Happy birthday (and Autism Awareness)

April is Autism Awareness month.  It's special to me because I spend all year becoming more aware of autism, learning about it so I can be a better mother to my son James.  It's a funny turn of events, since James was born at the end of March, so our celebration of him turns into a month of trying to better educate those around us to understand this thing that affects how he interacts with the world.

So let's start here:
Autism is characterized by three things.
1. Social interaction.  Autistic people can be shy or outgoing, but they will struggle to know how to connect with other people, often characterized by limited eye contact, trouble taking turns, and becoming overwhelmed by the presence of "too much" (too much...noise, light, physical touch, etc).
2. Delays in verbal and nonverbal communication.  Some autistics will never speak, but this should not be confused for having nothing to say.
3. Repetitive, stereotyped behaviors.  Don't all kids flap their hands when they get really excited?  Or repeat the same phrase over and over when they get overwhelmed?  Or just make random sounds at seemingly inconvenient times?  No? 

Now let's talk about autism and birthdays.
James began using single words around age four and a half, and we were like starving people who can only be fed with verbal communication.  "Say it again!" we'd cheer.  Whatever seemed to cause him to speak would be repeated over and over so we could hear his beautiful voice.  Just in the past six months, his words have really taken off, and he's using sentences and sometimes really loudly and clearly telling his little siblings what he doesn't like (it's true, I stand outside the boys' room and do a little happy dance when I hear his scream, "No Winston!  That's James' car!  Give me that!").  I really want him to have good manners, but for now, I'm applauding what I see as the seeds of self-advocacy that will help him later on.  Okay.  So apparently when you have a March birthday, you begin inventory the day after Christmas: what you got, what you want, how many days until I get presents again?  For the past few years, James has better understood the concept of time, the months, days passing, etc, so we start our countdown to March 30th.  He's had a recent renewed interest in Pixar "Cars"; combine that with his ability to navigate YouTube and find commercials for products that are no longer sold in stores...I've been getting a very specific request for the four cars he didn't previously have (if you're interested, they are Raoul CaRoule, Rip Clutchgoneski, Lewis Hamilton, and Shu Todoroki.  He would like the die-cast models to complete his World Grand Prix lineup.  Every day).  I was thrilled to find three of these at Target (on sale, no less) about a month ago, but several trips have come up empty for the Lewis Hamilton car.  When I checked Amazon, he was available....for $12.  So I let James know that *maybe* he was getting some new cars for his birthday, and if he got birthday money from the great-grandparents, he could purchase the rest.  And maybe this all seems mundane, not worthy of note...but he's telling us this.  With his words.  That is so HUGE.

We've been talking lately about the love languages, and how we should really try to love other people in the way that they feel loved (which is almost always NOT the way that we prefer to give love).  I thought about this as it pertains to parenting, and specifically to my child who is so easily overwhelmed, so inside himself.  I really wanted to watch him open his cars today.  I wanted to see the look on his face, and, if I'm honest, I really wish he would look at me and say something like, "Oh, thank you so much mom!  It's exactly what I wanted!"  But I'm not an early riser, and I'm certainly not "together" or even really "awake" until 11am or so.  After I talked it over with Chris, I grabbed the cars from their hiding spot, unwrapped, and put them in James' bed after he fell asleep.  This kid has been looking forward to playing with these cars for THREE MONTHS.  If it was all about me, and getting some sort of response for how awesome I am at buying toy cars, then I would have made him wait until this afternoon, so I could really appreciate his reaction.  But instead, I did what I thought he would like, and just cut to the chase.  Chris heard him squealing in his room at 7am, and he had at least two cars in his hands at all times today.  I think we did it right.

