Backseat Driver

Megan drives to St. Louis twice a week for Jude to receive therapy. It’s been great for Jude. 

This week, Megan was not feeling well, so I stepped in for one trip. 

After some initial confusion, she was excited that I was in the drivers seat. We made our way north rocking some Disney hits. As we approached our exit at I-270, Jude pointed at the sign and grunted so I’d know which way to go. 

She doesn’t miss a thing. 

I called Megan after I dropped her off - telling her how she would have been proud of Jude giving direction. My wife is a textbook backseat driver. She has imaginary brakes on the passenger side of our car. She points to open parking spots even if I’m headed to a closer one. We’ll be leaving our neighborhood bound for Disney World and Megan will add “when we get to Orlando you’re going to want to be in the right lane.” 

They’re my passenger princesses. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This year went nothing like I planned. Nothing. 

Job changes. Basement project on hold. Teenagers being teenagers. Vacations missed. 

Truth is I was making all the plans and trying to call the shots. I was just like Jude in the backseat, pointing at the exit signs. 

God, this sign says promotion. This must be our stop. Wait, why are we driving to an entirely different job? 

This sign says finished basement. This is the place. It’s right next to financial freedom. We can stop in both places. WAIT, you’re passing it. You’re missing the exit entirely. 

So many of my prayers this year were not-so-subtle attempts to get exactly what I wanted, regardless of how meaningless. They were attempts at manipulation. Control. 

There’s something I’ve experienced about being a special needs dad. From the moment you notice differences or receive the diagnosis, you’ll begin to realize that you were never in control.

And you never will be. No matter how hard you try. 

I’m hard-headed and stubborn, like any good French-German Missourian. I always have an idea of how things should be or how they should go. None of those thoughts or internalized plans and deadlines are all that important. 

Maybe Jude was the only way God could teach me to let go. To trust Him with my life. 

I’m still learning. I’m still loosening my grip. I’m still confused about why Jude has two life-altering diagnoses. I’m still not good at riding out the highs and lows. I’m still learning to trust. 

And at the end of it all . . .

I’m still thankful.