I don't know

I'm "watching" Veggie Tales with Andrew. Andrew pipes in a quote every once in a while, and is utterly engrossed in the movie. I sometimes wonder what it is about movies and TV that makes Andrew so willing to pay attention, listen, and even answer questions, while with actual people he rarely gets past saying "hi."

I recently saw a t-shirt that said "I have hope for a child with autism." I've been starting to realize that I have my own prejudices to get over regarding this disorder. I find myself constantly calling Andrew "my autistic child" and letting lots and lots of people know that "he's autistic".

And apparently, in the world of neurological disorders, calling my child "autistic" is quite politically incorrect, a huge faux pas, a label that limits one's vision to the disorder rather than the child. He is a child who has autism, rather than simply "autistic."

Am I only seeing him for his disorder? I think in some ways I am still grieving the future I used to see for my child. And perhaps I do see his disorder more than his actual self. How horrible is that? There are times when I feel like I know him so well, and other times when I realize that I have no idea of his feelings, his goals, of what he's thinking. I don't know ANY of those things, and certainly have no way finding out from him, at least verbally. And he is my child. I can guess at some of his basic feelings (anger, hunger, frustration, contentedness), but anything deeper may always be a mystery to me.

I peer into the eyes of my child and there are times when I wonder if there is a little boy inside just begging to get out, begging to tell his side of the story, what he feels, what he wants, where he'd like to go, what he'd like to do.

But then a more negative side of me tends to think that he knows and wants for nothing more than the tiny world that he is so comfortable in. Is school something that will ultimately benefit him, or just something that will be a hellish part of his existence? What is best for my Andrew?

I pray nearly every night for Andrew to somehow be able to have a relationship with God. I don't even remotely know where to start to help Andrew find Him. He doesn't know enough words for me to even begin to put together a sentence about God and his love for us.

I love my boy so much. It is still so painful to think of this hostile world. It treats "normal" kids so cruelly...what will it do to my Andrew? In my home, he is safe. He is loved. He knows his place. He knows his way around.

My fear is that I am doing exactly what I fear others doing:
Losing sight of Andrew in the blurred vision of autism.

Heavenly Father, help me to see my dear boy with YOUR sight. Forgive me for my fear, my worry, and my limited vision. I know that you have a plan for my Andrew, a far better one than I can see right now. Give me wisdom, Lord, and enough light to see the next step. Be my hope, Lord, in a place that right now feels so hopeless. Help me, in all things, to point my child closer to you. I have trusted you this far Lord....I place my trust in You once again.