search Dad
Saturday morning, and Kevin and I call Adam downstairs to cook. Kevin has been teaching Adam to make creamy garlic cheese grits for Saturday morning brunch, but we like to try different menus, and weeks have passed since they last cooked together.
“Get your recipe,” Kevin says, gesturing with one hand toward the drawer where sits the notepad page scrawled in Kevin’s handwriting, one of just a few recipes now in what I hope will one day make up a collection for Adam, not just of ingredients and instructions, but also memories, confidence, ability. Pillow lines still crease Kevin’s cheeks.
When we called him, Adam had thundered down, man feet too long for a still young mind beating staccato on the stairs, fists balled in front, broad shoulders squared, as though he came to present himself for surprise inspection. He had, upon understanding our plans, thrown open the pantry door, selected garlic powder from our collection of spices and set it on the bar. I could see in Adam’s eyes the disintegrated tumble of irritation, the effort to recall ingredients, and quickly. Over Kevin’s gesture toward the drawer and the mention of the recipe Adam wavers now, waffling between the practical benefits of any list, especially on paper, and the desire, in light of the disruption to his routine, to be disagreeable.
“No recipe,” Adam says, looking in the pantry for the grits Kevin has already retrieved and placed beside the stove. Briefly I wonder what sort of breakfast Adam would make were we to stand back and let him cook in ignorant frenzy; I wonder how long it would take him to discover where Kevin has put the grits. Adam reminds me, suddenly, of me, how frantically I hurry when faced with what I believe to be unexpected and unwanted work; how desperately I cling to my own (different) plans; how in such moments I find it counterintuitive to slow down. In a panic, I can foolishly justify throwing aside all quiet, all prayer, all of God’s handwritten notes. No time, I think, no time.
“Hey, hey,” Kevin says, walking over to Adam, who still stands in front of the pantry, looking lost and unraveling, and certainly not doing the work to ask for help. I see it on Adam’s face: the stubborn decision to do it myself, not to bother even reaching for the words, “Where are the grits?”
“Stop,” Kevin says quietly, placing a hand on Adam’s arm as though to underline. “Go get the recipe.”
“No recipe,” Adam says again, but he says it while walking to that drawer, while rifling through the contents to find the recipe.
“Bring it over here,” Kevin says, having returned to his place beside the stove. Adam stops in front of the pantry, flicking his eyes over the shelves. The grits, the grits, the grits! Oh, how we lean on our lack of understanding. Adam sways back and forth on his legs, searching, searching, searching as though it’s all up to him.
“Adam,” I interject, knowing why he’s looking and why he’ll never find what he needs. “Dad has the grits.” It’s always this way; the first place to look for necessary things is right in the Father’s hands. I learned this early in childhood; my dad had a knack for pocketing my things when I turned my back. He did it as a joke, but the idea took: When something is missing, search Dad. And now I’m smiling, because if Adam had simply obeyed Kevin’s come to me, he would have saved himself both stress and time.
Kevin moves aside so Adam can see the container beside the stove. “Bring the recipe over here and let’s look at it together,” Kevin reiterates, patiently, kindly, with compassion for the follies of Adam’s youth.
“No,” Adam says, the protest faint now and half-swallowed as he finally relents, walking to where Kevin stands and at last producing the notes.
Slowly, father and son begin to read the recipe and pull out ingredients one-by-one, including the garlic powder Adam had already retrieved, the cheese, the salt, the refrigerated bottle of Tabasco with the crack in its cap.
Pointedly, Kevin forces a deliberate pace as he helps Adam attend to amounts and measuring spoons, to sequence and detail. Slow down, Son. Listen. But Adam doesn’t respond right away; he has worked himself into a worried snarl. No, no, no, no, no! Grumbling and complaint have stolen away all peace; protest and pride bubble over. “Son, you’re shaking,” Kevin says gravely. “Calm down. It’s okay.”
But this is what happens when we don’t prepare Adam for changes in his routine, he tenses with anxiety until things begin to crumble; he pressurizes, shaking with the effort to hold in a simmering rage. Such difficulties are common among people with Autism, though much variance exists in their reactions and ability to control explosive emotions. Many Autism parents precariously balance the use of strategies to avoid this anxiety (things like written schedules and repeated warnings about the future) and planned teaching opportunities to help our children learn to navigate life in a world that can’t or won’t accomodate all of their rigidity. Sometimes we purposefully wade into the struggle just to teach Adam better coping skills, but sometimes, like today, we just don’t plan well. Sometimes in all our juggling, Adam’s advance notice is the ball we drop. I feel bruised when he frets, my fingers itching to soothe, but I never regret the opportunity this creates for Adam to grow.
“I think,” Kevin says, emptying Adam’s trembling hands of garlic powder and the measuring spoon and carefully placing them on the counter, “this would be a good time to pray.”
“NO, no prayer, not right now,” Adam says, perhaps a bit too vehemently, his deep voice rising with each spoken word. Why is it that when humans are sick with hurry, the last thing we want to do is pray? Kevin holds Adam’s hands; Adam tries to pull them away. I watch them, father and son, Kevin bowing already, Adam glaring at the top of the Kevin’s head. There I am again: in such a frustrated rush I have no time for the one conversation that calls on power not-my-own, pushing too hard to be done to find peace. Sometimes, when God draws me into prayer, I can feel my heart racing.
Kevin prays, his voice even and kind; he gently holds Adam’s hands, even though at every pause, Adam quickly interjects, “InJesusNameIPrayAmen,” even though Adam’s arms remain stiff in protest. There I am again: whole body prone to get back to doing the things, taut with opposition to stillness. But with every petition, every moment paused for worship, that mind-blowing peace of God descends to guard my heart, overwhelming frenzy, restoring reliance, and with it, my pulse.
Prayer is a relationship, not a magic bullet or a quick rub on a genie bottle, and when Adam lifts his head, I stand witness to a continuing battle. I see that peace no one can explain softening his expression, drawing his body into rest, and I see the sparking tantrum of the self still in rebellion. But the father knows that learning takes a lifetime, that the child never stops needing his guidance to make it through. And now at least, in more than one way, the start of the lesson has become a repeating refrain.
Hey, hey—come to me.
