When my son was first diagnosed with autism, I was devastated with a sickening feeling that only a parent knows. Despite the diagnosing physician's cold words and depressing prognosis, I still had faith and a need for hope. What I really needed was to talk to another parent and hear that their child who had autism was making progress. I needed to hear that their child was happy. I needed to know that a child with autism could grow up and be included with typical children. I am not really sure what else I was looking for but I needed hope. You really need hope when things seem hopeless.

I admit that at first I was prey to the stories of "cures", and I was desperately looking for one. I prayed everyday for a miracle (and still do). Perhaps what I didn't realize at the time is that the miracles would come in the people who helped my son and the progress that he would make. Each and every word he spoke was a miracle. Every time he met a goal, it was a miracle. There were lots of miracles, small yes, but just as important as the big ones. I soon realized the importance of appreciating little things like my son saying "Mommy" or being able to dress himself. I also came to realize that just because my son had autism, he did not have to be defined by his disability. Most importantly, at some point, I realized it was okay to have hope for my child.

This month my son is turning 12. As his 12th birthday approaches, I am thankful for all the little miracles along the way. I think back to when he was first diagnosed at age 2 ½ when no words were present. I remember how he no longer looked in my eyes like he did when he was an infant. The tantrums were ever present, and the physician words of "mental retardation" and "autism" rang in my ears. In an effort to squash hope, the physician refused to listen to my insistence that my son was intelligent. Perhaps by instilling the thought that there was little hope for my son, she thought I would come to acceptance faster.

How I wish that physician could see the miracle before me today. My soon to be 12 year old who excels at math and other academics is yet again fighting to be in our world.. As I watch him tonight, he is beating his drum to the theme of "Star Wars", his favorite movie obsession. But he is not alone at home or self-talking to himself. Instead he is one of many children playing in a Honors Band.

While the autism hides behind his eyes, his spirit to succeed propels him forward even when he is bothered by the noise of the instruments. As he struggles to fit in to this new group of children, he covers his ears waiting for the practice to start. But he doesn't run. He doesn't yell. He patiently waits with his ears covered and fights for his basic need to belong.

I do wish that physician could see him tonight looking at the other children to see what he should be doing both on the drum and while he waits. It is the subtle things I notice like him copying another student who pushes himself up on the stage so he can sit while he waits. My son notices and follows as if he is part of the group. The six drummers sit patiently and wait for their turn to play. He is noticing the social rules of the other drummers and following along as if he has been playing with them for years. Another student high fives my son for a job well done after the number is completed. He happily interacts with another child while sharing a common joy. Yes, another small miracle.

To the other parents and children tonight, my son is just another special child. He is special because he is good at the drums and for no other reason. They don't see the autism or Aspergers or ADHD. And as I type, I am thanking God and so very grateful for this miracle that others around me don't see.

I wish I could videotape this simple band practice so that every physician could see my son. So the next time they give a diagnosis of autism, they can offer hope instead of despair. They could know of a child who once couldn't talk who now talks with others. If they knew my son, they would know that there are other kids with autism who are just like my son. There are children with autism who are struggling to fit into the world. And some, if just for a moment or an hour, are succeeding. Most importantly, they are happy and feeling what it is like to belong.

Yes, my son still has autism. Yes, life is still difficult for him and for us. Yes, there are battles to fight at every turn. My son's story to date is not one of recovery, but one of perseverance and hard work. Seeing him tonight in this elementary school gym, I am filled with hope at least for this hour. No thoughts of IEPs or ESY. I am just thankful for my son and for the little miracles.

In our dark moments, we sometimes need a short story of hope to bring us up into the sun again. A story to remind us that our children are capable of so many things. Capable of things you cannot even imagine.

I never thought I would be sitting here tonight on this dusty gym mat watching my child not just excel at something but actually "fit in" with a group. It may just be for an hour. But I'll happily take it. As I peer over my laptop, I see hope, not just for my son but for all our kids. Hope is only a drum beat away.

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.
~Anne Lamott