Our tradition dictates, “Be fruitful and multiply.” I can do neither. When we read of Hannah’s inability to give birth, I cry Hannah’s tears. On Rosh Hashanah, I am called to the bimah to hold the Torah, unaccustomed to women receiving this honor. My rabbi gently guides, “Hold it like a baby.” I pray, “If you give me a child, I will give him back to you, to serve you all his days” (Samuel 1:7). My prayer is answered when I turn towards my grandparents’ heritage and adopt my toddler son from Russia. I am in bliss.
Reality sets in once we return to LA. My son stares at his hands, spins in circles, makes no eye contact, doesn’t speak, and doesn’t sleep. Shortly after his mikvah and conversion with the beit din, we receive the diagnosis: severe autism. Traditional therapies don’t work. Doctors look with pity, family members look with concern, some suggest I “send him back to Russia,” and others stop looking. I am soon alone – with autism. I pray my desperate prayer: “Dear G-d, please help me find a way to help my son. I will devote my life to your service.”
I discover a doctor who coaches me to follow my son’s lead. I enter my son’s autistic world and teach others to do the same. In time, my son emerges into our world. I am still alone, but no longer lonely. I created The Miracle Project Judaica, a Jewish musical theater program for other families with children who have a disability. Then, on my son’s twelfth year, I am invited to Vista Del Mar, the organization that led me to my son, to create a b’nai mitzvah program for children with autism: Nes Gadol. My son is the first bar mitzvah. He dances his prayers.
Our lives have taken many twists and turns. My prayers have been answered tenfold as I turn to faith and guidance from the Almighty.
