Jude wants to go to the park. Don and the boys are at church, where I would like to be, but Jude tends to yell at whoever is preaching to go get him a bag of potato chips. A friend suggested I should just provide the pastors with snacks to hand out to Jude at different intervals during the sermon.
The funny thing is the pastors would probably do this, and not think twice about it. Our church is pretty easygoing, but Jude does need to learn the whole “acting appropriately in a public place” thing and “not demanding snacks from everyone” thing. We are working on both those “things,” but today I just want to get some fresh air and relax. Off we go.
We walk past the big room where church is held and we hear singing as Jude lopes happily down the sidewalk. It is a beautiful day, perfect, really, and Jude is happy. He waves his happy hands in a complicated pattern and life is good.
We practice reading signs and street lights and safety stuff, and arrive at the park unscathed. On Sunday the Chicago lakefront is filled with two things: people on bikes and Hispanic families barbecuing and playing soccer. I love it, the smoky smells, the happy families, the sense of community.
There is a woman there, baby in her arms, chasing an elementary aged boy. I recognize the movements, the way he holds his head. He tries to make a run for it out the gate, and she chases and drags him back in. He runs up to a group of kids and gets in the middle of their game and takes their ball. He runs out the gate again.
She finally sets him on the bench with a bag of chips. He is still for one moment.
Jude picks this moment to head over to her, get right in her face and say “HELLO LADY, HELLO LADY!!!” at top volume. She recognizes Jude’s mannerisms, too, and gives me a big smile. Jude runs off to look at a tree or something and I sit down next to her. I tell her, “It gets better, you know.”
The lady begins to cry.
She tells me her son still does not speak, and sometimes he is aggressive, and her neighbors don’t understand, they are frightened of her son, and she feels really alone. She asks me how my friends and family are around Jude.
I hesitate. I want to tell her that Jude is celebrated, a happy part of life at my church and community. He is accepted and included. When he screams at 7 a.m. or 10 pm. or pounds his head or breaks stuff, I don’t have to apologize to my neighbors. I know for a fact that they have stopped what they are doing to pray for him. He isn’t just ‘that autistic kid’ to them. He is a person with pain and love and humor and dreams who God loves. They see God in Jude.
I tell her I go to a great church, and I am very fortunate. I tell her she needs to find people who get it, because life is too short, and that if she brings people she trusts into her life, and shares her sadness and joy and invites them to be a part of it, they might just feel blessed to be a part of the story.
We exchange phone numbers, and I watch her chase her son again, and pray for her, that God would bring people into her life that would be willing to walk with her.
Really, you just want someone to walk with you. Carry your load once in awhile. Offer you some water or a tissue, and share some laughter.
Jude and I head home, and church is just letting out. The lobby is packed, and some days I find that annoying, because people are in my way. I see my downstairs neighbor chatting with a visitor, and I look at Jude, and I just close my eyes and stand there for a moment.
Then I realize that Jude has broken into the lunch line and is touching the food. I rush over, but I know it is okay. Lori will put those fries on a plate for him, and we will remind him to mind his manners, and go upstairs, and put our feet up, and breathe, just breathe, because we can.
Because we are home. It is just good to be home.