On Studying the Bible

I AM A BIBLE NERD.  I love reading the Bible.  I send emails to my friends with lots of exclamation points telling them what I'm studying and what I'm learning.  I am in love with Moses and Joshua and John the Baptist. (And Esther! And Ruth! And Micah!)  I love to talk about the Bible with people, I love to hear other folks' perspectives.

But I have two big problems with people who study the Bible (and I'm just as guilty as the next guy of both).

ONE: People who study for the sake of studying.  I'm looking at you theologians (both amateur and professional).  People who get so deep into the study that they never apply it.  To quote Paul, "My brothers, this should not be."  The Bible is God's WORD...He spoke it and there was a reason.  Not so we would memorize it and quiz each other, not so we would fill libraries with books about what this book was trying to say, not so we could sit in classrooms and argue Calvinist or Weslyan.  NO.  God spoke so we would DO.  James 1:22 (Oh, did I mention how much I love James? So much that I named my first born after him!) says, "But don't just listen to God's word.  You must do what it says.  Otherwise, you are only fooling yourselves." (emphasis mine)  Francis Chan has a great illustration about telling his daughter to clean her room.  And what if she went to her room for hours and came back out and said, "Okay, I heard you.  I talked about it with my friends and I translated it into Hebrew, and I really GET IT."  What does any decent parent say in response?  "Great...but did you actually clean your room?"  The Bible is worthless if it becomes just another book on a shelf, a discussion among great thinkers, and nothing changes.  Make no mistake...I love to read and discuss the Bible.  But it can't stop there.  It HAS to move me.  It has to get me off the couch, off the computer, and in the world doing some real Jesus work.

Jen Hatmaker writes, "The careful study of the Word has a goal, which is not the careful study of the Word.  The objective is to discover Jesus and allow Him to change our trajectory.  Meaning, a genuine study of the Word results in believers who feed poor people and open up their guest rooms; they're adopting and sharing, mentoring and intervening.  Show me a Bible teacher off mission, and I'll show you someone with no concept of the gospel he is studying." (from 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess)  So let's get real: Are you reading the Bible?  If your answer is no, then come talk to me and I will light a fire under you so that changes.  But if your answer is yes, then I have a follow up question.  What are you doing about it?  How are you imitating Jesus?  Who are you caring for?  How well are you loving the people in your circle, your spouse, your kids, your parents, your neighbors?  Are you making a difference in the life of an orphan or a widow? ("Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you." James 1:27 again emphasis mine)  If your religion is merely reading and studying the Bible, then God Himself will say you missed the point.

TWO:  People who study the Bible so they can smack other people in the face with it.  I mean folks who quote the Bible at their unbelieving friends/relatives/neighbors/co-workers/televised audience.  People who use God's Word to shame the rest of the world.  NO.  What we learn when we study the Bible is meant for US.  1 John 5:13 says, "I have written this to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, so that you may know you have eternal life."  The Bible isn't meant for Buddhists or atheists or Muslims or agnostics, the Bible is for Christians.  People who claim the name of Jesus over their lives and renounce sin and want to be transformed.  If you haven't accepted Jesus as your savior, then you can keep on doing whatever it is that you're doing.  It's not my job to be the Jesus police and write a ticket to every sinner (believer OR non believer) I meet.  My job is to examine my own heart and my own life and see where I need more Jesus and less Rachel.

The Bible is not a weapon.  The Bible is a collection of stories and songs and poems and lists and rules and correspondence.  The Bible is meant to teach whoever has ears to listen.  Jesus spoke against this misuse of the Bible in Matthew 7:3-6, "And why worry about a speck in your friend's eye when you have a log in your own?  How can you think of saying to your friend, 'Let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,' when you can't see past the log in your own eye?  Hypocrite!  First, get rid of the log in your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend's eye.  Don't waste what is holy on people who are unholy."  Yeah, that's right.  The Son of God called us hypocrites.  Let me tell you, I've been studying the Bible since I could read, and I still can't see past the log in my own eye.  So guess how much time I spend picking dust and specks out of other people's eyes?  Big fat zero.  (Unless you count the kids, but I'm their mom, so it's kind of my job to pick crap out of their eyes.  And lick my finger to wipe stuff of their faces.)

I know it can seem confusing, since Jesus also told us to make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit later in Matthew.  But He didn't mean to force religion on people who don't want it.  Absolutely you should share your faith.  Absolutely you should preach the gospel.  And when necessary, use words. (Google tells me Francis of Assisi said that.)  It's the same solution to the first problem: our lives are our gospel.  Our actions are our message.  James 2:18 says, "Now someone may argue, 'Some people have faith; others have good deeds.'  But I say, 'How can you show me your faith if you don't have good deeds?'  I will show you my faith by my good deeds." (emphasis mine)  Sermons are great in church on Sunday morning; the rest of the week your life should do the preaching, not your mouth.  So again, I'll ask: How are you imitating Jesus?  Are you healing the sick?  Are you feeding five thousand people with a few loaves of bread and some fish?  Are you walking on water?  Are you sticking it to the religious leaders who follow the letter of law but have no love in their hearts?  If your religion is shoving the Bible down another person's throat, then God Himself will say you missed the point.

On Letting People In

James at school

We are revising our son's IEP this week.  It's been five years now that I have been attending these meetings, ever since we wrote the very first one a week before James turned 3.  It's been a journey, to say the least, for our family, navigating the world of autism and special education, and it's made me aware that I am a wall-builder. I have barricades and closets and vaults to keep all of me in, and everyone else out.  But I've been learning these past few years about how amazing it can be to have a community, to have people that are inside the walls.

My initial response upon realizing that my son was different was my tried-and-true coping mechanism of shutting down and shutting out.  I took a lot of blame on myself, and spent long days wondering how I got it all so wrong, how I didn't adequately teach my child how to talk and dress himself, and how could I be trusted to continue raising him and the baby brother who was learning to walk at the time.  I researched speech therapists and attended meetings at school and read books and spent too many hours studying my children, expecting the answer to fix all this to appear.

What I learned is there is no answer or quick fix.  This life is one that requires more of me than I was expecting to give.  But I've learned how to do it.  A big part is sharing the load and letting others in.  The first person I needed to let in was my husband.  In many ways, I had kept him at bay with most of my sensitive areas, and our son became one of those sensitive spots.  I was the parent at home, so it made sense for me to be the one taking James to appointments and filling out paperwork and attending IEP meetings and conferences.  When James was in kindergarten, I came down with a bad case of strep throat the day before the IEP meeting, and my husband had to stay home to take care of us.  I whispered hoarsely to him that he needed to take my place at school, to sign the papers so James would be all set for the next school year.  He looked at me blankly and asked what was going to happen at the meeting and what the IEP was.  I realized I should have kept him in the loop better as I tried to explain with as few words as possible what he needed to do.  I wondered why we hadn't tried to get a sitter so we could both attend these kind of meetings together.  Until that day, I'd carried the burden of helping our son on my own shoulders, but it made me see how much better it would be to share the responsibility and decisions.