Another change we've made over the years is the way we celebrate James' birthday.  My instinct is to gather together in one place all the people who love James.  Family, teachers, friends, neighbors.  Let's spend two hours at our house, talking and laughing and eating and watching James open presents.  Guess who freaks out in such an environment?  So we pulled back.  We had immediate family over for cupcakes.  We shrugged at each other.  How do we make this special FOR HIM?  Last year, we tried something new.  James' birthday almost always falls over spring break, so Chris took the week off, and we did something different every day.  We went to the Cleveland Zoo.  We played at the park.  We went to Red Robin for dinner.  Each place was fun, and then we went home to relax.  It seemed to work.  This year, I asked James for his input.  "How would you like to celebrate your birthday?" I asked him as we snuggled in his bed at night.  "I want to go to Pump It Up," he whispered to me.  Again, this might seem really basic, but this thing of me asking a question and him responding to it in a way that makes sense to me....it's a rare treat.  Okay mister, you are going to Pump It Up!  We arranged to meet another family with boys James' age for an afternoon of jumping.  It was perfect.  Then my parents asked if we could all go bowling together, another of James' favorite activities.  We brought Winston and Girl, and invited our neighbor Amanda at the last minute, and she brought her friend Katie.  At eight people, it was almost too much.  But we had a great time, and James figured out how to hold the ball with his fingers in the holes, instead of rolling with both hands.  As we were leaving, another kid's birthday party arrived.  There were at least 10 young kids, and as many adults chasing them around, helping them bowl.  It made a contrast to our quieter celebration, but I was glad we chose to do it in a way that made James comfortable.

Instead of a cake, this year Chris suggested putting a candle in James' birthday donut.  We all sat at the table while he sat on the heating vent in the kitchen, and we sang "Happy Birthday".  When the song ended, James stood up and blew out the candle with a big smile on his face.  I was smiling too.  Our journey as parents has been influenced by the children we've been given.  A while ago, I started praying that God would show me how to be the best mom for James, for Winston, for Michael.  Not to be the mom that all the other moms want to be, or the mom with the best facebook photos, or even the kind of mom I think I should be.  Just who they need me to be.  I swear God is speaking through my kids every day.  And I'm finally learning how to listen.

Diary of a Mom shared this facebook status today, which I feel echoes how we celebrated James' birthday:
"Today, we celebrated her eleventh birthday. She was having a blast until she became overwhelmed. When she did, she said, "I'm going into the den because there's too much here." This time, I fought the instinct to convince her to stay. This was her party. She'd enjoy it in her way.

She left her guests in the kitchen and went into the den to bounce on her peanut. When the next animal came out, I called her. She came to look, was the first one to pet it, then went back to bounce again. When the next animal came out, so did she. It worked for her. She knew what she needed. And I, finally, knew enough to understand that there was nothing sad or "disastrous" about giving it to her.

After she blew out her candles, she said to no one and everyone, "This has been my best birthday of ever!"

I dare say we're all getting the hang of it."

Camp

Eight years ago, I hopped in a van full of middle school kids and drove to a camp in Pennsylvania for a week of adventure.  I'm trying to remember now why exactly I agreed to go; I had spent the previous year leading a group of 6th grade girls in a Wednesday night small group/service experience, constantly wondering what actually qualified me to be in charge.  I loved them, don't get me wrong.  We had fun talking about Polly Pocket and High School Musical and why boys are gross (except sometimes not...?) while we visited sick people at the hospital and organized clothes at the Salvation Army.  We even had some deep, meaningful talks about baptism and prayer and what it means to follow Jesus.  Maybe the girls talked me into it, telling me about all the fun stuff we would do.  Maybe the youth pastor really needed another woman to chaperone.  Maybe I thought I would have fun, remembering my own time at summer camp on the cusp of adolescence.  We arrived, settled into our dorms, met the camp staff, and had a meal together.  It wasn't until the next morning that I realized what the week would really be.  It was way more than campfire discussions and silly games, trust falls and hiking in the woods.  It was an Adventure Camp with a thousand foot zip line and high ropes course and mountain biking and white water rafting, each morning and afternoon a different extreme activity planned.  And I was supposed to lead.  And participate.  And I am deathly afraid of heights.

  

Do you see those two young girls working their way up the rock wall?  Do you understand how high it was?  As I stood on the ground, I knew I couldn't just be a spectator.  If I was going to lead, I needed to strap into a harness and give it my best shot.

