Her autistic child was no longer in his room. His window was open, the screen removed....

By Karen Sampson Hudson, Reno, Nevada
January, 1997

Sun streamed through the upstairs bedroom window on that September afternoon as I folded laundry from a big basket on my bureau. All the while I kept my ear tuned for the sounds of our three children.

Our girls—Annmarie, five, and Elaine, three—were in the backyard, giggling as they raced across the patio, playing tag with a neighbor boy. Across the hall Alex was turning the pages of a magazine. Although he was eight years old, I listened for his every move as if he were still a toddler.

Bright-eyed, blond and curious, Alex suffered from autism. During the Middle Ages people called children like him changelings, beautiful to look at with their faraway gazes, yet lost to the world of reality. From the time we discovered that Alex was autistic, we knew we faced an uncharted course in raising him. But we felt fortunate that he was blessed with a sunny disposition; he was always loving and affectionate with us and his sisters.

He had been attending special education classes at our local school for several years. Although his speech was limited, we'd learned to communicate with him through a system of indication. Instead of nodding yes or no, he would point when asked a question. "If yes," I'd say, "touch my ear. If no, touch my nose." And he understood.

That September day, as I fished socks from the laundry basket and balled them up, I could hear Alex making soft noises. After his day at school, he needed time to himself. I turned my mind to dinner, wondering what I'd make: meatballs, meatloaf, hamburger pizza?

From Alex's room I heard furniture scraping against the floor; Alex sounded confused, with a new note in his voice that I couldn't identify. Then silence. I dropped the pair of socks I was folding and dashed across the hallway.

Alex was not sitting on his bed. He was not in his room.

I took in the scene. Alex had moved his desk to the window, which was open. The screen was gone. Below the window was the large cement patio we had poured only a month ago.

Sick with fear, I went to the window. I couldn't trust my eyes when I looked. I blinked, afraid it might not be true: Alex sat on a redwood chair on the patio, near a large rocking horse that was bouncing up and down on its springs. The girls ran past him, still playing as if nothing had happened.

I rushed downstairs into the backyard and swept Alex into my arms. He seemed perplexed and disoriented, but completely unharmed. "Alex," I said, "if you hurt anywhere, touch me on the ear. If you feel okay, touch me on the nose." He touched my nose.

I kept asking, checking his stomach, his back, his arms and legs. Alex insisted that nothing hurt and that he felt just fine.

Had he landed on the rocking horse? I looked up to his window. The rocking horse was about five feet to the left of it, and the chair was yet another foot farther. How could he have fallen and landed safely where he had? Logic tells me he should have hit the cement.

Taking him inside, I sat him down on the couch, got my Bible and read these verses to him: "For he will give his angels charge of you to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot against a stone." That night I copied those words down on a piece of construction paper and posted it in his room.

Seventeen years have come and gone. Alex is a handsome 25-year-old. He works full-time with other autistic adults, making and packing paper goods. On his wall, in his room, the Psalm is still posted, its message never forgotten.