It was around this time that we were becoming involved with our Village at church, the people who hold our family so tenderly and support us so completely.  It took a huge leap of faith on my part to share my life with these new people, to trust that when I opened up, they would be able to handle all of our touchy areas with kindness and love.  These days, we have ample opportunity to let people in.  We don't even have to leave our house or get dressed to announce big news and start conversations.  But the problem with social media is that sometimes we don't guard the doors properly.  Some people shouldn't be inside the walls.  Some people aren't safe enough to handle our tender parts.

It reminds me of the book "Generation Ex" written by my friend Jen Abbas (now deJong).  In it, she describes different levels of friendship and trust.  She calls the groups Multitude of Acquaintances, Fellowship Friend, Comfortable Confidant, and Accountable Advisors.  These groups begin to shrink in size from the very large and impersonal (the "Multitude") to the very intimate few (the "Advisors").  This concept has always been a bit challenging for me, since I spent most of my life keeping everything important to myself.  As I've been opening up more, I still have to remind myself to keep certain trusted people inside the walls, and everyone else rightfully outside.  I want to be an honest person.  I want to be truthful and open.  So now I tend towards overshare versus secrecy.

I know I need to learn the balance in what is okay to share and what isn't, especially as a wife and mother who blogs.  I love looking through past years that I've written about; it's a chronicle of what our lives were like then, and an interesting comparison to what has changed.  But stories are mine to tell when my life intersects those of my children?  What will hurt or embarrass them in the future, since what is posted online lasts forever?  At what point does my need to discuss something that I'm feeling or experiencing get trumped by their need for privacy?  One step I've taken lately is to share funny or gross stories in person with people I see regularly rather than posting them on Facebook.  It's more likely these tales will be forgotten when they are only heard by a small group of friends.  I'm also trying to take the advice of Glennon Melton, of momastery.com.  I heard her speak in May, and she addressed this issue as it pertains to her family.  Glennon is a self-proclaimed "truth teller" and her own life is an open book on her blog and in her book "Carry On, Warrior".  Her advice was to stick to our own personal journey as much as possible and to use good judgement when crossing into another person's journey.  Of course, there's always the advice of St. Anne, "If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."  (This one doesn't seem appropriate for kids, since they all behave terribly at one point or another, and that's just the nature of childhood.  Side note: I really hope at least one of my kids writes about his childhood.  I'm curious to see what role I'll have.)

I write frequently about how my son's autism diagnosis changed everything, in many cases for the better.  Finding the right balance of letting people in and keeping others at a distance definitely falls under the "for better" banner.  We are a work in progress, but work I'm glad to have each day.  Without these little people, I imagine my life would have been less colorful and open.

I'm including this video from Ted talks about "coming out of the closet" because it is a universal idea that is worth sharing in the context of opening up to the people who will help carry our burdens.

Autism Speaks Doesn't Speak for Me

A few years back, I signed my family up for our local Autism Speaks fundraiser walk.  I was looking forward to an activity we could all do together, surrounded by people who wouldn't think us odd or unruly.  I was happy to raise money and encourage my friends and family to do the same; after all, Autism Speaks was the only organization I'd heard of for people like my son, recently diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder.  We arrived on the morning of the walk, a sunny Sunday that was perfect for spending time outside at our local park.  We converged with many other families.  We saw large groups wearing matching shirts; we saw men dressed as superheroes and women dressed as princesses.  It was my first experience with an autism community after an isolating couple of years filled with tests and questions and frustration.  I kept looking around in wonder that there were so many people like us, that we had found a place where our son could be accepted easily.

Wearing blue as we walk for Autism Speaks 2012

There was something else I noticed that morning.  The walk organizers had posted signs along our path announcing statistics about autism.  There was one stating the latest CDC findings of autism occurrence.  There were signs about the cost of treating autism.  It was good to remind us why we were walking.  It was good to spread awareness among the walkers and anyone else out that morning.    But I got uncomfortable when I saw the sign comparing autism to pediatric cancer and AIDS ("More children are diagnosed with autism than pediatric cancer and AIDS combined.")  After all, autism affects my son's mind; it makes him process information differently.  But cancer and AIDS...they affect the body.  They make children sick.  They require lengthy hospital stays and expensive medication.  And they are lethal.  Autism will never take my son's life.  A lack of support and understanding by strangers could very well put him in danger, something that has happened to autistic teenagers and adults who have been unable to communicate properly with police officers and other public officials.  Beyond that, I am thankful every day to be the mother of healthy children, to be able to send my kids to public school, to barely give cold and flu season a passing thought.  The comparison of neurology and immunology seems ridiculous.  Then I saw some walkers carrying signs which demanded a cure.  A cure?  For autism?  Therapy, sure.  Assistive technology to bridge the differences between my son's mind and the neurotypical world in which he lives, of course.  But what would we be curing?  If some medication took away my child's autism, what would be left?

I went home feeling unsettled, but not sure what it meant.  Over the coming months, I learned more about the organization we had been supporting for our walk.  Autism Speaks.  What a great name.  For the confused and desperate parents trying to figure out how to best care for a non-verbal child, what a promise it offers!  They state on their webpage that their goal is "to change the future for all who struggle with autism spectrum disorders."  That's something this advocate mama can get behind. But how are they actually doing that?  What percentage of the money raised from walks like the one my family participated in is being used to alleviate the "struggle" of autistic individuals?  I read a book called "Raising Cubby", which introduced me to its author (and awesome role model for my son), John Elder Robison.  The book offered insight into the experiences of growing up autistic, the criticism and confusion he experienced, as well as the jobs and discoveries his mental makeup allowed him to excel at.  And then I read his blog about resigning from Autism Speaks after his efforts to be heard were repeatedly ignored.  He writes, "We do not like hearing that we are defective or diseased.  We do not like hearing that we are part of an epidemic.  We are not problems for our parents or society, or genes to be eliminated. We are people."  This resonated with my feelings after the walk; this put words to the twist in my stomach.  My son is not sick.  My son is not a problem or a burden.  And an organization that describes itself as changing the future for autistic people shouldn't be misleading the public about what exactly they struggle with.

I found more perspective on my beloved Diary of a Mom blog.  I read her words and nodded.  Yes.  YES.  This organization that compares my son's brain to an immunodeficient body is missing it.  They are missing what it is like to live with autism.  They are missing what is going on inside that beautiful brain.  This organization that claims my son is a burden is missing it.  They are missing the joy we experience every day as a family of five.  They are missing the laughter and chatter coming from the bedroom he shares with his brother long after the lights have been turned off.  This organization who claims that my son is MSSNG, or that he is MSSNG some vital component of humanity, they are missing it.  They are missing the vital presence of autistic people.  They are missing the conversation autistic advocates are desperate to have.  They are speaking, but they don't speak for our family.  They don't speak for my son.  

He is learning every day, he is gaining words and the skills to express himself.  We are equipping him to speak and stand up for himself.  And the greatest opportunity we can give him is to listen.  That voice, oh how that voice delights me.  If he's angry, he tells me.  And I want to know: Why are you angry?  What do you do with those feelings?  What can I do to help you?  If he's happy, he tells me.  And I want to know: What makes you happy?  What can I do to make you feel happy more often?  And sometimes he just laughs.  I don't know why, it's something that only he is seeing or hearing.  So guess what I do?  I laugh with him.  It doesn't really matter what's causing it, honestly.  I love an excuse to let out a good belly laugh.  And then he looks at me, as we laugh together, and often he hugs me as we experience this happy moment.

