My New Normal

Many have said to me, "It must be so good to be home and back to normal." Yes, it is so good to be back home, that we have a home to return to. But nothing is normal. It won't be the same again. We return to a new normal.

My new normal is sitting on my backyard swing while ashes fall from the sky all around me.

My new normal is walking down the street wearing a face mask, and a face-masked stranger passing by in his car flashes me a peace sign and nods.

My new normal is waking up and checking my Air Quality Index app.

My new normal is waffling between releasing flying monkeys and mercy missions to broken and hurting neighbors.

My new normal is tip-toeing around rabbit pooplets left behind by two free-range bunnies, and my son remarking, "It's like a game! Step on a poop and you're out!"

My new normal is coming face-to-face with my raw, untapped emotions, a startling and healing Heinz 57 assortment, divergent yet homogeneous.

My new normal is waking up with a trembling inside.

My new normal is extending more kindness, more mercy, more grace, more forgiveness, more agape love to anyone who needs it. Just...more.

My new normal is finding ashes in my shoes and coffee mug and not being surprised by it.

My new normal is saying what needs to be said NOW.

My new normal is cherishing my family and farm far above my earthly possessions.

My new normal is experiencing the Christmas I have yearned to have for years, where we give unconditionally, not desiring anything in return, because...we...get...it. Finally.

#ThomasFire
#GospelChristmas
#NewNormal
#OjaiCommUNITY

Duck for Flying Monkeys

My family has evacuated our mountain community of Ojai, California, due to fast-moving brush fires that surround us.  The following essay was written by me on Facebook for cathartic purposes, but it has been shared by many and is turning out to be instructive for some.  I share it here on my blog to make it easier to share.

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I have released my flying monkeys. It happened in Port Hueneme to an unfortunate female in Ralph's. The first draft, which took forever to compose, got lost in cyberspace, so after mourning its loss, I have rewritten it. It's long. I give you fair warning, but I'm traumatized and I don't care. I think it's worth your time, though.

My son has autism. It makes him unique, different, and sometimes he does things that don't make sense to the casual onlooker. But when that onlooker is informed of his differences and still persists in her judgments, that's when the flying monkeys are released. I had no filter left. I am usually gracious, patient, and kind. I'm not sure I was today. I'm human.

After the last 12 hours I have had--oh,wait. Let's recap, actually--two days of stress deciding if we need to evacuate, coordinating the evacuation of seven--yes, seven--felines and seven rabbits, because there will be #nopetleftbehind, being cooped up in a hotel room with animals and a highly agitated Daniel, suffering an emotional breakdown this morning, and ending up in urgent care with eustacian tube dysfunction (fluid behind my ear drum) and acute neck spasms, what I REALLY didn't need was a strange woman in Ralph's reprimanding my son for lightly tapping potato chip bags. Here begins the rant. Get ready. I may rant for a while.

When Daniel and I go to the store, it's not your run-of-the-mill grocery store trip. No. We do mail. We deliver mail, people. Autistics (yes, it's okay to use that word) have what's called rituals. Rituals. This means that when we go into our Vons, Daniel wants to take the cart, go down "the chicken aisle" to do his mail route. This consists of pushing the basket down the aisle and tapping the sale signs or the various items as a way of replicating opening a mailbox. This is my world. Do you think I enjoy this? No, I don't. Drives me crazy. But.I.do.it. Whatever works. Fellow Spectrum Moms, this is your pause to nod.

Let me set the scene. We have evacuated to Port Hueneme (Why-nee-me) Locals, pause to laugh. So we go to Ralph's. In the car, Daniel is complaining that he doesn't want to go. My brilliant husband says, "Ohhh...but you can deliver MAIL and it's a different route because of the fire evacuations. You're delivering mail in Port Hueneme (non-locals refer to phonetic reference for refresher) . He was on it. Game on! So we go. We didn't need much. Just a few things to take back to the hotel. This is a new store Daniel has never been to. Bliss. He retrieves a basket and immediately comments on how smooth the movement of the wheels are. He likes this basket. We walk behind him as he explores Ralph's on his tippy toes, commenting on how different it is from Vons. Joy spills forth from this special child. We find the chip aisle.

"Oh, Mommy, can I deliver mail here? It's my favorite."
He loves the way it sounds when he taps on a vacuum-packed bag of chips. Try it the next time you're at the grocery store ;) I was so depleted at this point, so tired, so done. Yesss, go for it. Deliver mail to all those potato chip bags, my beautiful son. And so he did.

