This Father’s Words

When it came to sending our son Jack to a college program, we weren’t exactly on the same page. 

We talked about it night after night. We argued. We took turns making our case for why we should send him, and why he wasn’t ready.

In the end we decided to try. 

Drop off day came. We packed up the car. We drove for three hours. We unpacked. 

We carried in the comforter, the towels, the griddle for pancakes. We met with all the teams. Social pragmatics. Independent living. Academic support.

We said goodbye. It was perhaps the hardest moment of my life. 

On the ride home you worried about fire escapes and the safest route outside of the building. I thought about socks. I wondered if I’d bought enough. I couldn’t bring myself to stretch my brain past footwear.

The day he was born, you held him tight.

You cradled all nine pounds, two ounces of him against your chest. You walked slowly around the room, humming a childhood tune.

This was before we knew of the road we were about to travel.

Speech therapy, education plans, behavior modification, social stories. 

Guardianship, group homes, family court. 

Autism. 

You are a Forever Father.

Forever is big. It takes up a lot of space.

In the beginning, you chased him.

Through parking lots and malls and the grocery store. 

You held his hand in yours, navigating crowds at parades, crosswalks, ski resorts.

You taught this boy everything you could think to teach. 

You taught him about taxes, and budgets, and constellations across the dark night sky.

You taught him how to build shelves, and install light fixtures, and read the user’s manual.

You reminded him that when all else fails, follow the instructions. 

When it comes to autism, there are no instructions. There is no user’s manual.

There is simply love inside words.

You never asked why. 

Why our son?

Why this diagnosis?

To you, these questions were like stretching our fingertips too close to a burning flame. We’ll likely walk away with our hearts on fire.

Instead, you asked questions that begin with who, and what.

Who can this boy become?

What will it take to get him there?

You considered the questions. Then you got to work. 

You showed him how to grip a fork, and tie a tie, and give a firm handshake.

How to look both ways before crossing a street, and shovel the snow off the driveway, and why you don’t tell strangers where you live. 

You talked to him about politics. You remind him to always have a flashlight handy in case there’s no power. You help him climb a ladder to hang Christmas lights with his brothers.  

Prayers in church, the history of rock music, how almost anything can be fixed with a chocolate chip cookie.

Gently you coaxed him to the couch on Sunday afternoons. You explained the art behind the game—strategy and sportsmanship and Hail Mary passes.

You made a fan out of him.

Beneath all the lessons is another message entirely—how to reach for all that is rightfully his.

You are scared.

You are determined. 

You are fearless.

He grew taller than you. Still, he reached for your hand. You never cared who stared. 

You tied your dreams to a tireless cloud. Then you chased it across the sky.

We will move mountains for him.

It might simply be different mountains.  

Maybe there is no perfect answer. There is just me, and you, and this boy, and autism. 

Rooting for the underdog is equal parts thrilling/scary/ordinary/new.

I guess, at the end of the day, all we can do is hope the world is gentle.  

All we can do is hope we’ve done enough.

We are two pages in the same story.

The story of a boy, his autism, and discovering what’s possible. 

He could change the game.

For years, he held for your hand. 

Now, he walks beside you.

Together, you share the same stride.

You did this.

You taught him to reach, yes.

You also taught him how to stand on his own.