December in boxes

"For I the LORD do not change; therefore you, O children of Jacob, are not consumed." ~Malachi 3:8 

As the temperature drops outside, I sit in surroundings unlike any I have experienced before. The living room has boxes, areas of exposed subflooring and new walls. The Kitchen has no upper cupboards, exposing paint colors and wallpaper of decades gone by. A new pantry has encroached upon the family room, as have an endless array of doors, brackets, and panels; all awaiting their counterparts’ arrival to complete the new kitchen. The tell-tale signs of a remodel are visible everywhere, but some seemingly insignificant changes have been the most striking to me.

I spent years stepping over Legos, plastic army guys and countless socks… now I usually just see Wyatt’s Burger King hat and Alan jr.’s mail pile. An unopened box of gelt sits in my new pantry, as everyone (mama included) was working too much for Dreidel this year. My mother in law’s dining room table, which I sat at for 26 Christmases, now sits in my constantly evolving dining room. Alexa plays a podcast in the background, drowning out the ever-increasing quiet. How do I feel about my current life? Depends on the moment …

I currently have no idea where any holiday decorations are. I celebrated all 8 nights of Hanukkah singing the blessing over birthday candles poked in an egg carton. A single evergreen candy cane arrangement rests on the wall. So many things are catawampus in Munson manor, and honestly, it’s hard to find the energy to force December into view this year. It’s cluttered. It’s confusing. It’s lonely.

                Much of my life’s course, like my decorations, 7 backordered panels (and, for some reason, my muffin tin) has yet to reveal itself. Rather appropriately, I find myself this Advent season to be waiting for everything from dishwashers to decision-making skills. How do I share our family traditions, but leave space for new ones? How do we prioritize life after kids, while still being there when our grown sons need us? How do I love and care for my beautiful daughter-in-law without my mother-in-law to show me how, as she did almost all my married life? How do I assist my dear mama as she gets older, without bossily stepping on her matriarchal toes? These are answers I won’t ever find within the confines of a buried Rubbermaid container …

Stumbling through this unfamiliar terrain (both literally and figuratively), I sometimes forget that I never have to struggle through life in my own strength. The God who I cried out to in nights of sleep deprivation and postpartum depression comforts me still, as I sing the blessing over a makeshift Menorah alone. The God who helped me to trust that I could be responsible for two little lives will guide me as I discern when to offer advice and when to step back and let my sons find their way. The God who protected my marriage when two exhausted new parents had nothing left to give is with us still as we usher in an exciting, albeit unfamiliar, second quarter of life together. The God who comforts us as we grieve the losses in our family has also brought great joy through new family members. Clinging tightly to an unchanging God, I can safely navigate the endless changes that come my way—boxes and all.

The Gift of Time

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. 

Ecclesiastes 3:1

I loved my friend, fellow worship team vocalist and previous doula client, Jenna. Our lives connected in so many areas, we'd become accustomed to spending lots of time together. Yet for months, it had been hard to get together, mostly due to scheduling conflicts on my part. She'd invited me to come over since the kids were in school, and it just hadn't worked. We hadn't even been scheduled to sing together since her youngest daughter was born. Texting, Facebook messages and quick hugs on Sunday morning had been our only interaction until Thursday, December 5, 2013, when we met at practice. We were scheduled to sing together on Sunday at last! When I arrived that evening, I knew I wouldn't have to tell her I wanted to share a music stand. Our piles of music were all set, with "Amy and Jenna-Pie" (my nickname for her) written on our practice notes.

I had planned to steal her away for a quick coffee date after practice, but she left before I could ask her.  

Thursday was the last time I saw her awake.

Jenna and I had been in hospital rooms together more than once, but Saturday was unlike any other time we'd spent together. Her beautiful hair was disheveled from paramedics restarting her heart. Her skin was cold, because they had to cool her body down in an attempt to decrease brain swelling. Tubes contorted her lifeless face, breathing for her. I clutched my friend's hand, trying to feel if she was still with us. I couldn't tell.  An avid dancer, her toes were pointed, even in a coma. When her mother-in-law arrived on a red-eye flight and cracked a loving joke, her heart rate went up slightly. Those moments, however involuntary or inconsequential, felt like precious gifts.

