So much of parenting a child with special needs comes down to picking your battles. I don’t usually like “battle” imagery, but in the trenches of parenting, it often feels accurate. This morning, I walked into my 14-year-old son’s room, picked up the clean laundry he’d dumped on the floor, and put it back in his basket. In theory, the basket should be empty, and the clothes should be in his drawers. This is our deal: I sort, wash, and fold; the kids put their clothes away. Only my middle son doesn’t. He argues, “Why should I put my clothes in drawers? They can just live in a basket on my floor! It’s the same thing.” It’s not the same thing, I want to say. They live in the basket until you dump them out every morning, and then I pick them up again. I scoop up two pairs of black jeans and wonder: Is this a battle worth fighting? Even typically developing 14-year-olds resist chores like this. Does the laundry matter? After all, I have other things on my mind: my older daughter’s new work schedule, my older son’s driving test, my younger daughter’s musical auditions, and my youngest son’s evaluation. His special education teacher asks, “Is your youngest going to be one of my special friends, too?” “Probably,” I answer. We have so many other battles to fight. Maybe I should just let the laundry go. Parenting a child with special needs is exhausting the anxiety, the phone calls from school, and the constant weighing of when to push and when to step back. My son is likely fighting battles I can’t even see. 
This is why I wrote When I Go to Church, I Belong, a picture book about children with special needs finding welcome in church. One early reader shared it with her son, who doesn’t have special needs, and it sparked a conversation about how some things are harder for certain kids than for others. Which brings me back to the laundry. All parents face the question: Do I pick this battle or let it go? But in my case, I also wonder, am I enabling my son or giving him the grace he truly needs in a world not built for him? The answer isn’t always clear. We make the best guesses we can and hope they’re the right ones. I once lamented this to a friend, and she said something that stayed with me: “If you always got it right, if you were a perfect parent, you would leave no room for Jesus.” That simple sentence reframed everything. In my mistakes and missteps, there is space for Him to work. This is the room for Jesus, meaning I carry, trusting that He knows my son better than I ever will. So today, I picked clothes up off the floor. I toss a sweatshirt into the basket and pray for my son and the unseen challenges he faces. I try to release the image of a battle and instead leave space for Jesus to step in where I cannot. 
