One-on-one Buddy’s team of job coach counselors continued to work with him and find that perfect job. This Thursday a snafu had both counselors arrive a half an hour apart from each other. I was relieved the job search guy arrived first to take Bud. It gave me one-on-one time with Ms. Maria whose job is to offer me a mommy respite while job and life coaching my Bud. As they exercise walk, cook, sing about town, she’s discerned the quirks of my 22 year-old second-grader.
Like how he answers direct questions. When you ask him how he is, he’ll respond an automatic, “Good, how are you?” emphasis on the “you.” There are no automatic “good” answers when one is challenged.
One evening after supper, his dad directly asked him, “Do you want to go biking with me?”
Fellow Sunday School friends would think he’d say YES in a heartbeat. Every Sunday his class shares highs and lows from the past week. Bud’s highs were, more times than not, tandem rides, son and dad attired in matched helmets and athletic shirts. The duo racked up 250 miles in January and February despite chilly Deep South temperatures.
“Do you want to go biking with me?” Dad repeated, a bit firmer.
Wet sponge in hand Bud walked from the kitchen to his dad who sat on the re-foamed sofa. Tilting his head, he opened his mouth to sigh. I knew his mind spun a response his conscious fought.I tried to feed positive answers into the silent hesitation. MBH gave me a look and a mild shushing. Not a good move when another parent’s is dealing with a child, certainly when the other parent is my beloved husband, the dashing, “cogito ergo sum” engineer.
“ . . . If you change your shirt to green,” Bud informed MBH. “I don’t want to wear red.”
Dad replied, “You can wear the green shirt, but right now I’m in a maroon shirt.”
“I don’t want to wear red, Dad! Can we wear green?”
I cringed. Compulsion had kicked into my special son. Compulsion would not fine tune the tone of words only repeat them firmly for who knows how long...
My son mirrored my own human failings. Against MBH and others I let my human failings kick in and for too long hold me hostage. I can waste hours, even days bound by talking and doing it my way. Too often compulsively challenged human nature ties me down and hurts others.
I am compelled to open God’s Word. Sure its Mosaic Laws mirror my guilty verdict. But the Word also showers Father’s mercy on me, like windblown petals of Snowball Viburnum. My Dad in Heaven will break the captive free. The direct question I must answer:
Would I let Him do so via a dad on earth . . . with my son?
To be continued . . .
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