Recently, I came across a quote from another blogger mom with a child of autism, to wit:
“In many ways we are like the busy man who walks up to a precious flower and says, ‘What for God’s sake are you doing here? Can’t you get busy some way?” and then finds himself unable to understand the flower’s response: “I’m sorry, sir, but I am just here to be beautiful.” * * Henri J.M. Nouwen
She compared the purpose of her mentally disabled child to that of a flower. I found this analogy beautiful but I wonder how beauty can be found in a situation where your child is incontinent until his teens, where due to being nonverbal, he pulls hair, clothes, scratches out of frustration; where the onset of seizures is a constant worry and fear a parent lives with everyday. How can I find beauty in knowing he will never be independant and the fear of abuse from others lingers over my heart. Where is the beauty in knowing I may have to bury my child before my own death yet somehow hope that he goes before me so that I know I can always take care of him; or , the fear that he may be taken from me because I will be made incapable of taking care of him due to old age, finances, etc...These are questions I ponder and try to find the beauty in the situation. Perhaps, there is no beauty in the situation but only in the soul that resides within the disability. It's all a mystery to me how the mind of God works and why a beautiful and ancient soul like Luki would manifest in this world under the guise of disability. My mission and purpose is to discover the answer to all this and God willing, with time, I will have betters answers to the questions.
Here is a clip from a session with Michelle Whitedove who saw into the depth of Luki's soul through his eyes. A mother in desperation can go to just about anyone for answers and while none have been coming from the medical professionals or even religious leaders, I found great comfort in her words and hold them to be true and real. I look forward to getting to know Luki even more as he grows older.
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