O Holy Night

Christmas is almost here.  The days are long but the light is short.  School is almost out.  Presents are partially wrapped, tucked away in boxes in the basement.  Plans to see friends and family are made.  Our sparkle box is filling up with presents for Jesus, acts of kindness and generosity given in his name these past few weeks.  And the songs are everywhere:  on the radio, in the stores, playing on Pandora in the evenings at home.  I was thinking about making a special station just to hear all the different versions of my favorite Christmas song, O Holy Night.  Josh Groban does a beautiful rendition.  Straight No Chaser has a fun one.  Mariah Carey belts it out in true diva fashion.  Children's choirs usually nail it, with their clear, high voices all together, singing those words I hold so dear. 

"O holy night, the stars are brightly shining.  It is the night of our dear savior's birth."

Do you remember that Hallmark commercial from years ago?  When the little boy is anxiously awaiting the arrival of his big brother for the holidays, because they always sing the duet?  But his brother still hasn't come, and he fears he will have to sing all by himself this year.  His voice begins, small and timid.  Suddenly, it is joined by a strong, powerful one...his brother has come home, and just in time!  That's the first time I remember hearing the song, and it enchanted me.  The slow, quiet build.  The hushed reverence for this sacred day.

"Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, til He appeared, and the soul felt its worth.  A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!"

A thrill of hope!  The music crescendos.  The weary world rejoices!  Oh, does the world feel weary this year.  The children.  The medical problems.  The loved ones lost.  The people in the world RIGHT NOW who don't mark this day with celebration, because they are so hopelessly without...without food and water, without a friend to care whether they live or die, without a soul that feels its worth.  I want to save them.  All of them.  I want them to know their worth.  That they matter to me.  But I am just one person.  What can I possibly do?

"Fall on your knees.  O hear the angels' voices."

There it is, right there in my favorite song.  Fall on your knees.  You can't do this alone.  You are not the answer to the weary world's troubles.  Fall on your knees.  This phrase never stood out to me before, but it does right now.  Its not giving up.  Its not admitting defeat.  Fall on your knees, hear the angels' voices.  What are they singing?  Do the angels know something I don't?

"Truly He taught us to love one another.  His law is love, and His gospel is peace.  Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother!  And in His name, all oppression shall cease."

Chains shall He break.  Not me.  I can't free a slave, because by myself, I'm enslaved too.  I'm held captive by anger and greed, by selfishness and hurt.  But in His name, all oppression shall cease.  So that's the name I'm using.  In Jesus' name, we can heal this weary world.  We can start today to LOVE ONE ANOTHER.  Stop being a slave to my own agenda.  Stop insisting that everyone see things exactly as I do. 

"Sweet hymns of joy, in grateful chorus raise we, let all within us praise HIS HOLY NAME!  Christ is the LORD!  O praise His name forever!  His power and glory evermore proclaim!"

At this point, Josh Groban bursts forth with a series of "Noel"s that make me feel as though we have crested the largest wave in the ocean, and it is carrying us back to shore.  The power of the music has taken over and we ride it on home, in seemingly effortless exultations.  Christ is the Lord, and it makes this night divine.  Holy, even.  But it can't be contained in one calendar day.  Fall on your knees, and it becomes a part of life.  Every day.  The law of love, the gospel of peace.  It doesn't stop on December 26th.  Not if we bring it in, carry it in our hearts.  It changes us, and then it changes the world.  And the weary world rejoices.

In the Stillness

At peace in the quiet of a snowy day

Things have gotten crazy once again.  Every day, the activity in our house ramps up until 8pm.  Its a steady beat, like a primordial drum calling the children to be louder, louder, run faster, faster, until we separate them for baths and jammies and stories, and they finally settle down for sleep.  I get caught up in the busyness.  Sometimes I am running with them, dancing and throwing or shouting at them to keep it down, how's a person supposed to think?!  But whenever I need a break, whenever it has become too much, and whenever Chris is there to handle the clamoring hoard, I go look for James.  Because no matter how many kids are here, how much noise is being made, my sweet boy has usually found a quiet corner for himself.  I join him there, in the stillness, and he helps me quiet my raging insides.  It is usually soft, with blankets or sleeping bags or pillows hiding a hard surface, and dark, with shades down and lights off and a nice dark blanket pulled overhead like a cocoon.  There is no music, no chanting monks, no TV or video games or laugh track.  Sometimes he will arrange his body so that he can lay his ear against my stomach.  I think about what he is hearing, the gurgles and splashes of fluids following that downward course we learned about when the Magic School Bus went inside Arnold.  Sometimes he wants me to read to him.  And so we look together at the stories about starfighters and pigeons and Lego cities.  Sometimes, when the mood is just right and the day has been successful and I've quieted enough to really listen, we have a conversation.  A real, honest-to-goodness chat, with the whole back and forth, question and answer thing that other people seem to come by so easily, but for him I know is the hardest thing he will ever do.  They are never long, our voices are always hushed, and an errant child storming in will inevitably bring about its end.  But I cherish our time together in his quiet space.  He finds and protects it with all the tricks in his bag.  And I wonder at this ability he has, to be so still, this meditative silence that I could never achieve even back when there was no one else around and no big answers to find, no matter how hard I tried to shut it all out and just be.

Finding a quiet place at the park to throw stones 

He's always been this way, from the moment he was pulled into this loud, hectic world.  I just never knew why.  Why he would fuss in the house, with the tv on or people over, and when we stepped outside, into the void of a summer night or winter afternoon, he became still and peaceful.  We've always been fortunate enough to live on quiet streets, with a decent distance between our house and the neighbors, so that the only sounds we hear are the birds in the trees or the occasional plane flying overhead.  We've spent so much time sitting on our front stoop, laying on a blanket in the yard.  I slow my breathing, taking deep pulls and filling my lungs, and then slowly exhaling.  Sometimes outside isn't a haven of silence, and I remember so well the Christmas we were at my parents' house, opening gifts and laughing with my sister and her husband, and James, almost three years old, took refuge in the curve of the sectional couch.  He covered himself with a blanket, and when we peeked in at him, saw that he had gathered balled-up wrapping paper to give a sound-proof layer to his hideaway.  It all began to make sense once we learned about sensory processing, overstimulation, why the times when many of us are happiest, surrounded by our friends or loved ones and talking and making quite a big noise send him into a tailspin.  And so this is another aspect of special needs parenting which we have continued to get better at as the years progress: we give our son what he needs.  We attune, we learn, we listen and he tells us how to make these times better, how to get through the holidays or the afternoon or the church service together.  I realize that I've gotten more comfortable in this role, more confident that I can give him what he needs, that we can experience life as a family and not hide out all day.  If it takes noise-muffling headphones or a thick quilt or a walk around the block, I will make it happen.  This is the gift that autism has given us, the opportunity to be still.  Too many times we focus on the difficulties, the challenges, but truly TRULY I feel blessed to have a child who needs and creates this stillness for us all, and I am happy to join him in it, to practice more being and less doing.