“We’re here for a little window. And to use that time to catch and share shards of light and laughter and grace seems to me the great story.”

Brian Doyle

I stood in line waiting for the church sanctuary doors to open to the Christmas concert we were attending. Suddenly, I sensed something behind me then I saw hands moving over my shoulders and closing in around me.

“No, no, no!” someone frantically said behind me as the hands turned into arms…which hugged me.

I slowly turned, chuckling, thinking it must be a case of mistaken identity. Instead, I saw two adults grasping for their son who stood right behind me with arms still outstretched, their 11-year-old son who, they apologetically explained, had autism and just randomly hugged people. I saw two people so scared of my response that they huddled together around their child dreading my outburst.

And, in that moment, I had a choice.

“It’s ok,” I said, still more amused than anything…at which point their son quickly hugged me again and even kissed my shoulder. How could I be upset with that?

I started talking to them, just to let them know it really was ok. We talked about how their son loved music and this was his first concert. I shared that my son has epilepsy and ADHD so we could understand the effects of music and the difficulty with outings like concerts.

My saying that flipped a switch for the mom. She suddenly realized she wasn’t alone. I maybe don’t understand their specific struggles, but she realized I understood struggling. 

“He only hugs certain people. You must be an angel!”

Which made me chuckle again as I’m pretty sure I’ve never been confused with an angel. 

“Maybe I’m just exuding Christmas spirit,” I replied.

I could have faced forward immediately and disengaged, probably leaving them wondering if I was annoyed or angry. Possibly leading them to think (again), “We shouldn’t have come.”

Instead, I fully turned around and saw them, their hardship and strain and isolation…and shame.

We actually ended up leaving early because the concert was close to Cody’s bedtime.  He decided he was just too tired to stay for the whole thing, which was a very mature decision on his part and I was very grateful for it as I had been dreading what a later bedtime may do to his seizure threshold.  As we left, I leaned into the other mom’s row to explain and say goodbye.  Chuck said she was beaming as I left.  That’s all it took to make or break their evening, a response by a stranger to their son.

One morning out of the blue last spring, Cody asked, “When am I going to need surgery again?”

“We don’t know, any of us,” I responded (still recovering from shoulder surgery).

“No, I mean to de-epilepsify me. I will need it to get rid of seizures, right?”

“Yes.”

He turned to the window to look at the birds outside. Then, after a short pause, he turned back to me and said,

“Actually, I’d rather keep it so I can tell people about it. How am I going to help people if I forget what epilepsy is like?”

(Insert proud mama moment)

After meeting the family with a child who is 11 but tests cognitively as a four-year-old, I remembered that conversation with Cody. 

“How am I going to help people…?”

Epilepsy sucks.

Just like autism sucks.

And like all the ways that our bodies break and betray us suck.

But holding out my bloodied palm and saying, “These are my broken shards of glass. What are yours?”

That’s how we help people and survive our brokenness.

Keep each other’s spirits up so that no one falls behind…

Ephesiains 6:18 MSG