Free Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs by Jack Canfield Page B

stories to our patients. Today, as I look back on the visit, it is clear that this encounter was not just a gift to my patient, but one to me, too. Revealing my story that day was healing for both patient and physician.
    Thank you, Fatuma.
    Jeffrey J. Cain, M.D.
     
    [POSTSCRIPT: Two years later, another medical student came to review the case of an eighteen-year-old amputee from Somalia. Returning to the room, we found a smiling Fatuma, who now speaks English, goes to school, and wears a prosthesis. Now quite animated, Fatuma was still struggling a bit with her prosthetic fit and other war wounds, but she clearly has new energy and a joy for life. ]
     
    Dr. Jeffrey J. Cain is a family physician in Denver, Colorado, where he serves as chief of Family Medicine at the Children’s Hospital. Dr. Cain has bilateral below-knee amputations since an accident a decade ago. Dr. Cain enjoys bicycling, flying, teaching medical residents, and adaptive skiing. He can be reached at cain. [email protected].
     

I Won’t Do It
     
    Like many kids with autism, Byron has a hard time believing things that are seemingly illogical or abstract. Religion, in general, is a difficult concept for him to understand and study because it asks him to have faith in things he can’t use his senses to confirm.
    “Mom,” he whispered to me on Easter morning, “you do realize that people don’t come back from the dead?”
    “Yes, you’re right, but Jesus was special. He was God’s son. You just have to believe he rose from the dead and know in your heart it’s true,” was my answer.
    He quickly replied, “But, Mom, you know, your heart is just a muscle.”
    Hmmmm, okay . . .
    One morning after his Sunday school class, his teacher came to me with the news that Byron had been acting out during the lesson and said some totally inappropriate things. This wasn’t the first time he had behaved in such a way, but my husband and I decided that instead of the usual punishment of no computer or television or video games, we would try a new tactic. We told him he needed to talk to God a little more, so it would be his job to say our family’s grace at the dinner table for the next week.
    You would have thought we were torturing him with instruments from the Inquisition! He spent the rest of the day informing me and everyone else that there was no way he would talk to God.
    “You can’t make me say grace” became the mantra of the afternoon. “I won’t do it,” he would mutter under his breath every few minutes. “Mom, that’s not fair” was shouted out at regular intervals.
    As luck would have it, my in-laws were visiting, and we had planned a dinner that just happened to be one of Byron’s favorites. The smell of ham, au gratin potatoes, and crescent rolls in the oven had all of us anticipating the food, but not necessarily the moments that would precede our meal. Soon, I announced that everything was almost ready, so it was time to wash up and sit down.
    Byron stomped into the dining room and sat slouched in his seat while the rest of us found our chairs. It was with a sinking feeling that I asked Byron to bless our table.
    Nothing happened for a moment. Then another moment passed, and the hush stretched even longer. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, we heard a loud noise.
    “Bbbrrrrriiing!”
    Puzzled silence filled the room.
    “BBBbbbrrrriing!”
    This telephone like noise was coming from Byron, whose eyes were closed tight and whose face was scrunched up!
    “BBBBBBbbbrrrrrriiiing!”
    I peeked questioningly at my husband and my confused in-laws. Suddenly, Byron began speaking in a deep, formal, monotone voice.
    “Hello. You have reached God’s answering machine. He is not available to listen to your prayers right now, but leave a message, and he will get back to you later.” This was followed by a long pause.
    “BEEP.”
    “BEEP.”
    “BEEEEEEEEP.”
    Another moment of silence filled the room as I saw my mother-in-law’s