As a small group of loved ones surrounded her, we prayed for a miracle. We begged for her to open her eyes. We sang to her. We spoke to her. This continued for days. We changed clothes, slept a little and returned, keeping vigil for Jenna. Any blip on her heart monitor or twitch of her body was reason enough to hope, to plead with God to keep her with us, if it that was His will. I knew we should seek His will, knowing God knew so much better than short-sighted mortals, but it was SO hard. We waited on the doctor's final word on whether or not any brain activity was present.

At last, the report came in: there was no hope. We came to see her one last time- this time to say goodbye.

Our final visit was very ritualistic. It was Lisa, Alyssa and I-- three friends preparing Jenna for her final resting place. We took handprints and locks of hair for her daughters. We painted her fingernails and toenails, because, for some reason, we couldn't bear the thought of her being laid to rest with chipped polish. It felt so unnatural to leave her there, knowing they would be harvesting her organs to donate soon. I wanted to protect her. I didn't want her to be alone. I knew she was gone, but I wasn't ready to say goodbye. When we knew it was time to say our final farewell, our sobbing was so heavy, we practically carried each other out of the hospital. Snowflakes softly fell as we drove home, heavy hearted and exhausted. Her memorial would be on Saturday, one week after this awful nightmare had begun.

Saturday came, and we celebrated her life together. Family, friends, church members, dance colleagues and more laughed, cried and sang in her memory. It was painful and healing at the same time. I missed her then; I miss her still.

That week was, without a doubt, the most gut-wrenching 7 days I have ever endured, but I am thankful for them.  While it was void of the joy birth brings, being Jenna's "death doula" was every bit as much of a privilege. That time was a gift. 

Selah

Wow, it's been a long time since I've written! So much has changed in the last year (ish), but most of my absence can be summed up in my Jan 2015 diagnosis of stage 3 (chronic) Lyme Disease. It's hard to think clearly or move well much of the time, so writing beyond Facebook statuses and tweets hasn't happened. Today, however, I had a hard day, which is often where the urge to write comes out in me. It might not be profound or Pulitzer- worthy, but I feel compelled to share with you, just the same.

Since my diagnosis, I've had a lot of prescriptions, supplements and topical doodads on, in, or  around my short and sassy self. It's been a physical, emotional and spiritual roller coaster ride (complete with screaming and throwing up), so I should be pretty savvy to change eight months in, right? Not entirely ...

I hit a bump in my treatment this week, which at first looked like a reaction to Bicillin, the antibiotic injection we're using to (God willing) put the Lyme in remission by 2017 (ish). It wasn't. just an inflamatory response to treatment, which my specialist is very experienced in treating. I'm growing resistant to my current preventative meds, but we have other options. That's good, right? Yes, that's good. One more pill isn't that big of a deal, but then we come to a super-touchy subject: CHANGING MY DIET. Noooooo!  Come on, you're going to pick on allergy-girl and make her drink unsweetened alternative milks and no syrups in her lattes? You're denying me the amazing allergen-free baguettes I just found? I can't have my "natural" sweetners, like raw honey or Grade B maple syrup? I'm going to feel like puking all day and I can't have carbs to calm my grumpy belly?  Toddleresque, uber-diva tantrum brewing in 3,2,1 ...

KABOOM. Into the ear of my BFF went some rather impressive ranting, complaining and creative wording, preventing the swear jar from robbing me of coffee funds. I was done sacrificing. I was tired of suffering. And NOBODY messes with my food. I wanted my mommy, a monstrous order of bottomless fries and permission to spend copious amounts of money on kitchen gadgets and Pentatonix merchandise. None of this, of course, was in the control of my precious companion, but she got to hear all of it. After venting turned to verbal vomiting, I knew it was time to let poor Jillian rest her ringing ears and take a time out.

I knew I needed time with God, but prayer wasn't going to be the avenue I'd use. No, speaking was clearly just getting me more worked up. I needed to rest in God and simply be ministered to, as the groans of my soul were understood by my Father. This is when music is usually my comfort. I didn't even know what song I needed, so I just asked Siri to play music from a group named for my current need: Selah.

