The Most Ordinary Miracle

Yesterday I woke up late.  Over the Christmas break our kids developed the super-endearing habit of letting us sleep in a little bit, and I'm having a hard time mustering the maturity to break them of it.  We alternately sped and stumbled through the day, cleaning and organizing and making ready to go back to our disciplined homeschool schedule on Monday.  My husband brought home pizza after stopping by the pharmacy.  Just another Wednesday.

As I sat in the den holding my sweet Joseph, gazing woefully at the mostly-packed Christmas boxes and strewn packing paper all over the floor, a tiny little miracle swept across my cheek.  It's touch was so light that I barely perceived it, didn't understand what had happened, until I looked into the bright eyes of my happy little boy. He struggled and grunted, rolled his eyes back a little, scrunched up his smooth face, and swept his knuckles across my cheek for the second time.

I stared at him through watery eyes.  Having a child with such profound disability, particularly when the delays are cognitive and social/emotional, leads to a highly developed sense of wariness in the parent.

  "Did he just... do that on purpose?"

He sure did.  Then he did it again, and again.  For what seemed like a million moments in stopped time, my two-year-old son reached up and explored my face, on purpose, for the very first time.  He looked at me, and swept his knuckles across my cheek.  I helped him touch his delicate fingertips to my chin, and grasp my nose.  I congratulated him, praised him, and encouraged him.  I cried happy, grateful tears that soaked the front of his brown stripey outfit, nuzzled his warm little neck, and stroked his fuzzy hair. In my messy living room on a second-hand sofa, I felt one of the most extraordinary and beautiful things I could imagine.