We See You, Calvin

November 24, 2014. You turned five while the rain sang on the windows and the sun hid its face. You were hidden too–seizures were fierce; we held you close as your body twitched and eyes stared wide. “Happy birthday!” and flaming candles filled the room, we guessed you’d want us to celebrate for you.

What I want you to know, Calvin, is that we see you. All of us, dad and mom, your three sisters and brother. Seizures can’t hide you from us, we just wait til they pass and we get you back. Disability doesn’t deter us–we look in your eyes, lay close to your body and feel your breath on our cheeks. We see you, dear boy.

Evie sees you when she  puts a pen in your hand that doesn’t work and helps you to draw. She sees you as she sits by you for hours carefully setting the pen up in your hand, waiting for your slightest movement. She sees your masterpieces in the scribbles. She sees your care as she nestles into your arms seeking comfort after a bad day.

Noah sees you, your longing for adventure. When he places lego ninjas in your hands and carries you along on adventures, he sees your excitement and trusts your creativity as he fills in your parts of the story. He sees your need for boy whirlwinds as he circles your chair round and round in the living room.

Sophie sees you as she places your hands on the piano keys. She holds you carefully and knows you’d play if you could, she guesses you don’t mind her moving your hands along the keys. And by your grin, I think she’s right. She pushes your chair close to the piano as she practices, she sees your love for beat and rhythm and joy.

Violet sees you. She sees your need for happiness as she pushes her little baby hands on your cheeks and says “hi!”. She knows you want her around, you want to feel her close.

Daddy sees you. When he comes home and rubs his scratchy beard on your cheek, he sees a little boy wanting love and a little horseplay. He looks past your shaking and melts from your crying, he sees you, his little boy who wants to be protected, kept, love. He doesn’t see a burden, he sees the gift of you.

I see you. When I care for you day after day, I see more than the med syringes, diapers, trachs and feeding tubes. You are my son and so much more than the needs that define your body. Given the chance I know you’d be getting into mischief, begging for one more story and getting into your brother’s legos. I know you are more than what can be seen.

And even more, your Creator and Redeemer sees you. He knows every part of you, your every desire, idiosyncrasy of character, the things that you find funny, your soft spirit. We get glimpses of you but He knows you fully, doesn’t He?

And that’s the wonder. Your soul is not hindered by a neurological disorder, there is no boundary too wide for Jesus to cross. There is no little lamb too impaired for Jesus, the more broken, the more eager His shepherd hands reach for you. The tighter he binds you up and keeps you close.

Your eyes have lost their sight but His eyes will never lose sight of you.