 

This is Bob (the other adult leader of our group, and father of half of the girls we brought) and myself making our way up the wall.  I included this photo partly because of how fabulous my backside looks...I like to pretend it still looks that way, that the past almost-decade and children haven't changed it one bit, and since its my back, I can believe this pretty easily.  I climbed that wall, and constantly looked down.  I saw how far away the ground became; it was hot and the stress and exertion were making me sweat.  I wanted to give up, I didn't care about reaching the top.  And then I heard from below, sweet little Allison (pictured above in purple) yell out, "Keep going Rachel!  You're almost there!"  And I finally looked up, ahead, and realized she was right.  I only had to make my way up a few more feet and I could say I DID IT.  I could go to dinner with bragging rights and maybe even the respect of my girls, many of whom did not reach the top that day.  And so I kept at it, and I made it.  And that night I told Allison how her voice carried up to me, how her encouragement was the push I needed to finish.

 

 

 Here is another of our "fun-tivities".  Bob is standing at the base of a tree with the dude who hooked us into our harnesses and led us around in the woods.  I can't remember his name, probably because I spent the whole week trying to get the girls to nickname him "Hanson" because he resembled Taylor Hanson.  They just got confused, thinking I was saying "handsome", and I realized they didn't know who Hanson was.  I'm old.  Anyway, if you look up, and I mean UP above Bob, you can see a little perch in the tree.  This time, we climbed the tree, using hooks that were attached to the trunk, and jumped off the perch in an attempt to grab a trapeze bar that is suspended like five feet away. 

This is me, pretending not to be terrified.  Seeing the faces of 8 girls looking up at me, some cheering, some laughing, and that trapeze bar seeming a million miles away.  In the end, I just jumped off rather than turn into Gregory Peck in Vertigo; how could I not, when the girls each took their turn, completely trusting that harness to ease their return to earth.

Here I am again, swinging through the trees, the girls and Bob on the other end of the rope that kept me in the air.

 See that platform?  Yeah, the next day, we each climbed up the tree, strapped into a harness, and went down the thousand foot zip line.  That was the hardest activity for me, even though I had seen many of our group climb, jump, and zip to the bottom of the hill safely.  I just couldn't make my brain believe that I wouldn't come crashing down and break every limb of my body.  I don't know if it was a good experience for the girls to see a 24 year old woman crying

Before white water rafting

I still remember each day of camp, nearly 8 years later.  The girls are high school graduates, off at college and working, falling in love and so very different from the people they were during that week.  In many ways, I'm different too.  The week after I got back, I peed on a stick and found out I would become a mom.  Now there are four little people who call me that.  I no longer lead a group of teenage girls.  Recently, my husband and I have been given the task of leading other adults at our church.  It feels a lot like that zip line.  I don't see how we won't crash and make a mess of things.  But when I think back to that week, I realize that was when I first became a leader.  That was when I spoke and people listened.  I climbed and young girls followed.  I was aware that I was only a few steps ahead of them on the journey of life.  When I look at other adults, I think probably I am a few steps behind everyone else.  And yet, they call me a leader. 

On Eugenics

When I was a flight attendant, I had the opportunity to observe all types of people.  Every so often, someone would hug me.  The huggers had one thing in common: they weren't harried businessmen (those guys whipped out their cell phones as soon as possible and were already deep into "important" discussions by the time they passed me), or parents (fumbling to carry all the accessories for their little kids)....all the huggers had Down's Syndrome.  The only group of people I met in all my travels who didn't care that I was a relative stranger, that weren't upset at the seat they were assigned, who weren't rushing to their next gate or destination.  There are tests that can be performed on pregnant women to let them know they are carrying a child with Down's, and 70% of women who receive this diagnosis set up another appointment to terminate their pregnancies.  There is no test that can let a mother know she is giving birth to a future serial killer, to a man who will someday rape a woman or embezzle millions of dollars.  There is no way to guess if a baby will grow up to be someone horrible, who will make this world a worse place.  But that test that detects trisomy 21 (aka Down's), it doesn't just tell us that our babies will look a little different or have heart problems or cognitive delays...that test also indicates that a woman is carrying a person who will bring joy and laughter and unabashed dancing into the world.  The kind of person who hugs their flight attendant.  The kind of person who sees and lives a little differently.  Yet that's the one who gets aborted.

