Last week our son Benjamin was on stage for the first time. His school hosts a Lip Sync event which gives students like him a chance to shine in borrowed light. Sort of like the moon. Seven local schools show up with a handful of kids with mental or physical disabilities who climb the stairs to be on stage in a large auditorium.

But they don't climb alone. 

There is a Buddy Program in which "normal" high school boys and girls show up to support kids who are different. When the emcee called Ben's name he walked up the steps and ten girls followed. While the music blasted "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?", he stood in front sporadically doing motions to match the words and his back up chorus swayed behind. 

I had not realized he had a solo part until she announced it. I thought he was just in a group number with his class. Maybe I didn't listen when the teacher told me or maybe it was meant to be a surprise, but I am glad I came. 

Because I almost didn't. John took him early and I texted him to ask if I could just stay home. Ben and I had had a rough morning trying to get ready for the bus. He told me he hated me, and to shut up and go away while I was trying to jolly him into getting dressed. I believed his words were about me, seeing as he looked directly at me as he shouted them. But maybe they were about him. It's possible he was scared about being on stage. That had not occurred to me at the time because, well everything is about me. 

I don't recall Ben ever saying those two words, I'm scared. Instead he composes violent tortures for random people in his past. It's not a polite way to shield himself from fear but perhaps it's all he has. 

On mornings like those I feel gypped. I started out thinking I deserve a kid who can learn to drive. I deserve a child who has friends who call him to hang out. I deserve a son who might one day fall in love, and have a real job. 

But I have Ben. 

Most eyes were on him when he stood in front. But mine kept drifting back to the ten girls. They had shown up on a Friday night to help some goofy kids have a lunar moment. Not only that, buddies come to the Life Skills classroom every week. Some come every single day. They get no money, or grades, or extra credit. Rewards are not part of the equation. They use their free period to play Wii with these kids, or make brownies or simply take a break from the pressure of being  a seventeen year old in a large high school. 

Benjamin's favorite buddy is named Aviva. That means "innocent". When he informed me that he wanted to invite her to his birthday party last month I cringed. Why would a teenager with actual friends want to go to my kid's birthday? But she did. She brought a gift card to Dairy Queen. 

What the buddies seem to be fueled by is not deserving, but serving. Somehow holding the elbow of a kid with autism to help him go the right direction feels good enough to come back and do it again tomorrow. 

There is nothing more innocent than that.