So this is my plea, today and every day:  Don't support Autism Speaks.  Give your money to an organization that will actually use it to help autistic people right now.  How will you know which one is doing that?  Use this guideline, shared so generously by John Elder Robison:

"What we need right now are therapies to help us be the best we can be, as we actually are.  We need tools to help us overcome physical limitations.  We need solutions for the medical problems that plague many people on the autism spectrum.  Those are things autistic people – child and adult alike – want and need right now.  The range of therapies, tools, treatments, and services needed is long and varied – and largely attainable, given the budget and the focus.

We also want societal change and acceptance.  We want sensory friendly workplaces.  We want jobs shaped to our different abilities.  We want help navigating the education and employment mazes.  We want to be productive members of society.  Those too are things we want and need right now.  They too are attainable given the resolve, budget, and legislation to back it up."

On Life-Changing Moments

"Don't think for a moment that because you're in the palace 

you will escape when all other Jews are killed.

If you keep quiet at a time like this, deliverance and relief 

for the Jews will arise from some other place, 

but you and your relatives will die.

Who knows if perhaps you were made queen

for just such a time as this?"    

Esther 4:13-14

Life is full of moments, of decisions that will change our lives.  Movies convince us they are easy to spot, like that magical first kiss when you realize you have found the one who completes your heart.  I wouldn't know about that.  The word that comes to mind when I think of my first kiss with the man who became my husband is awkward.  Two 18 year olds tentatively looking out opposite windows of an old Buick, wanting to move forward and yet terrified of messing it up somehow.  And yet, for all the fear, there is an underlying certainty.  This is it...this is what comes next.  There was fear when I held that pregnancy test in my hand one early Saturday morning, there was fear as I considered turning in my notice and becoming a full-time at home mother.  But there was also a sense of rightness.  And as we became licensed foster parents, fear was never far away, wondering what the future would hold for us all.  But we did it, we kept completing the steps, because we knew, in some inexplicable way, we knew it was the right thing for us, for just such a time as this.

A year ago, I had a conversation that once again marked a life change for me.  I didn't know it at the time, as it was shrouded in that familiar cover of fear.  See, I was talking to my pastor's wife, a pastor in her own right if we're being totally honest.  I was telling her about a women's conference I had heard about, a conference that we could host in our very own town, in our very own church!  For once, I wouldn't have to miss out on something new and exciting, because it would be right down the street.  And she listened and she nodded, and she said yes, we could host this conference.  But only if I did the work.  Her life was entering a big transition, and she wouldn't be able to do any of the preparation.  So if I wanted to have the event, I needed to make it happen.  In about 6 weeks.  With no experience in planning such an event.  With no confidence in myself as a leader, as someone who could put her name on something and accept full responsibility for the outcome.  The fear was bountiful, but so was the belief that I had to try.  If not me, then who?  If not now, then when?

IF: Local February 2014

On the advice of my pastor's wife (again, she is just as much a pastor herself, I should really drop the wife part), I gathered a team, just a few women who also said yes with little information but with a great desire to be part of it.  There wasn't time for advertising, for decorations, for all that I would have liked to do.  I was worried that no one would come; I was worried that many would come.  I had  to admit often that I just didn't know.  I didn't know what to expect, I didn't know how it would turn out, I didn't know if I was getting it all wrong.  But I followed through, and the weekend came, and...women showed up!  Women I'd never met had heard about it online or through word of mouth.  The live stream worked.  The speakers were powerful, the message clear.  We are all like Esther, in our places, in our communities, in the lives of others for just such a time as this.  It's scary to leave that comfortable seat, that well-situated status quo.  After all, no one would blame me for not opening my home to traumatized children.  No one would ever know the burdensome secrets that I carried.  No one, not even myself, would be aware of wasted potential as I sat quietly, week after week, year after year, letting others lead.  When the time has come for me, over and over, I have only been able to see it all clearly in retrospect.  The moments are a jumble of emotions, of deliberation.

This past week, I experienced two clear moments.  The first came on Wednesday, as I was in the midst of getting the children off to school and meeting with my Bible study ladies.  A phone call, in many ways so similar to that one we received three years ago.  Another baby, in need of a home.  It could change our lives again, the way Michael changed everything.  And yet, amidst the deliberations, the hurried texts between my husband and I, one thing was lacking.  That sense of rightness and certainty.  The fear was there, only in a new form.  What if we say no?  Are we the only ones who can help this baby?  What if we say no?  Will we be missing out?  Will another opportunity come, one that better fits our situation, our family schedule?  Is this our last chance?  We decided to decline.  We passed on the opportunity that didn't feel quite right, and prayed that it would be right for someone else.  Then Thursday came.  I met with a group of women, all gathered by that same pastor's wife.  You see, the conference is coming again in just 8 weeks.  I am hosting again this year, with much more confidence and excitement than last time, because I've seen what God can do through me, with all that I lack, that He can more than make up for it.  And these other women, they are hosting too.  Five of them came to my church for that weekend, and when they left, they vowed to be a part of it next time.  Not to just sit in the seats, but to open the doors.  Instead of just one conference in a small church in Northeast Ohio, this February there will be several.  Our whole state is lit up with locations offering the same opportunity to many more women.

Because life is full of moments, ones that will change us forever, creating new paths that we will follow into a great unknown.  We must recall Esther, her fearful crossroads, her life or the lives of her people?  The potential loss of reputation, of position versus the potential extermination of an entire race of innocent people.  The stakes may not be as high in our modern culture...or maybe they are.  These choices we make, they have the power to change us, to touch our souls, to echo through eternity.  Most likely, we will not have books written about us, there won't be festivals celebrating our bravery each year around the world.  But our obedience to do what is right...it matters.  It matters to the child who is no longer an orphan, to the homeless man who is offered shelter, to the person whose hope is renewed by an act of kindness, to the prisoner who is set free.  So do as Esther did.  Use all that you have in the place God has given you.  Remember that He is sufficient for all that you lack.  Remember that deliverance and relief can come from anywhere, but you will miss it if stay silent.

"If God is real, then we want more than anything to live like it."  Jennie Allen, founder of IF

On Thanksgiving and Giving Thanks

It was Thanksgiving yesterday.  The day we welcomed our families into our home.  The day we turned the kitchen into a room where adults could eat and talk and laugh and give thanks.  Not the room where peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are made, where pictures are drawn, where board games are played, where junk mail piles up week after week.  We did some actual work to transform this room, but mostly it was smoke and mirrors.  It was "Nobody go upstairs."  It was a time to pretend it always looks that clean.  We said our thanks.  For the support of friends.  For employment. For a year of sobriety.  For family.  For health.

This year, I feel thankful for so much in my life.  For the marriage that is about to celebrate its 10th year.  For the children who continue to grow and change and occasionally offer hugs and kindness.  For the house that keeps us warm and together.  For the friends who actually support me and encourage me.  For the new pastor at our church.  But mostly I'm thankful for all that has changed since last Thanksgiving.

