this could hurt
I hear my son before I see him. I know by heart the specific sound of his long, flat feet on the hardwood floor at the base of the stairs; I know the circuitous, spinning route he takes from one room to another, checking for me, checking for signs that nothing unexpected has altered the course of our routine. I am familiar with all his ways.
“Good morning, Adam,” I call lightly into the dark, still-silent living room, where the furniture, silhouetted by the bright warmth of the kitchen, looks lonely.
“Good morning, Mom,” Adam says easily, speaking to me from somewhere in the darkness.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, seizing the moment when words seem to be within my son’s reach, when the cognitive pause seems hardly noticeable.
“Yes, good,” he says, in that deep throaty voice that still seems to hover somewhere close to the staircase.
“Can I have a hug?”
Adam suffers from sensitivity to pressure on his skin, so he hugs only a short list of people, and this usually by request or specific encouragement. This morning, in answer to my question, he walks out of the darkness and grins. I open my arms wide, and taking care not to over-commit, Adam leans in, bending down just a little and jutting out his chin until his cheek grazes my own, finally lightly touching my back with the tips of his fingers. He holds his long arms almost in a dance posture frame, so that although his fingers are on my back, the rest of his skin remains carefully protected from touch. I flatten my hands against his shoulder blades, silently reassuring him that I won’t squeeze or entrap him with my arms. I am one of the few people Adam will hug voluntarily, but the ease has taken years of reassurance. And even when he hugs me, he holds this tense, careful posture, alert to sudden movements and ready for immediate departure. On harder days, Adam reminds me, “No tickling, please. I don’t like tickling,” even though I can’t remember a time when I’ve promised a hug and tickled him instead. I understand, though. Certain sensations the rest of us can tolerate feel painful to him. Enjoying the nearness I know will be brief, I stand on my tiptoes and press my cheek against his, turning to give him a kiss before he steps away.
“I love you,” I say, remembering the first time Adam used those words on his own, the first time he chose to say them to me when it wasn’t merely an echo. He was ten. And yet, I have always known that Adam loves me. Love is the willingness to sacrifice yourself for someone else, and for Adam, hugging is like lying down on the altar. His body language, while never really reluctant when it comes to me, has always said, Uh oh. This could hurt.
“He hugs like he’s been wounded,” I say, turning back to the kitchen, where Kevin pours steaming coffee into two ready mugs. “Like you would if you were sore and kind of afraid someone will hurt you unintentionally.”
“Mmmhmm, that’s true,” Kevin says, glancing up from his pouring. Something passes between us and we smile, considering for a moment the awkward ways we love, the ways we try to hold on to some self-protective measure of control when we arrange ourselves on the altar of sacrifice. Listen now, I’m here, but don’t hold me too tightly. The pain we’ve known makes the offering such a risk, and in one way or another, we all lean into love, carefully protecting tender places, poised for an immediate getaway. All these years, and Adam still worries that my love will crush him. All these years, and I’m still afraid to let God’s love shatter me. But God is a patient Father and thoroughly aware of me. Day by day, he calls me out of the shadows, opening His arms wide, and He asks, “Will you let me hold you?”
