Trash Dance

The following article originally posted by the author at Faithwriters.comhttps://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level2-previous.php?id=57487

I often find myself walking behind my little boy. When he was small, he would let me hold his hand and we'd walk together. He’s ten now, and when we go places, he’s sure to be at least ten paces ahead of me, innocently detached physically and socially. So many things are different when your child has autism. I've grown accustomed to it, this arrangement of ours. God has taught me a lot through the simple act of walking behind Daniel and watching him from a distance. 

This cool January morning, he walks ahead of me as we make our way to the school playground. No school today, so we have the whole place to ourselves. It's trash day and we've come here to watch the garbage trucks drive around the school. Daniel's passion for these rubbish-eating titans knows no bounds. Nothing else matters right now. Nothing. 

Positioned at his favorite vantage point, he plants his feet firmly, ears attuned to the sound of the approaching truck. It's coming. His feet move faster across the grassy field, his steps quickening into short sprints moving toward the sound of the engine. He's running now. He is joyous.

The mint-green garbage truck pulls into view through the chain-link fence surrounding the school. Daniel's excitement reaches a fever pitch as he hotfoots it across the playground, wood chips scattering around his feet. He stops for a moment, rising up on his tiptoes, watching as the metal claw of the side-loader opens to receive the green bin. The arms of the claw close around it, hugging the bin tightly as it makes its journey up the carriage to the hopper, dumping its contents with a dramatic flip. This is his favorite part. This is what we’ve come for.

He turns back toward me, pivoting on his toes.

"Mommy! Look!" 

I smile and nod, feeling his contagious joy. 

He darts off in the direction of the departing truck, keeping its silhouette in his field of vision until it disappears around the corner. His trash dance is over. It’s time to go home. I lead the way as he lags behind, reluctant to leave.

As I walk, I pray, "Lord, thank you for this special child. This is a challenging walk You have us on, but You promise to go before us, and You do. May Daniel always follow after You, his feet firmly planted in faith, and Your Word the joy of his heart."

He’s ahead of me now, and I just smile.

Proverbs 4:26 (NASB)

"Watch the path of your feet and all your ways will be established."

Heart Harvest

The sound of the children’s voices carried across the school parking lot like a melody, a wholesome blend of laughter and youthful banter. My heart is immediately lighter at its hearing as I make my way to the attendance office to sign the visitor’s log. It’s Thursday, the day our church volunteers at the local elementary school.

All checked in, I grab my visitor’s sticker with a bright-red apple on it and find our group under the flagpole. Our small band of five huddles outside the gate to the kindergarten area, praying for the hearts of these little ones and thanking God for the opportunity to be His hands and feet to “the least of these.” Closing with a hearty “amen,” it’s time to have fun. It’s time to sow seeds, all different kinds of them.

Instantly upon entering the gate, I smile at the sweet scene. Just ahead at the end of a short path of stepping stones, kindergarten children are seated at wooden lunch tables shaded by a sprawling majestic oak tree. All eyes on us, they see us coming. A group of boys sitting together at a table blurt out greetings at us in unison, all talking over each other the way five-year-olds do. I’m struck by how different each child is in appearance and personality. Some small for their age and some not. Some freckle-faced, and a few with skin like alabaster. Some bold, others shy; the talkers and the listeners. Each one of them possess the vivid, clear eyes of a child, all sharing the same beautiful innocence.

Phillip wastes no time in joining the boys. He is instantly engaging with his zany sense of humor and outgoing personality, and they adore him. Pastor Gavin takes up his usual post at the fence for a rousing game of ball throwing, surrounded by a large group of boys. Retha moves with an easy grace around the tables, helping children open milk cartons, tossing empties, quick to serve. Joey, our youth pastor, rides past me on the back of a too-small tricycle, the child driver beaming ear to ear. Seeds of kindness scatter all around me. 

Across the playground, Iris sees me. She prides herself on her excellent running skills and is eager to show them off. She runs at me at full speed, stopping within an inch of me, making sure she has my full attention.

“Look how fast I can run!”

She turns on a dime and hotfoots it in the other direction, fast and focused, arms out at her side like wings. She plops back down at her place on the bench, her impressive demonstration concluded.

I spot my little friend, Emma, a doe-eyed girl with dark-brown hair. She sees me, her face lighting up with glee, and my heart felt the warmth of it. The first time I met her, she wore sequined cat ears on her head. She instantly became my favorite. Joining her and her friend, we sat at the lunch table talking about important things like unicorns and mermaids and the color pink. Then a game of tag and two rounds of hide-and-seek. As we played, I gently tossed the seeds of love and kindness like a prayer, watching them scatter and rest upon the children. The bell chimed signaling the end of recess. 
It was time to line up and return to their classrooms. 