Last year at this time we were a family of six.  Two of our members had spent a total of 7 days in the hospital.  Our cupboard had filled up literally overnight with several new prescriptions that we were still learning how to administer.  When the preschool teacher asked our son what he was thankful for, he burst into tears.  Life had been reduced to figuring out how to get through each day.  There was nothing beyond today, no long-term projects, no plans for the future.  This was especially hard for me, as I am a planner.  I like to look ahead, to be working toward some larger goal.  But I was overwhelmed by each day's needs, only able to think about how to keep each child alive until bedtime.  And even then, I lurked outside doors, I listened to the little breaths, I wondered if they were coming too fast or too slow or too shallow or too raspy.

Life became very narrow.  There wasn't time to discuss, to argue, to talk things through.  And so we put it off.  There wasn't time to fix, to replace, to repair.  And so we put it off.  There wasn't time to rest, to recuperate, to be restored.  And so we put it off.  There was barely time to eat and bathe and wash and read and brush and hold and drop off and pick up.

This is not to complain.  It was what we signed up for, it was what we were promised in those foster parent meetings and trainings.  This is just to explain that it was hard.  That it took everything we had.  It wasn't all bad.  There were many moments of love and understanding and so much growth, the kind that comes from months of difficulty.  I was reminded of the importance of scheduled rest, of intentional nights off, of friends who will step in to carry the load.  I learned that my frequent response to stress was (is?) to withdraw, to hide out with a bar of chocolate and a good book (or a trashy show on Netflix).  And I took steps to make life more sustainable and less draining.

When the call came that our little Girl was leaving, I spent days in tears.  In the busyness I hadn't realized just how attached I had become, just how much I loved this little one who required so much from me.  And after months of feeling as though I had shouldered the burden of our family, of needing to be strong and to keep going so that we didn't all just fall apart, I found myself done, exhausted, unable to maintain the exterior calm.  She left; I cried.  I fell asleep on the couch, in the boys' room, in a lawn chair.  I searched for the energy to cook, to clean, to do anything really, but my reserves were spent.  At the point when I had to say, "I just can't...", my husband stepped in.  He let me sleep.  He made meals.  He rounded up the kids and took them to the park.

This is how life has gone since then.  First, we had to rest.  Like literally sleep.  We had to say No to some things we really wanted to be part of.  I read a huge stack of books.  We had conversations with our kids about why the Girl was no longer living with us.  Next, we had to relearn how to be a family of five.  We couldn't go back to who we were before; we had to learn who we had all become.  We had to stop buying so much food.  And finally, it was time to catch up.  It was time to address all that had been put off.  We had to reconnect in our marriage, we had to reconnect with our kids.  We had to prioritize those home repairs.  We had to clean out those boxes, that room, that closet.

As the holidays approached, I began to feel once again like an equilibrium had been restored.  The kids are doing well in their new schools and new grades.  They are tackling new responsibilities and developing new interests.  I feel like I am once again able to be the giver in my relationships, able to connect with my friends and my husband instead of beginning every conversation with all that is hard in my life.  We finally fixed that drawer, that leak.  Maybe we will even be able to say that we are preparing for what's next instead of catching up with what was left undone.  I'm still reading a few new books each month.  And my days became rapidly easier as school began just a few weeks after the Girl left, and I am left with one child at home.  It felt selfish at first, all this time for myself after doing so much for everyone else.  But rest assured, I enjoy it now.  I am renewed in the afternoon quiet.

Some families stay open immediately after a placement leaves.  Some parents are ready to jump right back on that horse.  As Amy Poehler says, "Good for you, not for me."  We have needed these months of restoration.  We are once again strong, we are once again comfortable.  Perhaps we are now ready for a new challenge.

We are blessed with an abundance for which we give thanks.

On Living in the Light

I love the light.  I like good things.  I follow Facebook pages that share stories about Encouragers and Survivors and Overcomers.  I like funny people.  I like to laugh.  The first thing I noticed about my husband was his sense of humor.  I focus on the positive.  I promote happy stuff.  This is who I am; this is my preference.  I love the light.

But this is reality:  my life can be difficult.  My oldest son has a developmental disorder known as "autism", which is a scary diagnosis to receive while your three year old is clinging to you for dear life.  I make decisions daily which affect his life and his future, even though I only have knowledge of the past and the present.  Should we try this new therapy?  Which school is right for him?  Should I push him, or is now a time when he just needs his space?  Does he understand me?  Do I understand him?  I have lived through days and weeks and months and years of darkness.  I have cried out of frustration, I have cried because I felt inadequate, I have cried because sometimes it is just so hard.

Here's the thing though, that brings me comfort:  light and dark are not equal, opposing forces.  There are more hours of sunlight than dark every day.  When light shines in the dark, the darkness can't overcome it (Hey, that's in the Bible!).  Darkness only comes when there is no light.  The sun sets, the switch gets turned off, the bulb burns out--that's when darkness comes.  So then, we don't have to stay in the dark!  We just have to turn the light back on!

When I've been in the dark, I know how hard it is to find the switch.  And that's where you come in.  Yes, YOU!!  Would you mind turning the light back on please? (As my boys say, "Light please!") You can see it, can't you?

When you bring me coffee on a random weekday and stay to chat.

When you offer to watch my kids.

When you invite us over for dinner.

When you post an encouraging message on Facebook, or drop that card in the mail.

When you call and ask how I'm really doing.

When you wash my dishes.

When you hug my kids.

When you hug me.

When you say, "We can do hard things."

When you say, "You're doing a good job."

When you say, "I love you."

You are turning on my light.  You are beating the dark back in its cage.  You are throwing me a life preserver.

I am so grateful for the people who help me live in the light.  I don't know who I would be without each of you.  And here's the most important part: this is a dark world, and we need more LIGHT.  We need to take our light out into the streets and SHINE.  We need to give and share the light like there's no tomorrow because there might not be.

When you are overwhelmed in the dark, you won't always be able to find the switch.  So ASK.  Scream it at the top of your lungs: I can't see!  Someone turn the light on!  And if you are the one hearing the call, RUN to help.

** I wrote this in response to the recent murder of London McCabe, by all accounts a little boy much like my sweet James.  Please do not pity those living with disabilities or their families.  It is a joy and an honor to be the mother of my autistic son.  It is hard, but every day I am thankful that my son is alive, challenges and all.  Please extend a helping hand and open your eyes to the worth and value of every human life.**

Five Minute Friday: Still

Welcome to another week of Five Minute Friday — an online community where bloggers who mostly don’t even dare to call themselves writers put their brave on week after week and bring the internet alive with their beautiful words.

It’s a place where we write free and deep and wide, where we let it all spill onto the screen in all its messy, jumbled up glory. It’s a place to link arms with others, to lift them up, to shine a light, to give hope.

Ready?  GO.

Still.  There was a time when I couldn't do it, couldn't find the peace and inner quiet to just let myself be still.  There was so much inner agitation, so much that would appear unbidden in the stillness, so I got busy.  I made my body busy.  I made my mind busy.  I made my life busy.  Surprisingly, it was the arrival of children that broke through the busy.  It was the decision to stay home with the beautiful baby that brought me face to face with stillness.  And it was hard, those early years.  I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts, yet what was there to distract me with this newborn who slept and ate all the time, never giving me anything to fill the stillness?

We have a practice now called Quiet Time.  I crave it each day.  I get through my busy mornings with the promise of a chance to sit, to be still, to think or write or read or lay down.  The children like it too, although the youngest claims to hate it.  He is like I once was, afraid to be still.  In his case, he is afraid of the sleep that will overtake him, afraid he will miss all the fun we are possibly having while he naps.

