Her words, not my own. If I am to continue to seek knowledge and learn more about Amos and what drives his actions and how best to help him, then aren’t I entitled to ask about the elephant? When I had listened for a couple hours to her explanation that opened a whole new world of knowledge, she paused and I produced my query. She smiled and nodded and repeated softly, more to herself than me, “of course, the holy grail of questions.” I shouldn’t have been surprised that the words spoken from heart hadn’t caught her off guard. Why would they? She is considered a world’s expert on oral motor development and so, many families had naturally been in the same seat as me and surely unveiled their hearts if they had been willing to travel from Ireland.

Will he ever speak?

Will he ever speak? Did you guess that is what I would ask? If you know me well, I would think so. That question sits on my chest and I labor with the weight of it. Nearly all the time it is lurking behind my eyes and in my mind, on my heart, in my tired arms, tired from a little boy who I hold and cuddle way more than a typical child his age. Of course, I think it and I fear the answer will not be the one I want but I ask because I care and want to know how much to guard my heart. Truth is not the worse for me, the not knowing has been like having a splinter that you are not allowed to take out, right in the tender part of your hand and as soon as you forget it is there, you make a lunch, give someone a bath, pick up a glass of wine and the pain begins all over again, never a bit dulled, always sharp. It beckons the words to flow out, perhaps a way to alleviate the sting of constant acknowledgement. And so, I ask again.

Will he ever speak? Funny enough, I can’t remember her concise answer. My takeaway was maybe or maybe not. Even more surprising, that answer gave me peace and joy too. I know it doesn’t make any sense but it is the truth. Never have I found or experienced such a clear delivery of the promise from the verse, “My joy comes from the Lord, not my circumstances.” I wouldn’t have believed that I could have felt this way and thus, I will take it, take the peace and calm after twenty four hours and many appointments filled with words and terms and descriptions that were not glowing reports on my Amos. They were honest and raw and painful and discouraging and I felt like the worst mother on the planet. I tell you this because in this moment those feelings based on those circumstances have been driven away and replaced by inconceivable joy. I need to capture it so I can come back when the heartbreak seeps in again, whether or when it comes in the next few minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, or decades. We know it will come but I will be a teensy bit better equipped when that dark cloud swirls and works hard to envelop me and my precious son.

In this moment, I sit on an airplane and my mind is reeling with terms like vestibular processing and arousal system. They feel like the ice on the mountain ahead that we will climb and likely never reach the top. Our Everest is a thing of the past and I am overcome with joy, the joy that comes from the hand of someone that doesn’t answer my questions aloud but always hears them. Each and every time He hears them and He promises that our journey is His journey, our tears are His tears, our dreams are His dreams, and our Amos is really His Amos. How could I not feel the enormity of this revelation that has been given to me and, in this moment, freed a mother’s heart? Thank you Lord for the peace you have bestowed upon me without my asking and thank you for the gift of joy that always comes, even in the midst of hard questions and even harder answers.