James, before diagnosis

My son James was three years old when he was first labeled with the word "autism".  It was the first time I perceived anything different about him.  What if there had been a test, a routine part of pregnancy for a healthy 24 year old woman like myself, that would have revealed what the future held for James?  What if I had been given a choice to end it before it even began, and what if that choice was informed only by statistics and words like perseveration and nonverbal and out of control and institutionalized?  What if someone had told me then how hard it would be sometimes, how much thought and worry and struggle would mark our lives?  My choice back then would have been affected by an extreme selfishness...the kind that is eradicated when you care for a child with special needs.  Instead, I proceeded in ignorance, I gave birth not knowing.  For three years, I cared for him, fed him, studied him, engaged him, cuddled him.  I fell in love.  And so, when the doctor used that word, that scary label that seemed to imply that he was less than what he should have been, I took my beautiful boy and walked out of his office. (If I was a less polite person, I might have given him the finger)  I should clarify, we followed the advice of the other professionals who evaluated James: he began speech therapy and attended an early intervention preschool.  I became a student of developmental disabilities and sought out solutions to make this world more liveable for him.  And while autism affects his life, it isn't all that he is.  He is kind.  He is silly.  He has a terrific memory.  He loves nature.  He is a great driver (in video games at least).  For the past two years, he has exceeded the goals set for him by his teachers.  And it is thrilling to hear our celebrations of all he has accomplished drown out those warnings the doctor proclaimed over his future.  My son isn't perfect, but he is precious, and he has changed the way I look at people.

James, after diagnosis

 My pro-choice friends have been vocal and clear about why they believe in abortion rights, and I would just like to take a moment to explain why I feel differently.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because abortion is the end of the story.  That's it.  You won't face the difficulties that you would have if you had given birth, but you will miss out on the joy and wonder too.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because even if you are a parent for a day, a week, five years, twenty-nine years, or until the end of your days, it's worth it.  There is no other experience on earth that comes close to it.  There is no artificial re-creation of it.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because that child that you can't imagine raising, who may seem like a burden, to me he is a wonder.  I belong to a special group of women (we call ourselves "adoptive moms") who literally ache to hold that child in our arms, to nurture and raise and love him.  If you can't do it, friend, we will.  And so again, I say CHOOSE LIFE.

It's OK to miss your mama

As a foster parent, I've spent quite a bit of time in class over the past three years.  We took 36 hours (12-3 hour classes) just to get licensed, and we take 20 hours each subsequent year.  Sometimes the classes are really helpful, the teacher is passionate and I'm in the right mood to learn.  Other times, the teacher has trouble with the Power Point (or DVD player, or projector, really these teachers need to take a class on using technology before being released to instruct others), or I'm tired and have trouble concentrating, or another parent hijacks the class to air their grievances or get help specific to their situation.  Usually in the course of 3 hours, I can get at least one thing to take home and apply.  Especially in the beginning, I had to save these lessons for future use.  Now that we are in the thick of it, I find that I remember the words of my teachers more and more.  One thing that stood out to me, in a class about maintaining information about birth families, was the instructor's explanation that just because your kid isn't talking about something, doesn't mean he isn't thinking about it.  If a child is separated from siblings, or parents, or another close relative, odds are their thoughts are never far from that person.  She said foster parents have to open the dialogue, and let the kids know that it's OKAY to talk, it's okay to say you wish you were back home, that you miss your family, even that parent that beat you black and blue.  That really resonated with me; after all, I kept in almost everything that I thought about as a child.  I've been thinking lately that I really should have spoken up to my parents about many things that I kept secret, because they probably could have made things better, helped me.

