it takes practice
From my office, I heard their voices, the soft, deep rumble of Father training son.
“Do you still need Lantus?” Kevin asked Adam, who grunted over the forced pause. What is it about us that we resent the time it takes to grow?
Lantus is to long-release insulin what Kleenex is to tissue, merely a brand that has become synonymous–at least in our home–with a necessary product. Every evening, Adam gets an injection of slow-absorbing insulin to support the continuous drip from his insulin pump. The medication protects against pump malfunctions during the night that could otherwise make Adam violently, dangerously ill. For Adam, this is just another routine part of healthy life, like brushing his teeth, except that these injections are difficult for him to administer himself. Since Adam requires our help, we all know how to give him this injection, and in fact, we’re so proactive about it that we could easily double or triple up on the effort. So, the question is a frequent and important one when it comes to love, and it’s also a question that Adam struggles to answer helpfully.
“Yes,” Adam said affably. But it was the wrong answer. Just half an hour earlier, I had given Adam’s injection myself.
“NO,” I yelled quickly from the office, loud enough for my voice to carry into the kitchen and interrupt the reach for insulin pen, needle, alcohol swab.
“Mom says you don’t,” Kevin said to Adam.
“Yes,” Adam agreed quietly, because when Adam struggles for words, he finds it easiest be agreeable.
“If you’ve already had your Lantus, you need to say ‘no,'” Kevin said, and I heard the smile, the affection, in his voice.
“Yes,” Adam said.
“Not yes, no,” Kevin said, and the smile grew wider.
“Aww, try again,” Adam said jovially, laughing as he spoke. It’s safe here to make mistakes.
“Mmmhmm, ‘try again’ is right,” Kevin said, and blindly I felt the reach of love as they drifted away to other things. Training takes time and repetition, practice. They’d return to this later.
And so it is that after supper, Kevin turns to Adam and says, “Hey Adam, do you need Lantus?”
“Yes,” Adam says, grinning, tall, expecting the lesson. Slowly, we learn to appreciate our own improvement. Together, father and son move toward the cabinet that holds all of Adam’s supplies.
“That’s right, you do,” Kevin says, drawing out the insulin pen and it’s screw-top needle. “But after I give you your shot, you say, ‘I’ve already had my Lantus,’ okay?” Since Adam struggles to retrieve words, he memorizes sentences and phrases and learns to use them appropriately. In this way, Adam isn’t entirely different from the rest of us. All of us memorize things to say when creative expression is most difficult. This is why the disciples asked Jesus to teach them to pray, and also why his answer became one of the most recited passages of scripture. Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name (Matthew 6:9). It’s why we all use and understand sentiments like, “I’m sorry for your loss.” It’s why, when overused and emptied of meaning, our memorized language becomes cliche. But because Adam has autism, he finds all creative expression challenging, if not impossible. We’ve spent his lifetime interrupting his busyness to train him how to say the things that matter. On this occasion, son, say this.
Silently, Adam turns to offer Kevin the bare back of his left arm. A quick swab and plunge, and the injection is complete. I turn my back to them, picking up a dish towel, smiling over the multitude of scripture through which our Father teaches us what to say. On this occasion–when you serve, when you make a promise, when you have a chance to tell the Truth, child, say this. Some words are worth the practice, and every good Father has love enough to teach.
“Now. Do you need Lantus?” Kevin asks immediately, gathering up the supplies with one hand, offering Adam not a test but an opportunity. We learn; we practice; we grow.
“I’ve already had my Lantus,” Adam says, and with confidence. It’s as though I can see his life expanding through an opened door; as though he suddenly, triumphantly fills a bit more of the room.
“Yes, you have!” Kevin says enthusiastically, lifting a hand for a high-five.
“Could we have anticipated these scores?!” Adam says in his best announcer voice, smacking Kevin’s offered hand. “I scarcely believe it.” It’s another memorized expression, a practiced tone, but it works. Nothing makes Adam happier than pleasing his dad. For a moment, we all stop our doing just to celebrate; our growth is something to celebrate.
“You did good,” Kevin says, reaching up to tousle Adam’s hair.
And so the training continues, session after session, day by day, until the Father brings the lesson to completion.
There has never been the slightest doubt in my mind that the God who started this great work in you would keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish on the very day Christ Jesus appears. Philippians 1:6 MSG
