Learning to Lean
By Jessica Greer
In the March 2014 edition of The New Yorker, Andrew Solomon discussed the horror of the Sandy Hook massacre with the killer's father, Peter Lanza. On December 14, 2012, in one of the most disturbing massacres in American history, Adam Lanza, age 20, shot and killed his mother before walking into Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, and murdering twenty school children and six school staff.
Later, Lanza spoke out for the first time as he gave Solomon a raw and heartbreaking interview. He reflected on the son he once knew and loved; he recalled idiosyncrasies and peculiarities that might have had clinical solutions before that fateful day that destroyed so many lives. I read this honest account of a parent wishing their child had never been born, a father wrestling with his failures... and I could not help feeling empathy for this broken human trying to live in a world that deems his son evil; that even he will forever remember as evil. While an extreme example of a defeated parent, his humanity and weakness is something any parent can relate to.
Some moments in life transcend all surface images we try so hard to portray, revealing our utter vulnerability and brokenness. Parenting is perhaps the most realistic reminder that we are all powerless and weak beings who need the grace of God to direct us. Not every parent faces exceptional challenges with their children such as medical issues, behavioral issues, addiction, death, or even murder, but raising children is, nonetheless, subject to continuous seasonal change. This is why competitive parenting is the demise of every young parent. The tendency is to believe that when our children are healthy, obedient, loving, or just young – that this phase is our child. When the child is three years old, we figure we have parenting mastered, so we can sit in judgment of those who struggle or seem overwhelmed.
In my case, the opposite was true. I was turned so completely upside down by parenting that I felt powerless and defeated – an inevitable fate, I presumed. I thought I would never know the sweetness of enjoying my children. This confession may not reflect Parent of the Year status, but it is the truth. In September of 2012 my oldest son, Kevin, was diagnosed with moderate to severe autism. I was vaguely aware of his condition, but I expected a mild sort of “at risk” diagnosis. While I felt a sense of loss, I was not devastated. I had seen parents I love lose a child to actual death or to real trials of extreme and eternal loss. Yet I did feel that I had lost a son that I felt entitled to; a son that would speak and engage, make friends as I had, and learn as all children learn. In short, a son that would develop as any typical kid would.
Immediately, I feared for the uncertainty ahead. I feared social rejection; and my most honest fear was mothering a child for the rest of my life. Mothers often joke that they want to keep their children small forever, so that they will never leave. I am not that mother. I love my children, but I had prematurely judged motherhood as one of the most naturally easy jobs on the planet, as smooth as learning to eat or breathe. Women have been doing it for thousands of years. How hard could it possibly be? As it turns out, it is the most vulnerable position on the planet.
As I began my trek up the great mountain of the broad spectrum of autism, I could not help but feel that this season was now my life. A life I honestly did not want, so I decided I would hurry and rush my child out of this label. I was sorely mistaken, and in desperate need of a miracle. Not a miracle that would magically heal my son and put an immediate end to this trial, but the miracle that would change me into the mother I needed to be. The moment Kevin was diagnosed, I knew God was unfolding a more specific purpose in my life; that this was to be a personally designed destiny – which is why I told Him, No! I am absolutely not interested. Please try again, God.
My dad directed me to study the strongest women in the Bible. In I Samuel we see that after barren Hannah miraculously conceives, she keeps her promise and gives Samuel back to God to be raised by Eli in the temple. For all she knew, she was faithfully giving up her position as primary nurturer for her only child. But Eli tells Hannah’s husband: “The Lord give thee seed of this woman for the loan which is lent to the Lord," and Hannah goes on to have three sons and two daughters. In Exodus 2:1-10 we find the story of Jochebed, whose choices for Moses were death or an uncertain future. She trusts God with her baby and sends him floating away in a basket on the Nile River, and he becomes the adopted son of Pharaoh's daughter. Mary, the mother of Jesus, had to come to terms continually with the fact that her son's purpose was much more vital than her personal hopes and dreams.
At some point, every mother must learn to lean on God's purpose for her children. Prying control over a child out of the hands of its mother is one of the most impossible of processes; it is an unnatural thing to let your child go. Even animals instinctively protect their young from danger. But our efforts to keep our children for ourselves, sheltering them in a padded bubble, may become detrimental to their future purpose. In my own situation, I had no choice but to release my son. I am not a speech therapist, nor an occupational or behavioral therapist. My home is not a school where my son can learn social skills from other children. My son needs those resources to develop.
Peter Lanza said his ex-wife Nancy "indulged Adam's compulsions. She would build the world around him and cushion it." Adam Lanza was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. The obsessive behaviors he displayed are manageable via different forms of therapy. But his mother felt the uncontrollable need to protect him. Many mothers of children with disabilities share that feeling. I am in no place to judge a woman who literally sacrificed her life for her son; yet I cannot help but hear the echo… Woe is me!
Every mother faces Jochebed’s dilemma: Do I put the child in that basket and send him down the river with nothing more than faith to ground me? It is in those moments of crisis that some of the greatest opportunities emerge. I am still completely and utterly uncertain for Kevin's future, but no more uncertain than I am for my son Jacob's future, and he does not have autism. Life is not a science any of us have mastered, to guarantee a desired outcome. I have not perfected a program or a philosophy. I am learning every day; I am renewed every single day. It is only by learning to lean on God's grace that we will overcome the emotional, mental, and above all, the spiritual battles we face as parents.