So when a child comes to my home to live, under confusing and possibly scary circumstances, I have no doubt that they are thinking way more than they are saying.  Foster kids learn to say whatever they think the other person wants to hear; they don't know when they will see their biological family again, what the new rules are, where they fit in this new family.  While fostering is definitely similar to more traditional parenting, with the preparation of meals and the wiping of noses, the bedtime stories and trips to the park, there is an added component of nurture that these classes are meant to teach.  The most important part of foster care is the healing, taking in a broken child with no foundation, no structure, no good examples, and transforming them into a whole person, someone who knows his worth, who knows there is another way to live than what he's seen first-hand.  Sometimes these conversations are difficult to start, but if I don't help my kids heal, then what am I doing?

Our current placement is a young girl.  She came to us on a Friday afternoon.  We didn't know much about her, except that she is an only child.  She really enjoyed the experience of having other kids to play with, and jumped right in with our boys, rolling in the leaves and driving trucks across the living room.  But at night, she would cry.  She would ask me to take her home, to her mom.  And I would feel so helpless when I told her no, that she would stay with us until her worker said different.  It's a complicated situation to explain, and I've tried many different ways of phrasing.  We talk about this several times a week.  We've also gone to the library and perused books about parents and children who are separated.  I found one picture book called "I Miss You Everyday", which I believe was written for children whose parents divorce and one lives far away.  In it, the narrator mails herself across the country to see her dad.  Another one, "Llama Llama Misses Mama", is about a little Llama who starts school and has trouble when his mom leaves for the day.  This has actually become a favorite of all our kids, since three of them are in school and have experienced this kind of separation.  But our foster daughter loves it most, and these days, she asks to read it at bedtime instead of crying for her mom.  In the middle of the story, it all becomes too much for the Llama, and he cries out, "Llama Llama misses Mama!"  His teacher rushes over to comfort him, and our Girl burrows deeper into my side.  "Don't cry little Llama, it's okay to miss your mama!" I read.  Then the Llama warms up to school and actually starts to have fun, just as the words "Mama Llama, you came back!" appear with a picture of the Mama coming to pick up her son.  Although our girl can't read, she excitedly says the words at just the right time, and her face lights up in a smile.  I smile too, picturing with her the day when her mama comes to get her.  When she no longer has to miss her mama.

On Intimacy

I'm a lucky woman.  I married my best friend, the person who knows me better than anyone. 

I thought I knew what marriage was.  I'd observed it first-hand growing up with my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, family friends.  I saw couples raising children, washing dishes, paying bills, taking vacations, running small businesses together.  I thought that's all there was, and I was more than happy to link my life to Chris' and take part in all those things.  But there is a hidden element to relationships, something that is necessary for them to survive, and its called intimacy.  Intimacy became the surprise creamy center of my love-filled marriage.  Yes, we raise children and wash dishes and pay the bills.  That's all there.  But when you look at another couple's marriage, their intimacy is something that you can't see or feel or taste.  I think this is why we are surprised that a couple gets divorced.  "But they seemed so happy!"  "They just went on that beautiful cruise!"  "Their youngest isn't even a year old yet!"  On the outside, everything appears fine.

From the inside, I see it in the way my husband immediately passes me his pickle at a restaurant.  I feel it as his hands massage my favorite peppermint lotion into my feet at the end of a long day.  I taste it in the millions of kisses we've shared, our lips finding each other over and over. 

When we talk about relationships as though they are living, breathing things, when we say, "You have to nurture your marriage," I think we really mean you have to tend to the intimacy.  We can feed our bond, or we can starve it.  Chris and I like to spend time together.  We don't get much sleep these days, because after putting four kids to bed, it is pretty late.  Instead of rolling away from each other and turning off the light, we spend those last few hours together.  We talk.  We watch movies.  We sometimes even manage to read something together.  We light some candles and connect (wink, wink).  We trust each other.  We tell each other our secrets and frustrations.  We protect the sacredness of our bed.  I love the episode of How I Met Your Mother when Marshall says, "Yeah, I have a list of all the women I've slept with.  It's called my marriage license!"  That holds true for Chris and I as well.  But it goes further.  I am always surprised when I meet a married couple who don't share a bed.  (My first thought, no joke, is that this makes middle-of-the-night sex so inconvenient, if you have to get up, go to another room, warm up your space...)  There are times that we don't sleep together, but we limit it to one or two nights max, and usually because one of us is up with a sick kid, doing laundry and making sure they keep breathing.  Otherwise, when we are both at home, we are together.  We also try, at least once a year, to get away together.  There was plenty of time, before the kids came along, to grow closer and make time for each other.  Now that it's become more rare, we cherish those weekends to relive that simpler time.

