Five years ago next month a little boy came to our house for the first time. A friend of a friend had mentioned that we might be interested in adopting. So they dropped him off for a trial run, sort of. He had all his fingers and toes. He had huge brown eyes. On the back of his hands were scars. I’m not sure he even knew they were there or that they shouldn’t be there. They just were. They spoke volumes to us though. This little boy had already travelled a long road from being abused as an infant and then passed off to a strange family for safe keeping and even now was being passed off again. He must have wondered why and for how long. Would this be another lay-over on the journey or would this house, this family, offer sanctuary from a nomadic life that began with wounds from a world of sin.
We soon discovered the little boy was, well, active. Way to active. Off the chart active. He didn’t walk through the house, he bounced, like the super ball I had as a kid. ADHD were the letters that were attached to his medical file. Drugs were in order. It had to be either Adderal for him or Prozac for us. He needed help more than we did. Being tossed from Kindergarten every other day would not be a resume builder for the first grade. ADHD kids have difficulties in many ways. They are usually developmentally behind as much as three years. They can’t focus. They are often labeled lazy because they can’t concentrate to do their work so they do nothing. And, with a brain that never rests, they can have behavior issues. In lay terms, they are trouble makers. Labels, discipline, being ignored, considered lazy and not being able to relate to peers are bound to leave scars. These are not as evident as the others but scars none the less.
The boy still displayed unusual behavior, even for an abused child with ADHD. We had every test done that could be done. Nothing. Nada. No one could tell us anything definitive. There were terms thrown around by professionals that described a developing Hannibal Lector. About then we adopted the boy knowing that his journey was getting longer and harder every day. We hoped that permanency would help. It didn’t. Tortuous melt downs. Chairs being thrown. Screams that “the music is too loud”, “it’s too cold”, “I have to eat before I can put on my socks”, constant whining, ignoring adults, reclusive behavior, repetitive sounds, intense desire to be right, correcting adults, melting down when corrected, and oh so much more. Then Jana said the right word, “Asperger’s”. He was tested and that was it. The brown eyed boy had Asperger’s Syndrome. It explained it all. We were concerned and relieved at the same time. Finally, a diagnosis. Wait. What the heck is Asperger’s? It’s a form of autism and that’s about all I know, for now. We are learning, almost daily. What we do know is that you can’t see it. It’s not a scar on a hand that explains a world gone wrong. It’s invisible. What we see are symptoms. Not everyone gets it. Recently a teacher called the boy by a derogatory epithet when what she was observing was a symptom, not a “normal” kid making bad choices. I was angry. I wanted to say, “Look at the scars.” but there aren’t any that can be seen. Not for this. I realized too that this would be part of his journey. Misunderstandings, assumptions, judgments, and labels that he is “kwerky,” if people are kind, will be his lot.
Thomas asked Jesus if he could see his scars. Jesus showed him his hands. The scars verified for Thomas that it was indeed Jesus but for me, the scars speak volumes about a world of sin. A world that is not what God intended. It is a world where tornadoes rip through towns, wars begin over greed, adults are left on the streets to live and that quirky children are teased and maligned. It is a world where children on the other end of the autism spectrum are locked away behind blank stares. It is a world where adults sometimes behave like children. It is a world . . . well, you get it. What holds it together for me is the unassailable belief that God will and does continue to work. Creation continues. Grace somehow brings humanity forward even at the almost intolerable pace of a snail. So, thanks be to God for not giving up on quirky humanity and little boys who say, “No Dad, it’s 8:31, not 8:30.”
Thanks to “Geek Palaver” for the seeds for this story.
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