How do we respond when their theology is their child?
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I regularly read the blog A Thinking Person's Guide to Autism, and this recent post is one of my favorites: My Baby Cried Louder Than Science. I know it might be controversial to share it here, as it is staunchly pro-vaccination and unapologetic in its dismissal of vaccine concerns. That's not why I love the post, though, and please know that I'm using this as a springboard to jump to another topic altogether.
In the post, Jennifer Byde Myers writes about taking her daughter - her second child, born after her older son's diagnosis of autism - for a well-baby check-up that included shots. She writes:
In case you don't pop over to the original post, here's the rest of the story: Jennifer called the doctor back, kept trying to calm her daughter, and finally took her baby girl back to the doctor in a panic ... where they realized that she had been causing the crying by putting pressure on one of the sore spots where the shot had been administered. The child was screaming because her momma was pinching her, not because she had a bad reaction to the shot itself. Jennifer was convinced that science supported the practice of vaccinating kids; she was willing, though, in a state of panic and helplessness to change that conviction.
I don't link to this to begin a scientific debate. Actually, I want to change the subject now, steering us away from science and toward theology instead. I've talked with enough parents of kids with special needs to know that this post could have been written about faith instead of vaccines. Instead of "my science was my child, my screaming child," I've heard variations of "my theology was my child, my hurting child."
Jennifer's doctor was compassionate. She didn't dismiss her concerns. She didn't mock her because she, as a mom, was misunderstanding her daughter's cues. She didn't look down on her. She listened. She watched. She helped.
Is the church willing to be just as gentle and compassionate and helpful? Are we willing to listen to the grief of hard theological questions instead of dismissing them? And are we willing to be patient with and available to parents who need support in their moments of panic and anxiety?
Disability raises questions. Hard questions. Sometimes, in an effort to avoid hard questions, we run from the families whose circumstances could force us to ask or answer them. Please, don't do that. Don't walk away from the questions or the individuals posing them. You'll miss out on so much if you do!
Whether or not you're personally comfortable with hard questions, know this: God is okay with them. He can handle them without intimidation or avoidance. He never runs from families with disabilities, even when others do.
In the post, Jennifer Byde Myers writes about taking her daughter - her second child, born after her older son's diagnosis of autism - for a well-baby check-up that included shots. She writes:
When she woke up at home I reached in to get her and she began to wail. "Poor thing, must be starving"... so I pulled her close and set about to nurse her... and she twisted her head this way and that, thrashed about and screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Every time I tried to comfort her, cradling her in my arm like she was a bouquet of flowers, she just screamed at me. She wouldn't eat. I panicked.Oh my God. My child had her shots two hours ago, and now she is a different child. This is how it is, one minute the child is there, then they're gone; that's what I've heard. My daughter has autism. Oh my God.In an instant, every single piece of science went out the window, and anecdote took hold. My science was my child, my screaming child.
In case you don't pop over to the original post, here's the rest of the story: Jennifer called the doctor back, kept trying to calm her daughter, and finally took her baby girl back to the doctor in a panic ... where they realized that she had been causing the crying by putting pressure on one of the sore spots where the shot had been administered. The child was screaming because her momma was pinching her, not because she had a bad reaction to the shot itself. Jennifer was convinced that science supported the practice of vaccinating kids; she was willing, though, in a state of panic and helplessness to change that conviction.
I don't link to this to begin a scientific debate. Actually, I want to change the subject now, steering us away from science and toward theology instead. I've talked with enough parents of kids with special needs to know that this post could have been written about faith instead of vaccines. Instead of "my science was my child, my screaming child," I've heard variations of "my theology was my child, my hurting child."
Jennifer's doctor was compassionate. She didn't dismiss her concerns. She didn't mock her because she, as a mom, was misunderstanding her daughter's cues. She didn't look down on her. She listened. She watched. She helped.
Is the church willing to be just as gentle and compassionate and helpful? Are we willing to listen to the grief of hard theological questions instead of dismissing them? And are we willing to be patient with and available to parents who need support in their moments of panic and anxiety?
Disability raises questions. Hard questions. Sometimes, in an effort to avoid hard questions, we run from the families whose circumstances could force us to ask or answer them. Please, don't do that. Don't walk away from the questions or the individuals posing them. You'll miss out on so much if you do!
Whether or not you're personally comfortable with hard questions, know this: God is okay with them. He can handle them without intimidation or avoidance. He never runs from families with disabilities, even when others do.