Sometimes marriage and intimacy means that you suffer together.  When your spouse makes a bad decision, you both have to live with the consequences.  But even in those difficult times, it's important that I am Chris' wife, not his mother.  It would be all too easy to nag, to instruct, to say, "Now Christopher, I told you...."  If you are like us, especially, and married young, there's a good chance you both entered marriage before you were finished growing up (this can also be true even if you are in your 50's).  You still have to give your spouse the space to figure some things out for herself.  Just because you became one flesh, doesn't mean you share one mind.  You need to allow for, and even celebrate, each other's differences.  How could I trust my husband if he didn't find me and my quirks unique and adorable?  There should be things that only your spouse knows about you.  I very strongly believe that I should be the only person who knows when Chris needs new underwear.  There's just no good reason anyone else should be aware of that.  When you share a bed, and a home, and a life, you learn things that no one else could possibly know.

I was afraid to be vulnerable for most of my life.  Being known, all the way down to my darkest depths, was terrifying.  I was sure the person I let in would make me regret it, by telling my secrets and confirming that I wasn't loveable.  Over the past 14 years, Chris has proved time and time again that I was wrong; that he is the one person to whom I can show it all, and our love continues to grow.  The more we share, both in the day to day and of ourselves, the stronger our bond becomes, the more threads are sewn in this beautiful tapestry we are creating.  And through it all, I feel emboldened to be myself, to live the life I was born for.

Lent 2: On Fasting

Although I don't often look at it this way, my life right now is pretty sacrificial.  Food literally is taken out of my hands, off my plate, and eaten by another, more deserving person.  The book I sit down to read is pulled from my hands and I am commanded to stand and do the "Tooty-tock" dance, again.  I am awakened most mornings by insistent little people who move my body to better accommodate their cuddling needs, who stick their dirty diapers in my face to emphasize how urgent my presence is needed downstairs.  So when a preacher starts talking about fasting, about sacrificing, I find myself resisting.  "Not another sacrifice!" I mentally whine.  And maybe I'm highly evolved and have a perfect balance in my attitudes about food (or, quite possibly, I am like a 3 year old when it comes to denying myself in this way), but I've never been able to successfully fast in the traditional sense.  One year, for Lent, I gave up ice cream.  So in the evenings, instead of scooping a delicious frozen treat, I'd eat six cookies.

From my Protestant understanding of the Lenten season, the purpose of fasting is to create more time with God, to spend the time one would normally be eating (insert chosen fast item here) in prayer and meditation.  So substituting another dessert doesn't really accomplish that.  This year, I went outside the box a little.  What is something that I can give up that won't stress me out more, but will instead give me a chance to turn to God, to repent and reflect on who He wants me to be.  The morning of Ash Wednesday was not a good one.  James decided he didn't want to go to school, refused to put on his shoes and socks and wouldn't even let me do it.  He screamed when we headed down to the car, grabbing the doorway as the other kids climbed into their seats without a fuss.  I had to drag him into his seat, force him to put on his seatbelt, and placed his shoes, socks, and coat next to him.  When we pulled up to the school, his teacher met us at the car (as usual), and I explained the situation.  I was sweating, frustrated, no longer interested in being kind.  Together, we talked him into finishing getting ready and getting out of the car.  She promised him an easy morning, an early trip to the cafeteria to get some breakfast, the iPad during free time.  I drove away, off to the dentist, and I realized that there is something selfish that I do quite often: I lose my temper with my kids.  I reach the end of my patience (to be honest, not a very deep well), and I yell.  I slam doors.  I have been known to throw a toy to another room, to lift heavy furniture and heave it into the yard, to stomp my feet and pound the table.  And I don't just lose control; I lose my kids.  After every outburst, it takes a while to calm down, to get to a point where I can be the loving mom I want so badly to be.  When I scream at the boys to CALM DOWN, STOP FIGHTING, BE QUIET, they scream back.  Sometimes they cry.  In other words, my temper affects everyone.

