I Can't Get Enough of Your Smile

I can't get enough of your smile
Or the dancing twinkle in your eyes

It's the unexpected magic of this sighting that thrills me the most

Like bright sunlight on an icy day

It warms my being and lights my world

Telling me you're OK

With no words of your own to make this expression

I'll take your smile 

And with it the peace of knowing you've found joy and satisfaction 

That life is good

That something pleases you

Or you're just happy to see me.

Noble Spirit

David's body has grown bigger and stronger, but his mind is still behind, trapped inside the prison of autism. His ability to communicate is severely limited and his functioning is impaired by odd behaviors, emotional outbursts and limited understanding. Even so, his disabled body is home to a mature, noble spirit. A spirit so valiant he doesn't need the saving ordinances because his exaltation is already secure.

The Spirit taught me this truth while I was doing an endowment session in the Salt Lake Temple.

As I sat in the endowment room waiting to go through the veil, I had an interesting impression. I imagined Emma, my second child, was all grown up and sat beside me (Skye had not been born yet). I rejoiced in this image and looked forward to the day when Emma would join me in the temple. But then I felt a slight sense of concern.

Where was my David?

Why wouldn't he be a part of this impression?

I closed my eyes hoping to feel something of his presence. I opened them and looked around.

Why wouldn't he be in the endowment room with us?

Was this just one more experience he couldn't be a part of?

Slowly it dawned on me he didn't need to be there.

He was on the other side of the veil.

Already in the presence of God.

Waiting for us to join him.

I Hurt For Him

        There are moments when David's eyes find mine. Filled with earnest intention and pleading they hold onto my gaze. His hands move about as he babbles, "Aa, da, da, da." 
        He's trying to tell me something. 
        But like a bud, unopened, his thoughts remain tightly wrapped within. I long to get inside his head. To know what he's thinking. How much he understands. 
        I want to see the world through his eyes. Know of his pain and fears, his hopes and joy.
        If only I could break through that wall of silence and frustration. 
        Then, maybe, I could really help him.
        I provided him with physical, speech, occupational and feeding therapy--sometimes all in the same week. I consulted with the best and most acclaimed therapists in the valley. We even attended a five week behavioral feeding program in New Jersey. 
        One of the many doctors I saw said, "I admire a mother who is prepared to go to the ends of the earth for her child." 
        "We recognize you're a force to be reckoned with," another doctor said.
        Maybe so.
        But I didn't cure David of autism.              
        I can't fix him. I can't make it better. I can't give him a normal life. 

        I get to stand by, knowing of all he'll never do and all he'll never become. 

        Maybe he's unaware of his many losses, but I'm not. 

        So I hurt for him.

        He'll always depend on others, never knowing the satisfaction of caring for himself, or the freedom of independent living. Confined to his own lonely world he'll never know the joy of marriage or the tenderness of holding his own child. 

        As he struggles to reach out and connect with others, I wonder if he'll ever have a friend.      

        I asked a 70-year-old friend of mine who has a disabled child if the pain ever goes away. She smiled wisely and shook her head, recounting how she now feels sad her 40-year-old son will never get married and have a family of his own. 

        "Each life phase brings a new reason for mourning," she explained.

Before this Earth

". . . my attention turned to other spirits making preparations to go to earth. One exceptionally brilliant and dynamic spirit was just entering his mother's womb. He had chosen to enter this world mentally handicapped. He was very excited about this opportunity and was aware of the growth he and his parents would achieve. The three of them had bonded with each other and planned for this arrangement long before. He chose to begin his mortal life at his body's conception, and I watched his spirit move into the womb and enter the newly formed life. He was anxious to feel the great love of his mortal parents."

Eadie, Betty, J. (1992). Embraced By The Light, USA:Gold Leaf Press, 94-95

Weak Body, Strong Spirit

Real strength doesn't come from our physical bodies, it comes from our spirits. Even though our bodies may be physically weak, they house strong spirits.

Before David's birth, I wanted to know who he was. One night as I lay on my bed quietly pondering, I received some distinct spiritual impressions. I sensed he was a strong, determined, warrior-like spirit, similar to Teancum of old. I was told even though he'd arrive in a small, fragile body, he was a strong, mature spirit. I marveled at this information and imagined him one day serving a mission as a great spiritual warrior.

And then the awful complications of his birth. . .

. . . a stroke and oxygen deprivation.

When I saw my baby for the first time he was attached to life-support machines in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit(NICU). (I'd just been released from Intensive Care myself, and was now allowed to visit my baby.) He lay peacefully nestled amidst a maze of tubes and wires. At the center of all this medical equipment was the most perfect angel I'd ever seen.

The lights in the NICU had been lowered. Within this soft twilight, David's body shone. He was filled with light and radiated a warm glow. His eyes were closed, and he had a fine brush of light brown hair. Immediately I noticed his little upturned chin. It was Rob's chin, complimented by a cute button nose. I marveled at how long his toes were. So unlike my short, stubby ones. And each slender finger, so perfectly formed.

At 7.1 pounds and 20 inches he looked too big to have fitted inside me.

Could he really be mine?

Now that I'd seen him the thought of letting him go was even more unbearable. In all my attempts to imagine his face, I could not have conjured up a masterpiece so magnificent as the person who lay before me. My heart swelled. Seized with joy I felt the power of maternal love flood my being. Pure and strong.

My arms ached to hold him and my bosom longed to soak up the warmth of his being. But he belonged to all those machines and medical attendants.

I remembered the impressions I'd received prior to his birth--that he was a strong, determined, warrior-like spirit. I'd imagined him fighting great spiritual battles. But now I realized he was engaged in a physical battle as he fought for his life. I reminded myself even though his body was weak and fragile, it housed a strong, mature spirit. I determined to put my faith in this strength and prayed his spirit would triumph and remain with us in mortality.

My David

David is a beautiful child, with deep blue eyes, sun-streaked hair and a smile that infuses delight. He loves to run and jump and climb. He lives life with an intensity that is contagious, abounding in exhilaration and enthusiasm. I can't help but revel in his joy.

 

But when I'm around his peers, a relentless pain starts gnawing in my gut. A harsh reminder he's not the same.

 

I marvel at other kids. They are so advanced and skilled. Speaking in complex sentences they engage in elaborate games of their own imaging. Toilet-training and self-feeding are no longer issues. They walk alongside the shopping cart at the store and stay on the playground at the park. Birthdays and Christmas are days of celebration--they love receiving gifts and know how to open them. Their heads turn when you call their name, and they look into your eyes when you speak to them . . . 

 

 

. . . they call it AUTISM.

 

 

 

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