Some Saturdays are loud.
Some are full of errands, laundry, lists, and a house that looks like it needs Jesus and a deep clean.
And then there are the quiet Saturdays… the ones where miracles whisper instead of shout.
Today was one of those.
Ella was on the couch, tucked up next to her daddy, tablet glowing, peace resting on her little shoulders.
I was in full mama mode — wiping, folding, picking up the pieces of a week that was heavy but holy.
And from the couch, I heard her voice.
It was soft.
Intentional.
But I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.
She tried again.
Still, I missed it.
Now here’s the part that made my mama heart stop.
We keep Ella’s individual alphabet blocks right on the divider of our loveseat. Since she was already seated there with Oji, all she had to do was reach over. No drama. No delay. Just purpose.
She reached.
She grabbed.
She looked me straight in my tired mama eyes and began spelling, one letter at a time:
G. R. A. P. E. S.
Then she said it again out loud.
“Grapes.”
Not fussing.
Not crying.
Not melting down.
Just… advocating.
Six years old.
Autistic.
Minimally verbal.
And yet here she was, saying:
If you don’t hear my words, I’ll show you my meaning — and then I’ll say it again so you know I meant it.
Whew.
A year ago, this would not have happened.
A year ago, she was still finding her voice.
A year ago, frustration lived where language now blooms.
But today?
Today my baby didn’t just ask for grapes.
She demonstrated agency.
She showed literacy.
She exercised confidence.
She said, in her own sweet, powerful way,
“I know what I want — and I know how to tell you.”
And I stood there holding back tears over a fruit request, because when you are the mother of a neurodivergent child, every word is a miracle. Every breakthrough is a testimony. Every small moment is a mountain moved.
God really said,
“Let there be brilliance,”
and wrapped it up in mocha skin, two afro puffs, and a little girl who spells when she isn’t heard.
So yes, I got her the grapes. 🍇
But what she gave me?
That was bigger.
That was hope.
That was growth.
That was a reminder that Ella Grace is not behind — she is becoming.
And baby… she’s doing it beautifully.
© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
