There’s a meme making the rounds on Facebook this week. It reads: “In my day, they didn’t have all this autism and ADHD and stuff.”
I can’t help but think: “What you mean is, people used to go undiagnosed, receive no support, and were forced to struggle through life with zero understanding or help.”
Every time I see it, I flash back to the worry I felt the day I told my 84- and 85-year-old grandparents that my young daughter, Evie, had just been diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder.
Coming from a conservative farming background, they have always been pillars of their Mennonite church community, deeply rooted in tradition and accustomed to life done a certain way. I knew the generational gap would make understanding her diagnosis a challenge. Terms like autism, ADHD, and other mental health conditions simply weren’t part of their world when they were raising their own children. I had no idea how they’d react.
I braced myself for skepticism—or worse, judgment—but what happened instead surprised me. Instead of resistance, they showed me that one is never too old to learn, with an open mind and an open heart.
At first, their reaction was exactly what I expected: shock and concern. Their understanding of autism was limited, and my grandma immediately asked if Evie would have to be raised in a “home for special needs kids.” In her mind, autism was synonymous with being “mentally challenged.”
I took a deep breath and explained as clearly as I could, showing them the papers we had from Evie’s diagnosis. I tried to keep it simple, though autism is never truly simple to summarize. To my relief, they set aside every preconceived notion they had that day. They sat close, eager to absorb every detail, every fact I shared. Over time, their curiosity only grew—they asked questions, sought out information, and immersed themselves in learning.
Grandma clipped every newspaper article and magazine piece about autism. They watched YouTube videos I sent them—my grandma, who navigates an iPhone like a pro for someone her age! I even shared passages from The Reason I Jump, and she immediately bought her own copy, devouring it twice before passing it along to my grandpa, my aunt and uncle, and anyone else willing to read. They wanted to understand, to truly connect with Evie.
They even attended one of Evie’s speech and occupational therapy sessions. The idea of therapy for a child like Evie was foreign to them, but they were determined to see it firsthand, to grasp what it meant and how it supported her.
To say they adore her is an understatement. Their patience and empathy exceed anything I could have imagined. Broken vases? Jumped-on couches? No problem. Their home, once immaculate, is now a playground for love and exploration. Grandma makes chicken fingers for Evie at every family gathering without being asked. Grandpa gets down on the floor, crawling alongside her as she lines up animals or stacks blocks. His face lights up like a child’s watching her run, jump, and sing. My grandma beams when Evie reaches out for a hug or holds her gaze, small gestures that mean everything.
Before COVID, our visits were frequent—at least twice a month, sometimes weekly. Thinking about the fact that we haven’t seen them since August makes my stomach knot. Grandma and I text regularly, and I send pictures and videos, but it’s not enough. It almost feels cruel, showing her family just out of reach. She holds Evie’s images on her phone like precious jewels, yet I know they cannot erase her worry that the bond they’ve worked so hard to build is slipping away.
Maintaining a socially-distanced relationship with a child like Evie is not simple. She cannot talk on the phone, she doesn’t understand Zoom, and she needs to see, touch, and be physically close to truly connect with her loved ones. She cannot grasp the idea of social distancing, and keeping a mask on is impossible. To see her great-grandparents now would be to risk their health.
So, we wait. We pray our health holds, we long for the day we can embrace again. And I am reminded that love—this fierce, patient, all-encompassing love my grandparents have for Evie—can span generations, overcome ignorance, and bridge understanding. It cannot, however, erase the distance COVID has imposed. If only love alone could build a bridge over this canyon of separation. If only.
