Game Night with Grace

Two nights ago, I sat and played a game with Bennett. I don’t know the last time we had time to do that. Just the two of us, to sit and play a game. I am usually to drowning in laundry, or the needs of his sisters, or I am just too brain dead to have the capacity to engage him. Because we are both worn out by the end of the day. We are both people that need space and patience, and by the end of the day, we normally don’t have either for one another.

Here is the reality. I abashedly admit this because moms are not supposed to say these things out loud. Sometimes Bennett is annoying. He is bossy and controlling. He whines. And he lacks the confidence to try new things on his own, which makes me sad and frustrated. Bennett is a spectrum person like we all are. Bennett is capable of being the person described, and also coexisting with another end of reality. He is acutely aware of when someone is hurting and responds to that hurt. He seeks peace. He never wants to miss anything. He is smart and effortlessly funny, in a very serious way. For example, while driving through the neighborhood, he saw a house that the chimney had fallen off. There was a gaping hole of dilapidation, he said, “I know what happened there. Santa was just too fat for that chimney.” Bam. Delivered straight-faced. He imitates voices well. The most amazing thing about Bennett (other than his obsession with BBC documentaries and profound knowledge of dinosaurs) is that he loves me. He loves me when I am a bad mom. He loves me in a way I don’t deserved to be loved. And he forgives me. He has grace pouring out his beautiful brown eyes. And when he looks at you with grace, you almost want to cry.

This particular night, I had him just to myself. And we played a silly game. I am not very good at playing. I am usually far too serious for all the reasons that I already described. My observations about my precious son are as follows: Bennett wants to do everything correctly. Perfectly. He also has the great capacity for encouragement and humor. He made me laugh as he wiggled his little body around the board. He had fantastic one-liners that made me smile deeply. Like in the wrinkles of my soul. Every time I would have a good move, he would rejoice with me, encourage me, “That was a good one, girl!” I watched his little fingers move with great care. He didn’t want to make any mistakes. He never does.

It was an Alice in the Looking Glass moment. I saw him, but I really saw me. Everything I love about myself and everything that makes me fearful and solemn. And I was gripped with such love and fear in that moment. See, when I look at Bennett, is so much like me that it hurts. Sometimes, when he yells, I hear my voice. When he cries because he is fearful to make a mistake, I hear my own fear. When he tells Dadrian, his younger brother, how to breath, I hear my own freakish issues of needing to control everything. When he lovingly tell me, “That was a good one, girl!” I hear echoes of my value in encouragement.

But Bennett is not me. Thank God. He is… well… something new. Again, Thank God. And although I may recognize parts of him that are painfully familiar, although I may be able to identify parts of life that will hurt him, parts that maybe I can help him through, he will be who he needs to be if I will continue recognize him and see him clearly. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do for one another? Parent, child, friend…. We are to love each other by recognizing who the other person is and what they need from us. And when do that, when we step away from our spectrum of perspectives and exist in a moment with someone, we are given a new reality of acceptance. And that reality changes who we are, how we play, how we see, how we hear and most importantly how we love. And loving another person is grace. And grace almost always wants to make you cry.