So what made the difference in the middle?  When did I change from a girl desperately running away from the quiet to one who presides over stillness in a house full of active, loud boys?  It took time, certainly, as nothing in my life has come about overnight.  It took writing, this act of sitting down and putting it down, bringing forth the ugliness and the parts I'd like to forget and pulling them from the dark recesses of my heart and giving them a home outside of my body.  I used to be so anxious, so impatient, and over the years I have come to delight in a few moments of delay, a postponed event.  It gives me time to be still.

STOP.

Love or Fear

This past year has brought a new relationship into my life.  It's exciting, like most new relationships.  It's challenging, like most new relationships.  And it's tender, which makes me take a protective stance over it, which makes me hesitant to write about it.  But this is what I do, how I process, so here goes:

  My youngest son is adopted.  We took a leap of faith and became foster parents and he came to live with us and joined our family.  That is the happy story that we like to focus on.  That is the truth, but only part of it.  Because every adoption has another side to the story, one that is not so happy.  Every adopted child came from somewhere, someone, and this child is no different.  He was born to a man and a woman who lost custody of him, who seemed to disappear for a few years.  But this past year they resurfaced.  In February, I was invited to meet with his birth mom.  She was in recovery, she was doing well, she wanted to see us.  Me and him.  So we went.  We bundled up and braved the roads on an extremely snowy day, and we waited for her.  As if that isn't weird enough, I was excited.  I kept thinking I should feel nervous or afraid, but I was only looking forward to it.  She came through the door and we hugged and she smiled and I felt a surge of connection with this woman who shares my son's eyes and smile.  We shared a meal, and then she asked to contact me again.  I nodded in agreement and passed our son to her arms so she could walk around with him a bit.  Until that day, the woman we called Mama Jenny had just been a face in a photo, an idea that we talked about from time to time, but now she was flesh and blood and snuggles and laughter.

Two Mamas, February 2014

  A few weeks later, she called us.  Once again we met for a meal and once again she snuggled our son.  And then I invited her to come to church with us the next day.  And she did!  We met again and walked through the park, with all of my kids in tow this time.  We talked more and hugged and took pictures.  My husband and I talked things over and decided we were ready to invite her to our house.  On Memorial Day, we grilled food and my parents joined us and there was Mama Jenny, sitting on the lawn and chasing Michael and talking to my folks.  Every week or so, we would meet up, spend time with the kids, and return to our homes.  We text.  We post photos of each other on Facebook.  We share meals.  We go to the park.  We have picnics.  It feels a little like I got to adopt a sister along with a son.  Because we have more in common than just him.  We played the same instrument in our high school matching bands.  We love animals.  We like coffee and donuts.  We think Michael should eat more vegetables.

  Right about now you're thinking there should be a "but".  People love to interject their concern.  But doesn't Michael get confused?  But you are his "real" mother, right?  But what if someday he chooses her over you?  But what if she takes advantage of you?  But what if she tries to take him?

  Sometimes I'm tempted to let fear creep in to this thing we are doing.  There is no road map, there are no self-help books to guide us, there is only the love I have for our son, which spills over to the woman who gave him life.  Because this is the very bottom line:  I love her.  I love her the way you love your family.  And the Bible says that perfect love casts out fear.  When I'm tempted to draw a line between us, to see her as "them" and the people in my house as "us", I dig into that love.  I choose love, because love is the most powerful force on earth.  I choose inclusion because it just makes sense.  I refuse to give in to hypothetical scenarios that are decades away, when each of us will be different versions of ourselves because we all will have grown and learned more and participated in life together.  As for right now, no, Michael doesn't get confused.  He has always been able to understand this idea of two moms and two dads and brothers that live in the same house and sisters who live somewhere else.  We get confused because our minds are stuck in this mentality that only one woman can be Mom and if he is calling her Mom then I have somehow lost that position.  It's ridiculous.  And this thing about "real" mom vs. (I don't know) fake mom?  It's not a competition.  It's not about labels.  Because I would lose.  I mean, sure I've kissed booboos and changed diapers in the middle of the night and read stories, but she has the trump card.  Without her, he wouldn't be here.  So I don't keep a tally of who is doing more or who is more important.  We are both the Mamas, and I'm fine with it.

Fourth of July 2014

  As far as custody or kidnapping, I can't say for sure, but I'm thinking that our current arrangement is working well for everyone.  I have a beautiful son whom I love.  He has two women who are over the moon in love with him.  She gets to have a relationship with a child she lost once before.  Why would any of us jeopardize that?  Love comes swiftly and without much effort for us, but trust is something we develop over time.  I see the way she cares for him, I see how much she loves him.  I am trusting her more each day, as she continues to show up and be his mom.  I'm learning the beauty of sharing, which didn't seem to make sense all those years ago when I fought with my sister over Barbie dolls and clothes.  It reminds me of the women who came to Solomon, both claiming to be the mother of one child.  The wise king proposed that they cut the child in half, and each woman get part of him to take home. The woman who agreed to this horrifying "solution" was deemed the liar, because a REAL mother would rather see her son raised by another than hurt him.  And so it is with us.  We are both willing to sacrifice a sense of ownership over this boy in order to keep him in one piece.  And love wins.

The Benefit of the Doubt

#YesAllWomen

I have always had guy friends.  I have enjoyed the company of these boys and men over the years.  I love how guys are accepting in ways that women aren't, particularly about what you wear or what you eat or your desire to get messy.  But as an adult, I've realized that there are some things about guys that I really don't like, and it mostly centers on how you fellas treat women that you don't know. While the men who are my friends listen to me and speak to me respectfully, strangers definitely do not.  I have been called ugly names, had rude gestures directed at myself, and even been forced to endure unwanted touches.

Now guys, I love you, I really do.  I'm raising a couple of you at the moment.  I'm married to one of you.  So I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe you really don't know any better.  Maybe you think you're delivering a compliment as you hang out your car window and shout at that good-looking lady.  I certainly hope so, as the alternative is that you have little to no respect for the gender that makes up more than half of our population.  It means that you actually think that we are less than you: less human, less intelligent, and less complex in our emotions.  If that's true, then this guide is going to make no difference.  But if you are a caring man who desires to have positive interactions with women, please read on.

1. Compliments
I used to work in customer service, so I have had countless face to face interactions with people.  One that sticks out occurred at the bank where I was a teller.  A man who was a frequent customer came in one day and, as I counted out his money, he said, "That sweater looks really nice on you."  Now, this happened to be a very good-looking man, and even though I am a happily married woman, this compliment made me blush from head to toe.  The way he said it was so thoughtful.  It conveyed that he liked my appearance in a way that was respectful and didn't cross any boundaries of normal human conduct.  I thanked him and gave him his money and continued to have good feelings every time I saw him.

Counterpoint: But if I see a nicely dressed woman as I am driving by, I can't take the time to convey to her in a thoughtful and respectful manner that I like her appearance.  Is it okay in that instance to yell out "Hey sexy mama!" or something similar?

