let the children come to me

how I imagine Jesus would interact with a child with autism
also on Substack - marychasewrites.substack.com

Last year, at a retreat at Ignatius House, I learned about imaginative prayer.

Imaginative prayer, or Ignatian Contemplation, is a part of the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises that offers a very active way of praying, to engage both the heart and the mind, connecting cognitively and emotionally. It’s intended especially for the Gospels — to put yourself in the story of Jesus.

Imaginative prayer is where I go now when I’m all out of words.

Like many experiences of parents of children with autism, navigating school and transitions and advocacy and systems, the end the school year was very hard. We began this summer defeated, exhausted, and weary. But amidst all of this heartache and uncertainty, there is hope for new beginnings and opportunities. We are held in love in our community, and we are hurting.

So I put us in the Gospels, and I thought I’d share it here.

“It was amazing to hear him speak, Mary. I think you’d like him.”

I pull threads to repair a torn tunic and glance up at my sister-in-law, chopping vegetables in preparation for supper. “How so?”

“It’s hard to explain.” She peels the skin away from another onion, her voice softening, her gaze drifting. “He said a lot of things that made me think of my sweet nephew.”

I put the fabric on the table and turn my full attention in her direction, my tone sharper than I intended.

“How?”

“He told us to take care to not despise the little ones, the wanderers. He told this story about a shepherd. He asked us to imagine there’s a shepherd with one hundred sheep, and ninety-nine of them are accounted for at the end of the day. He said something like ‘if one goes astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the little one missing? Would the shepherd not stop searching until the little wanderer has returned?’”

My vision blurs. My sister-in-law resumes chopping. “I thought it was sweet,” she says softly.

I nod and resume my work. I’ve decided I’d like to hear this teacher.

A few days later, I can hear his voice carrying near the shore of the sea. I’m relieved to see other children as I tighten the grip on my son’s hand and begin to weave through the crowd. We find a place toward the back, far enough away to be a bit noisy but close enough to hear what he’s saying. I pull my son in my lap and my husband hands him the leather strap of an old sandal. Sometimes he’s able to sit still for longer periods of time if he’s got something to chew.

Our son has been out of sorts the last few days. I’m not sure why. He doesn’t talk the way his cousins do. He has a few things he likes to say, and sometimes he hears new phrases and repeats them over and over. A few months ago, it was “go sit down, please!” He said it constantly. Lately it’s been, “I love you!” which is very sweet at home, but I feel wary when he says it to strangers.

I look down to confirm he’s content with the sandal strap. I turn my attention toward the teacher.

He’s speaking directly to Pharisees. “It was because you were so hard-hearted…” his voice is elevated now, and the crowd murmurs. It sounds like they are talking about divorce. Chatter around us increases. My son puts his hands over his ears.

After a few minutes, the Pharisees leave. The teacher begins to offer healing prayer, and I see a line forming, some mothers carrying their infants. Then, without warning, my son drops the sandal and runs. He runs so fast now. Before I can register what is happening, I see him bolting toward the teacher. All the color in my face drains as my husband and I begin to weave through the crowds, chasing after him, trying to reach him first.

I hear my son before I see him. “I LOVE YOU!!!” he bellows, and crashes into the teacher.

One of his disciples grabs my elbow. “Woman, control your child!” he scolds. My husband eyes him darkly. I mumble an apology and move toward the teacher, avoiding meeting his eye. Before I can apologize to him, the teacher rebukes the disciple.

“Peter, enough. Go sit down, please.”

My son’s eyes widened with delight.

“Let the children come to me,” he continues, kneeling. The teacher’s hands gently cup my son’s face, and they are both smiling, like they are sharing a secret.

“Don’t you dare stop them,” he says. He plants a kiss on my son’s cheek, who lets out a squeaky laugh.

“It is such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs. And I love you too!”