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Just Like He is

December 7, 2011

In the rearview, grinning toothily back at me, is my boy. The one who still immobile, moves me to joy. Fifteen months of late nights, early mornings, dozens of doctors visits, innumerable questions and doubts, love, and smiles and grins. And now, in this moment, joy startles my gratitude and mother love awake. Joy? Mired in pity and shortsightedenss and difficulty, that unsuspected joy disperses light and goodness and sight. When did that tiny, wrinkly, red-headed baby transform into a five-toothed, fresh from his first haircut little boy?

And when did joy begin to transform my seeing? When did joy inform my heart that I wouldn’t, never could in a million years, trade who, how he is for anything? Joy has taught me that who he is, is wrapped up inextricably with how he’s made. I never believed those who professed good when dealing in altered dreams and dashed hope. We wouldn’t change little Johnny at all. Not even for normal, for typical, for everything you always dreamed? I would ask. They must be faking good, trying to find sanity in the unfairness.

But somehow, now, looking rearward, the paradox is true. I love him. I enjoy him. I have great hope for him. Just like he is.

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