how a servant lives gratefully
Home–even that word feels like a fresh breath. I wander to the mailbox and gather the waiting stack, thick with seasonal catalogs and credit card offers. Walking up the driveway, I sift through the mail, glancing up to watch sun-gold leaves drift from the expansive limbs of the Japanese Maple in our front yard. My fingers, still sorting—recycle, recycle, recycle–graze a different weight of paper, and I look down, surprised to find the creamy envelope, the address written by hand in scrolling blue ink. This one I slide free of the rest of the stack, immediately curious because not only does it appear to be real mail, it’s also addressed to my son.
And then I notice the hospital logo, bright red like those medical crosses, in tall capital letters, like the word AMBULANCE. Test results, maybe? Adam did have to visit the lab after his last endocrinology check-up; diabetics have to have routine blood work. But the hospital doesn’t usually send his results in the mail, and bills don’t come in greeting card sized, heavyweight envelopes. Holding the envelope on the top of the stack, I walk inside, remembering the doubtful look Adam gave the lab tech, who had brightly introduced herself as Laura, when she gestured to the bright blue chair, the way he carefully watched as she assembled her tubes and swabs and needles.
Laura had been very kind. I stood wondering if I should tell her what to expect, feeling pretty sure that as she clicked on her computer, she’d see no asterisked “he has autism” flash up at the top, and since Adam looks like a normal handsome, long-legged teenage boy, his responses (or lack thereof) might come as a surprise. I waiver on this point, as invariably my quick explanations feel like an apology for something that, in part, makes Adam the person he is. And I don’t believe that people with autism are less, only that they are different. I didn’t have time to explain that Adam can understand more than he can express, nor to tell Laura that she need neither feel intimidated nor limited by her interaction with my son. And frankly, I grow weary of having to explain him. So I waited anxiously to see how Adam would handle the situation and how Laura would behave when he began to speak. Adam’s spirit is gentle, with sweet, rounded edges, despite his lean, angular frame. He’s efficient with words, but not blunt; honest, but not harsh.
Adam slowly sat down in the padded chair, folding and unfolding his legs, running his hands along the rounded rise of the armrest, glancing toward me. All of this I interpreted easily: He knew what to expect; He didn’t like it.
“I’m just going to draw a little blood, okay?” Laura had said, her back to Adam, her fingers clicking against the keyboard in front of her computer.
“No, no thank you,” Adam said softly. It was not an argument, but merely Adam’s gentle way of saying he’d rather not.
I watched Laura turn and look at Adam’s face, considering his expression. She tucked an errant blonde curl behind her ear, and I waited. I’ve seen it a thousand times: this would be the moment when she shut down or opened wide, when love withered or bloomed.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said, taking a step toward my son, holding his sky blue eyes with my own. In situations like this, his eyes used to carry so much fear, so much pleading for rescue. But in that moment, his wise eyes disclosed only peace.
“No blood today,” Adam said evenly. “5 more minutes.” He glanced at Laura and then flicked his gaze toward the watch on his left wrist. Time has always been important to Adam. He wears a watch on each wrist; he is prompt. Time constraints, with their measurable, numeric limits, he understands and appreciates.
“It won’t take long,” Laura said, smiling at Adam and then at me. I noticed that her expression softened when she looked at him now, that suddenly, her “all business” persona had melted away. She spoke to Adam kindly, but without condescension, as though talking to an old, dear friend. Love had bloomed.
When Adam was a little boy, I had to use all of my strength to hold his arms still in the lab, imploring him to look at me instead of the needle, while they (it took more than one lab tech) worked and he screamed. He sounded then like a wounded animal cowering beneath the hands of an attacker. In those days, I left situations like this one feeling bruised in more ways than one. So that day in the lab, Laura’s easy way had felt like a quiet, much needed embrace.
Standing in the kitchen now, I flip over the buttery envelope, sliding my thumb under the seal to break it.
Adam had grimaced as Laura tied the rubber tourniquet around his arm, tightening his fists, grunting as though straining under a heavy load. The anticipation felt overwhelming; Adam’s message had been clear to both of us.
“Hey,” I said, and Adam relaxed, looking up at me with a silent “What?” I had interrupted his process.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said again. It was a moment before Adam looked away. It seemed as though he felt unsure about whether I offered the reassurance to him, to Laura, or to myself. I wasn’t entirely sure either.
“Okay, I’m going to prick your arm, Adam,” Laura said. “It’s only going to hurt a moment. One…two…three…now.” She offered Adam exactly what he needed–patience, clear explanations, clear expectations, and even more–respect, dignity, compassion.
“Aaaaaa, Aaaaaaaaaaaa,” Adam said. The sound came more in comment than desperation. This hurts; I don’ t like it. “Aaaaaa, Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, please stop now.”
Oh Lord, look how far you’ve brought us, I prayed, standing a pace away from my son; watching him hold his own arms carefully still; listening to him connect with someone else, sharing his feelings. I find it amazing that the ability to communicate our trouble so powerfully facilitates perseverance, that we find strength and relief from pain just in confessing and naming our difficulty. I’ve come to suspect that God gave us prayer in answer to this need, as an ongoing opportunity to connect with the divine and holy to share life.
Adam glanced back and forth between Laura, bent over his arm, and me. Are you getting this? Do you understand?
“Adam, you’re doing great,” I told him. “I know it hurts. You’re almost done.”
Suddenly, Laura had straightened, withdrawing the needle and covering the spot with a piece of gauze. “Finished,” she said to Adam. “Can you hold this for me?” She asked him, indicating the gauze. “You are a brave young man. Let me get you a band-aid, and we’ll be all done.”
“Yes,” Adam said, looking down at blotch of white beneath his fingers.
Laura smiled widely, almost tenderly, smoothing the sticky sides of the bandage against Adam’s skin. She offered him her hand, and Adam immediately returned the gesture, giving hers a firm shake.
“Thank you, Adam,” she said. And, with her warm wishes, we left.
Opening the envelope now, I pull out a note card. “Adam, you got a letter, I think,” I say to my son, who wanders into the kitchen and extends his hand to touch my ear, in greeting.
Looking over my shoulder, Adam reads the words aloud, lending his deep, precise articulation to the bright, handwritten script inside:
Adam, thank you so much for letting me serve you and your family. Kindest wishes, Laura
Adam laughs, reaching again to touch my ear. “Isn’t that nice?” I say, but it’s more than nice. Laura has shown us how work becomes serving; how serving happens with love; how a true servant lives gratefully.
