It was Christmas 2011 – my dad’s last Angel Tree, though we didn’t know it at the time. Max and my dad and I shopped together for gifts – the little girl on the angel wanted a razor scooter and a pair of sneakers. We hadn’t met her yet, but we knew her name was Brittany, and she was eight years old. We picked out the scooter with the help of some 10-year-old girls who were clearly making their own wish list. And my dad chose the sneakers. I remember how he held them up, saying, “I like these. I think these are the best-looking.” Because my 21-year-old son Max has autism, it was a challenge bringing him shopping, but the bigger challenge with Max was always delivering the gifts.
We pulled up to dirt-colored buildings in the projects. I was sure Max would refuse to go into the apartment. His autism makes so much of life feel frightening, especially in new environments. But he walked right in beside my dad and Patty. No fear whatsoever (Actually, I think he could see the microwave inside the kitchen – Max loves microwaves!). We met the little girl, Brittany, and her mom, and several others who came in and out of the apartment. This little 8-year-old was precious, a beautiful girl with her hair swept up in a clip, her wide eyes taking in the world. And she was smart. My dad gave her the gifts and explained that they were from her dad who was in prison, and that we were just helping deliver them. She listened so attentively.
As my dad talked to this little girl I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the full circle in front of me. Even thought our lives were drastically different, I remember being that girl once, the one whose dad was in prison. I remember the ache of separation. I felt different than others, as if I carried a secret. And like Max, I wanted the world to feel more predictable, more secure.
My dad brought out a children’s Bible, the one we had picked out together on our shopping trip, the one we tested on Max for his seal of approval. My dad began to read, but the mother stepped in, “Brittany can read,” she said. “Show him, Brittany.” This little girl read from the Bible as well as anyone. We all listened to the Christmas story and how the shepherds were out in the fields when they saw the star in the sky. My dad was standing over her, both of them pointing to the words on the page. And then my dad explained to her that Jesus Christ came to this world for her, because God loves her, and that we can trust him. “You can pray and God will listen,” my dad encouraged her. I was so proud of Max, who stayed right with us, bouncing up and down about the microwave!
As we finished our visit, my dad said, “Let’s all join hands and have a prayer.”
My heart sank. Max is a man of routine. Autism makes him crave sameness and predictability. Max loves to pray, but if you pray at unexpected times he often goes running out of the room! I joined hands with the family, saying my own prayer that it would all work! As we prayed I kept one eye open to watch Max, who stood right behind me just outside of our circle. My dad began to pray, but Max didn’t move. So I finally closed both eyes. A moment later I felt a hand on my forearm. It startled me at first, but I looked up and saw Max standing beside me. He looked right into my eyes – that doesn’t happen very often. And as he looked at me, he slid his hand down into mine and joined our circle. It felt like a little miracle.
Even in the projects, through the veil of autism, Max could see beauty. He could see God’s love in action, the hands and feet of Jesus bringing hope and healing to a broken world. And it was as if he were saying, “I’m in…I’m in.”