There you are in the supermarket, a beacon of kindness. My son, Jake, walks beside me as I navigate the aisles. You rush over, shopping with your mom, and call out to Jake by name, greeting him joyfully. He mumbles a reply, barely glancing in your direction, and wanders a bit ahead. When I thank you for your warm words, I try to excuse Jake’s lack of engagement, but you simply say, “I understand. That’s just how he is.” As you wave goodbye, saying, “See you at school, Jake!” my heart fills with joy knowing there are friends like you who appreciate my son for who he is, autism and all.
There you are in the school auditorium, embodying thoughtfulness. Jake and I arrive for his sister’s play, and you come over, tugging your mom along, to sit next to Jake. You introduce him to your mother and make an effort to converse with him. When I encourage Jake to introduce me to his friend, he hesitates, unsure of your name. I feel a twinge of embarrassment, but you reassure me, saying, “It’s okay, I know he has trouble with names.” You patiently engage him, and while your mom and I chat above you, I’m grateful that Jake is learning social skills from peers like you.
In seventh-grade science class, I sit with pride as I watch you all encourage Jake during his presentation on the solar system. He beams with happiness, oblivious to any comparisons with your more detailed, independent work. Your respect for him and the effort you put into making him feel included fills me with gratitude. You treat him like any other classmate, and it brings a smile to my face to see him accepted by such caring friends.
That day at a department store, you are the face of compassion. I notice you from across the aisle, and you approach me with a smile asking, “Are you Jake’s mom?” When I confirm, you inquire about his whereabouts and share that you sometimes eat lunch together. Your words about enjoying your time with him touch my heart. You express that you’ve learned more from being his friend than he has from you. I reflect on this, knowing Jake isn’t what most kids would consider “fun,” but you see beyond that. You understand his struggles with social cues and language processing, and you’re willing to be the friend he needs, the kind who gives more than receives.
This evening, I seek understanding at a music program where Jake will sing with his classmates. I’m relieved to spot you at the entrance. When I ask for help finding Jake’s group, you confidently guide him, saying, “Come on, Jake. Follow me.” As you vanish into the crowd, I call out a heartfelt, “Thank you!” I feel fortunate to be part of a community filled with such kind-hearted individuals.
At a school picnic, you are the embodiment of acceptance. Jake’s class chose to go fishing for their end-of-year event. Initially, we considered skipping it since Jake doesn’t enjoy fishing, but we decided he should attend. As we arrive, several of you rush to our van, calling Jake’s name and inviting him to join. His face lights up as he exclaims, “My friends are here.” Watching him follow you brings a warm smile to my heart, reassuring me that he has friends who accept him, autism and all.
Within the autism community, I often hear stories of prejudice and bullying, yet we’ve been fortunate. Perhaps it’s because we’ve been open about Jake’s diagnosis, or maybe it’s due to the education his classmates received about autism. The lunch buddy program and social coaching have also helped foster understanding. Living in a close-knit town and being lucky to have such compassionate peers may also play a role. It seems to be a blend of all these factors, contributing to the kindness you all show.
In summary, I am immensely grateful for Jake’s friends—your kindness, understanding, and acceptance enrich his life in ways words cannot fully express. Thank you for being the wonderful people you are.