“We just love when he comes in here,” she said. Her words were genuine and so was her smile.
I couldn’t believe it.
We just love when he comes in here.
“That’s so nice of you to say,” I stammered, struck silent for a bit. “We’re here a lot. He loves coming in here.”
She nodded. “Is it the bright colors he likes?”
“Oh, it’s the whole experience – the people coming and going, the automatic doors, the loudspeaker, the conveyor belts, the elevator by the bathrooms, the sound when an item is scanned at the registers. It would be his dream to work here, I think,” I said.
She nodded and continued scanning my receipts.
“He has autism,” I added. His diagnosis is something I don’t disclose in public unless someone really needs to know. Because she was so friendly and interested, I wanted to tell her.
She didn’t say anything. She looked at me compassionately, as though she’d known her entire life that a little boy named Isaac had been diagnosed with autism 11 years earlier.
“He’s even looked me in the eye before,” she said proudly. Her statement made me wonder if she, too, knew and loved someone with autism.
She counted the money and placed it in my hand. As I opened my purse, she said, “Thank you. You two have a good day.”
Then she paused and really looked at me. She saw me. She saw Isaac. This is what I saw in her kind eyes and heard in the tone of her voice:
I’ve seen you in this store a million times.
I’ve seen your son walk with you, hand in hand.
I’ve seen him give you a kiss on your cheek.
I bet you’re tired.
I bet you’re frustrated at times.
I bet some days you feel like the luckiest mama in the world.
I’ve seen your son’s love for the automatic doors.
I’ve seen your son’s love for the elevator by the bathrooms.
I’ve seen the love you have for your son.
I’ve seen the love your son has for you.
Your son is incredible.
We just love when he comes in here.
Isaac was still standing in the same location, gazing out into the sea of people and carts and conveyor belts.
“It’s time to go, Isaac,” I said. “Push the cart out.”
As usual, we exited through the wine and spirits department. Even though there’s a checkout there, we’ve never used it. It’s Isaac’s favorite store entrance, though, so we enter and exit there every time. I reminded Isaac to slow down as he put away the cart and bounded through the automatic doors.
The moment I stepped outside, my eyes filled with tears. It caught me off guard. Isaac had taken the van keys and was leading me towards our vehicle. He always remembers exactly where I parked the van. And as we were walking in the parking lot, I wiped away tears.
For a few minutes we sat in the van and listened to his favorite country music station, 98.5 FM. I replayed the scene over and over in my mind.
Isaac’s been to Hy-Vee a few thousand times in his short life. Although employees have been friendly enough, nobody had spoken up until today. We just love when he comes in here.
I heard:
You matter.
Your son matters.
We appreciate differences.
We just love when he comes in here.
On the drive home I fought back tears, bit my lip and dabbed my eyes with a tissue. Like usual, I drove the long way home – past the library and coffee shop and McDonald’s and up the hill to the car wash — because the routine makes Isaac happy.
I was happy, too, because a stranger — who didn’t have to say anything — was considerate enough to share her encouraging words with me.
It only took one kind heart and eight words.
We just love when he comes in here.
--------------written by Tyann Sheldon Rouw
