The Ease and the Glory

When we first were officially told that D’s diagnosis was autism, we were devastated. This may be insulting to some on the spectrum, but I’m keeping it real. There has been so much heartache mixed in with joy these past 11 years since that day that it all seems inexplicably intertwined.

You can’t have one without the other. As much as I’ve tried to lessen and alleviate D of the excruciating hard parts of autism, it’s still there, perhaps to remind us that the beautiful moments and the joy are all that much more to cherish.

Tonight we enjoyed an evening with Team D – the myriad of teachers, therapists and care givers, past and present, who have loved, supported, taught and held D in their hearts as we do every second of every day. Without whom nothing would be possible.

The Quran says verily with difficulty there is ease. And I’m so grateful to all those who have worked so hard these past 12 years to help him find his ease. They help our whole family find our ease.

(So many missing from this photo!)

I posted that update on Facebook a few days ago, after hosting a party for the warm group of ever-changing people we affectionately call Team D – the therapists, caregivers and teachers (and their significant others, who shared their wives/husbands/partners with our family), who have worked with and cared for our soon-to-be-15-year-old autistic son over the years.

So many have come and gone in his – and our – lives in the past 13 years since he entered early intervention in New York at the tender age of two, and then was diagnosed with autism at the wee age of three. Lisa, Lee, Guerline, Vicki, Amanda, Darla, Kari, Courtland, DeAnna, Scott, Nick, Maggi, Candice, Kim, Shelby … the list of names goes on and on and on. And on.

The phrase “it takes a village” is a cliché, I know. But it’s truth. From the time we lived in small one- and two-bedroom apartments in New York to now living in a spacious home, we have shared our space with a steady stream, a revolving door if you will, of therapists and care givers who have sat with our son and tried to help him.

Some have been failures, most have been good, and some have been just spectacular – not in what they taught D, or how they worked (respectfully) with D, but also in how they cared for D and kept coming again and again and again, even when things were heartbreakingly difficult. They could’ve walked away (a few did), but they didn’t.

Sometimes I wonder who has helped whom. Who has done more for the other – they (and us) for D? Or D for us? After all, we are who we are because of those people and those experiences that have shaped us. So in all our years and years of our devotion to help D overcome that which is so hard and learn things that will help him, what has he taught us?

More than I can express in mere words.

I read this the other day – a post by a Facebook friend who writes a beautiful blog called Rhema’s Hope, about her two daughters, one autistic, one not. This friend is strongly rooted in her Christian faith, as much, if not more so, than I am in my Muslim faith. (At least it seems to be to be that way from what I read online). She wrote something that captured my heart:

A couple weeks ago our pastor said something that has stuck with me. He said there are bumper stickers that say, “Ask me about my grandchildren.” But you never see stickers that say “Ask me about my daughter’s labor.” Yet in life we can be so focused on the labor… on the hardship… we forget about the glory that’s coming. The challenge is to say, in whatever circumstance, Ask me about the glory.

I think it has something to do with searching for the secret of contentment that spills into joy and thankfulness. Lord, I won’t compare. I won’t count any losses today. I won’t take this, all I have, for granted. Thank you, thank you, thank you Lord. There’s God-glory in that.

And so, at the end of the evening of our “Team D party,” I stood near the door with our last two guests, one of whom had worked for nearly a year in our home with D during one of the most difficult times of his life thus far. A span of months that saw him hurting himself so badly, crippled by anxiety and illness and pain, in such a state that brought him and all of us to the edge of a terrible cliff.

As we stood there and chatted, saying our goodbyes, this former therapist — this friend — looked at me and said, D looks good. He looks so good. With so many people here tonight, so much going on, it was so nice to see him hanging out with all of us. It was so nice to see his smile.

Because that’s all that matters at the end of it all. His smile. His peace. His happiness.

There’s ease in that. There’s God-glory in that.