My Son's Silent Ministry

I am most content when I lean into our challenges instead of running from them.

Welcome to Firelight! In case you’re new here, I write about my unconventional life with my husband and two sons, the older of whom has non-speaking autism. In this edition, I write about the sermons my son preaches without speaking a word.

Parents of autistic children understand that we live in a world that isn’t designed for our families. We fight to be included in spaces that most people enter and exit freely. We don’t have the luxury of playing hard-to-get—no one chases after us. Instead, we cosplay bravado until, like an expanding root, it grows within us. Though it may surprise those who don’t parent children with special needs, parent advocacy isn’t universally praised. It typically comes with a cost. Advocacy is costly to our reputations, our mental health, our vocational callings, and our finances.

We don’t have a choice in much of this. Many of us need to fight for the most basic of things for our children—safe learning environments, access to medical care, a right to be present in certain spaces. I never dreamed I’d witness some of the things we’ve experienced—a doctor who refused to treat my son because of the way his body moved, a therapist who refused to provide adequate services because my son couldn’t communicate at the level she deemed acceptable, a church that refused to serve my family communion because we asked for an accommodation regarding masks in 2020. I have every right to be bitter. And sometimes I am. However, I am most content when I lean into our challenges instead of running from them.

The exciting part is, autism is a rebirth when we choose to see it in that light. I never feel more powerful than when I lean into a primal, maternal role. I do not approach mothering as a theoretical thing—Sherlock leaning over a corpse, methodical and distant. I approach mothering as a hands-on, tactile effort—Sam lifting Frodo from volcano ash, robbed of any adrenaline to make the task lighter. It is sheer will that allows him to carry the weight of his own body and Frodo’s—a God-given fire that burns until it burns out.

In exchange for this whole-body offering, we are given a secret window into all that truly matters in this life—and there is no chance I’d trade that knowledge for the trifling convenience of my child being able to attend any school, play on any sports team, or achieve any earthly prize. If you don’t know this peace, I pray you will read on and determine, inwardly, to grab hold of it.

At the start, I viewed autism as a medical journey instead of a spiritual one—and that led me down all sorts of paths. Later, I viewed autism as a therapeutic journey—the more services, the better. At present, I view my son’s autism as missional. I don’t mean that I am ministering to my son, either. I mean that he is ministering to me. It took me many years to perceive the innate wisdom in my son—the gifts he offered, without speaking a word. I now lean in, a captive audience member.

Years ago, we attended a small-group session with Ray Ortlund—senior pastor, at that time, of our church in Nashville. A few times per year, congregants crowded into a small classroom with foam-cup coffees for “Ask Pastor Ray”—an opportunity to ask specific theological questions during the Sunday-school hour. In that group, we expressed our grief over Milo’s communication challenges. We asked for prayer.

I remember Ray speaking about ministry work—at first, I thought he was referring to our opportunity, as parents, to minister to Milo. I then realized that he was referring to Milo as a minister! My heart almost couldn’t bear the joy I felt in that moment! He went on—and I recognized that he was not even referring to Milo’s ministry as a theoretical possibility. He was referring to Milo’s ministry as a current event! In fact, Ray continued, Milo’s silent ministry might be such that, in heaven, he may be “greater than even Martin Luther.” (Luther, for those who don’t know, is considered by many Protestant Christians to be a hero of the faith.)

While I understand that our former pastor’s words were, of course, speculative—few words have brought me greater comfort, as a mother, over the years than these.

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