those things that just leaves your momma heart aching so badly that you don't want to speak
it out loud for fear that it will all suddenly become really real. Permanent. Forever.
Not my son.
How many nights have I stood at his bed rail while he sleeps watching his gentle breath, in and out,
wondering what those big, round, chocolate eyes veiled in slumber are seeing, dreaming? I've put my
hand on his head, his heart - letting every ounce of whatever grace is given to me as a mother
pour over him as I beg God, almost demanding, for an answer. Can You hear me?
The bonds of motherhood run strong, and I bear the weight of his cross as if it were my own.
I've lived out in my imagination every possible scenario and outcome for his life -- all laced
with fear and anxiety, rejection and misunderstanding -- potential crushed under the weight
of not being able to connect well in a world full of words.
The kids at the playground are impatient with him as their tiny attention spans cannot bear to
wait for the words to form and flow. I've seen them walk away. I've heard him mocked.
And my heart gets a real good glimpse at what it was like for the Blessed Mother to watch her
Son save the world. All you parents see. You know there's not anything within your power that
you would not do to breathe life and peace and joy into your child - even if it meant giving
up your own. It's a rugged, primal kind of love; welling up from the wild fierceness
that courses through our blood. Anything. Name it. I am yours.
I like to think that God is especially tender towards mothers. So I have asked and asked and asked
one more time, just in case I didn't hear the answer or missed some vital instruction.
Waking up one morning, about a week before Christmas, I looked at my husband and just said,
"I know what it is."
He asked me how I knew, but all I could do was shake my head, "I don't know, but I do."
If there were pieces to this puzzle, they all came together that day as I cleared my pantry of corn products.
Checking, reading labels - deep sighing - packing up everything with a trace to give away.
With each day off a major allergen, the stuttering has diminished; the frustration on his face melting
away with the excitement of being able to communicate more clearly. Words flowing where words have
not flowed before. I now watch my son happily chatter away with complete strangers, something he
avoided before, and light up as he tells his story. I light up as he tells his story.
Call it intuition. Call it the result of research. But I'm calling it a miracle.
I'm calling it for how I see it -- and that's God answering a mother's prayer.
Thank you. A million times over.
Today is better than yesterday, and I hope that this journey continues to bring healing into
my son's life. It just blows my mind that God turns His eyes towards us... at all. Here we are
in our pathetic, sinful state and He just pours life and peace and joy onto His children.
It's a rugged, primal kind of love.
Anything. Name it. I am yours.
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