February 2020 – JasonHague.com: Faith * Fatherhood * Autism

Dear Jack,

This morning, were were both up early, and we sat together in the dark living room in front of your favorite heater. You were wrapped in your soft blanket, and I had my cup of coffee, and you leaned in close and put your head on my shoulder the way you have since you were eight. But your head is so much heavier than it used to be; your legs are so long, and your forehead so bumpy with adolescence. You’re not a child anymore.

Many things in your world are changing. Your big sister just turned eighteen, for one thing. Soon, she will go to college, and she will leave her bedroom. We won’t see her as often because she will be making a new life with studies and friends, and I imagine she’ll even have her own family someday. You will miss her. We all will. But it will be a good kind of pain.

Not everything is changing, though. For example, this morning when we sat together, all of a sudden you broke the stillness and started to laugh. I asked you what was so funny, because I really, really wanted to know, but you couldn’t tell me. This has happened for many years.

One of the greatest desires of my life, son, has been to crawl up inside your head. As the song says, “I want to see your thoughts take shape and walk right out.” This has happened from time to time—little moments with speech, movie quotes, and communication devices—but words are still very hard to come by. And I find myself thinking more and more about your years to come. I don’t worry so much about things changing. No. I worry about them staying the same. I worry that we might never know the beautiful pain of watching you, our son, make your own life.

When I say “make your own life,” I don’t mean you’ll be alone as you grow. I promise, you won’t. We will always have a home for you. We’ll always keep a bedroom, a soft couch, and a TV stocked with Muppet movies. And even after mom and I are gone, your brothers and sisters will be here to help you make waffles and cookie balls. You will not grow up by yourself.

It’s the circle past your family that I worry about. Your struggles to communicate have kept that circle small. For years, You’ve pretty much just opened up to us and Miss Janae (I know you miss her, too), Miss Beth, and your teachers and therapists. But in order to find our way in life, we have to let others in as well. People our own age, I mean. People we like to laugh with and be with. I’m talking about friends.

You see, son, when God made us, He made us incomplete. He made us small, with weaknesses—with joys and sadnesses that are too big and heavy to carry on our own. That sounds bad until you realize that he also made other people who are also incomplete. He wanted us to lean on Him, and lean on one another. Together, we can share our favorite movies, our favorite snacks, and the stories that make us cry. Our incompleteness is a good thing, then. Because Mike Wazowski needs James P. Sullivan. Kermit the Frog needs Fozzie Bear. Even Lego Batman—who never thought he needed anyone at all—realized that being alone wasn’t enough in the end.

Maybe you’ve been too scared to make friends. One time, you said you thought you were awkward. Is that why? Do you think people won’t like you? Or do you think it will just be too hard to show people your favorite things—to tell them the funny jokes inside your head? I can’t promise you it will be easy. Some people are mean. Some kids will probably hurt your feelings. But then, you’ll meet others who love waffles and Lego Batman just like you. They will want to know what makes you laugh, and even if you can’t tell them, they’ll still want to sit next you.

This is what we want for you, son. And we’ve been worried you might not find it.

But then, last week, you surprised us. Miss Natalie was working with you, and she asked you about your birthday. You haven’t wanted a party before, but this time we asked if we could do one and you said yes. And when she asked you if you wanted to invite any kids from school, you took out your communication device and you did something you’ve never done before. You typed other people’s names:

Lenny

Jalen

Hudson

Three kids from your school.*

That itch to be known—that is a good thing, son. It’s scary, but it’s good. We have always felt it for you, but we didn’t know you felt it for yourself. Those three names gave our hearts new hope.

Even if the Lenny, Jalen, and Hudson don’t come to your party—or if they come and you don’t have a good time—I can promise you this: your family will still be right here with you like Lightning McQueen’s pit crew, helping you navigate your race to adulthood. And in the early mornings, when you just want to stop and be still, there will always be a quiet spot next to me in front of the heater.

I love you, Jack, and I’m ever so proud of you. Happy 14th Birthday.

Dad

(a.k.a. Padre)