I scanned the aisle for non-GMO, dye-free nacho cheese chips as Daniel delivers mail to the snacks. There's a woman walking down the aisle with her daughter. I smile, as I usually do, because I'm from Ojai, and she doesn't acknowledge it. Daniel is still lightly tapping bags. As she walks by him, she says, in a tone that I found to be slightly passive aggressive, "You're breaking all the chii-ips. You shouldn't do that."

Pause to think about what your response would be.

I'm sorry. What??? Well, now! Madam, you have chosen the wrong child--yes, CHILD, to address. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mama Bear, and we need to have a conversation.

But I veer to the polite side of my personality and choose to be kind. "My son has autism. We....do...this. You know..mail delivery? It calms him."

This was met with, "But...he's breaking the chips."

Are you serious???? How do you know that? Have you ever tapped a bag of air-packed chips before? because, really, you should. In fact, that's why they air pack them, to prevent breakage. It's like a balloon. All the chips are jumping around like jumping jacks. If the seal was broken, that would be far different. Do you work for Frito-Lay? No. Clearly no, or you would know this random chip fact, Chip Lady.

I don't recall what came out of my mouth after that, but I think "Mind your own business," "Move on," and "Leave my son alone," were involved. She attempted to get the last word, which was met with epic failure, and...she..moved...on.

But that wasn't enough for Chip Lady. No. She chose to get in the same checkout line as us. More evidence of passive aggressive behavior. As we're chatting with the checker about her own traumatizing experience as a child of evacuating her home, I hear the same voice: "Oh, don't worry. I told the manager that he was hitting the potato chip bags."

And that's when I released the rest of the flying monkeys. Spinning around, I faced her. "Have some compassion," was met with, "It's not like you're the only one who evacuated." She said I was still "responsible" for him and shouldn't let him "hit" the bags. I don't remember what happened after that. It's all a blur, but it wasn't pretty.

I can't fix ignorant. I can't change someone who has no understanding, nor chooses to, of autism--and all disabilities--and how our unique children function, AND I DON'T CARE TO. My son has suffered a major trauma being displaced from his home, from his animals, his neighbors, all that he holds dear, and tapping lightly on chip bags was his safe harbor. Every time I eat a broken chip, I will think of her. In time, I won't be so hurt by it.

I mother my own child. I don't stick my nose into other mothers' business. I used to be that person in Target who would judge. I used to look down my nose at moms with "unruly" children and think, "get it together," just like Chip Lady. You don't know what that mom's life looks like. You just don't. If you choose to judge and be someone's personal tutor on parenting special needs children, then you deserve to have flying monkeys released on you. Good luck, my unlucky friend. Autism has taught me well. Now? I smile at that mother. I nod in understanding. I may even stop to say, "I get it. You're doing a great job." All mothers are heroines.

There is a greeting card hanging in my kitchen from a friend that reads, "A little grace goes a long way." I fully expect to return to my kitchen to behold that card once again. Grace was not--was not--extended to me today by that woman in Ralph's. I am trying to forgive her and I am struggling because I am broken and tired and exhausted and our home is still in jeopardy, but I will choose to extend grace and make a conscious effort to make no assumptions, and be understanding and kind. Did she know what Daniel said as we drove away? No.

"Does she like being a bully to people?"

"No, I don't think she does, actually. We should pray for her."

Yes. I am a Christian and I love the Lord, but I am no doormat and I will stand up for my child to anyone, anytime.

To be clear, Daniel and I will continue to deliver mail in the grocery store, and with gusto, when we return to our beloved Ojai, where people could care less about alleged broken chips and more about people's hearts, and I might even let him tap them a wee bit harder.

Don't judge. Don't make assumptions. If you do, it may just come at the worst possible time for someone.

The Prayer

One of the hardest things that I do as a mother, my most challenging task, by far, is teaching my son about faith.  I have many responsibilities as a mom.  They're the common ones that we all share as parents.  It's an exhaustive list, and so familiar that I think I can dispense with listing them here because you know what they are.  They're all fairly intuitive and we do them without much difficulty in the day-to-day.  Some things are not so easy, though.  Guiding a child towards faith is one of those.  It is not easy.  Not by a longshot. 

I am a Christian.  A long time ago, I turned away from trusting in my own ability to do this thing called life, learning the hard way that my sinful self needs forgiveness, salvation, and a lifetime Guide and Friend to walk with me and talk with me this side of heaven.  I want this same reality for Daniel, and it's my job, and his dad's, to live this out before him, guiding, teaching, and being intentional about it. 

My son is a literal thinker as well as a visual learner.  Abstract concepts are hard, if not impossible at times, for him to grasp.  His literal mind requires "just the facts, please, and keep it simple."  His visual mind requires a picture, a reality, to accompany the concept.  What concept could be more abstract than explaining who this unseen God is and how we can know Him?

