Bill had taken Lira outside to play and left me folding clothes in the floor of the living room.
The week had been stressful. The diagnosis positive. Lira had an Autism Spectrum Disorder.
Suddenly, the pressure was more than I could take. I twisted to my knees and placed my head in my hands. The tears poured and the anger swelled up inside of me. I screamed at God as my nails bit into the palms of my hands. I pounded the floor with all my might.
Why my child? Why her? Why me?
Friends would say, “God will not give you more than you can handle.” There was no comfort in that for me. I wanted to punch them. Instead, I beat the floor.
Friends would say, “You must be very special to be blessed with such a special child.” I didn’t feel special. I wanted to scream at them to shut up. Instead, I screamed at God.
Despite the fierceness of my tantrum, the pain in my fists could not compare to the pain in my heart.
Now, six years later, the pain in my heart has softened. Honestly, I didn’t think it ever would. I didn’t think I would ever be happy to have a child with Autism. I wanted her to be typical.
But, God had a different plan.