To The Mama Waiting for the Miracle:
I saw your Facebook post today and my heart ached for you. I wanted to reach through the screen and give you a hug. We’ve never met face-to-face, but our worlds are very much the same.
I wish I could take your hand in mine, look you in the eye and tell you you’re doing an amazing job. I know you don’t believe that, but you are.
I know you’re scared, sad, frustrated, overwhelmed and emotionally drained.
I know you probably feel lonely.
Special needs parenting is a hard and lonely road.
But you aren’t alone.
Here I am miles and miles away from you, writing these words for you.
You are on my heart.
You are in my prayers.
It wasn’t that long ago when I dreaded (and grieved) the simplest of things. Taking Jackson to play at Chick-Fil-A. Attending birthday parties. School drop off and pick up.
Everything was so hard.
He couldn’t talk.
He had meltdowns.
I lost my patience.
There were days when it was easier to just stay home.
Home was safe.
That was still very much our reality just a few short months ago.
But something changed this summer.
Jackson found his voice.
The progress to get to this point was painfully slow, but His promise never changed: If it seems slow in coming, wait. It’s on the way. It will come at the right time. (Habakkuk 2:3)
That promise wasn’t just for my son; it’s for your son too.
Cling to it. Believe it. Proclaim it.
I have no doubt he will find his voice.
Hold tight to those small moments – a new word here, a new word there.
A trip to Target without a meltdown.
A haircut without tears.
Something other than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner.
When your son finds his voice, things will get easier.
They won’t be perfect. There will still be struggles. But having the ability to communicate is a game changer. It has been for us.
Last week as I walked Jackson towards the school, he let go of my hand. He made his way up the sidewalk, stood in line and kept his hands to himself. A few hours later he left school without having a meltdown. He walked in a line. He sat on the sidewalk and waited for his teacher to place his hand back in mine.
As we walked to the car, I told him how proud I was that he had waited patiently and that he was doing great in PreK.
He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, and in the voice I never get tired of hearing, said, “tank you mom!”
Four months ago he couldn’t do these things.
Four months ago we couldn’t have a conversation.
Four months ago we were still in that hard, hard spot.
But finally, all those moments – hours of therapy, thousands of tears, a million prayers – led to our miracle.
So sweet mama, don’t lose hope.
Hang on tight; your miracle is coming.
From a Mama Who Understands…