chair. Just breathe, just breathe.
We arrive. Head up the gray-flecked stairs s-l-o-w-l-y, nudging, nudging all the way. He jumps into the classroom, instantly taken with the morning’s “what-who-where-s” with his friends. They’re all standing there, elbowing for wiggle room and talking rights, when I call out my regular, “Bye! Have a great day!”
Usually the conversation continues, and I turn to go. But today — the chatter breaks, as my son slips away for just a moment. His eyes reach for mine as he runs forward, his little arms outstretched. His small and earnest strides eat up the rows of tiled floor ahead. The sun is warm, and it casts light across his face, delicate features upturned as he nears.
As the classroom chatter flows and fades, his eyes lock with mine. I spread my arms wide, gathering him in for a mother’s hug.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue  740)