I need you
Sometimes, I worry my prayers. I squint hard, stumbling over what to say. “I have no words,” I mutter. I take notes, not wanting to forget what I meant to mention. I worry about the public articulation of my need, how I’ll sound. I forget who hears me. Maybe, I misunderstand what He knows already.
Adam looks at me, but it’s more, really, than looking. He calls to me, speaks loudly-whispered sentences with his brilliant blue eyes. Actually, this speech comes also from Adam’s limbs; his neck, sharply inclined; his long torso pressing against the arm of his seat. My son leans heavily toward the place where I sit, two filled seats away in a darkened auditorium. His eyes say, I need you. I don’t need the words; I understand the truth below them. And that, for me, is enough.
Sometimes, prayer inclines my heart this way. I am like my son now seeking; sometimes yearning draws me into a spiritual lean.
I smile down the row at my son, nodding gently. I raise my eyebrows. My face says, Yes, I see you. I’m listening. Apart from this acknowledgement, Adam would finally stand up and climb over everyone’s knees, heedless of the performance. He would reach across his sisters to touch me; He would speak right out loud, his deep voice filling the hushed room, interrupting. Funny thing is, despite all of Adam’s challenges with words, he finds a way—with relentless focus–to communicate his needs, and he doesn’t care how he sounds or who hears or that it’s obvious he still needs me.
Having intercepted my attention, Adam begins to speak, but not with any audible volume. He understands, at least, that he should stay quiet in this context, and he trusts–after all these years–that I can interpret even his most bungled attempts.
I watch Adam’s lips; I see them shape time and home. Adam glances down at his watch, as if for emphasis. What he says really doesn’t come as a surprise. From some entirely separate space, without seeing Adam’s face, without reading those careful lips, I could have predicted the topic. I know that Adam struggles to understand the performance. The actors speak quickly, sometimes so quickly I have trouble separating out the words before they move on, and Adam’s cognitive processing for receptive language requires at least twice as much time as mine. Beyond that, it’s nearly ten o’clock. Adam’s solid, chosen bed time is 9:45. Certain daily appointments—lunch, shower, sleep, Adam keeps with rigid regularity. By now, the glowing numbers on his digital watch feel downright prickly.
I know, I mouth back. It’s okay. Soon.
Adam glances, just a flick of the eyes, toward his watch. The gesture says, when?
I knew he wouldn’t settle for such a vague reply; I stalled to consider. I’m not sure exactly when the play will end, but I know I must tell him something concrete. While fortunately Adam doesn’t tantrum, he will keep asking, because the need to go feels persistently irritating to him, like a record skipping late late late, like a wool sweater that won’t stop upbraiding his arms. As Jesus says, repeated requests eventually compel an answer, “and will not God bring about justice for his chosen ones, who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off (Luke 18:7)?” I can hardly stand to see Adam continue to fidget uncomfortably in his seat, yearning toward me, raw and nakedly desperate.
11:00, I mouth into the darkness, but not because I believe we will continue here that long. Experience has taught me to cushion Adam’s expectations with time enough for unpredictable set backs. Adam looks again at his watch, lifting his long, lean arm a little closer to his eyes. He’d rather I said something else, something only a moment away. But the gesture acquiesces even while debating me. This is important, it says. His lifted arm draws a thick line beneath my promise.
I know, I nod. 11:00.
Yes, he says. I feel the word rather than hear it. Adam sits back against his seat, looking again at the stage, trying again to understand the words the players say, what it all means. And almost no one knows we’ve spoken.
