Pictures You Won't See

In my basement, on a ledge, is a stack of pictures set into frames I never hang. Pictures of the boys in matching yellow and blue sweaters. A picture of the three of us for the church directory. Pictures at Tyler's First Holy Communion. Pictures of the boys

Pictures of my boys and me in the years between. Between Daniel and Trevor, between broken and functional. Between here and there.

Those pictures are too painful to look at. Even 14 years later I still hold my breath when I see them. They bring me no joy. No comfort. My heart skips and I feel my stomach plummet when I see them.
It was by far the worst time in my life, the most painful. It was brutal. The visceral reaction to those photos is overwhelming and unpredictable. They bring me nothing but pain.

And yet I was refined by fire, even then.

I keep those pictures so that my boys will have them some day. I don't want them to not have that piece of their childhood simply because it was dark. It was dark for them too, but it was different in their eyes.

I am finding out how well I protected them during those years. Too well it would seem. There are so many things they don't know. So much I will most likely never tell them.

And yet I was refined by fire, even then.

Those trials as difficult as they were, shaped me into who I am. It created in me the destruction necessary to build an even greater masterpiece. One with faith as the glue.

I was a pretty blue vase.
The was shattered back then. The pieces were so small I couldn't fix it myself.
I had to give myself and all of my brokenness to God.
He created , in me, something amazing and even more precious.
He made me a beautiful serving platter, to serve my family around me.

Here I am , broken again.
The pieces no longer something I can work with.
I have no choice but to hand my brokenness to God and let him work with remains of that platter.
Because as beautiful as it was, it still isn't what I am meant to be.

I have no doubt that I will be remade many times within this parenthesis. Not every time will be this brutal.

But for now,

I am refined by fire.

What If...

What if I removed the label? What if the word autism stopped being used in our house at all? What if he was simply just Sammy? What if I pulled him from school and his diagnosis no longer mattered? What if I changed the way we do things? What if I ripped off the labels placed on him so many years ago and started over? Would it change who he is, was, or will be? Does it change anything other than the way we look at him? Would it ease his heart? What if Sam was no longer autistic simply because I chose to never use the label again?
What if he just went back to being Sammy?
Would it be so bad?