Good point.  This type of interaction requires face to face contact, and at least a full minute in order to convey the message and receive feedback.  Therefore, you should infer that it is never acceptable to holler at a stranger from a car or other moving vehicle.  This rule extends to any sort of one-sided shouting scenario.  Don't yell across the street.  Don't make a gesture to imply that you would be open to having sex with this person that you don't even know.  Don't whistle.  Just don't.

Try to imagine what it's like to be us.  We are constantly on alert for muggers and purse-snatchers and rapists and kidnappers.  We are given "gifts" like whistles and pepper spray when we go out into the world on our own.  Maybe we have already experienced trauma from a boyfriend or relative or stranger.  And now we are minding our own business, walking to work or school or a doctor's appointment, and some lunatic comes by yelling.  That alone can be jarring.  But then your words sink in.  You've reduced us to an object, stripped us of our humanity in this public place, possibly in the presence of our children (*Let me digress for a moment about this: most of my upsetting encounters have occurred in the presence of my boys.  SHAME ON YOU for exposing them to this disgusting behavior, and for violating their mother in their presence.  I want my boys to be better than this.).

My point: This is not a compliment.  See the bank scenario above and try to be more like that guy.

2. Physical Touch
While at another job working with the public, a man asked me out on a date.  We stood across a counter from each other, and he basically said, "Hey, would you like to go out sometime?"  As much as I liked his approach, I told him no, mostly because another guy had already used this tactic a few years before and that guy was my boyfriend and is currently my husband.  Since the relationship was good and getting serious, I obviously didn't want to mess that up by dating someone else.  I told him as much and he said, "Okay," and we continued to see each other at my work without too much awkwardness.

Counterpoint: That story has nothing to do with physical touch.

You're absolutely right!  I'm glad I gave you the benefit of the doubt; you are a smart guy.  This story doesn't include any physical touch because....just don't touch a woman you don't know!!  I can tell you plenty of unwanted touch stories, ranging from the rude and creepy to the (no joke) criminal.  I have been groped at clubs and wanted to slouch out from under arms that held me in place.  I have been spit on (yes really) and had things thrown at me.  None of these instances was pleasant.  None of these moments were the jumping off point to a consensual sexual encounter.  The common theme is that each of these guys avoided any personal vulnerability while forcing me into that position.  The guy who asked me out at my work at least put me in a position of power.  I could say yes or I could say no.  And if I'd been single and looking to mingle, I probably would have had a different answer.

My point: When is it okay to initiate physical contact with a woman?  When you know her.  I love hugs and high fives and even the presence of my guy friends and relatives.  With these men, I can shrug off an accidental boob graze.  Because I know it wasn't on purpose.

Like I said, guys, I like you!  I know it can seem difficult to figure out how to make contact with the opposite sex, how to go from strangers to friends or even lovers.  There has been so much bad blood between our genders, and no one really bothers to explain why its not okay to rub up against a beautiful woman on the subway.  It feels good to you, I know!  But it really, really doesn't feel good to her.  In fact, it feels violating and dehumanizing.  And that brief thrill is all you're going to get from her.  But if you approached her, made yourself vulnerable instead, asked her about the book she's reading or told her how beautiful she looks, you might get an even better thrill: actual human interaction.  Maybe she'll smile at you, accept your invitation to get coffee, kiss you, and maybe someday she'll even let you rub up against her.  Set your sights higher than the momentary thrill, and give some dignity to your fellow human beings.

If you have the time and inclination, read through the #YesAllWomen posts on twitter.  I am not alone.  This kind of behavior needs to stop NOW, and you have the power to change it.

Sweetly Broken

I've been spending time revisiting the past.  It was my choice to go back to those places that I had walled off and tried to forget, but it hasn't been easy.  It isn't easy to be a child in this world, to be vulnerable in every sense of the word, because we live in a harsh world.  We break our children through cruelty and abandonment, through our words and our touch.  All it takes is one adult to violate a child's sense of safety, her sense of self.  One moment of selfishness, one moment of anger, and WHACK!  Life breaks her with force, with no concern for what comes next, and she clutches desperately at the pieces, tries to put herself back together before anybody sees.  She tries to go through life pretending that she doesn't limp, that her jagged exterior doesn't reveal what is inside.  But her attempts to fix herself don't really work.  She has been mangled, like a broken limb that isn't correctly reset.

And we can continue in this way.  We can finish school and get jobs and maybe even start a family.  We can buy a house in the suburbs and join the PTA and fill our days with Pinterest projects.  But just like the broken arm that didn't set right, the human heart won't do everything it is capable of without an intervention, without REAL healing.  How do we fix something that happened years ago, decades ago?  How do we repair not only the damage, but the way she's been carrying herself ever since to hide her weakness?  She has to be broken again.  Not with the baseball bat.  Not blindsided and bewildered.  No, this time it will be her choice.  This time she will be a willing participant.  This time she won't break in the dark, in secret, but in the light.  And she won't break alone.  He will be there with her this time.  He will make sure the broken pieces fit back together, that the fractures will heal completely.

Courtesy of FreeFoto.com

As the song goes: "At the cross you beckon me.  You draw me gently to my knees.  And I am lost for words, so lost in love.  I'm sweetly broken, wholly surrendered." (emphasis mine)  Not every break is bad.  Sometimes we need to break, to repair, to build again, because in the process we are refined and made new.  And this is where I find myself, sweetly breaking, becoming vulnerable once again, allowing the cleansing waters to penetrate and flush out all the bitterness and shame, letting go of all the ways I tried to cope, and allowing myself to be bandaged, and waiting nervously for the final result.  It's all new for me, and I ask that you all be tender with me in the process.

"The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves.  He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing." Zephaniah 3:17

On Temptation

So the hubs and I got a date night this past weekend.  It was glorious to get in the car without having to buckle anyone in, to drive to the movie theater and order popcorn to share, to sit and laugh and talk through the previews without being interrupted.  We watched a (live-action!) movie.  We went out to dinner.  And with a tummy full of good food and giddy with all the freedom of the night, I whipped out my phone and started researching diet cleanses.  Because...well, I'm not really sure why, actually. It was something that we talked about back in July, with the hubs expressing some interest in the idea, which also kind of sounded interesting to me.  We both suck at the whole "healthy eating" thing.  We are both content to drink pop and eat grilled cheese sandwiches with chips, then follow this delicious meal with ice cream.  But lately we've seen the necessity of curbing our excesses in the food department.  It's been tough, let me tell you.  Replacing delicious, sugary treats with say, carrot sticks, is no fun.  Drinking that daily allotment of water (64 oz!) leaves little room for lattes or Cherry Coke.

And somehow, in the heady final moments of our kid-free time, we agreed to try a three day cleanse.  I found some recipes on a women's running website for an 1,800 calorie a day meal plan.  This seemed smarter than a liquid cleanse, since we have grown up responsibilities that require us to not get completely loopy (besides which, we all learned from growing up watching Oprah that weight loss from liquid diets won't stay off).  This plan promised to remove five pounds in the three day time frame, which would be awesome for me and a nice bump for the hubs, who has been steadily losing weight for the past year.  We went to the store and stocked up on veggies and seeds and nuts, which totaled less than our usual weekly trip. Nice!  On Sunday, I began cooking so the hubs could pack his lunch the next morning.  The first problem was when I went to make the Carrot Ginger soup.  I HATE cooked carrots.  They have made me gag every single time I've eaten them, which was quite a few times in childhood, since my mom couldn't take a hint that they were making me barf.  I thought, maybe the other veggies and spices will mask the taste.  Maybe it won't be so bad.  But when lunchtime rolled around on Monday, and I was so hungry after the pitiful breakfast of flaxseeds and almond milk (didn't get the fruit that day, my son swiped it while I was packing lunches), the cooked carrot taste was overwhelming.  Not to mention that what actually gives food FLAVOR, you know, like taste good, that comes from stuff like meat, salt, and sugar.  This diet is lacking those umami elements, if you will allow me to be pretentious and use my limited knowledge from Food Network.

