My Easter Prayer (Belated)

One of my son Daniel's few and great passions is visiting the library, though he much prefers to check out books than to return them -- fortunately there's no fine on kids books, just increasingly-irritated letters from the library. We have negotiated a rule that on each trip he must return one more book than he intends to check out (once the stockpile gets smaller, it'll be one-to-one). After a bit of resistance, he has enthusiastically signed on, and heads for the library box as soon as we can agree on a trip, carefully selecting the ones he can give up. Last night we went to the Ashman Library (he rotates between two of them) with three books he had selected for return. When we got there I lagged hehind in the car, fishing around for CDs of my own to return, and gathering up the books he had selected. I looked up to watch him make his own way, wobbling a bit because of a serious limp on his left side (shortened leg after several surgeries to fix his hip), a bit unsteady anyway because of low muscle tone, and very small for 16 -- not yet 5 feet and pretty much finished growing. He made his way to the disabled access button, pushed it, went in, and was momentarily lost from my sight. I was proud of him for that show of independence, but I was struck by three other observations -- first, his determination to get what he needs and can get for himself; second, his easy, uncomplaining acceptance of his limitations, and the reasonableness of his demands; and, third, his absolute vulnerability -- he reminded me of a wounded minnow working his way through a pond, absorbed in his own progress, doing what he can, oblivious to, and virtually helpless against, any serious threats from outside. I realized how much I want his life to be a good one, but also by how little I can really do to ensure his future, nothing beyond our limited resources and the limited days of my own life. Of course, the same could be said -- and is said -- by all parents for all kids, and, if we admit it, by each of us for ourselves. But I think it's especially true for kids like him, the epitome of innocence, adrift in the solitude imposed by autism. I pray that God will look out for him, but when I look around, I don't see much hope, at least in this world. I see the sort of hope promised by spring and rebirth, and by Easter's story of ultimate resurrection -- but I certainly don't see much assurance for my little guy in the only life he and I know. I can only do what I can, we can only do what we can do, and I can keep praying. Please God, for him, not for me.