🩵 The Everyday Hero
A Story of Courage, Autism, and Growing Up
Note to the Reader: This post was originally written in July, 1998, at the Pennsylvania Writing Project. I have updated it and used SEO keywords to refine it. For those of you who did not know Allen in the “Before” times—before my husband died—this is a glimpse of him at 12.
The Boy on the Bus
He’s tall for his age, but with that awkward grace common to early adolescence—arms and legs that sometimes refuse to obey the mind’s commands.
Every morning, he hesitates for just a moment before boarding the school bus. There’s a quick glance toward home, a deep breath, and then he steps forward. He’s been pushed before—once hard enough to leave a bruise—but he steadies himself, adjusts the book bag, and finds his seat. He sits alone.
The bus driver smiles encouragement. She never has to yell at him for being out of his seat or throwing things. As she pulls away from the curb, she sees him wave to a passing car. Mom always waits until he’s safely aboard before leaving for work.
The Quiet Places of School
At school, he’ll find some camaraderie in a small classroom near the library. It is a safe corner for students who learn differently. He walks close to the wall in the hallways, still remembering the sting of books knocked from his arms and trampled on the floor.
At lunch, he sits with Norman, Robby, or Justin, other outcasts in the noisy cafeteria. He eats neatly, quietly, never needing to be reminded to clean up.
And when he gets home, after homework and chores, he’ll head to the basketball court. There, his IQ and reading level don’t matter. There, he’s strong, focused, free. He runs up and down the court on long legs, the ball almost always landing in the basket.
The Definition of Hero
Tomorrow, he’ll do it all again. No complaints, no excuses. Just quiet courage.
Maybe you’ve seen him. The student who eats lunch alone. The boy down the street who rides his bike by himself. The one who held the door for you at the store and looked down when you said thank you.
His name is Allen. He’s my son.
“Hero: One who shows great courage.”
— Webster’s Dictionary
He hasn’t fought wars or saved lives, but he faces battles every day—with persistence, grace, and faith. To our family, that’s what heroism looks like.
Practice Before Performance
New experiences come hard to him. “Kids like Allen need practice before performance,” his teacher once said.
He’s the youngest by several years. Everything he does, his older brother and sister have already done. Yet Dennis and Bonnie have guided him gently, letting their experiences become his map.
At Youth Group, he conquered his fears this year. He followed his sister Bonnie at first, but soon began to find his own rhythm. During Bible study, he listens closely, storing up questions like treasures.
“If people can see the sunset,” he once asked, “why don’t they believe in God?”
Sometimes his teacher can’t answer right away. That’s okay. Allen doesn’t need all the answers. He just needs the space to ask them, to know someone is listening.
Courage Comes Quietly
After Bible study, Allen runs to the gym. He lays his Bible on the table, drops his offering in the basket, and begins to shoot baskets. The ball arcs perfectly, again and again, though he often plays alone.
The Youth Pastor has invited him to basketball camp, but Allen still hesitates. Crowds, noise, and strangers can be overwhelming. Yet each week, he shows up demonstrating his own brand of courage.
At home, he’s growing fast. His “Student of the Month” certificate now sits proudly beside his siblings’ high school diplomas. He has a new suit for eighth grade graduation, a new watch to remind him to “check in” when he rides to the park.
He’s not a little boy anymore. Every crack in his deepening voice is a note in his own song.
The Summer of Becoming
He’s learning independence. He earns five dollars a week for “watching himself” while Mom is at work—his self-declared job.
“It’s my job,” he told his sister firmly when she asked why he got paid and she didn’t when she was with him in the mornings. “You have a job. I’m working, too.”
He’s alone more often now, except for his friend Jonathan. But he doesn’t complain. He rides his bike toward a future that might take him longer to reach, but he’s getting there, steady and brave, one pedal at a time.
Keep Riding, Hero
It’s not easy being both the hero and the youngest child. Everyone else is in motion—college, jobs, projects. He often feels overlooked. Allen moves forward, too, at his own careful pace. His road has a few more bumps, but heroes expect that.
He just keeps riding.
🕊️ Reflection for Readers
Maybe you know an “Allen” too—someone who walks a harder road, quietly, bravely, with faith.
Take a moment today to notice them. Encourage them. Tell them they are seen. Who is someone you can encourage today?
“The Lord delights in those who fear Him, who put their hope in His unfailing love.” — Psalm 147:11
Powerful reframing of heroism as daily persistence rather tahn grand gestures. The detail about walking close to walls after having books knocked down captures how invisible accommodations become for people navigating sensory or social challenges. I worked with neurodivergent students for a while and that "practice before performance" concept is spot-on, the number of rehearsed scenarios needed for what seems spontaneous to others is huge.