True Love

Yesterday was my sister's sixteenth birthday party.

Before I left I cried. Had a breakdown, if you will. One that quenched my dry face and squeezed my chest so hard it brought my heart back to life.

And I went straight to my sister, who was sitting alone in her play room watching Grease. She was happy. Smiling. Jumping up and down in her chair. Saying, "Danny," and "Sandy" over and over again. Her smile lit up my face. Then she saw my tears and pressed her cheek to my face. She wanted a kiss. Her way, I'm sure, of saying, "I love you, sissy."

I don't know why, but the love of an autistic child reminds me of Jesus.

There's no judging. There's no "I think my way is better so I'm right and you are wrong." There's no barriers of friendship and love, because they don't over-think things. They don't get into debates about abortions. They don't turn down prostitutes because they are dressed poorly, or homeless people because they might hurt us. They aren't too shy to say "Hi" to strangers, even if that "Hi" involves a tantrum in the middle of Toys R Us.

They just love.

And every autistic child I've ever worked with over the years proved this to me. When I worked with Marcel, a very hefty black boy who obviously wasn't my child or my brother, people stared at us with the most awkward faces. His big arms were always wrapped around me in public. In line at McDonald's he held me. At the grocery store he wanted piggy back rides - and I gave in, which might explain my back problems. At Chick-Fil-A he couldn't stop kissing my hands and cheeks. And when we were at home he always wanted me to cover him with stuffed animals and tickle him until he cried, then he'd wrap his arms around me and get sad because he knew it was time to leave.

Another little boy I taught at the swim school was brain damaged from being thrown across the room as a baby. His parents never wanted him. He was deaf in one ear, blind in both eyes, paralyzed on one side of his body, AND autistic. I loved him. And he loved me. He made that apparent by touching my face constantly (trying to see it because he was blind) and kissing me all during class. I specifically remember one time, snot was dribbling down his face, and he wanted to kiss me. If you know me, you know I let him. And another instructor near me shrieked. Right in front of him. He recoiled.

But I whispered in his ear, "I love you. You are special."

And then he said, through slurred speech that was barely understandable, "Yes, and Jesus loves me too."

And then he swam across the pool for the first time ever. A miracle.

A miracle that would've never taken place if I didn't let him love me.

Sometimes love isn't about being loved, it's about letting yourself be loved too.

These children, these beautiful autistic children, teach me so much about love.

More than anything, they teach me that love changes lives.

I want to love like that.