Coming Back

You disappeared for just about a week. I saw you slipping away after a solid month of smiles, affection, closeness, regulation, playfulness, calm and sillies. It was the longest period we have had with your at-home self and I began wondering if it was here to stay. But then last week the eye contact disappeared, you allowing me to touch or hold you became terrifying and my smile threatened you. The mere sight of me made you yell and retreat. You clung to anyone in an attempt to avoid me. I know this child--the one terrified to be in her own skin--the one who rejects me with every-other-breath. I also know that she is gradually fading away. You came back to me tonight, like a flip of a switch, the way it usually happens. We took a bath together. You let me put lotion on your slippery skin. You allowed me to rock you while you rested your head on my chest. You silently traced my fingers and rubbed my earlobe. To me, nothing is closer to heaven. We've had to work really hard with each other for these simple nighttime lovies--I'll never take them for granted.

Surely everyone is weary of me telling this part of our story--people don't like hard things. Perhaps it seems redundant. Perhaps it seems negative. I share the pattern of our struggles because there is hope beneath it all. There is hope that emerges from the repetition of losing her and her returning. The lady in Target may not have seen our entwined meltdown as hopeful, but that's because she doesn't know that we have been through this confusing, exhausting dance before. I am learning through all of this that it is the climbing out of the mirk and mire that is so redeeming. There's a wacky balance to this life, and without feeling at the bottom I'm not sure one can truly rejoice in the ascension. Tonight I felt redeemed. You came back to me, my child. You came back to yourself. And I know, if and when you slip away again, God will lovingly restore you. His promises are great. His faithfulness is bright. This is our security.