I'm So Glad God Gave Me You

Sammy was diagnosed with Aspergers about six years ago. We've known all his life that he was "different.". Brilliant and odd and dresses a bit strangely has trouble making friends yet all who meet him take a liking to him.

His capacity to focus on what intrigues him is unmatched by most. However, the list of what intrigues him is very narrow and specific.

Also, I've often wondered; How could one young man be so smart but have trouble washing his hair or brushing his teeth? How could he be so intelligent but be incapable of holding down a job in real life?

I wonder if he'll ever find his hunger...his drive.....his motivation.

Before he was diagnosed, I remember feeling so confused. Why wasn't he turning out like our other kids? Why didn't his intelligence translate into more success in the real world?

Now at 22, I have my worries for him. I see his life passing by. He spends his time researching on the computer, wanting to watch only the news and its atrocities.

He does have a passion for the world and feels a strong sense of altruism.

I am trying to find a place for him to be active in this regard within the city he now lives with his brother.

A Letter To Sam

I'm so glad God gave me you.

My beautiful Sam expresses all alone,
He lives in a world that’s all his own

My beautiful Sam doesn’t quite fit in
Schools and rules were never made for him.

My brilliant Sam already knows by now
He is to be a different man somehow.

I want him to build a life he can be proud of
Find his purpose find some love.

My gentle Sam, my sweet son
I want to see him free and watch him run.

There is so much passion, so much pride
So much possibility inside.

I'm so glad God gave me you.

Mom

Comments

Bingo Across the Aisle

At Sunset Palms Assisted Living, peace used to sound like plastic bingo chips rattling in paper cups, peppermint tea sloshing in saucers, and someone asking, every forty seconds, whether the thermostat had been touched. Then came the North Lounge Incident. No one could later agree on what started it. Mr. Henderson said it was the remote control. Mrs. Gable said it was “the tone.” Dr. Aris insisted, with academic sorrow, that civilization had begun its decline when someone changed the channel during a documentary about Eleanor Roosevelt. By Thursday, Sunset Palms had split in two. The North Lounge became the Blue Room, filled with navy cardigans, reusable water bottles, and residents who nodded gravely at panel discussions. The South Lounge became the Red Room, heavy with scarlet vests, patriotic mugs, and people who said “common sense” as if it were a legal weapon. Management thought it was being clever. “We are creating emotional safety,” said Brenda, ...

The 7 Virtues of Creativity EP. 3 - NOBODY ASKED HER WHY

The conference room was climate-controlled to a degree that felt aggressive, a steady, humming chill that kept the air smelling faintly of ozone and expensive espresso. Wisdom sat at the polished mahogany table, her knuckles resting lightly against the grain. At sixty-five, she had learned how to occupy space deliberately, without apology or invitation. Across from her, the curator, a young man with a sharp haircut and a vest that cost more than Wisdom’s first car, gestured toward a projected slide of her latest series. He spoke with the rhythmic, practiced cadence of someone who had never had to worry about the cost of paint or the silence of a studio that lacked a heating bill. “What we’re really aiming for,” he said, smiling with a bright, professional warmth, “is a sense of creative empowerment. This exhibition isn’t just a display; it’s an immersive community experience. We want to uplift artistic voices and facilitate a dialogue centered on radical engagement.” Wisdom...

Citizen

At sixty-six, I had gotten very used to my life. Not in a bad way. In a relieved way. My husband Marc and I had a good life. A middle-class life. Predictable, routine, sometimes even boring, which at this age I had come to appreciate more than I ever did when I was younger. Coffee in the morning. Meals at regular times. Bills paid, more or less. A house that felt lived in. A husband who is kind, steady, and regimented in ways that used to amuse me and now mostly comfort me. Marc is seventy-three. He likes order. He likes things where they belong. He folds towels neatly, keeps track of what needs doing, fills the car with gas before it becomes urgent, and notices when I’m worried even before I say anything. There is something deeply loving in the way he moves through daily life. Not flashy love. Dependable love. The kind that makes a life feel held together. And I was happy. Or maybe content is the better word. Either way, I wasn’t looking for upheaval. But ...

Maria Scott Herndon: Fabric Of Being

Search This Blog