To this, his response has produced many excellent and rather profound responses.

"Why can't I see God?"

"Where is God?"

"Is Jesus here?"

And my favorite, "Where is the real Jesus?"

And to these questions, I respond as best I can, pulling from my own faith walk, experience, and knowledge, and relying on God to say the right thing--praying I don't say the wrong thing--and never feeling as though I've given him an adequate response.  I struggle, my own faith being tested and stretched in the process.  This is a weighty task; if it wasn't, I wouldn't need to depend so heavily (and desperately) on the Holy Spirit for guidance.

Truthfully, there are times that I am so disheartened by our progress in this journey that I begin to lose faith.  I feel very alone in what I feel is a sub-subculture.  Special needs families exist within their own subculture, one so starkly different from families with neurotypical children.  Almost every aspect of family life is different for us.  And then there are those, like us, within that subculture striving to raise their children according to Biblical principles and Gospel-centered living in our post-Christian society.  Almost daily, I am unsure if I'm doing any of it right, sometimes sure that I'm doing it completely wrong.  This past week has been especially draining. I might as well be speaking Greek, because he's not understanding me and I'm not understanding him.  I've shut my eyes in frustration and shook my head in defeat more times than I'd care to count this week.  

Oh, but He always surprises me when I'm not looking.  It's then that God drops some mustard seeds from heaven, and they land smack in the middle of Daniel's hands and heart.  And mine.

Last night, saddened that he would be in school when the trash would be picked up, he knew he would miss the first can pick-up.  Andres, our trash collector, would come and go while Daniel was at school.  Before he went to sleep, he asked me to pray to God about it.  

"Mommy, can we talk to God about the cans?  Pray about the trucks, Mommy.  I want to see the trucks."

I have to admit that I thought to myself, "Well, here goes nothing.  Lord, I'm sorry for asking for something impossible, but You know I'm doing it for the child's sake."  

The trash is always picked up without fail by 10:00 a.m., the recycle or yard waste by 3:30.  When he's in school, he only sees the afternoon pickup.  He knows this is the routine, but far be it from me to turn down his request to pray!  Of course, we would.  And so we did.  I asked God to arrange it so Daniel could see the trucks.  I prayed with about as much faith as a housefly, sure that my words never made it past the ceiling fan.

"You don't have enough faith," Jesus told them. "I tell you the truth, if you had faith even as small as a mustard seed, you could say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it would move. Nothing would be impossible."  Matthew 17:20


Today is trash day.  10 o'clock came and went and the familiar rumbling of the garbage truck was noticeably absent, our prayer forgotten.  

"Well, he'll be along soon enough."  

Noon.  1 o'clock.  2 o'clock.  Finally, 3 o'clock rolled around.  The school bus pulled up and an excited and inquisitive Daniel hopped off the bus, firing questions at me rapid-fire before the yellow doors fully opened. 

Springing off the steps of the bus, eyes bright with excitement, he said, "The green can is still full!  All the cans on our street are full.  What happened?  Where's Andres?  Why didn't he come?  Did Manuel come yet?"

He assailed me with a battery of questions to which my only response was, "I don't know what happened, buddy.  He must've broken down."  

And then I remembered the prayer.  

Walking into the mud room to deposit his backpack, I spun around to face him, and exclaimed, "Daniel!  Do you remember what we did last night?"  Realizing how overbroad my question was, I was about to rephrase it so he would understand.  But I didn't have to.  He understood.  He understood because his mind wasn't doing the

understanding; his heart was.  Faith was.  And faith is neither literal or visual; it's supernatural.  It's what I've been fighting in the trenches to teach him.  

His little-boy face beaming in that "aha" moment, grasping it fully, he lifted his hands in praise, and he said it:  "Thank you, Jesus!"

"Yes," I said, "Thank you, Jesus.  He answered your prayer, Daniel."  God had answered our prayer, perhaps more to my astonishment than his.  Daniel would get to see two trucks today, after all.  Well, how about that?

These are the mustard seeds of faith in my son.  God cares about what my child cares about.  He loves him so deeply, so earnestly, so purposefully that He will move mountains to show him, and in ways only He can, he teaches him what it is to have faith.  And I am the one left with the weaker faith.  Daniel possessed the mustard seed and believed he could move that mountain.

This is the God who is the object of our faith.  
This is the One who stoops to listen to a child's prayer for the seemingly impossible and ridiculous.
This is the One who stands in the gap with me when my faith is almost nonexistent and hands me the mustard seed.  After all, He is the One who created it, for even that is not of myself.
This is Him.  This is Jesus.  He will stop at nothing to win him.  Or to win you...

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.