Hide And Seek
I walk into the room and I can hear his muffled breath and poorly suppressed giggling. He hides from me. This has been our ritual for longer than I can remember, he’s almost a teen, and he’s been doing this since he was just a toddler.
Our son entered this world earlier than he should have. Born into a family unable to care for his needs, he was placed into the foster system at birth. My wife and I were newly approved and our agency rang to see if we would take this little bundle into our home, “Of course,” we gushed, after all, this is what we had signed up for. Armed with our naive zeal, we bundled this gift up and drove him home. We didn’t know then just how much home would change. I wonder if we had of known, had seen the pain and grief that would come, could have discerned the anguish, or felt what we’ve had to let go of—I wonder if I would have ignored him and hidden away.
My son’s brain was irreparably damaged due to exposure to alcohol in his mother’s womb. In the place where he was being knit together, a place that is designed to hide the vulnerable from harm, he could not escape the poison his mother drank in attempt to hide from her own pain. Fetal alcohol spectrum disorder means that as his body adapts to the teenage years, his brain lags far behind. He views the world through preteen eyes, but processes it like an infant. So every night, after helping him learn again how to make sure his body is clean, he runs ahead of me down the hall, spins through the doorway into his room, and waits with muffled breath and poorly suppressed giggling for me to arrive.
“I wonder if he’s under the bed,” I call loudly as I make a show of scanning the room. “No,” comes the reply. I hear another giggle.
“Is he in the wardrobe?” — “No.” More giggling.
“Oh well, I better shut the door and see if he’ll come soon.” — “Boo! I found you”
Everyone laughs.
Inside, I cry.
Every night. Every night we move through the same pattern, it doesn’t matter if it’s me or my wife. There’s something comforting about the routine, the sameness of it all, that my son has learned to hide in. He wraps himself in the embrace of routine and predictability. He hides from me, but more profoundly, he hides in me. He finds the routine safe.
There are other children in this world who hide behind doors, under beds, wherever their young minds convince them they will be safe—they hide in fear, not hope. Their world is unpredictable, or worse, predictably painful. That could have been my son. So as tiresome as his game can be, I’ve learned to embrace his ‘hide and seek’. I see that he’s found a way to hide in me, to centre the chaos of his world in a place where he knows he can be found, and known, and loved.
We have an old high-backed chair sitting in the corner of my son’s room. After he is found each night, he puts his favourite pyjamas on and settles under the sheets where we pray. As the light dims, we play calming music suited for infants, and sit in that old chair as we listen to his breathing slow. Last night, as the routine played itself out again, my mind drifted to my own life of hiding. It’s no use pretending otherwise, I’ve spent much of my life hiding—hiding from what I thought others would reject, hiding from the truth, hiding from responsibility, from consequences, from intimacy. I reflected on the things I’ve hidden from, and all the places I’ve hidden in. Then, in the darkness of that room, with my son’s breath still rising and falling in predictable pattern, I heard the unmistakable voice of the Spirit, as ancient words I’d committed to memory were uncovered from some hidden place in my mind. Uncalled for, at least by my conscious decision, truth bubbled to the surface.
Colossians 3:1–4 (CSB)
So if you have been raised with Christ, seek the things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.
I died. My life is hidden in Christ.
If you are his, then the same is true of you. You are hidden in him also.
What a gift of grace!
My body and mind have been broken and distorted by sin—the sins of others, but mostly my own. After a lifetime of hiding in all the wrong places from all the wrong things, I am finally hidden in the one place where I am fully found. I join my song with that of the Psalmist.
“You are my hiding place and my shield; I hope in your word.” (Psalm 119:114, ESV)
Tonight, my son will hide again, we will replay the old routine. When I find him, I’ll wrap my arms around him and hold him tight—he’ll wiggle and push, tell me to stop, and jump into his bed with laughter. I’m not sure how much he grasps of what he is experiencing, I’m certain he couldn’t articulate his security in any educated way, but he doesn’t need to. He just enjoys it. And when, again, I hear his gentle breathing slow for the night ahead, I’ll resolve again to do the same—I will simply take joy in being hidden in Christ. I don’t need to run anymore. I don’t need to live in fear anymore, to pretend anymore. I am in Christ, that is enough.
