never give up
Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. ~Galatians 6:9
Sometimes I feel so weary. These are the days when I feel the truth of my inadequacy, and also the best days for acknowledging the reality of God’s tremendous strength in the face of my complete lack. For as long as I’ve had my children, I’ve understood why Christ says His power is “made perfect in weakness” and why Paul declared that he’d “boast all the more gladly” about his weaknesses, “so that Christ’s power may rest on” him (2 Corinthians 12:9).
Tuesday, Adam got sick. Just as I finished cleaning up the kitchen and prepared to head to my office, his teacher called to say that he had a fever and didn’t want to eat his lunch. On top of that, his low blood sugar complicated the issue. And because Adam can’t answer my questions about how he feels, I had no idea if he’d put his head down on the table just because he felt terrible or because the low left him feeling sleepy. Did he not want to eat because his throat or his stomach hurt? Or, had the low made him queasy, knowing he needed to eat but not really wanting to try? The thing about low blood sugars is that although there are similarities in the way they affect him, a specific number (or even a specific range) on the meter doesn’t necessarily mean the same feelings or outcomes every time.
And, after collapsing on the finish line of the strep Olympics a few years ago, in the back of my mind there’s always a big neon, is it strep? again? sign blinking. I tried, unsuccessfully, to ask Adam if his throat hurt. He just kept repeating, “throat hurt,” which is Adam for, “I hear what you’re saying, I do. But I have no idea how to answer your question.” His teacher and I pulled out a communication notebook to help him find his words, but the best we could manage with that was, “I feel sick.” Yea. No help.
So, I spent the last few hours of my day at the pediatrician’s office with all three kids, waiting around in an exam room the size of a broom closet. Adam submitted nonchalantly to the throat culture, recovering from the gag reflex as if, as the pediatrician remarked, it was “another day at the office.” While we were there, Zoe said she thought maybe her throat hurt and that she might have strep also, and then became deeply offended when she thought my comment about “the power of suggestion” meant that I thought she was lying for attention. So, while Riley paced the closet asking random questions and Adam swung his feet back and forth from a chair against the back wall, Zoe sat in my lap and we discussed the difference between deliberate deception and psychosomatic symptoms. The kids and I left there tired and sure of one thing: Adam did not have strep.
The rest of the afternoon and the next morning, Adam had no fever. I heard some congestion when he spoke to me, but I found myself frustrated yet again, desperately wishing I could ask him how he felt and get reliable answers to my questions. He acted like he felt fine, but Adam is so used to handling his issues and moving forward without complaint that you’d never know he was sick by his behavior unless he was very sick. It takes something pretty major to keep Adam from dancing, singing, and smiling his way through the day. I did know that he seemed extra tired, but that too could be attributed to a million different things. Autism still mysteriously wakes him up in the wee hours of the morning sometimes.
Every mom hates having to make the so do I send them to school decision, and I waffled back and forth and prayed over it for the first few hours of my morning on Wednesday. I love spending time with my son. Adam is joy, and laughter, and a bright smile that shines through my day and obliterates all the shadows. He is a constant reminder that God is bigger, a walking picture of God’s glory, and he inspires me with his undefeated, upbeat nature. I want Adam with me every minute, but education is something we take seriously. Adam’s teacher makes him work hard, and his time in her classroom makes a huge difference for him. I don’t want him to miss that influence if he doesn’t absolutely have to. So, after agonizing over it, I decided to send him back to school.
Wednesday passed without incident. He was fine. But Thursday afternoon, Adam had another fever. I sighed, a bit melancholy that as yet I have no way to know how my son is feeling and if he needs some extra TLC from his mom. So today, he’s home with me. He just brought me a Curious George Christmas CD to pop into my disc drive for background music. He’s dancing around next to me, reading over my shoulder every so often. And I’m so happy to have him with me.
You can just barely see the top of George’s head in the bottom of the picture. George always hangs with us.
As we bopped our way to and from school this morning to drop off the girls, I listened to a Third Day song that spoke to me:
The temptation, on weary days and in weary weeks, is to marinate in the present challenges to the point that I forget how far we’ve come together. I had a whole conversation with Adam this morning about how he wants to go “to Grandma and Papa’s house” and “go to the beach.” We talked about his birthday and what he wants to do and whom he wants to invite. And Kevin remarked that on Wednesday night, when it was time to leave the church building and Adam asked him about riding in the truck, they were able to communicate well and clearly about the fact that it was Riley’s turn, but that Adam would get to ride with him after Upward on Friday night.
This morning, I brought my CD case with me in the van, and Adam immediately started asking me for it in every way possible. First he tried, “Adam’s music,” to which I replied, “No, Mommy’s music.” Then he tried, “I want music, please.” And when that didn’t work, he started reaching for it and said, “Help, please. I need help.” I laughed out loud, gave him a big grin, and then said, “Nope.” But I stopped to get gas after we dropped the girls at school, and when I got back in the van, my CD case was missing from the passenger seat. I looked on the floor first, but then, suddenly, I knew. I looked back at Adam, who grinned at me, seat belt buckled and ready to go. He was holding my CD case. “You got my CD’s!” I said. This time, Adam laughed out loud. “I love music!” He said, grinning.
Oh, we’ve come so far. From a time when Adam would hardly say an intelligible word and seemed completely imprisoned to his sensory disorders. The steps feel small and slow, and sometimes I feel so weary, but everyday there are steps. And I will never give up.
