There are moments in our lives that feel completely random, until you look back and realize they changed everything. We move through our days, dealing with the heat, the chores, and the exhaustion, never realizing that a single, tiny event is shifting the course of our entire future. Some people call it luck. Some call it coincidence. But looking back at a specific Saturday over twenty years ago, I call it a miracle.
Back then, I was living on the third floor of an apartment in Springfield. If you’ve ever lived in a walk-up with a baby, you know exactly what that life feels like. It was heavy. I remember the physical toll of it: carrying groceries up those three flights of stairs, hauling laundry, and always, always having my baby, Davion, in my arms. She wasn't even a year old yet, just a tiny soul relying on me for everything.
It was a hot summer, and in that third-floor apartment, the air could get stifling. We kept the bedroom window wide open all season long just to catch a breeze. There was no screen. There was nothing covering it. It was just open air, three stories above the pavement below.
Then, one ordinary afternoon, a fly came in.
It was such a small thing. A nuisance, really. Most of the time, we swat them away or ignore them until they find their way back out. But for some reason, that fly bothered me enough to act. I didn't just chase it out; I felt a sudden, urgent need to close that gap. I got up, found the old window screen that had been sitting aside, and I placed it back in the frame.
I didn't lock it. I didn't secure it with tools or screws. It was just resting there, held by nothing more than gravity and hope.
A few days later, on a Saturday, I decided to stay home instead of going to church. Davion and I were tired, so we laid down for a nap. When I finally woke up, the first thing I heard was the sound of her crying. It wasn't her "I'm hungry" cry or her "I'm tired" cry. It was a sound that pulled me out of sleep with a jolt of pure adrenaline.
I looked next to me, but she wasn't there.
I scrambled out of bed, searching the apartment. It was a small place; there weren't many places for a crawling baby to hide. I checked under the table, in the bathroom, behind the door. My heart was pounding against my ribs. And then, a quiet voice in my spirit told me to look behind the bed.
I turned around, and my breath left my body.
There she was. My baby, less than a year old, had somehow climbed and moved in a way that didn't seem physically possible for a child her age. She was leaning her entire weight against that unsecured screen, right at the edge of the open window. Three floors up.
That screen: the one I only put back because of a random fly: was the only thing holding her back from the empty air.
As any parent knows, it only takes a second for a child to move in a way you didn’t expect and to this day, I cannot explain how she got there. I cannot explain how that loose screen held the weight of a struggling, crying baby. But what I do understand is this: If that fly had never come in, I would have never touched that screen. And if I had never touched that screen, my child would not be here today.
I share this story because I know many of you are in a "third-floor window" season of your life right now. You are parenting a child with autism, and honestly? A lot of it doesn't make sense.
There are days when the diagnosis feels like a weight you’re carrying up three flights of stairs. There are moments when the behaviors, the meltdowns, and the lack of sleep make you feel like you’re standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying. You’re looking for God or for answers in the big, loud moments, but all you hear is the silence of the "not knowing."
In our community at We Are Autism, we talk a lot about autism support for parents. We talk about advocacy, education, and resources. But we also have to talk about the heart. We have to talk about the fact that sometimes, the "fly" in your life: the small struggle, the unexpected detour, the "random" person you met at a support group: is actually the very thing protecting your child’s future.
Years later, as I watch Davion walk through life, I go back to that window. I realize that God does not preserve a life without purpose. If He kept her then, when she was too small to protect herself, then I know He isn't finished with her now.
That miracle has stayed with me for years, and it is one of the reasons I felt so strongly about putting my words on paper for my daughter. With Love Moom is a series of letters from me to Davion about growing, healing, and becoming. I wrote it to guide and reassure her through my lived experience and faith, and my hope is that it speaks not only to her, but to any young woman who needs a little encouragement along the way.
When God spares a life, it does something to a mother’s heart. It makes you want to leave behind more than memories. It makes you want to leave words your child can hold onto in hard seasons, growing seasons, and moments when she needs to remember who she is. I’ll be adding the back cover image soon as well.
If you would like to find the book, you can view it on Amazon here: With Love Moom on Amazon.
This is the message I want to scream from the rooftops to every parent who just received a diagnosis or who is struggling because they don't have access to ABA services. Your child was preserved for a reason. Their life is not an accident, and their diagnosis is not a mistake.
If you are struggling to make sense of your journey today, I want to encourage you to look for the "flies." Look for the small interventions.
It is okay if things don't make sense right now. It is okay if you feel heavy. The journey of raising a child on the spectrum is a marathon, not a sprint, and it requires a level of faith that most people will never have to tap into.
But I am living proof that there is a plan behind the scenes. Whether you are seeking autism support for parents or you’re just trying to get through the next hour, remember the third-floor window.
If you’re in a place where you’re struggling to make sense of your journey, trust the process. Trust that there is a purpose for your child’s life that exceeds any label or diagnosis. Trust that the same God who was there in that Springfield apartment twenty years ago is standing right next to you today.
You are doing a great job, Mama. You are doing a great job, Dad. Even when you don't feel like it, you are the "screen" that is holding things together, and you are being supported by a power far greater than your own.
If you need a community that understands this walk, I invite you to join us. Check out our Building Bridges program or look through our resources. We are here to walk with you, one "fly" and one window at a time.
At We Are Autism, we believe every child is fearfully and wonderfully made. For more encouragement and practical tools, visit our blog or con
Charlene Pinnock is a mother and founder of We Are Autism, using her voice and lived experiences to support, educate, and empower families raising children on the autism spectrum. Her work is driven by faith, resilience, and a deep commitment to ensuring no parent feels alone on this journey.
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