What if I didn't do that? I wondered as the dentist scraped my teeth.  What if, instead of raising my voice, I raised my hands and begged for God to come, be part of this moment?  What if I handed over frustration and asked for peace?  The first thought was, I can't do it.  How could I possibly last six weeks?  The second thought was, take it one day at a time.  One moment at a time.  If you yell on Tuesday night, start over fresh Wednesday morning.  And the third thought: Don't try to replace anger with food.  Don't rush to Wendy's for chili cheese fries every time you bite down on your temper.  And so I began.  I found many opportunities to pray, to take deep breaths, count to ten, walk away over the past week (thanks kids!).  I also made mistakes.  I didn't catch the anger swell and yelled "MICHAEL!" then clamped a hand over my mouth, took my breaths, said a prayer, and finished, "Please use your inside voice."  Sunday was the hardest day, because our Girl just pressed all the buttons over and over, and I didn't do my breaths.  I was impatient and didn't feel like counting to ten.  I was short and I was loud and I regretted it.

One of my greatest hopes is that my children will someday become aware of God, that they will come face to face with Him, and they will say, "Oh, we know you!  We saw you in our mom."  And one of my fears is that I will obscure God from them, that when they see a church or a cross or a Bible, they will remember a woman who listened to sermons on her iPod and then yelled at them to be quiet, who took them to church but didn't love them the right way.  And so I hope that this exercise, this Lenten sacrifice, helps me to accomplish the former, not the latter.  On those days when they are losing their cool and crying and hurting, I want to be a calming presence, a soothing reminder that there is a source beyond ourselves that gives us strength when ours is gone.

Lent 1: Ash Wednesday

Let me tell you a little secret...I don't like Lent.  Just because I love Jesus doesn't mean I love everything about following Him.  I don't like that the Bible can be unclear and vague, and that we spend our time arguing about what it could possibly mean instead of accepting that life has mysteries.  I don't like this practice of intentionally depressing ourselves, of fasting for six weeks before Easter.  I don't like fasting at all.  In the words of my three year old foster daughter, "I want somethin' that I want."  But it works, this Lenten season.  Because giving up Dr. Pepper or ice cream for six weeks is hard enough.  What if I actually gave up speaking harshly to my loved ones or gossiping about that lady I don't really like who has the bra-strap-fat-roll?  Jesus says in Matthew 25:40 "When you did it to the least of these, my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!"  And usually we talk about this verse as we pat ourselves on the back, I fed the hungry, I took care of the sick, but what if we flip it around?  When I judged that woman with all the different colored kids or turned my back on a hurting friend, I did it to Jesus too.  It has brought me to tears on Good Friday, wondering how we could have done that to Him, how we all collectively could have hung that man on the cross and hammered in his nails daily, hourly.  And then I remember on Easter morning why it was necessary, why He came and why He died...to be the blood sacrifice to fulfill the law.  So that I wouldn't have to face the consequences of my misdeeds.

And so we begin with Ash Wednesday and the word REPENT.  Turn away from the sin that entangles you.  Come to the foot of the cross, not as part of the mocking crowd, but "turning to the Lord God, pleading in earnest prayer, with fasting, sackcloth, and ashes." (Daniel 9:3)  Confess to one another, because once we bring light into the dark places of our lives and our hearts, the darkness no longer has power over us.  And we can all agree that this world needs more light.  That whatever can bring peace and truth and love is something to praise, something to follow, something to humble ourselves before.  I know what I'm "doing for Lent" this year.

"Let us pray.

Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have

made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and

make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily

lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness,

may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission

and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives

and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and 

ever.  Amen."

From the Book of Common Prayer