Benjamin and I stood by the road this morning under an umbrella. We waited for the bus, which tends to fool us by coming earlier and earlier each day. Ben told me the factors of 240, and 441. I asked his favorite number, which I have heard before. It is 888 because it is a palindrome. If I could have predicted how fond he would one day be of such curiosities I might have named him Bob. As it is there is still time to buy him a kayak, or a radar. Last week he was pleased to make the acquaintance of a girl named Aviva.
I
read
about a woman with a child who has a different disability. It is far rarer than autism, and I could not pronounce it. At first glance it looked like a harsher reality than the one I live with, though there has not yet been an effective measure contrived to calibrate strife. Yet the mother proclaims that she is undeniably grateful to have him.
It seems likely that she did not check the box for that particular syndrome when she applied to be a mom. I have no recollection of checking the one for autism, yet here we are. But fifteen years out I am dead certain that my family is better for having Benjamin square in the middle of it. Sounds like that other lady is too. When other people stare at Ben, which he does not mind, I have an inkling they are relieved not to have to deal with him. No matter. Their opinion matters not a whit. He is still a blessing disguised in a flawed package.
People sometimes express to me their frustration with the imperfections of their partners. Husbands who don't talk, wives who churn out criticism like sawdust at a lumber yard, partners who are less than whole. While none of us perhaps requested foibles, they do seem to be the grist for grinding us into ingredients for bread. But God can work with you even if you don't like it. Your opinion does not dissuade him.
It is just that we are prone to evaluating a process that is not yet finished.
