When Noah was able to piece together sentences we really began to be able to acknowledge each other’s existence. People with babies that babble on time and have toddlers that love the sound of their own voice probably won’t appreciate what a revolution it was for us to be able to make noises to one another and communicate through them. But know that for Noah and I, these milestones marked the miraculous.
Even so, it was tough going because of Noah’s speech impediment. I joked that I could get a job at the UN as a translator because I seemed to be able to interpret anything. Add a vowel to a garbled grunt and I could tell you what it meant. For this reason, Noah rarely left my side. Attending a Special Needs Pre-K through Fulton County Schools opened Noah’s world and his vocabulary. Unfortunately, it also raised his frustration level as he tried to communicate without me at his side.
Upon daily carpool pick-up, I could sense at a glance how Noah’s day had progressed. Usually the day had proved so taxing emotionally that he often stared slack-jawed into space for several hours before showing signs of life again. It was at this time that I began to wonder how Noah was coping with his disability. Without functional language, the only way to gauge his emotions was through behavior. The signs were not good, but I remember the day Noah confirmed for me what I feared – he knew he was different.
He hadn’t turned four years old yet and was only attending the pre-K class part-time until, when at age four, he would become eligible for full day services. I picked him up after lunch, where he was being trained to eat in a crowded and noisy cafeteria in order to help integrate volume into his fractured nervous system. On this particular day, his teacher said, “Lunch was really hard for him today. He didn’t eat a bite. You should probably feed him again when you get him home.” So when we got home I tried to engage him in picking out something to eat but he just went into his room and shut the door. Since he’d never done this before, I went in to investigate and awoke to my nightmare.
Noah sat on the hardwood floor beside his bed with his arms wrapped around his knees rocking back and forth. When I called his name he didn’t respond in any way or stop the rocking. I was terrified. Not knowing what else to do, I sat on the far side of the room and waited even though I didn’t know what I was waiting for exactly. After around 20 minutes he began to slow the rocking and finally crawled over to a pile of toys. I, however, was too afraid to move. He picked up a cheap Happy Meal toy that had broken the day before and pushed it to my feet. I thought, “Okay, here we go again with him grunting and me explaining that I’ll try and fix this toy even though it is beyond repair.” But then Noah stunned me with the following statement, one I will never forget.
Without looking at me, his small voice said, “Bo-ken. Bo-ken Mama.” Before I could launch into my speech about trying to fix the irredeemable toy he continued. Suddenly, miserable eyes staring at me from a tear stained face met me. As he held the toy in one hand, he took his other hand and pointed to his head. He said, “I bo-ken too. I bo-ken here (pointing to his head).” I barely had time to process the tears on his face, the gesture to his head and his deduction that he was broken before he said: “Mama, you fix me. I bo-ken Mama, you fix me?” In that moment I knew that Noah fully realized his limitations and was heart broken because of them.
I’ve recently been made ever more aware of my own limitations, my own “brokenness”. While it comes as no great surprise to our Christian sensibilities that we are in a broken and fallen state, sometimes the daily management of our lives becomes overwhelming. Much like Paul “I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” It seems the harder I try, the more I fail. To say I fall short of perfection is the world’s greatest understatement – and those are usually my very best days. I spend much more time turning my own tear stained face to the heavens and asking God to fix my brokenness than imaginable. Truly, some days it is unbearable and I wonder what the Creator of the Universe sees in this severe mess of a human. I wonder if there is redemption for my brokenness.
You might be wondering what my response to Noah was that day. Shockingly, I didn’t cry in despair, or tell him he was fine just the way he was. For some reason, that moment in his bedroom floor served as a catalyst in my life. I was scared beyond recognition. The fact that Noah had observed enough of the world to find himself insufficient terrified me. He was defeated and rejected – at 3 years old. I had few answers and little hope in that moment. But something that had lain dormant inside me began to slowly and powerfully rise. It was as if a sleeping beast had suddenly been awakened in my heart as I heard my son ask me to “fix him”. And with strong voice and complete assurance I said, “Yes Noah. I will find a way to fix you.” I believed it too.
I’ve learned a lot from Noah, but one of the foremost lessons has been how to manage brokenness and rejection. As I am continually reminded by this violent world we live in, I am insignificant and powerless. To gain power is to survive. To wield intellect and influence is essential to life. I am told that I must fight my way to the top, to prove my merit and justify my existence as worthwhile. And to be honest with you, it just can’t be done. I just can’t be everything that every person desires me to be. I am without superior intellect or skills (even though some have found my wit especially biting). I don’t know how to do a lot of things. And like the apostle Paul, I fail in my moment to moment attempts to allow the Holy Spirit to guide me. Instead, I listen to the Voices of this fallen, decrepit world tell me that once again, it’s my Fault. And I fail again to meet the standard. I am broken. And I am without redemption or hope, salvation or rescue, joy or peace. It is at these times that I remember Noah’s misery as he wondered if he could be fixed.
For anyone who might be broken too, I have reassuring news. You’ve been fixed.
I’ve learned that more than countless hours of speech therapy, occupational therapy or early intervention the best medicine for Noah is unconditional love. I can only say I know this because my Creator uses the same therapy to heal my brokenness. The Bible is the story of a relentless pursuit of humanity by God because of his unqualified love for us. We have been loved with a fierce love. Beginning with the covenant relationships of The Patriarchs down through the time of the Prophets, God sang a song of unrequited love for his creation. And at the apex of his opus, the cry of a baby boy born in Nazareth confirms the lengths he was willing to travel to sing his love song for humanity. While this symphonic theme is similar through the pages of scripture, its resolution is on the Cross of Calvary when he sang in a loud, anguished voice, “It is finished.” My child, you are no longer broken. You have been fixed, repaired and made whole. Listen not to the cacophony of Voices which carry the stench of condemnation and death – hear my song instead. You have been redeemed and are no longer under condemnation.
For me it is a matter of daily attuning myself to that great song of love. Despite my failures, which are copious, I am not irreparable. In fact, that same brokenness is God’s chosen vessel to carry his Holy Presence into a world that has never heard His song. I cannot describe the challenge I face as I try and find the rhythm to this song each morning. Sometimes, for months at a time, I fear I have forgotten the tune all together. Then I become afraid that maybe I imagined the whole song. So I write. I allow my pain to channel my thoughts into patterns that can help me reason through the torture that is sometimes my existence. And through my pen I somehow manage to hear a faint tune, the theme that violence has trained me to forget.
The song soars on the air: “For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father’. The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.” Be not afraid. You’ve been adopted. Your heritage is no longer fear and condemnation. You are a child of the Most High God.
Tonight at bedtime, we read from Noah’s “Day by Day Bible”. He can quote the line of Patriarchs from Abraham through Joseph – backwards. When I asked him how he could remember all the way back to Abraham and his wife Sarah he simply replied, “Oh, we read that on a Tuesday.” It seems like Noah has learned to listen to the song better than I could’ve ever dreamed.
May he sing it for us all to hear.
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