This is a word you see frequently in the book of Psalms, and while we are not certain the exact meaning, many believe it means "pause." That's what I needed-- to stop, be still and just rest in Him. As the familiar hymns washed over me, I was reminded of the same source of comfort I've felt since I was a little girl: I am loved, I am safe, I am forgiven. I am not promised an easy road, but I am assured of a constant companion, rest when I am weary, insight when I'm confused and mercy when I fail. I'm not strong enough to do this, and I don't have to be.

I'm still fighting panic, and heaven help you if you decide to call me today, because when I open my mouth, all my feelings come flying out, but I know where to turn when that happens. My sabbath comes early this week.  Also, if anyone in the house asks, Selah is expanded to dinner. I will rest in the truth that God loves me the same when I feed my family hot dogs. 

Why I can't "Imagine"

If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied.

1Corinthians 15:19

I know I'm about to ruffle some Beatle fan-feathers out there with this post.  To be fair, I am not a huge lover of the Beatles-- especially their early work. *dodges rotten tomatoes*  I find their later work to be much more musically appealing, and with better lyrical imagery.  "In my Life," for example, is wonderful.  "Blackbird" is one of my favorite lulabies to sing to Wyatt.  But a song that seems to hit every telethon, American Idol season, etc., is the infamous song, "Imagine."

This is a song loved by so many, but honestly, I find it depressing for the most part.  The very thought that unity, peace and happiness can only come by stripping the world of God just frankly, doesn't work for me.  Here's why: 

Imagine there's no heaven?  Um, no.  No, I'm not doing that.  I find such comfort in knowing that I will see my departed loved ones again.  My heart is a little less heavy in knowing that the children in our family who left us before we could ever hold them are bouncing on the knee of my Grandma Howard.  To know that healing in my body will take place someday, be it here or in the afterlife, gives me strength to push on for another day.  

There is a stanza within this beginning theme that reads as follows: "Imagine all the people living for today."  This implies two falsehoods, I believe: one, that people of faith only look to the afterlife, and two, that your actions don't affect others for generations to come.  Knowing that I will answer to how I lived my life makes me want to do more, not less, in the here and now.  Not because I fear judgement, but because I am so thankful for the love of Christ, I want to share it by loving and serving as many people as I can.  If we're only living for today, why choose environmentalism?  Why have communities?  Why bother loving anyone beyond yourself?  Truly, a balance between living exclusively in the present and "being so heavenly-minded that we are of no earthly good," is in order. 

"Imagine there's no countries ... and no religion, too."-- Yeah, this one doesn't jive with me, either.  While fighting and strife among peoples is something that I believe breaks the heart of God, I don't think diversity does.  Differing opinions, cultures, personalities and expressions of faith bring so much to our world.  Living side-by-side doesn't necessarily mean overlapping.  Peace doesn't necessarily mean homogenizing the planet.  True peace involves, I believe, a philosophy best summed up in the words of my buddy Pastor Paul: "Diversity without division, and unity without uniformity."  When I think of all the differing styles of worship that will take place in heaven, I get excited!  Christ urged his disciples to go into all the earth and spread the gospel, not to bring forth universal sameness, but the joy and freedom that comes from knowing Him.  While the church, as an entity of flawed human beings, has often confused her mission, that's on us, guys.  Not God.  Faith didn't divide, man did.

It is not in spite of my faith that I love and serve people who don't agree with me, but because of it.  It is my job to shine His light in love, service and sharing His gospel, but it is not my job to change hearts and minds.  The gospel is a means of loving out loud, not a rod to beat over the head of others who don't agree.  If you decide Jesus isn't for you, I'm not going to hound and harp at you.  If God himself doesn't see fit to force people to love Him, it would be pretty arrogant of me to attempt to!  If you think I'm a complete idiot for believing in God, I'm okay with that, too.  But it is my hope and prayer that perhaps those of you who have been hurt by others in the name of religion can see that the true practice of Christianity longs for peace-- just as John Lennon did.  However, in stead of taking God out of the picture entirely, we choose to make the Prince of Peace our focus.  Like the attempts at harmony in the chorus of "I wanna Hold Your Hand," I fail often, but clinging to Jesus, I will press on. 