The salad part of the meals was pretty good, especially when I added avocado.  Mmm, I'm a Texas girl deep down, and I love me some avocado!  We are also in the good apple season here, so I enjoyed my afternoon snack of King David apples from our local orchard.  But mostly, I didn't really enjoy the food.  It didn't taste good, it didn't fill me up, and then my caffeine-deprivation headache set in.  All I could think about were meaty, melted cheese sandwiches, thick frosting on yummy cupcakes, salty chips, fizzy pop.  All the food I was going without danced a conga line through my mind non-stop, and my mouth was on perpetual salivation mode.  Which finally brings me to the topic at hand: Temptation.  Oh boy, have I been tempted this week.  I've been tempted to quit the cleanse.  I've been tempted to sneak something while my husband is at work, thinking about going out with the cash in my wallet so he doesn't see a charge to Wendy's pop up in the bank account, the Pringles in the cupboard, even a freaking peanut butter and jelly sandwich when the kids have their afternoon snack.  I have wanted so badly to forego the deprivation and sacrifice, because it's hard, and besides, this whole thing was voluntary (and my idea, says the hubs).

How often in my life have I really resisted temptation?  How often have these mental images flooded my mind and I've powered through and persisted?  I'm thinking not very much.  Because, see, I think of something like drug use, this terrible thing that sinks its claws so deeply into a person's life, this constant temptation, and I say, well I've never done drugs.  But I leave out the part where I've never been tempted to do drugs.  It really doesn't sound very appealing to me.  And it's not like I've spent much time around them or people doing them.  Those are just the facts of my life.  So does that make me some amazing person?  Because I never did something that it never crossed my mind to do?  NO! You know who is amazing?  My son's first mom, who spent her adult life in the throes of one addiction or another, and in just a few weeks she will be celebrating one year of sobriety.  She has fought these urges, these temptations, she has forged new pathways for her brain and her life and how she sees herself and she has become a new person.  That's amazing.  And that's not me.

My vices are more socially acceptable, sure.  People just kind of shrug and don't look too closely when food is your addiction, when emotional upsets send you to the cupboard or the fast-food drive thru, when your weight balloons and your clothes no longer fit (especially if we can offer up the excuse "I've just had a baby!").  But why not?  I mean, food problems can be equally destructive to our health as drug or alcohol abuse.  Food can take control of our lives, our finances, can become a master that we must serve.  And I've been thinking lately about all of this, the food and the temptations and the struggle, and I asked myself, Have I ever had a passing thought about french fries and not immediately driven to Wendy's?  Have I ever been thirsty and reached past the Cherry Coke for a nice, cold water?  I couldn't think of a single time when I've made the good choice, the healthy choice, in the face of temptation.

So now I'm trying.  I am actively engaged in the battle against my food demons.  Some days I want so badly to slip back into the old way, the unconscious, stuff my face way.  But it's not possible once you've woken up to fall so quickly back to sleep.  I think about how many grams of sugar are in my drink.  I remember the healthy foods waiting for me at home as I drive past the restaurants.  I think about what a struggle it is to run when my body is full of saturated fats and salty foods.  Among all the terrible elements of this cleanse, I've actually felt fine energy wise.  I was pretty sleepy the first day and got a long night's sleep without any caffeine or sugar to keep me awake.  But my body feels good.  I finally drank a Pepsi today to get rid of the headache from my withdrawal, and I ate some toast around 1 am so I could fall asleep instead of laying in bed listening to my tummy growl.  Tonight we are allowed to eat meat, and I am so excited.  I'm looking forward to feeling full, and I'm glad the cleanse will be over.  But the hubs and I both agree this has given us some ideas for ways we can integrate more healthy foods into our regular eating habits.  ("The salad is actually pretty good, just leave out the kale," he told me today.  No argument here.)  And tomorrow morning, when the wide world of food is once again open to me, I think I'll have some oatmeal and fruit.  It's a long way from the Snickers and SnoBalls that used to start my day.

Five Minute Friday: NEW

A comfy, well-worn shoe

Well that's a scary word.  NEW?  I am someone who likes old.  I like worn-in.  No change.  New makes me think of tight shoes on the first day of school.

Or, speaking of the first day of school, how about who will I sit by?  Who is in my class?  Will I be able to get from my locker to class on time?  Who are my teachers?  Will they like me?  Will I understand what they are teaching?

Or new jobs.  How do I do this?  How will I know if I'm doing it right, or getting it all horribly, horribly wrong?  What are the guidelines?

New is like uncharted territory.  New is taking a machete to a jungle wall of trees and vines and making a path.  New is unknown obstacles and never-before-faced foes.

New is uncomfortable.  New is saying NO to how it's always been done.  New is potentially life-changing.  But it's scary.  How do we ever come up with the courage to try new?  Is it like that saying, we only try something new when it becomes unbearable to remain the same?  Who's with me?

My brave son on the first day of school (in his new shoes!)

Apples

Ohio does fall really well.  I think it's what this state does best, actually.  We don't have the best sports teams, we don't have the best economy, we don't have the best health, but man, October 1st rolls around and we have leaves turning every color, bright blue skies and lush green grass.  We have warm days and chilly nights.  We have bonfires and tailgating and trips to the pumpkin patch.  And we have apples.  Oh baby, do we have apples.

When I was a kid in Dallas, Texas, we had two kinds of apples: red and green. (There were also those mealy gross yellow apples, but did anybody ever actually eat them?)  Then we moved to Ohio, and I remember during our first autumn going with my dad to the orchard.  We pulled up and a sign boasted way more than two kinds of apples for sale.  I had no idea what I'd been missing.  Even better than a tart Granny Smith, there were Empires, Jonagolds, Pink Ladies.  These apples were juicy, crisp, sweet and tart at the same time.  Oh, fall became my favorite season.

It was fortunate that I was once again living in Ohio when I became pregnant for the first time, and fortunate that fall marked the onset of a voracious craving for apples.  I went to the same orchard my dad had taken me to all those years ago at least once a week, grabbing the biggest bag of apples for sale.  I ate 3-5 apples a day.  I can still remember the pleasure my hormonally-charged body got from each bite, the juicy apples thrilling my taste buds.  It was no surprise the next fall when that sweet baby boy eagerly grabbed an apple to munch with his four tiny teeth.  And so my love of tasty apples has passed to the next generation, with each of my boys LOVING our trips to the orchard and the bounty of delicious apples we bring home.  It's become my favorite as well, because once I distribute an apple to each of them, our boisterous car becomes gloriously silent.  All I can hear are the quiet crunchings of teeth and apples.  And I usually eat one too.  I love fall!!

