Beautiful Kaleidoscope

Invisible textures fill the air; surround every bite of food, cling to clothes, latch on to sounds and attach themselves, like blurry spots and bright lights to our eyes after staring at the sun for too long. Sometimes, going outside, to face even those so loved and held dear, is a daunting task needing prompting and encouraging words, softly spoken. Perhaps dressing in costume, walking in a certain rhythm, or simply avoiding eye contact might help the emotions that come with walking outside the front door, or even leaving the safe boundaries of a bedroom filled with organized messes and comforting books on CD, kept on repeat. 

There are days when anxiety fills the room or the playground, so fast, it replaces the air and suddenly there's resemblance to a fish outside of water; panic, fear, oversized insecurities, and extensive and pensive thoughts cause their hearts to rapidly pace like gills searching for water. Except they; the brilliant, brave and bright ones that I speak of, aren't fish unable to breath oxygen or aliens in a place they don't belong. Perhaps they live with Bipolar Disorder, Autism Spectrum Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, Dyslexia or Epilepsy (really, the list goes on) but they are humans, like you and I, with hearts of their own that break and can be warmed.

My son, just two months shy of turning six, lives in a world where empathy abounds in him, creativity drips from his words and flow from his crayons, and his opinions are always laid out on the table. He enjoys being engulfed in a world of Legos, drawings, or a game that allows him to create while at the same time... escape. During "good" hours, he isn't trapped by his own thoughts or taunted by pesky textures that exist in every room and hang on every wall, or even every word. There are hours that are truly delightful and make me think of resting, beside my boy, in a field of poppies; so peaceful and calm. Often though, a sudden and new wave of emotions come along, triggered by something usually invisible to my eyes, causing him to detach. In moments like those, I am physically close to him but I feel like he is a kite and his tail has slipped through my fingers, carried away by a quick gust of wind. Trust me, I run and I run trying to catch the end of that tail as it races away from me.

I watch him, aching to join him in the sky, even wishing I could transform into a rainbow that adorns whatever place he escapes to when sitting, playing, dancing, learning, or eating has simply become too much for him. I have found myself, at least, thankful when he seems to be frustration-free or more comfortable than perhaps this hour yesterday. Yes, I compare this hour to that hour, his worst rage to the ones that aren't so bad, and days that are less reminiscent of a roller coaster and more like those rides that drop straight down, without any warning, and stop before you even have time to gasp for air. I find myself so incredibly grateful for those comparisons and finding the little things that are better, even beautiful, in their own way. You know, it's kind of like I have picked up my own kaleidoscope, trying to see things the way my son does, so that I can grow in appreciation, compassion, understanding, patience and grace. Truth be told, there is no way I could possibly do him justice or even survive, for that matter, keeping those old eyes that I once looked at life through. 

Though every single day has its outright painful, incredibly trying, colorful explosions of emotions splattered all around me and I feel like I am trying to keep up, breath, and just do normal mom duties (that often pile and wait for me in every room), I am adjusting to all the newness and chaos that surrounds me. Ah, yes... adjusting while as I am trusting in the Lord. He sees all of these deep details that fill our lives and, goodness, He truly does provide an abundance of strength for the weary. I know that He not only offers all that we need, but He is all that we need. Oh, how such truth settles my every thought and brings me back to a genuine place of contentment, peace and hope... and suddenly the greatest joy, on this side of Heaven, fills me.

It is no exaggeration, when I say that God's joy thrives in me, but trust me when I say, that I have mourned the way things once were and the tear trails, down my cheeks, have never been so big. There are those nights, while I watch my sweet boy sleep, that I literally hope that my heart ached more than his did that day. I pray, over and over, for God to cover him and fill him completely, in every beautiful way mentioned in the Word. I long to go where I can't, reach to where my hands can never touch, to wipe the tears that go unseen. As I lie beside him, drenched in my own tears, I am always, always gently reminded of the One who is near. Able. Faithful. Sovereign. Good. Jesus, who once pulled me out of a pit many considered unreachable, is now tending to my family and guiding us through the fog. We don't have to strive to create happiness because joy absolutely still lives here; in us, hope is thriving and peace fills in the gaps and the cracks of our broken days... as if God leaves His fingerprints on our hearts and footprints through every room. Though, sometimes, I feel like everything we once knew has changed, I know that isn't true; God hasn't changed. Our love for our son hasn't changed... only grown. How blessed are we to have a beautiful, brave, and bright son... able feel in ways so tender and deep and offer so much to a world that too often is looked at in one light. After all, to me, he is a light.

 

When you look through a kaleidoscope, though sometimes hard to see, colorful things blend together and create such vibrant canvases for imaginations to be free. Even broken things look beautiful and pieces that would never fit, in the world as we normally see it, layer on top of one another and become something new. Abstract, puzzling, and as unique as the perspective, offered by the kaleidoscope, might be, there are eyes behind each looking glass that are attached to a body that lives, feels, breaths, hopes and dreams... just like you and me. Just, perhaps, a little differently.