Popcorn and Puptents: A Movie Metaphor for Transfiguration Sunday

There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light. Matthew 17:2

There are many amazing parents out there who find great joy in taking young children to the movies.  I take my hat off to those parents.  I am NOT one of those parents.  In fact, dear parents whose kids are friends with mine, if you are in camp "Cinematic Enthusiasm" and would like to take one of my children along, not only will I pay my kid's way, but I will happily treat you to gas money, a large popcorn, a box of Sour Patch Kids and a Sprite so immense, you will sprint to the restroom afterward.  I am not kidding.  I may throw in a car wash.  

It's not that I don't like going to the movies, it's just that such an event requires a great deal of planning, attentiveness and spending from the "entertainment fund."  None of these factors seemed to mesh well with my children before age 8.  While their behavior is worlds better now, I'm still reeling from those years.  I'm overreacting, you say?  This has nothing to do with Transfiguration Sunday, you assume?  Well, you may have a point about the first one, but I promise, I will tie my past moments of parental exasperation into the lesson.  Since we're using cinematic metaphors, allow me to set the scene for you ... 

The tickets are printed, the car is fueled up, my husband has taken the day off and I'm actually wearing makeup before we get into the car.  If we leave now, we will have plenty of time to find good seats and grab a small snack before the movie starts. And then, it begins.  One child can't find their shoes.  Another decides at the last minute that a different shirt is required for sitting in a dark room with strangers.  Both children seem to forget the frequency of rain in the Seattle area and begin to step out the front door without coats.  What should have been a two minute exit has somehow taken twenty minutes, and we haven't even left the house! Oh well, we'll just miss the previews and sit in the back.  It will be fine ... until it's not. 

When we arrive at the theater, our children, seemingly oblivious to the cost of the movie tickets, are hoping for multiple snacking options.  When I calmly inform them that one box of Swedish Fish costs more than four of the same boxes at the store, they solemly order a single item, as though they did not just eat before leaving the house (which, of course, they did).  Dad grabs a popcorn (after gluten free status is confirmed) and into the theater we march.

As we file into the back of plaza 14B, I ponder how much it would cost to eat two boxes of candy and a bowl of popcorn at home.  "It's a special treat,"  I tell myself.  "The children will appreciate it." 

 As the opening credits roll, I hear the tell-tale sign of Mike and Ikes spilling on the floor.  The children clammer for a turn holding the popcorn (which inevitably also spills).  In stead of paying attention to the film's plot, they frequently ask, "What's going on?"  I am officially paying good money for episodes of insanity that could be acquired at home, free of charge.  Just then, we share a moment.  It might be funny or touching, but it does a mother's heart good.  Soon after, the movie is over.  As we head toward the car, one of the children utters, "Billie's dad took him to see the new *insert cool name here* movie last weekend, in 3D!  He's LUCKY!" 

And with that, I would vow to never take my children to another movie ... until next time.  

It's hard enough to deal with children who don't "get" the privilege of an experience, but how would you feel if this happened time after time with GROWN MEN?  Jesus had his hands full with his disciples, for sure.  They had seen countless miracles, wonders and signs, yet they continued to doubt, argue, complain and even interrupt Jesus.  This pivotal moment on the mountain was no exception. 

What Peter, James and John were about to witness was incredible, especially in a time without so much as a lightbulb, let alone cinematography.  They followed Jesus up a mountain.  Suddenly, Jesus starts glowing.  Next, Moses and Elijah (prophets from the Old Testament) appear and are talking with Jesus.  The Son of God and the two greatest prophets in biblical history are on a mountaintop, having a discussion about Jesus' coming death and resurrection.  Pretty important to the plot of His ministry and life as a whole.  While this would be a great time to quietly listen, loudmoth Peter interrupts with a brilliant plan to build 3 tents; one for Jesus, one for Moses and one for Elijah.  (Seriously, Peter?)  Graciously, God did not snuff him out for being annoying, but He did put the verbose fellow in his place by audibly speaking, "This is my son, whom I love.  Listen to him!"  

When God finished speaking, Only Jesus remained, and He told the disciples (who were understandably freaked out) to not speak of this vision until after the resurrection had occured. 

