Ashley's Gift
Posted by Carolee McGrath in Faith on Monday, May 16, 2011 6:00 AM
I was running late, as usual, dragging my four kids into Mass just as they were about to start the first reading. I kept thinking to myself that I would have been on time if my husband was with me, but he had to work that Sunday. (And Mom, if you’re reading this, he did go later to the 5:30)
Anyway, my blood pressure was up as I sneaked into the cry room. A little background: the McGraths have real estate in that room. Usually, I’m in there with my two little ones, three year old Michael, and 20-month-old Mary Kate. My husband, when he’s with me, has graduated to the pews, usually sitting with our 7-year-old Madison and 10-year-old Jack. But on that Sunday morning, all the kids filed in.
As I sat down to get out a few cars for Michael and a toy phone for Mary Kate, I heard Jack talking.
“Shhh!” I snapped. “We’re in church. You’re old enough to know to be quiet.” Clearly, the love and peace of Jesus were nowhere to be found in me at that moment.
You see, we were right in the middle of hockey try-outs. Let me clarify, Jack was in the middle of hockey try-outs. But as an Italian, overbearing mother, I was as emotionally involved as ever, just as I am with his math tests and every other aspect of his life.
It’s true, I am a hockey mom. When Sarah Palin said the only difference between pit bulls and us was lipstick, she was dead-on. After Mass I had to shuffle all the kids to the bitterly cold rink while Jack competed for a spot on the team.
The whole thing gave me agida, Italian for heartburn, because as a mom, there’s nothing I could really do to help him other than say, “You did great.” I knew that one way or the other, he would be playing hockey, whether with this team or another one. I also knew the anxiety of try-outs would disappear as soon as they threw the first pitch at baseball. But as I mentioned, I’m an Italian mother.
Someone must have been praying for me, though, because when I looked again, Jack was kneeling down talking to a little girl wearing a cowboy hat and a poncho. He was playing with her.
I started to soften up. Madison brought over a book and started reading it to her. Michael started to inch closer. For whatever reason, my kids were drawn to this little girl, whom I’ll call Ashley.
The more I watched my children with her, the more I relaxed, and the more I knew the Holy Spirit was blowing like a gale force wind through that room. Ashley’s mother leaned over and whispered that it was so nice to see her daughter playing and interacting with my children.
And then she told me why: Ashley is autistic.
I had no idea. My kids had no idea, and wouldn’t have cared if I told them. They were just drawn to their new little friend. It’s clear that they saw Jesus in Ashley. And so did I.
Before we left at the end of Mass, Ashley’s mother took a picture of the kids sitting in a row, reading together. Usually, my kids are ready to jet out of the church, but not that Sunday morning. As we were walking out to the car, the love and peace of Jesus that I was missing so acutely as I walked into church completely overwhelmed me.
My children asked me when we would see Ashley again. Suddenly all of my worries—hockey, the checkbook, my unmade beds and the dirty toilets, faded away. I couldn’t wait to call my husband and tell him what awesome children God gave us. And, I couldn’t wait to tell him about this precious, beautiful, perfect little girl we met in the cry room.
God is good—even on days when we aren’t.
—Carolee McGrath, a hockey mom of four, writes from Massachusetts. She’s a pro-life reporter for the Diocese of Springfield’s weekly television program and magazine. Her articles have also appeared in other national publications.
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