Dyslexia. Processing disorder. Learning disability. Nothing in my online search matched the issues my six-year-old son, Nathan, was having in school. When his teacher had expressed concern about his progress, I shifted into overdrive, trying to pinpoint the problem.
But despite several developmental tests, we still had no conclusive diagnosis. Nathan kept falling further behind at school. My internet searches weren’t turning up any answers. Nor were my daily prayers. Why aren’t you helping me, God? I thought as I switched off the computer one evening and picked up the laundry basket.
“Mommy!” Nathan called as I passed by his room. “I can’t find my dinosaur jammies!”
“They’re in the dryer!” I called back to him on my way downstairs. “I’ll get them for you.”
This, at least, was a problem I could fix. I unloaded the dryer, folding the clean laundry in the basket as I went. I made sure to put Nathan’s favorite dinosaur pajamas on top. I carried the basket upstairs. First stop: Nathan’s room. He was sitting on his bed, sobbing.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I said.
“I asked you to help me find my pajamas, but you didn’t answer.”
Nathan obviously hadn’t heard me call out to him from the stairs.
“I called for you over and over,” he said. “But you didn’t help me.”
“I’m sorry, Nathan,” I said. “I was down in the laundry room and couldn’t hear you. But look!” I held up the dinosaur pajamas, still warm from the dryer. “I was helping you the whole time!”
Nathan wiped away his tears. “Thank you, Mommy,” he said. Then he grinned at me. “I should have known you’d help me. Because you always have.”
Nathan’s words struck a chord with me. Maybe my son wasn’t the only one who needed to learn a thing or two about trust. I stopped my internet searches and spent that time helping Nathan with his homework instead. Something clicked in his brain. By the end of the school year, he had caught up with his class. God had been helping him—and me—all along.
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