Introduction:  I wrote the following piece about a dozen years ago, sometime in the summer of the year 2000, after a trip to my hometown in Missouri to attend a high school reunion.  My two sons, Evan and Brendan, went with me, as they were always eager for a trip to visit their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.   The story below is one of the most powerful memories I have of my son Evan (who has autism) and my dad together.   This story has been reprinted several times in various publications, including Breaking Ground, the magazine of the Tennessee Council on Developmental Disabilities, and in Autism Spectrum Quarterly.

Dad passed away in the summer of 2003.   I think of him every day and look back and smile.  The pain of his passing has subsided of course, but the emptiness of not having him here still occasionally rises up within me.   The lessons he taught me by the way that he lived his life are stronger now than ever.   I feel like I best honor his memory as I try to live my own life in such a way as to have a similar impact on my own children.    –John Shouse  

I didn’t back get home to my parents house from my high-school reunion until well after midnight.  In the early morning hours, just before 5:00 AM, after only a few hours sleep, I was awakened by Evan’s terrified, high-pitched scream.  The boys were sleeping on a pallet of blankets and sleeping bags and pillows on the floor at the foot of my bed.  Evan had either been having a bad dream, or had awakened not knowing where he was  and went into a panic. Probably both. Luckily, Brendan can sleep through a brass band marching through his bedroom. Evan jumped to his feet and ran out into the hallway and down to the living room, through the dining room, kitchen, and den with me in close pursuit trying to catch him to calm him down. All the while he was just screaming in absolute terror.  He made the loop through the house before I did, and headed back down the hall.  But rather than going back to the bedroom where we had been sleeping and the comfort of his pallet on the floor, he hung a sharp right turn into my father’s bedroom.

Dad had also been awakened by Evan’s yelling, and was just getting out of bed, headed for his doorway when Evan passed him and jumped over the foot-board and flew through the air and into dad’s bed. Dad climbed quickly into the bed behind him, snuggled in and pulled Evan close and began to stroke his head, whispering to him that everything was all right.  I stood there just inside the doorway for a second, transfixed by what I was seeing in the dim predawn light filtering through the curtains.

Dad is 83.  His spirit is the same as it’s always been, and he does seem much younger in many ways than his age would lead you to believe. However, he has the body of an 83 year-old. His arms appeared so much thinner than I remember, as did his legs.  For as long as I can remember, he’s always worn a necktie and long sleeved shirt, every single day, sometimes with the sleeves rolled up a cuff or two.  But here he was lying in bed in his sleep clothes, cradling my son, who was still trembling and breathing in and out with short, choppy, frightened breaths. Dad was cradling Evan with his 83 year old loving arms, kissing the top of his head and talking quietly to him, telling him that everything was OK.

I quietly walked over to the chair beside the bed and just sat down and watched.  I reached out and also comforted Evan, and soon he took in a very deep breath, held it for split second and then let it out.  Let it out, along with all of the fear and trembling.  Over the next few seconds he drifted into a deep sleep.  Dad smiled at me and without a word closed his eyes, then he went to sleep as well.

I could not help but wonder for a moment what the future holds for these two souls.

As I watched the two of them sleeping there, snuggled together in same bed I had slept in for years, my eyes filled with tears.  Tears of love, to be sure, but also tears of fear and uncertainty for the future. I sat there in the shadows and just thought for a moment about all of this.

Here, right in front of me, sleeping peacefully were two of the people who’ve taught me more about unconditional love than anything or anyone else in the world could ever do. One having done so through a lifetime of example and encouragement, and the other through his simple trusting nature, borne out of absolute innocence.

Dad has lived through two world wars and the great depression. His mother died when he was just two. He grew up with his sister and his father, (my Pa-Pa Shouse), in a house with no indoor plumbing and heated only by a potbelly stove.  In his late fifties, just as I was going off to college,  dad was diagnosed with colon cancer, had some very major surgery, and survived what for many people is a totally debilitating condition.  Survived quite well, in fact.  He’s undoubtedly known hardship and hard times in a way that most of us never will, and could never understand.  He had little formal education to speak of, but through hard work and diligence and becoming a life-long learner, he elevated himself to a good job in a highly technical field, and performed it with dignity and responsibility for well over forty years.  Along with my mother, he raised a family of 4 children, all of whom lead happy and fulfilled lives as adults. That is no mean feat in today’s world.

More than that, he always went out of his way to involve me in whatever he was doing, and spent time explaining things to me in ways I could understand.  I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of him ever complaining or feeling sorry for himself, or of bemoaning things over which he had no control.  I only remember him going about doing the things that needed to be done and doing it with a smile and a kind word or a joke for almost everyone he’s ever met. I can not imagine what my world will be like when he’s no longer in it.  If it’s true that we eventually become our parents, then I am indeed fortunate.  Though I often think how far short of his example I’ve fallen thus far.

For Evan as well, I have no way of knowing what his future will be like.  Will he learn to communicate effectively, and be able to articulate his needs, his hopes and dreams?  Will he be able to function in school, and to later hold a job?  Will there be jobs available for him?  Will he ever fall in love and share his life with a wife? Will he ever have children of his own?  Will he ever remember the times I hold him tight and tell him how much I love him?  Will he remember his grandparents when they’re gone?

I stayed there in that chair, just watching the two of them until it was time to get up and start the day.  Sitting there in the dark with the two of them was as real and powerful a moment as I’ve ever had in my life. Much like watching my children being born, this moment will be one I will carry with me for a long time.

And there, I think, lies at least a hint of one possible answer to the question about what the future holds.  Which of us knows or will EVER know what tomorrow will bring?  Who by worrying can add a moment to his life?

Rather, live in the moment and cherish the ordinary ones, for they are the most profound moments we experience.  Do the loving thing as often as you can, and choose your path wisely and with no regret.  Practice awareness and be thankful for the love around you.

Contribute.

Breathe in deeply, and delight in the life that courses through you as you breathe out.

The days are full, and my life is good.  I pray the same for you.

– John

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline.  Except for the point the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

 T S Eliot, “Burnt Norton” lines 65-69