As I turned to say goodbye, Emma hugged me and said, “You’re my favorite person.”

My heart fluttered at her sincerity. Weeks of sowing, I am now reaping. Here was an unexpected harvest, not one I can see with my eyes, but one that I feel in my soul, the kind words of a child -- heart words. Scattering a few seeds of time, love, and energy, I have received back infinitely more. What a bounty!

The Finish Line

"Runners, on your marks!"

The athletes readied themselves in a runner's stance, anticipating the sound of the starting gun. The sharp pop reverberated through the air and the row of athletes sprinted out of their frozen poses, the sound of their sneakered feet pounding against the track. It echoed across the field and up into the bleachers where my husband and I were sitting. We watched them in reverential silence.

The young man in the lead was tall and muscular and unnaturally fast. His larger-than-life presence swallowed up the expansive track. Michael commanded attention. His voice was as verbose as his hulking presence. As he sprinted toward the 100-meter mark, he called out exuberantly to anyone who was listening.

"Feelin' strong! I'm feelin' strong!"

Michael barreled toward the finish line, a blur. A gentle giant, he was a powerhouse.

I turned my attention to Sam, awkwardly progressing down the track. A small man, wiry and ungainly, he ran, clearly unencumbered by his obvious disability. His left shoulder sat noticeably lower than his right, dramatically hunching the right side of his back. Arms tucked against his body in an effort to abate the involuntary jerking of his hands, Sam pressed on. His slight frame looked as though it could faint from the effort. My heart would have broken at the sight of him had it not been so inspired.

Mary, a little girl with Down Syndrome, slowly jogged down her lane, head down, eyes to the rust-colored track, tightly hugging a green five-foot long stuffed snake. She ran for the joy of it. Mary gave it her all. Crossing the finish line, she rejoiced at her victory, the green stuffed snake bobbing behind her like a tail. Her face beamed with pride, revealing her irrepressible spirit.

Markie didn’t run. Each step awkward because of his severe disability, he limped down the track, slowly but steadily, one leg at a time. First his left, then his right, his gait stiff and wooden. Flanked on each side by friends, his arms were supported as he journeyed on, unfazed by his slow pace. Markie's excitement was punctuated with sudden verbal utterances, loud and unintelligible. He was happy, and that much was obvious. He was pitiable and at the same time altogether captivating.

Before my eyes, they transformed into living parables. I thought about this journey of the Christian life, following hard after Christ, as it presses back against me with its many adversities. The message to my heart was clear. They persevered to the end despite everything that was against them. They did it all with joy, grit and determination canceling out anything clumsy or awkward about them.

Some days, like Michael, I feel strong in my faith, like nothing can get me down. I run like the wind. Other days, I can identify more with Sam, laboring greatly under the weight of life’s challenges. The Mary in me holds tightly to Jesus like she did her beloved friend. But most days, I am most like Markie, clumsy and unable to take a single step without support.

Not burdened with a physical impairment, I contend daily with the disability of sin. The Enemy set me up to lose, to never cross the finish line into eternal life, but because of His victory at the Cross, His death, burial, and resurrection, Jesus stands at the end of the race holding up the flag of redemption and forgiveness. Like these runners, there is no giving up. I will keep going in this marathon of faith until I reach the finish line into His waiting arms.

"...and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith" Hebrews12:1b-2a (NIV)

Forever Young

Say the word owl."
"Owl."
"Say the word play.
"Play."
"Sign."
"Sign."

Here I was, seated in a soundproof room, no bigger than an oversized telephone booth. Headphones press against my ears, just tight enough to be bothersome. Surveying my temporary confinement, I make a mental note of the dark-gray and maroon patchwork of Styrofoam lining the walls around me. Mildly disturbing, I close my eyes. 

“Say the word cool.”

More words. Separated by a small window, the audiologist feeds me more words to repeat. I get them all correct. Excellent! Maybe I’m not hard of hearing after all.

Lately, I have trouble hearing clearly if the person speaking is too far away. I’ve lost count at how many times I say “What?” in a day. A recent ear procedure hasn't yielded the outcome the doctor and I were hoping for. I can hear, but things are terribly muffled, and have been for months now. My private lament is that I’m too young to be struggling with my hearing. This recent setback with my hearing, a few more noticeable aches and pains, subtle changes in the face in the mirror, all this and more, brings one thing into sharp focus: The days of my youth are behind me. I never envisioned myself at 51 with a hearing loss. Truthfully, though, I never envisioned myself at 51, period.