On Community (not the TV show)

It was supposed to be an uneventful morning.  It was supposed to be relaxing.  But who am I kidding, when is my life ever uneventful?  I got the big boys ready and off to school and then it was time to take the littlest one to the library for story time.  We are enjoying these quiet times together and exploring what he likes independent of his brothers and their dominating interests.  But we didn't just play with the trains and sing songs with Miss Renee.  This morning we met Katie and Scotty.  We were minding our business when Scotty came over to play with Mikey.  He had been reading books with his mom, but decided to get on the floor instead.  Mikey didn't want to share, which made Scotty cry and run back to his mom.  I thought to myself, there is something going on there, and moments later she confirmed.  Scotty was recently diagnosed with a Sensory Processing Disorder and his mom suspects further testing will reveal an Asperger's diagnosis.  He just started therapy and there is so much to work on, she said.  I nodded sympathetically.  I KNOW.  And then I said, "My oldest son is on the autism spectrum."  Words I used to avoid.  Words that brought me to tears every time I said them out loud.  But look at me now!  Casually telling this stranger about my special child.   Because we are part of the same community.

She wanted to talk more.  She told me about her family, how they are not supportive, how they undermine her when her son goes there for the weekend.  So I told her, "You are the mom.  You know your child, you know what he needs.  So do it.  It is hard, and sometimes it takes a really long time to see any progress from it.  But you'll do it."  She nodded and said, "I really needed to hear that."  Katie, I KNOW.  I needed to hear it too.  Sometimes I still need to hear it.  There are a ton of different ways to parent, to be a good mom, and you need to trust yourself that the way you have chosen is correct.  You need to be reminded that your son isn't bad, he's just special.  And that means the way you parent him will have to be special.  You will do it because it's your job.  You will do it because, although this isn't the child you thought you would raise, it's the child that you have, and he's amazing.  It gets easier to see the amazing and stop focusing on the problems as you go.

Can I just say how much more desirable it is to be the one saying "It gets better" than to be the one hearing it? This keeps happening to me, these opportunities to meet newly diagnosed kids and their caregivers, and every time it takes me back (almost five years now) to those days of fear.  I treated my son's diagnosis like all hard things in my life to that point:  I hid.  I buried the truth inside and pulled away. Fear and shame have isolated me for so much of my life, and this was no different.  I was afraid of what people would say, how they would treat us if they knew.  But my silence and my secrets have hurt me deeply.  And so finally I took a chance and reached out.  It was around this time that I met Mandy, who is not part of the special needs community, but took me under her wing and brought me to a literal Village who accepted my whole family in a way I'd never experienced before.  And because of these people teaching me about community, about give and take, about showing up with your mess and letting them wash it clean, about forging a family independent of blood or marriage, I can tell Katie what she needs to hear.  I can be the lifeline that I once needed.  I can offer camaraderie and turn a library into sacred space.

Glennon Melton of Momastery.com says that we belong to each other.  This is true of moms, of special needs families, of PEOPLE.  We need each other.  We need all of our experiences, we need all of the answers we have found, we need encouragement and support and a thousand times over we need to LOVE.  If you are in hiding, COME OUT.  We need your story, we need your passion.  And we just might hold the keys that will set you free.

On Scarcity

This morning I was getting the boys ready, just another Wednesday morning.  When I went to change Mikey out of his nighttime diaper, I realized we were out of wipes, and he was poopy.  So I went to the kitchen and wet a paper towel and on the way back to deal with the poo, I put on my "perspectacles".  Because this was just a minor inconvenience.  There were more wipes in the car, but I didn't feel like going that far to get them.  But beyond that, there are more wipes at the store just minutes from our house, and there is cash in my wallet and money accessible through my debit card to pay for it.  This kind of thing happens when life is busy and three active boys make trips to the store hectic and items are forgotten in their wake.  We run short of diapers.  Again, no big deal.  There is usually a stray in the car or under the dresser, or hey, my parents keep some extras at their house just blocks away.  Worst case scenario, my kid keeps a mushy diaper on for an additional 15 minutes.  For me, this is the tiniest problem, but for many mothers this is a daily stress.  They can't afford the diapers or wipes or they can't get to the store because they don't have reliable transportation.  A recent article from the LA Times reports that "The study’s four authors ... found that about a third of poor families were not able to provide their babies with adequate numbers of diapers, resulting in increased parental anxiety, stress and negative effects on their babies’ health, with an increase in diaper rashes and urinary tract infections."  You guys, this is happening down the street, in our cities, across the world.  I have never struggled to diaper my kids.  I have never had to sacrifice to keep their little bums clean.  At one point, we were hauling three different sizes of mega-box diapers to the car, but we didn't break a sweat.

My "perspectacles" took a trip down memory lane.  There was a morning a few years back when I was once again getting my boys ready.  (*all these things seem to happen while my husband is at work; why is that?) I opened the cupboards and realized there was only enough cereal and milk to feed the kids, nothing for me.  We desperately needed to go to the store, because THREE ACTIVE KIDS, and a few years ago they were even crazier to corral.  Literally the only thing left to eat that didn't require at least 45 minutes of prep was a single hot dog.  So that was my breakfast.  I topped that dog with some mustard and relish and washed it down with a Dr. Pepper.  And then we got our shoes on and went to the store, so lunch wouldn't be such a grim affair.  You see, this food shortage was due simply to a lack of time, an inability to get to the store earlier.  Once again, we had the money available, we had the car to get there, I merely had to navigate the suburban grocery store with my kids.  Slightly bigger inconvenience than the wipes, but only slightly.  Today, of course, our fridge is so full that I'm struggling to fit the kids' water bottles in there.  I'm literally moving things around to try to create space because WE HAVE SO MUCH FOOD.  Once again, this is not the case for families right in my area, in my city, in my world.  One of every seven people will go to bed hungry tonight, and more than 14% of Americans don't know when they'll eat next.  My family doesn't just have their daily bread, we have our weekly bread.

Even after I popped in my contacts, I couldn't shake my "perspectacles".  When it was time to go, I grabbed one of the six Bibles laying around my house to take to a church nearby that offers a women's Bible study during the day.  I drove my car safely to the location, walked inside with no trouble, and proceeded to be taught and to speak with others about my religious beliefs.  Nobody stopped us.  Nobody attacked us.  No one had to stand guard by the door, there was no secrecy to what we were doing.  We were just as free to do something else this morning as we were to gather and read the Bible together.  But the thing is, churches get attacked all the time. (Google church bombing.  Oh my goodness, there are too many results.  Nigeria, Egypt, the US...)  People seeking religion, whether it is my Christian faith or something else, are imprisoned and silenced and maimed.

Today I felt gratitude for many things in my life that I usually take for granted.  Today I was reminded that there are places and situations drastically different from the ones I find myself in where people are struggling just to get the basics.  Today was in many ways just another day for me, but I wonder what is going on in homes and parks and shelters across my city as I sit on the couch and cuddle my kid who just won't go to sleep and type on my computer that I got for free and listen to the air-conditioner run and the gentle snores of the rest of my family.  Today needs to count for something.  I don't want to go to sleep and forget what I saw through my "perspectacles".  I want to DO something with these feelings, but I'm not sure what it will be.