My son, David, was born on February 11th, 2017. Over the next two years, we watched with excitement as he learned to walk and speak. But when he was about two and a half years old, he retreated into himself. He stopped responding to his name. His speech stopped developing. Increasingly he said only one word at a time or spoke in fixed phrases, often quotes from favorite shows or songs. Visits to professionals yielded what seemed like an ever-growing list of diagnoses: autistic spectrum disorder, an intellectual disability, ADHD. 

 Meeting David’s needs has become a challenging priority for us as his parents. There are two types of challenges associated with David’s special needs. The first is logistical and deals with the “what” and the “how” of taking care of him. He has a number of appointments to arrange and attend; he has sensory aversions and desires that are as difficult to understand and predict as they are to satisfy. These challenges bring secondary ones: while there is no end to the resources and tools that professionals recommend, our budget is not similarly infinite.

Additionally, well-meaning family members and friends provide advice that ranges from practical suggestions to crank theories about magical cures. We have to sift through professional and friendly counsel to find what is workable, affordable, and effective. And all the while, we have our own jobs, commitments in our families, community, and church, not to mention two younger sons whose needs have to fit into the balance. I was recently horrified to hear one of them say, “You do love us, Dad, but you love David the most.”

The second type of challenge is existential and deals with the “why” of our experiences. We have felt a sense of loss during the process of discovering David’s disabilities. It stems partly from the fact that he used to be more verbal and interactive with us. As he retreated into himself, we felt like we had lost the son we originally had. Extensive behavioral and occupational therapy have helped him to be more present and interactive, but still not to the degree that we remember from the first two years of his life, let alone that of a neurotypical child of his age. The loss that we feel is also related to our own expectations. There are many stages of life and experiences that he will simply not have. That is a difficult prospect for parents to face. 

We want our son to have a full life and, more selfishly, we want to be able to go through it with him. While the future is unpredictable—especially where David is concerned—it is not out of the question that his care will occupy us for the rest of our lives. Even now, his care shapes all of our plans, determining what jobs we can take and where we can live. It will probably also influence our retirement plans and even factor into our estate planning. In addition to the daunting logistical problems of how to make all of this happen, there are gnawing questions of “why” in all of this. Why can’t we communicate with our son? Why does it have to be this way? 

In both our logistical and existential challenges, we have been helped by caring professionals, loving family and friends, and not the least by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Church attendance presents logistical problems of its own, but the Church has helped make it possible and worthwhile. David’s regression and diagnosis coincided with the 2020 pandemic. Therefore, we were learning how to care for him at a time when church attendance was impossible. When we returned to church after pandemic restrictions were eased, it became clear that we wouldn’t be able to just drop him off with teachers as before. During Primary class on his first day back, David became visibly upset and one of his teachers attempted to comfort him. David responded by biting her on the cheek. We were embarrassed and felt bad for the teacher, but she not only handled the situation with dignity and compassion but also met with us to discuss methods of how to care for David. We spoke with his therapists for additional advice. Once we made sure to send David with the right supplies, such as toys that meet his sensory needs, it became much easier for him to sit through class. His teacher continued to take good care of him, and was not (to my knowledge) bitten again.

Since then, we have met with other teachers as well as leaders in the Church, all of whom have done their best to take care of David. Leaders in our congregations have, when possible, called people with experience teaching or tending to children with special needs to help with David. Currently, our congregation assigns two people to tend to David during Primary. Some teachers have become like family to him. A few years ago, one of his teachers was tying her shoes when David ran over and threw himself at her in a wild hug that knocked her to the ground. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and the teacher merely laughed. I felt pleased that David felt so much love from his teacher that he wanted to express affection for her in ways he typically saves for his parents.

Members of the Church have also helped David without being formally assigned to do so. Outside of Sundays, church members have volunteered to watch our children so my wife and I could take care of important responsibilities or go on hard-to-arrange dates. They have also been vigilant during times David has gotten away from us. David has a tendency to elope or run away, and he has a talent for finding the right moment to do so, even when we think we are watching him closely. On one such occasion, he escaped from us during Sunday church services. Word spread quickly that David was missing, and members of the Church mobilized to find him. I left the church building to see if he had tried to walk home, and immediately over the hill came a man from the congregation carrying David. 

There are many more such examples of logistical help, but perhaps most importantly, church members have been loving and accepting of our boy. I can’t count the number of times David has gotten away from us and run to the front of the chapel during a song, sermon, or prayer. It is embarrassing to chase after him through the pews, but the congregation has responded to this and other such behaviors only with encouragement, support, and understanding. 

