hugs
At the end of the day, when I walk in from the shore with the sunset on my cheeks and my skin still warm from the sun, I find the text:
I know you’re at the beach, but I just had to tell you what happened today.
The text comes from one of Adam’s gifted teachers, from a dear friend. I can hear her voice intoning the syllables, and for a moment I feel like I can see through her eyes–the kids and teachers making a circle out of their chairs; the mosaic of faces, spots of bright color from their clothes, the Light. This is Kingdom. They circle up to share their favorite memories of the school year, some in sentences, some in words, without limitations around acceptance. Sometimes, this should be our reason to Gather; to get specific about remembering. I hear the clatter of the chairs; see their hands slowly rising as they think of things to share. Randomly, some of these friends need reassurance about the order of things–what comes next, what time. Urgently, with hard-edged, needy voices, they blurt their questions into the circle, a little louder and again, again, until someone satisfies the anxiety they feel. Here, such needs reoccur with the familiar regularity of hunger and thirst and breath; they come without shame or regret or ridiculous attempts to pretend. At length, their friends now more at ease, the students and teachers resume sharing in whatever ways they can and will. Adam maybe says, “good,” in his generally agreeable way, his voice so much deeper than it used to be, the word falling like a stone. I stand in the cool now holding my phone, wondering if this was a day when Adam, asked about his favorite thing from the year, recited his schedule or mentioned some recent element of the day, as though the question itself remained just at the edge of his understanding, or if this was one of those miraculous days when he found a few more words with which to express his own feelings.
In any case, communication happens as an exchange instead of a monologue: someone gives; someone receives. And the best conversations find richest expression in skills beyond speech—listening carefully, responding with sensitivity, touch–skills Adam still needs and has been slow to develop. How many times have I stood at my son’s elbow, steering him through the things we say to express interest or concern? Ask them how they’re doing, Adam. Say, “Oh, that’s great!” Say, “I’m so sorry.” Sometimes the process feels absurd; sometimes, hopeless. Sometimes, impatiently, I start to talk for my son the way I did when I held him in my arms and he tapped his baby toes against my belly.
At school, the kids excel at group conversations, relying on each other’s strengths. Some verbalize; some reach; some react and respond when needed. They neither censure nor minimize one another’s contributions; they know no hierarchies. In this great place, Adam’s friends welcome even his unreliable answers.
Beach-me scrolls with my sticky thumb, smearing the screen with my memories. Wait…what?
Today in the end-of-the-year circle, someone cried.
Her favorite memories dripped down her cheeks with the vision of this circle breaking open, the gathering of book bags, the school year finished and packed away. She cried about missing her friends. And at that moment, Adam stood and walked across the circle. He reached to hug his crying friend but stopped short, as though maybe he felt this and acted before he thought it through, and then, the unfamiliar gesture felt uncertain. Adam has never been a hugger; the undesirable pressure on his skin and the inability to control the weight of a squeeze have made him reluctant about this type of affection. He has developed his own, less uncomfortable way, but he indulges me when I ask. Hugs are a sacrifice, see. Love is sacrifice.
Adam’s never hugged anyone at school before, my friend writes. In fact, I’m not sure he’s ever really touched another student, except when we ask them to hold hands with a buddy for some specific reason.
Adam’s friend hesitated too, just a beat, though no one knows whether she reacted to her own feelings or just Adam’s unexpected behavior. Then, making up his mind, Adam leaned over again, opening wide his long, lean arms, while his friend stepped into them.
But today, he saw her crying and got up to hug her, and this without anyone prompting him to do so!
I cover my mouth with one salty hand; it’s as though I can feel Adam’s arms around me.
“What?” Another friend’s voice draws me back to the room where I’m standing. The air conditioner–or was it the text?–raises goosebumps on my warm arms. My feet still feel gritty with the sand that wouldn’t wash off at the hose on the way back. I look up, taking in the giant metal palm tree in the corner, the willowy, coral seaweed printed on the pillows. I must have gasped or let a soft “oh” escape in the reading, because my friend stops next to me, concern etched on her features.
“Adam hugged someone today at school,” I explain. “They were circled up talking about the end of the year and their favorite things, and one of his friends started crying. Adam walked across the circle and hugged her.” I am in equal measure thrilled and disbelieving; God blows my mind. Somehow He starts right where we live and teaches us love, without impatience over our slow development. One by one, we take our awkward steps across the circle.
“Oh,” my friend says. Her hand drifts to her heart. This friend loves Adam too; she asks for “two-armed hugs” whenever she sees him, knowing how he struggles with touch. Her eyes fill to match mine as we pause, gathering the treasure together.
