“He’s my friend!”

Three words that completely bowled me over.

They came from a little fella who rides on my son’s bus, which transports special needs students to and from school. My astonishment must have registered on my face because the driver quickly explained that the boy had dropped his water bottle, and my autistic 12-year-old had retrieved it for him. Interacting with peers—let alone initiating that interaction—is not something kids on the spectrum reliably do. Especially in the case of my child, who is mostly non-verbal. There is no casual conversation, no joint engagements, no playdates for him, either because he can’t keep up with other children his age, or because he’s too old and too big to join in with the younger ones who more closely match his cognitive abilities and interests.

Last month was his birthday, and his dad and I were lamenting the fact that you can’t really throw a party for a kid with no friends. It’s especially hard when people in your inner circle share photos of the bashes that celebrate their own children’s milestones. Images of cake, presents, games, and partygoers in pointy hats slice into the heart like tiny razor blades. It’s not that you don’t want to bear witness to their blessing; it’s just that it comes with a price that many special needs parents pay in quiet grief.

Here’s the dirty little secret that I must share at this point: when the boy on the bus smiled wide at me as he spoke his words of affection, I noted that he had lost quite a few teeth in front. I also noticed how juvenile he seemed—not only because of his gap-toothed smile, but because of his small size. Part of me said, inwardly, Oh, honey, you can’t be his friend, you’re way too young. This disheartening observation stayed with me even as the driver explained that my son does actually interact with other kids on his bus. Maybe if a few, even one, were as old as he is, that would have brought a bit more encouragement. Instead, my initial spark of happiness flickered.

And so, the next few hours passed with a distinct battle raging inside me, one side bearing the standard of unexpected rejoicing, the other lifting high the same old disappointment that snuffs out joy. A question popped up inside my mind that cut through the conflict for just a moment: Was I disqualifying a child (who may very well not have friends of his own) the same way the world seems to disqualify my son? Who was I to put such strict parameters on who might step into my son’s circle if they so desired and friendship was safe and life-giving?

Mind you, I now know why I responded initially the way that I did. We are all programmed, to some degree, to follow a stereotypical mindset when it comes to processing our world. It’s what makes special needs parenting so painful—because you are constantly pulled off the path that others appear to tread so unconsciously, so unaware of the prosperity they live in by mere fact of following the typical pattern. But ever since the incident with the water bottle, a conviction has taken root in me that a peer relationship may not be as far beyond our grasp as we think. That we may spy a seed of connection growing if we think outside the box.

Since the boy’s declaration of friendship, my child’s teacher has told me that they share the same classroom, and that the former makes known his affection at school as well. Now I have some box-busting to do about my own kid. What could another child see in one who barely speaks and might even ignore him for the most part? What is the big draw? Does God somehow shine His light through my boy in a way that makes him appealing to others who possess an open mind? That is one thing you can usually count on when it comes to special needs individuals: they usually, unapologetically, see the world from their own point of view, no matter how much it might deviate from the norm. And for this boy on the bus, the proverbial sign across his chest seemed to read: Speaking Not Required.

I think of the Moses, who balked at God’s choice of him as emancipator of Israel precisely because he believed he was not “eloquent,” but instead “slow of speech and tongue” (Ex. 4:10). Or Hannah, Samuel’s mother, praying so fervently for a son that no sound could escape her lips. When accused of being drunk by the prophet Eli, she replies, “I am a woman troubled in spirit…I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord…I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation” (1 Sam.1:15–16). And then there is the deaf and mute man whom Jesus heals by applying his own spittle to his ears and declaring “Be opened!” (Mark 7:33–34).

The stories of these and more non-speakers are recorded in the Bible as if to make the point that a lack of words won’t get in God’s way once He has decided to call a person from one place in their everyday existence to quite someplace else. Moses experiences face-to-face intimacy with God as he leads the Israelites to the promised land (Ex. 33:11). Hannah, of course, gets pregnant with her child, who becomes one of the greatest prophets in Israel because of his moral integrity. And the deaf-mute individual begins to hear and speak plainly.

Bearing these narratives in mind, my question becomes: how do I hear that call—the one beckoning me to bring my child forward in faith, believing God will change his life trajectory too? Do I hear it by taking a chance on another atypical child, opening up our lives to him by inviting him to a play date or an outing? These are things we have never done, not only because few kids line up to befriend my son, but also because I do not know what idiosyncrasies another atypical child might bring. I know what my own son is like, but could things get a little messy dealing with another special kid’s set of issues?

Jesus seemed to acknowledge this potentially problematic aspect of friendship in one of his last speeches to his disciples before being crucified.

“This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that someone lays down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you.”

(John 15: 12–15)

Loving others like Jesus did? That practically guarantees messiness in the endeavor. What about “laying down” one’s life? What does He mean by that unnerving phrase? And what if the revelations Jesus passes from His Father onto us involve knowledge that is weighty, confusing, or calls us to be accountable? How would we deal with those complications, when daily life seems fraught with enough trouble of its own?

Risk. It takes risk to get a friend and to be a friend. You can’t do one without the other. Sure, one might choose to stay closed off from other divergent people because it feels safer that way. But it also promises to be lonelier and more desolate, trying to walk a path by oneself, ignoring the still, small voice that says, “Turn around and take a look at this new thing that I am doing.”

What we all need, whether typical or atypical in nature, is to have courage. To risk letting others in by speaking up in invitation. I must admit, I feel pretty chicken in this department because of how maxed out I am at the end of most days. But I also don’t want to forfeit the opportunity to step into a real, live miracle, deprive my son of a future that opens upon lifegiving adventures that he has not yet experienced. Who knows, maybe some of the blessing that gets poured out on him will splash onto me as well, making the effort feel worth it. There’s only one way to know.

O Lord

Make us brave.

Help us speak up

And reach out a hand.

Bring the right people

Into our lives.

And allow us to be

The harbingers of Your love

As we risk new bonds

With our fellow human beings.

Amen.