Welcome to Firelight! I write from a house at the edge of a forest, where I live with my husband and two sons. My older son has non-speaking autism. Much of what I write is an effort to advocate for my son by translating our private world for those outside of it.
It was Sunday morning and I was missing the sermon again.
My autistic son ran out of dried mango just after the third hymn. I tried to hand him a package of crackers, but he angrily stuffed them inside his backpack. “You don’t want crackers,” I acknowledged. “That’s fine.” I offered a fidget toy. He briefly touched it, then shoved it inside his backpack as well. Finally, he found the empty bag that once contained dried mango. He stuck a hand inside and came up empty. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. He screamed. We left the sanctuary.
Have you ever been in church when a baby starts to cry? Everybody tenses up. Secretly, we wonder why the mother won’t take the baby out of the service. We sigh. We roll our eyes. What about when you’re the mother whose baby starts to cry? It is an emotional experience. You worked hard to show up. You scoured the closet for something that would fit your postpartum body. You disrupted your baby’s nap schedule. You feel like you’re hanging by a thread. You really wanted to hear the rest of that first point. You pray through gritted teeth that your baby quiets. Finally, you admit defeat and take your baby out of the sanctuary.
I’ve been that mother for fourteen years.
Despite having non-speaking autism, Milo often vocalizes. Loudly. His language is understandable to me, but it is not understandable to most people. I’m able to differentiate between the sound that means frustration and the one that means hunger. In fact, my son and I often argue back-and-forth in our respective languages:
Milo: “Ahh.”
Ahh typically means pain, frustration, or annoyance. I scan my son’s immediate environment. I inspect his portable cassette player, making note of the fact that his music tape has ended.
Mom: “Oh, you want more music. Let’s turn your tape over, buddy.”
A few minutes later, my son is tearing through his backpack in a panic.
Milo: “Eee!”
Eee typically means I want to eat or I’m hungry. Occasionally, it means I want a drink or I’m thirsty. I note that he has eaten through the rest of his dried mango.
Mom: “Oh, you’re out of mango. I’m sorry, buddy. I don’t have more.”
Milo: “Unh!”
Unh typically means No or I’m not satisfied with the answer you’ve given me. It is a protest when I tell my son that something he wants is not possible.
Mom: “Uh, well, let me see. You might have some crackers in the front pocket of your backpack. Let’s check there.”
I locate a package of crackers and hand them to my son.
Milo: “Unh.”
Me: “I see. You don’t want them. You know what? We’re going to get tacos on the way home. Do you want tacos?”
Milo: [grinning] “Yeah.”
Yeah means yeah. It means I like what is happening right now. I’m happy. Thank you.
From my perspective, an entire conversation has taken place. Options were presented. Decisions were made. From another person’s perspective, an autistic boy is making unusual sounds. I’m the harried mom along for the ride. People smile. Sometimes people cry. At night, I let it settle into my bones that my day-to-day life reduced a stranger at Barnes & Noble to tears.
Are their lives so very easy? I wonder.
A few Sundays later, we chose a trail our family hikes often. Milo grinned with delight at every panting dog that ambled past. Midway through, we crested a hilltop. We stopped to take in the dry river bed coiling through the trees.
“Maybe this should be our church,” I whisper.
My husband’s breath came out in puffs of smoke. “I was just thinking that.”
We watched the final ink-black leaves of the season flutter toward the gorge.
Perhaps, like great black bears, we’ll rest another winter—our spent bodies an offering, a kind of whispered prayer.
Thanks for reading Firelight! If this edition resonated with you, I’d be honored if you shared it.
Thank you for sharing this, Heather. More churches need to be aware of the difficulties autistic children have with being in church services.
One of my most cherished memories from church is when my children and many other little children were struggling to be quiet that morning, and our pastor said, “Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me.’ And I think this is a perfect example of what that may have looked like when they did.”
Haunting beautiful and melancholy. You are so talented at bringing people into your world. Praying that you will soon be able to find a church that will be the perfect fit for you all. 🤍 But the forest sure is a great option in meantime. 🍂