By Quinn Pillari ‘03

“I’m inside my brain and you can’t get me!” my 6-year-old nonchalantly exclaimed amidst his flailing, repetitive dance moves. I’m trying in vain to coax him into his pajamas.

For a majority of parents, a comment such as this might seem nonsensical at best, disrespectful at worst. But for me, the mother of a child on the autism spectrum, Joey’s honest words brought joy to my ears, stopping me in my tracks and marking a significant juncture on my journey of faith.

My husband and I started noticing Joey’s special needs when he was about 3 years old. In those early months of our journey, I carried a heavy grief that I could not see into the soul of my son the same way I could with my two older children. It was as if no amount of effort, affection, or maternal intuition could cut through the murky, obscured vision I had of who my son was as a person.

I shed many tears trying to get Joey to respond to my voice, make eye contact, or answer my questions. He would sit on the carpet, rolling his toy cars back and forth while staring at the wheels. I would call his name once, then again, then a third time, and he would not react. Eventually I would have to put my face right in front of his and show him an object or picture that would help communicate my message to him. I desperately wanted to know whether Joey was completely unable to hear or respond to me, or if he was deliberately choosing not to do so. The mystery of my own son plagued me, and I longed to be able to simply converse with him, to listen to words he was yet unable to speak, and come to know him more fully.

For the next year, my daily life became physically, emotionally, and even spiritually exhausting as we tried to figure out our son’s needs and find the appropriate resources for him. Simple tasks such as putting on shoes, getting in the car, running errands, and attending Mass became consistently sweat-inducing due to the physical and mental exertion required to guide my son and hold it all together in public.

Meanwhile, my spiritual life began to bear an uncanny resemblance to my relationship with my son. It became just as difficult to communicate with God as it did to communicate with Joey! I felt alone and exhausted, unable to hear, or to even try to listen to God’s voice in my daily life. How could I come to know what God was asking of me if God remained so silent, or refused to respond to me in a way I could understand? Where exactly was God whenever I did muster the energy to call out for help?

It was certainly frustrating for me to try and hear the voice of God when God seemed so silent and elusive in my daily experience. But as Joey developed over the years—and certainly as I developed alongside him as a mother—he became Christ to me.

My relationship with Joey has shown me the beauty and joy in our Lord’s voiceless and hidden presence in our midst. He is hidden within each of his children, and in the intricacies of our diverse ways of learning and communicating. He is hidden in those whose presence in our lives may make us uncomfortable, perhaps because of physical or neurological differences, social status, cultural differences, or differences in religion or values. He was hidden as an infant in a manger and as the son of a carpenter in his quiet upbringing in Nazareth. He is especially hidden in the Eucharist, in the silence and humility of a simple piece of bread. In each of these quiet realities, Christ is bidding us and requiring us to draw closer, be quieter, and listen more intently to one another and to him. And if we remain patient and open, he most certainly will provide us brief glimpses of what we seek.

Take for instance, a tiny uttering during the chaos of bedtime: “I’m inside my brain and you can’t get me!”

Three years ago, I may have been too flustered and hurried to notice this seemingly aloof musing from my little boy. Yet, by the grace of God, I was able to hear my son’s comment as the answered prayer that it was: a clear little window into his soul. And furthermore, praise God, that window revealed to me that Joey is in fact listening, even if he doesn’t always acknowledge me in the way I would prefer (another uncanny resemblance to my relationship with Christ).

I was also blessed that evening with a moment to respond to my son before he lightheartedly danced away in his pajamas. “Joey, I like it when you’re outside your brain, because I love talking to you and being with you. But, you know what? No matter where you are—inside your brain or outside your brain—I always love you the same. And I love you so much.”

Joey touched his forehead to mine, looked with focus into my eyes, and replied, “When I’m inside my brain, you still love me!”    

I pray that as I continue on this journey, I may have the grace to love Christ in the same way; no matter how he chooses to reveal himself, no matter how quiet or hidden he becomes.