Hearts Without Spots

I sat outside on the garden bench, my mind and heart a chaotic bubble of emotions, like a popcorn popper on high they bounced erratically around in my head.

frustration

sadness

anger

inadequacy

remorse

fear

forgiveness

compassion

resolve

All because of a pair of pants.  It is Sunday, Mother's Day.  My husband and I were dressed and ready to leave for church.  I have this thing about being on time to church.  A few minutes early is preferable, but getting there just on time and seated is usually how it works out for us.  Being late is not okay with me unless it's totally unavoidable.  Despite how hard we work to avoid it, it happens more often than is "acceptable."   We greet each Sunday with renewed hope that "this week we'll do it!"  

Mother's Day.  Oh, we were so close.  Daniel was dressed -- all except for changing out of his sweatpants.  Easy, right?  Not in Autismland it isn't.

"I don't like those pants.  Those are hard pants.  I like soft pants."

We're talking here about soft, navy blue corduroy pants, which by most people's standards would not be considered "hard," but to him, compared to the soft fleecy pants he had been wearing all morning coupled with his sensory challenges, these were as hard as sandpaper and we were beyond cruel for asking him to wear them.  He wasn't having it.

The clock was ticking.  We were running out of time.  We live less than three minutes from our church.  Three minutes.  It's a good thing we do because scenes like this one play out more Sunday mornings than I'd like to admit.  Time is of the essence in our world.  It's part of the fabric of our life --  no pun intended!  Sometimes the smallest request can result in Custer's Last Stand.  This morning was such a time.

Now, you might ask, "Why not just let him wear the sweatpants?"  That was an option that I considered, but if I give in to him, he won't trust me to mean what I say.  Love and discipline go hand in hand.  And out of love and discipline, trust and respect is born. Unlike a neurotypical child, Daniel isn't naturally wired to understand how his actions affect others.  I'm trying to prepare him for life.  This isn't just about sweatpants.

I'll spare you all the ugly details, but suffice it to say it didn't go well.  We used all the tools in our autism toolkit to get this boy dressed.  Physically forcing him doesn't work; it makes it a hundred times worse.  The time to leave for church came and went.  Here it was, Mother's Day,  I was dressed up in what he calls my "zebra dress," a cute and rather bold black-and-white striped Calvin Klein dress, accessorized with equally bold jewelry, makeup and hair done, and now we weren't going anywhere.  

The emotions that I am normally very adept at keeping under control and in perspective, bubbled over like a geyser.  I threw my sweater on the table and declared, "I give up."  On the verge of tears, I retreated to the backyard.  And there I sat on the garden bench in my zebra dress.  

"Happy Mother's Day,"  I said to myself.  Some mother I am.  I can't even get my son to put on his pants.

All those emotions...

frustration

sadness

anger

inadequacy

remorse

fear

forgiveness

compassion

resolve

Yet through the frustration and feeling of utter defeat, one emotion fought so hard to be felt above the others, breaking through the throng:  resolve.  

I know that Daniel did not refuse to put his pants on in order to make us miss church, to make me angry, sad, and frustrated, sending me running to the backyard.  It isn't enough to just say, "Well, he has autism and he doesn't understand how his actions affect others."  It's my God-given responsibility to break through and reach him.  He didn't understand nor care that I was sad that we missed church, that I wanted to see our friends, and sing the songs, and hear the sermon, and have a few minutes of adult conversation on the patio after services.  No.  He didn't understand nor care that "today is Mother's Day" and "this is Mom's day."  No.  I felt cheated and slighted, but there was no time to wallow in those feelings.  It isn't about me, and this wasn't just about sweatpants.

Here is what it was about:  He feels all the same emotions I do.  How do I help him see how what he does can hurt me or cause me joy?  Because living in this world, that matters.  He needs to understand.  But how?  I sat on the bench waiting for the answer to come.  

Still shaken by frustration, sadness and inadequacy, I pulled resolve, compassion and forgiveness out of the toolbox and walked back inside.  He and my husband met me as I walked back in, Daniel, miraculously, dressed in the blue corduroy pants.  We could still go, it was suggested.  But, no.   There was something more important to do this Sunday.

Resolve still neck and neck with defeat, I took out a piece of paper and his crayons and started drawing a stick figure with a heart.   

"What are you drawing?  Who is that?" he asked.

"It's Mommy," I said.

Observing the picture, he asked, "Are you going to make yourself sad?"

See?  He knows.  Some people say these children don't have empathy.  They are so wrong.

I drew the heart and colored it in red and then added a smaller stick figure next to me representing Daniel.

"That's you," I said.

"Oh, yeah.  Okay," Daniel said.

"When you don't listen to me, like not putting on your pants so we can get to church on time, that hurts Mommy's heart.  I'm sad that we didn't go."

Then I drew black spots on my stick figure heart.  I had his full attention now.  He could barely get through my illustration.  His face reflected fear and anxiety, emotion rising to the surface, his eyes welling up with tears.  He said, "I'm sorry, Mommy. I'm sorry.  I don't like those black spots.  Get rid of them!  Get rid of them!"  And he began to cry.

It was like a flood of healing waters.  He understood.  I had broken through.  He hugged me and told me again that he was sorry.  We talked about what he needs to do -- or not do -- so there aren't any black spots.  Below it, I drew another stick figure of me with a red, spotless heart.

"Which one do you want me to have?  This one?"  Or this one?" pointing to the figure on the bottom.

He pointed to the new heart, the one without the spots.  And then he hugged me again just to make sure that Mommy was okay -- because for him, everything is okay in his world if Mommy's okay.

A little while later, he came to me (as I was writing this very story) and brought me the picture.  

Presenting the picture, he said, "I changed it.  I made us happy.  You're picking flowers," he explained.  

Ugh.  He had added flowers in my stick-like hands.  I wanted to hug him and cry at the depth of love and emotion he has inside of him, but that would have frightened him.

Holding back my tears, I asked, "And what's that heart that you drew next to me?"

"That's the heart with no spots."

The full import of this morning's lesson didn't hit me until then:  That's the heart that I want, too.   God always has a way of teaching me something about myself when I think it's just about Daniel or it's just about someone, or something else.  

Who doesn't want a spotless heart?  A heart that is guiltless before a holy God?  And there was more.  This simple stick figure drawing contains powerful spiritual truths for my son, the very ones that I have struggled to teach him, truths that God is slowly helping him to grasp:  Your heart is not pure, but I can wash it as white as snow.  And these very truths are reminders to me of where my own heart needs to be every day that I breathe in oxygen. 

This wasn't just about sweatpants.    

Selah.