"Mommy," my seven year old began as I tucked him into bed, "Why did God give me learning disabilities and that attention deficit thing?" I gazed at this child, so wide-eyed and innocent, and wondered how to respond. "Jonathan,” I asked him, “What do you think?" He looked up, his eyebrows knit in thought, and responded, "I guess God just likes to keep things interesting." After a pause, he continued, "I mean, if everyone just had things they were good at all the time, then, like, what would be the point?"

I have pondered this bedtime conversation many times over the past few years. On many occasions, thinking of the "interesting" nature of Jonathan's behavior has given me a helpful new perspective in framing his behavior and his approach to life. When my son announces, as I tuck him into bed, "Oh Mom. I forgot. I need a giraffe costume for my school play tomorrow morning," I find some fortitude in the thought, "Yes, I guess God likes to keep things interesting!" When Jonathan knocks on the door at midnight, unable to sleep until we resolve the issue of what kind of computer we will get three years from now when our current computer becomes obsolete, I can gather up a bit more patience when I think, "Yes, I guess God likes to keep things interesting!" When I go to wake him in the morning and find him sleeping under the bed rather than on top of it, I smile as I think, "Yes, I guess God likes to keep things interesting."

There are times, though, when "keeping things interesting" is wrought with pain and struggle. When my son's learning disabilities challenge his ability to form letters, to draw a picture, to discern his right hand from his left, I find only limited comfort in the notion that "God likes to keep things interesting." When difficulties with impulse control interfere with Jonathan’s ability to follow rules, to make friends, to finish assignments, “keeping things interesting” loses its appeal. When I watch in horror as my son squeezes the guinea pig too hard, swings a stick dangerously close to a playmate’s eyes, or grabs his brother’s arm and swings it at other children in front of the congregation during the children’s sermon, I think, "God, do things have to be this interesting?"

At these times, I long for the predictable monotony of a less interesting life. I imagine a life without the daily tension of wondering what my child might do next. I imagine a life in which my child would not have to struggle quite so hard to achieve what is demanded of him, to exercise self-control, to show his goodness in ways that other people can see. I imagine a life in which I as a parent, wouldn't have daily to face the feelings of shame, embarrassment and failure that come when my best parenting efforts don't reap the rewards I so desperately desire.

During these moments I feel too exhausted, depleted, and overwhelmed to experience the grace God gives me through my parental calling. It is at times like these when I most need to feel God's guiding plan within the maelstrom of my life. These are times when I need to hear God speak through my precious, rambunctious, interesting child. "Mommy, why did God give me learning disabilities?" When he asked me about his learning disabilities and "that attention deficit thing", he did not describe them as random curses or calamities, but as gifts given by God. "I mean, if everyone just had things they were good at all the time, then, like, what would be the point?" Seven year old Jonathan was utterly convinced that there is a point to our imperfection. He was certain that within our struggles lie gifts from God to be used as part of a divine plan.

What are the gifts of the interesting children of God in our midst? What would be lost if we could magically reduce the level of "interest" around us to a manageable common denominator? As much as I long at times for a less "interesting" life, I know that to strip my son of the aspects which I find most exasperating would risk stripping him of the parts of his personhood that make him most richly who he is. The very qualities that can challenge my equanimity and test my best parenting skills are also the qualities that constitute his greatest strengths. A tendency not to notice social norms shows up in idiosyncratic behavior that can be off-putting to his classmates as well as in a wonderful acceptance of others whose looks or behaviors fall outside the common norms. The tenacity that tests my patience when he refuses to let go of a request for a purchase or activity is transformed into a gift when his refusal to give up on a task results in seeing a problem through all the way to the end. The spontaneity that makes his behavior unpredictable in the classroom shows up in an ability to create flexible and unexpected solutions to knotty problems. The "interesting" child that he has come to be has developed through the intertwining of a rich, complicated set of strengths and challenges.

Parenting my "interesting" child both exhausts and enriches me. I am blessed through the gifts of my child and through our hard-won successes. I am also blessed through our struggles. In a less interesting life, I might be lulled into believing that I have little need for guidance from God or support from other people. In a less interesting life, I might come to believe that successful parenting takes little more than a caring heart and a good faith effort. In a less interesting life, I might come to believe in forgiveness as a somewhat peripheral and insignificant part of my world. Parenting my interesting child humbles me. It forces me to reconsider my attitudes and biases. Faced daily with my own fallibility and limitations, I am compelled to acknowledge my need for other people and my need for my God. I am reminded over and over of my need for abundant and enduring forgiveness. In receiving this forgiveness from God, I hope I am learning tolerance and acceptance of myself, my child, and the other “interesting" individuals who people this world.

Our world is filled with "interesting" people. Technology promises to help us control how "interesting" we want this world to remain. Tremendous advances in the area of genetics combine with advances in fertility control that promise to allow us to choose just the qualities we want in our offspring. Boy or girl? Blonde or brunette? Athlete or scholar? Perhaps some day we will have the technology to custom order the attributes we desire in a child. While the advances in scientific technology have brought rich blessings to many people, the idea of ultimate control over the selection of our offspring frightens me. If we were able to select out all sources of disability, mental or physical challenge, what kind of world would we create? In a world peopled with perfect humans, what would become of the richness born from shared struggle? What would become of the serendipitous trait combinations that alternatingly tire and inspire us, engage and enrage us? What would become of the outrageous richness of our human experience? And where in such a "perfect" world, would we find room for the gifts and challenges of an interesting child such as my own?

God in His wisdom has chosen to bless each one of us with the intricately woven tapestry of strengths and challenges that make us who we are. God, who made and knows us, has chosen to give us to each other. In some mysterious and miraculous way, all of this is part of God's plan. We, as God's children caring for one another, must continue to seek God's help so that we may guide each other, celebrate each other, and feel enriched by the splendor of all that makes us His wonderful, fallible, interesting children.

It is past midnight and Jonathan is not yet asleep. Worries, plans, excitement keep his mind and body wakeful far past other children's bedtimes. I sit beside him on his bed and rub his back. I feel the tension flow out of him. All is quiet; all is calm. Quietly, I rise to leave, and his eyes pop open wide, “Oh, Mom!” he says, full volume. “I forgot to tell you…” “In the morning, Jon,” I urge him. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” His voice, still full of the energy that both exhausts and energizes me, follows me down the hall. I turn off lights, close my eyes, and offer once again a prayer of supplication and thanksgiving for Jonathan - my precious, outrageous, insistently interesting child.

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