Here We Go

I listen politely as my friend recounts her daughter’s developmental triumphs. Everyone does it, bragging about their kids. I do. But today I do not feel like listening to this witty anecdote. I turn away, and mumble an excuse. My son and I head home.

My son can’t talk. Well, he can, but it is mostly jargon and bits and phrases from TV shows. He is three, and he is in speech therapy. He has mysterious but severe developmental delays. He might catch up. He might not.

I don’t get it. I close my eyes and tell God. “I don’t get it.”

My son is beautiful. He takes my breath away. I see light in his eyes. But I want to talk to him. I want to read him stories; I want him to go to preschool. Have friends.

Scriptures come back to me. Jesus heals a blind man. Someone asks him why the man was blind. Whose fault was it?

Jesus says it’s no one’s fault. It’s so God can be glorified.

Okay, God, I think, be glorified. I try to believe.

When Jesus was crucified, the disciples didn’t get it. Dreams die, but something beautiful gets resurrected. I can see the parallel here. I write down all my expectations, dreams for my son. I tear it up into little pieces. I open my window and let the pieces fly, swirling around on a blustery fall day. “Here,” I say, my forehead pressed against the window. “You can have this.”

I hear my son’s voice behind me. “Snow!” he says, delighted. I pick him up and we watch the pieces together. I hold him tight. “Okay,” I tell God, “be glorified. I am waiting for Easter. Turn mourning into dancing.”

“Here we go!!” says my son. “Yeah,” I say. “Here we go.”