I’m a skilled procrastinator, so in my 49th year, I began to mentally prepare myself for my next birthday. I was then steadily moving towards “the big five-oh,” our cultural dividing point between youth and maturity. I was soon going to be considered by some as “over the hill.” I barely saw it coming. And then, there it was, and I was over it.

A Daughter of Eve, I struggle against the effects of time. The curse of sin is now a visible one. The face in the mirror looking back at me is mine, but it’s showing signs of time. The gray hairs are coming in faster than I can dial my hairdresser. Young women walk past me at the mall, vibrant, energetic, and I forget for a moment that I’m 20 years their senior. I still feel 20 years their junior. 

Our culture does not embrace aging well. Especially women aging well. We are assailed on all fronts with social messages that youthfulness is king, and growing older should be avoided at all cost. Anti-aging serums and supplements is a multimillion dollar industry, selling a lie that we can turn back the hands of time. I guard my heart against deceit prettied up as truth, deceit that can gradually and insidiously erode my confidence in God and His plan for my life — if I believe them. 

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Proverbs 4:23 NIV

We were made to live forever. We have eternity in our hearts. We are under a curse of sin and death, and our hearts know it very well. It was not in the original plan.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12 NIV

The wisps of smoke were still dissipating in the air from the “4” and “9” candles on my birthday cake as I thought ahead. I avowed that with God’s help, His grace, and His wisdom, I would arrive at the door of my 50th birthday with joy, not lament. And I wouldn’t knock. I would throw it wide open, inviting myself in.

And, with not a lot of fanfare, my “year of jubilee” came and went. Then 51. All along this hilly journey I’m learning what matters, like the things I can take hold of that won’t degrade, and what things God is loosening my grip on because they are corruptible and fleeting. I was made for eternity.

“For you have been born again, not of perishable seed, but of imperishable, through the living and enduring Word of God.” 1 Peter 1:23 NIV

“Say the word eternity.”

Yes, Lord. I hear You loud and clear.

The Empathy Factor

I've walked many miles trailing behind my refuse-loving son, following his favorite garbage trucks and watching can after can get dumped of its contents. I was mentally up for it today, but my sciatic nerve and my feet were not.  At the 90-minute mark, I told him again, "I don't want to walk much longer.  I'm in pain."

Daniel isn't wired to feel empathetic about this.  "My back hurts" is merely information to him.  It may explain why Mom is limping along behind him, but it doesn't make him care. Does that sound harsh?  It is.  Because it's true. Autism short-circuited my boy's brain in the empathy area. For my fellow trivia buffs out there,  that is the supramarginal gyrus within the cerebral cortex.  Yes, autistic brains are different. 

And so what do I do with this?  What does a mother do with this? We are, by nature, empathetic towards our children, and we want and need some of it, even a little, reciprocated after pouring out every ounce of ourselves for our special child day in and day out.  Even if we didn't, we human beings want to feel like someone cares.

What do I do with this, this realization that,  "Guess what, Mama? It ain't comin'. Not from this child, not this day."

I forgive him. I forgive my child.  I am finally understanding this.  It wasn't always so.  And it is hard work.  Heart work is always hard work.  Forgiveness is one of the hardest for us.  I do it all the time, but it usually happens after my mother's heart has been offended.  After the swirling thoughts of "Why doesn't he care?" and "Doesn't he see I'm in pain?!"  

It's supposed to come before.  Forgiveness is supposed to come before.  I know he's going to say or do something today that will hurt or offend me.  I am purposing in my heart to forgive him now and then.  I'm working on this.  It is hard work.  Did I already say that?  It's hard work, but it's a game-changer.  It has the ability to free us from the chains of resentment and anger and frustration and--fill in the blank.

Tonight as he's drifting off to sleep to dream of trash pickups in far-away lands (he does, I'm sure), there's a good chance that he'll say something like this, because he's done it before:

"Mommy?"
And I'll say, "What?"
And he'll say, "I wanna tell you a question."
"You mean you want to tell me something?  Or you have a question?"
"I want to tell you something.  Stop arguing with me, Mommy!"

Exasperated just getting through that, I'll say, "Okay.  What?"
And I'll probably look slightly impatient and have "end of the day" attitude.  

And that's when he does it.  He catches me off guard.  Again.

"Thank you for taking me on a trash walk today, Mommy.  Thanks for taking me on Grandview.  I really like Grandview."  

Oh, I'm glad I chose to forgive, because that would have done me in.  Add guilt to unforgiveness.  What a winning combination!  Friend, being on the receiving end of thankfulness trumps empathy any day. I wanted empathy, but I got thankfulness. 

I'll take it, thank you.

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.

***********************************************************************************************************************

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.