“By faith Abraham, when he was called,
obeyed by going out to a place which he was to receive for an inheritance;
and he went out, not knowing where he was going.”
Hebrews 11:8 

She reached the crest of the hill and there, overlooking the valley below, she finally saw it. A river so wide, the bank on the other side was indiscernible. Up until this moment, it had only been a thin blue line marking a boundary on her weathered map but now, she had her first glimpse of the real thing — and it was a terrifying sight to behold.

Other travelers she had met, those somewhat familiar with this river, warned her that it was especially treacherous in the section she was to cross and, now that she could see the watery giant herself, she understood their concerns.

She knew there was no bridge that spanned those waters, nor was there a ferry nearby to carry her across. All she could see on her map was the long, winding road of her journey leading right to the very edge of the river — and there it seemingly ends. She knew not how to cross nor what lay beyond.

Standing silently on the hillside, overlooking the river below, she pondered the remainder of the path that would lead her down towards its banks. She considered the dreams she had been carefully crafting all these long days on the trail, plans for crossing the river and hopes for the land that lay beyond. Now that she had seen the river, however, she understood it was beyond her power to navigate and cross alone — her hopes and plans suddenly seemed futile and useless. Hopelessness tugged at her as she shifted her gaze back towards the path that would lead her downward, into the valley where the great river waited for her.

There was nothing else she could do — but take the next step and trust that her map would guide the way.

I sat at my desk, allowing the words of the email I just read to sink into my thoughts like a rock tossed into the lake, slowly working its way to the bottom. My almost 20 year old son with autism is growing ever so much closer to aging out of the school system, a system that has been a guiding force in one form or another since he was three years old. Back then, the age of 21, which signifies the end of his schooling and transition into adult life, seemed so far away. It was but a cloud on the horizon, yet now, we are just over a year away from the adult world that is not suitable at all for an individual with his depth of need.

His adult years were rarely far from my thoughts once my son hit his teenage years. That’s when the word ‘transition’ began to become a constant refrain in meetings with school and staff. At the age of 14, it becomes a regular part of plans and communication. The school setting he was in at the time was no longer suitable for him and they offered no plans or support in regards to the adult years that lay ahead. After much prayer and seeking of direction, the Lord opened a door that had long been closed to me and He provided a way for my son to attend a much better autism school, with a program that has a strong focus on preparing students for life after school.

At the time, there were great hopes and big dreams, which were just starting to form and take place. Group homes designed for individuals like my son who require a high level of support and care, as well as, an adult day program, which would support job building skills, volunteer work, and all manner of community involvement. As fearful as I had long been of the future, I began to feel a sense of relief and hope about the new possibilities that now lay ahead for him — and for me.

Unfortunately, like many big dreams, built on intense needs, grandiose ideas, and massive hope, it all began to dissolve before my eyes. The funding for such programming in the adult world for those with great needs is very limited — simply put, the cost to fund and staff these kind of homes and programs is substantial and that level of financial support simply is not there. As a result, the decision was made to close all the group homes. The adult program continued to function but the demand was great and the finances so limited that it was uncertain if it would still be an option for my son once he was of age to need their services. Each step I took with my son, leading closer to his adult years, the more I learned how difficult it is to access the funds needed and how limited our options would be. Yet, I held tightly onto the remaining hopes of the adult program since they had assured me that they could come to our community and build a program for my son here. Whenever my thoughts or conversations regarding my son’s adult life transpired, I held out that option like a lone, flickering candle in the dark.

Two weeks ago, I met with the team (via phone conference) that is vested in and working toward his transition from school to adult life. We discussed our limited options and the devastating impact the closures from the pandemic have had on his schooling and preparation into the adult world while they continued to reiterate the challenging obstacles of getting the support he needs. I continued to hold out the hope of the adult program — surely that would be the lifeline.

I hung up the phone from that meeting, drained and exhausted. I stood on the crest of the hill, overlooking the river of transition for my son, the great divide between school years and adult life. The journey leading up to the point had been so hard and now, the hopes I had for both of our futures were fading away as I gazed at the immense body of water.

Then I saw the email — it was a response following up on my query regarding the adult program that I hoped would come to us and work with my son in our community. I was informed that they have tightened the area in which they will work and to which they will travel and, unfortunately, we live well outside that area. The candle I had been holding was snuffed out and I lost the last hope I had. The last plan to help my son and I cross that great river of transition, into the unknown world of adulthood and autism.

Hopes, dreams, and plans … years of working towards goals only to have them dissipate before my eyes, never coming to fruition. So now I sit on the hillside, while my eyes gaze over the broad expanse of water below, and I can only wonder — what now?

 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. 
For by it the men of old gained approval.
Hebrews 11:1,2

Now I have to tell you, I love stories with happy endings and honestly, for years I have dreamed of the Lord giving my son and me a ‘happy ending’ of our own by this point of life. I thought things would be different. I hoped and prayed they would be different. I longed for healing for my son, not necessarily from autism, but from the deep anxiety and incredibly challenging behaviors he lives with and that I live with as his caregiver. I hoped for marriage and difficulties within the family to be different. I hoped for church life and involvement to be different. I prayed for a community and for so, so much more. In full transparency, I thought by now, I would be standing before a group of women and sharing a story of God’s triumphant working in my life and my son’s life — just as I have heard numerous speakers do over the years. I wanted a happy ending because that’s the kind of story that we all love to hear and I didn’t think I would have a story worth telling without one.

But I am going to be even more honest with you — while I appreciate a happy ending, I have never found them to be especially encouraging or helpful. I would often read a book or sit in a ladies conference, desperately hoping she would tell me how to persevere in the incredibly hard situation I was facing — multiple hard life circumstances which held no promise of relief or end. I hoped, just once, that I would not hear a happy ending or another story just to make us laugh, but rather I longed for a woman, while tears of grief rose in her peace-filled eyes, to look at us and say, “My story didn’t end the way I wanted. God didn’t answer my prayers the way I asked Him to but, in the process, He taught me about Himself. He is teaching me to love Him more and to trust Him even when I can’t understand. Yes, I wish I had a happy ending right now to tell you but I wouldn’t trade these hard things I am living in even now for anything. Let me tell you what He is doing in the midst of the darkness. Let me tell you about my Jesus.”

These are the kind of stories I most want to hear and I doubt I am the only woman who thinks this way.

So I sit on the hillside, pondering the journey behind and the path that lies ahead — the path that leads right up to the deep waters of that unknown river. I cannot see a way to cross it nor can I see what lays beyond its far-reaching shores. I lift my eyes up to heaven as I remember the One who has been my guide through every step of the journey thus far and I do the only thing I can …

I take the next step, trusting that my God will lead and guide in all the uncertain days ahead because He alone is faithful and good.

This is my story.