Purple Honey

I once read there are a certain kind of bees that make purple honey. Before then, I thought honey only came in a deep golden color.

I wanted this to be the perfect day. A wedding, with three of our five kids together for the first time in a while. Already, we were off to a bumpy start.

The wedding was close to two hours away. Getting out the door was the usual rush, compounded by the scramble for formal wear.

Although we were running late, we decided to make a quick stop at a rest area. We needed gas, and we thought it was best to get the kids - young adults, really - some snacks to tide them over until the reception.

The sign flickered overhead. From behind the counter, you addressed the line of people.

"Would anyone like coffee? A drink?"

We shook our heads no.

At last, it was our turn. My son Jack stepped up to the register.

"I would like a frozen hot chocolate."

You sighed loudly. Slowly, you turned and grabbed a cup. You walked over to the machine.

"Jack," his brother said quietly. "He already asked if you wanted a drink."

"I thought he meant coffee," Jack said loudly. He hopped in place - all six feet, four inches of him - and threw his hands dramatically in the air. "I wanted hot chocolate.

“Okay, calm down,” I told him. Gently, I pulled his arms down by his sides.

Behind us, the line grew longer. People shifted their feet and began to stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my husband motion for us. He pointed to his watch. I could tell he was irritated.

This is everyday autism.

In this moment, there is no way to explain my son hears background noise at the same level as foreground noise.

That he is literal, and rigid, and doesn't adhere to social norms like talking quietly or keeping still.

I do not know the answer here.

I do not know the answer to the worry that his size may alarm people.

Or that he will always misunderstand, and be misunderstood.

How to fit my square boy into the round world? That is the question.

I don’t mind the staring. We’ve been stared at for twenty years now.

I don’t know what Jack thinks about it. I’ve never asked. I guess I’m not brave enough.

Autism is called a hidden disability. So hidden, in fact, that we – his own family - sometime forget the vulnerabilities. We ask for more than he can give.

If we – the people who love him, root for him, protect him – can’t be patient, how can we expect others to?

Shortly before I read about purple honey, I read an article that said it’s easy to trap bees in a jar. Once they’re enclosed inside the glass they don’t look up to the sky. They focus on the floor.

Four years ago, Jack left for a college program.

We had to let him go, is what I am trying to say. I was afraid we would circle inside our glass hive forever.

Yet lately, I am beginning to question myself. He comes home to visit, and he is defiant. Edgy. He looks disheveled. The manners we worked so hard to cultivate have disappeared altogether.

Perhaps this is typical college student behavior – the familiar rejection of parenting after a foray into independence.

When it comes to autism, I don’t have the luxury of perhaps.

I have to worry about how the world sees him. How you see him. I will worry about this for the rest of my life.

Whenever I thought about Jack’s future, my mind hovered on the practical.

Will he get a Driver’s License?

Will he manage money?

Will he have a family?

Maybe. Once upon a time that was what I would have said to each of these. Now, I am less sure.

Is there a point where the progress stops? When maybe becomes never? Lately, I think of all that will likely never happen. 

He will likely never drive a car, winding through back roads as autumn’s sun streams through the trees.

He will likely never run for office, or own a business, or plan a vacation.

He will likely never hold his own child. 

Likely.

Never. 

I know you want to stop me here. You want to remind me of hope. I know all about the hope. I subsist on hope. I breathe it in like barbed silk. Smooth at first, yet deceptively thorny. Sometimes, hope is not enough. This is the heartache with which I am familiar. 

Sometimes the future feels too full of what will not be. I am afraid I don’t have the strength to shape it. I once thought I did.

Standing here, next to my tall son, I think again of the bees.

In a world seemingly filled with gold, I hope people make space for purple.

You hand Jack the cup across the counter and offer a small smile.

"I gave you extra whipped cream."

Thank you.

Thank you.

“My child would never do that!”

What do you do if your teenager shares inappropriate photos online? Read this important article by Officer Matt Stegner.