and so, we grow
After dinner, we settle our forks on plates smeared delicious, and I give thanks. Around one sentence gather so many gifts: dinner, delicious, we. Adam stands, reaches for Kevin’s plate, then mine, stacking them with careful clatter beneath his own. His eyes flick past Riley, who still needs to finish a few bites, to Zoe, who sits further away from the stretch of his arms and absorbed in conversation with her dad. It’s another gift, this way he finally reaches past his own needs.
“Say, ‘Excuse me, may I take your plate?'” I offer quietly, observing his pause, knowing sometimes words for helping require the greatest effort.
“I take your plate.” Adam chunks the last four words, his voice deep and gravelly, the words falling uneven, the emphasis in the wrong places. But my quiet instruction had already drawn Zoe’s attention, and she waits, grinning in that sly way reserved for sisters.
“Of course,” she says with some satisfaction, proffering her dirty plate with a flourish.
Meanwhile, I sit silly with delight; puffed up on progress. I want to clap.
I know, this is small. And also, it isn’t. Adam has trouble realizing that his actions impact everyone else; Autism makes caring for the needs of others a big step. But then, we all have spiritual autism; we all struggle to live love that ties a towel and washes feet. For Adam, this progress has taken time; we started with a small corner of fertile soil and a few seeds: put your own dishes away, put your own dishes away, put your own dishes away, scattered and planted, tamped down at every meal. Then look, look, look; we’re here, too; we have dishes, too; take those for us, take those for us, take those for us. Growth happens slow, requiring rows and rows of the same movement, the same words, the same long stormy seasons of trust. I used to joke that one day I’d rock in front of a window to the rhythm of all this repetition. At our house, nearly everything feels like a skip on a vinyl record. But love is patient; we’ve been teaching Adam over and over, just this one thing, to gather the plates after supper when usually he would bound away, drunk with his own met needs. Tonight makes the first time he’s done this without a reminder, without us drawing him back from his own plan, some shadowy next thing from which he returns, complaint falling from his lips like crumbs. And so it is with me I realize now, grinning happy over my son: God claims some new ground in my heart and plants and plants and plants patiently, loving me, and not magically but powerfully, I grow.
In the kitchen, Adam turns on the water; I can hear it splash over the plates as he rinses them. I’ve been a parent too long to consider the lesson permanently or perfectly learned. That doesn’t happen here. Tomorrow, Adam will forget, like we all do; distracted, he will drift away and we will call him back like God does me, gently pulling me beyond my limited perspective. Adam will not instinctively apply this behavior to other tasks; I will not walk upstairs and find Adam suddenly folding laundry for the family. We will have to pick another field to furrow; we will have to plant again, and wait. I know all this, and still, swelling with love, I congratulate him. “Adam, thank you for helping us,” I say, delight rising with my voice. “This is so good. Thank you.”
“Whooo!” Adam trills quietly from the kitchen, murmuring. “Good job.” He collects my affirmation like sweets. His eyes shine. The forks clink as he slides them into the dishwasher.