Beyond the acceptance and love of ward members, the specific teachings of the Church have helped us with the existential aspects of our challenges. There is a natural and irrational tendency for parents to blame themselves for their children’s challenges. As David was withdrawing into himself, my wife worried that he was doing so because of resentment for the attention she was giving to his younger brother. Having a formal diagnosis provided clarity in this matter, but we have found true comfort in Jesus’ words to his disciples about the man born blind: 

His disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.

We are watching the works of God be made manifest in our son as we receive answers to our prayers for him.

Some of our prayers have been answered differently than we hoped they would be. We feel blessed that David is receiving the best available treatment, and we have been helped by many people. Even with these interventions, however, the challenges remain. While David’s ability to communicate has somewhat improved, we still celebrate if he says a complete sentence. He spends most of his time withdrawn and he still likes to run away. Unlike the man born blind, David has not been healed miraculously. The teachings of the Church help us, however, to put those challenges in perspective. 

A prophet in the Book of Mormon shared words that I often think about in terms of David: “I am like as yourselves, subject to all manner of infirmities in body and mind.” This prophet, a king, was trying to show his people rhetorically that he wasn’t better than them, that they were all on the same level. In doing so he defined human experience as partly consisting of all manner of infirmities in body and mind. Therefore, while specific details of David’s situation are unique, they also reflect the universal lot of humankind. We have found comfort in the fact that we are not alone in our challenges.

Some comfort comes as we speak with other parents raising children with disabilities. The Church teaches that members promise “to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light; … mourn with those that mourn; … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.” Such teachings help to foster a positive and open culture in which parents are able to discuss children’s needs and disabilities without stigma. This openness has, at times, yielded helpful advice for logistical matters, but more often it has helped us to remember that others are going through similar challenges and we can all support each other. As the stories above indicate, David’s behavior makes his disabilities fairly obvious. The fact that other parents in the Church feel comfortable talking openly about their own children’s disabilities has removed any sense of isolation that we may have had. We know that there is a place for David at church and a place for us as his parents.

Most importantly, the teachings of the Church provide a framework for understanding who our son is. We believe that every human being is eternal, that we all have spirits that existed before we were born and will continue to exist after death. We believe that everyone born on earth chose previously to follow the plan of God in spite of obstacles. Our David’s challenges, therefore, are not merely the result of a genetic accident but are part of the design of our all-wise and loving Heavenly Father. One of the leaders of the Church, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, highlighted this principle in a touchstone sermon on mental health entitled, “Like a Broken Vessel.” 

It is crucial to remember that we are living—and chose to live —in a fallen world where for divine purposes, our pursuit of godliness will be tested and tried again and again. Of greatest assurance in God’s plan is that a Savior was promised, a Redeemer, who through our faith in Him would lift us triumphantly over those tests and trials, even though the cost to do so would be unfathomable for both the Father who sent Him and the Son who came. It is only an appreciation of this divine love that will make our own lesser suffering first bearable, then understandable, and finally redemptive.

We don’t understand everything about the designs of God, including those related to David. But we trust in Him because we know He is our loving Heavenly Father. And we take comfort in the knowledge that David’s disabilities are not part of his eternal essence, only part of one stage of his eternal progression.

The Church teaches that little children are innocent and that “all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven.” Members of the Church generally believe that this principle extends to those whose cognitive development remains at the level of a little child, including our David. When I think of David’s care in the light of such teachings it is a sacred honor and not a burden. Particularly when I think about the promise that someday, through the Resurrection, David will be totally freed from the disabilities that affect him. Elder Holland closes his sermon with words that are a source of hope to me and my wife:

I bear witness of that day when loved ones whom we knew to have disabilities in mortality will stand before us glorified and grand, breathtakingly perfect in body and mind. What a thrilling moment that will be! I do not know whether we will be happier for ourselves that we have witnessed such a miracle or happier for them that they are fully perfect and finally ‘free at last.’

This promise makes parenthood not only possible but also ennobling for us. 

One day I took David out of the house because he felt overwhelmed by the number of relatives visiting our house. The place we usually go on Saturdays for horseback riding (his favorite form of therapy) was closed due to the weather, so I took him to the aquarium.   While there, I chased him to keep him from running away, helped him to stand in line at one of the exhibits, stood and appreciated the penguins with him, and tried (unsuccessfully) to stop him from biting himself when he was upset. After I finish writing this, I will sweep up the Goldfish crackers he threw on the floor and, by trial and error, find something more substantial for him to eat. The logistical and existential challenges continue. However, because of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, threads of meaning and faith run through all of the challenges, and we have both human and Divine sources to turn to for help. Tomorrow I’ll sit next to David in church. If he gets upset, I’ll probably leave the chapel and take him for a walk through the halls. When I see other parents with children doing the same thing, if they have a free hand, I think I’ll give them a high-five.

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