It never stood out to me before that Jesus asked this of His disciples until this morning.  I've heard this story countless times, but I caught something new today: Jesus took Peter to the mountain knowing he would be his usual, impulsive self.  Jesus didn't treck up the mountain thinking, "Man, I hope Peter doesn't make a fool of me in front of my Dad!" He knew what would happen, and he brought Peter anyway.  More than that, He knew Peter would boast of his devotion, cut off a soldier's ear (again with the impulsivity) and deny three times that he even knew Jesus.  He knew this, in fact, at their first meeting, and yet He still called Peter to follow Him.  

Unlike my wariness with the movie theater, Jesus never shys away from moments where His followers can spend time with Him and learn from Him, even though He knows in advance that we're going to screw up.  As I've written before, I relate more to Peter than any other disciple.  Sometimes I can be a raging fan of Jesus, but a lousy follower.  I interrupt Him, listen when I like what I'm hearing from Him and ignore the stuff I don't want to hear. I'm sooooooo easily distracted.  And yet, knowing all this, He called me, too.  Though my faith wavers, I am still granted incredible "mountaintop experiences," as well as the promise of His presence in the darker valleys of life.  I'm glad God is a more patient parent than I am. ;) 

The next time you grab a bucket of popcorn, I hope you're reminded of the second, third and fourth chances God gives His kids-- both for incredible experiences and fresh starts.  

Have a wonderful week, and I'll see you at the movies-- if I find a sitter ... 

Desert Cries Part 1: The Exodus of Shame

When Pharaoh heard of this, he tried to kill Moses, but Moses fled from Pharaoh and went to live in Midian, where he sat down by a well.

Exodus 2:15

In Exodus 2, we learn that Moses’ first trip to the desert was not a groovy vacay, but a means to stay alive.  Pharaoh had a price on his head.  While he had been raised predominately as a prince in the palace, one rash decision changed his entire life. 

He had undoubtedly seen the mistreatment of Hebrew slaves before, but the witnessing of a fellow descendant being beaten on that fateful day was enough.  Anger consumed him, and he killed the offending Egyptian.  His plans to cover up the crime (literally) had been thwarted by witnesses.  Word spread.  He knew this damaged his reputation with both Egypt and his biological line.  In spite of his intent to come to the aid of those oppressed, he had just made their lives harder.  No longer an adopted child of privilege and not accepted by his fellow Israelites, he ran to a place where no one knew him. 

I don’t know about you, but nothing sends panic through me quite like knowing I’ve botched something up badly, and it seems extremely difficult, if not impossible, to repair.  From reckless spending in the name of “cash back rewards” to thoughtless, impulsive words that sever a relationship, I’ve done my share of screwing up.  The moment I begin to realize the magnitude of my actions, the pit in my stomach becomes a gaping hole of fear.  Frantic, shame-laden thoughts swirl through my mind, robbing me of sleep and appetite.  Unable to continue in this maddening state of “if only,” the goal of escaping becomes my number one priority.

When Moses fled to the desert, he truly thought no one would know him there, but he forgot something, or rather Someone.  While in hiding, God kept him safe, brought caring people into his life and, when the time was right, God addressed Moses regarding his purpose. 

Hiding is not new to God.  Adam and Eve did it.  Jonah did it.  I am no surprise to Him.  When I run from responsibilities, relationships or even from God Himself, He does not leave me.  He provides me with material needs, emotional support and, when I am ready to stop running and face my problems, he forgives me, loves me and reminds me of my calling. 

Shame is powerful.  Shame is crippling.  Shame is not God’s will for my life.  Satan knows that the longer he can keep me in a cycle of justification, guilt and self-loathing, the harder it becomes for me to approach the Throne of Grace. 

It’s not easy to come out of the desert and face your past.  God’s forgiveness does not remove all natural consequences.  Healing and moving forward is not instantaneous.  It wasn’t for Moses, either.  But the Same God who did a mighty work in a quick-tempered, conflict-avoiding and anxious dude wants to do the same in us.  He will meet us in our place of guilt and shame, and more importantly, will guide us to a place of restoration and healing, if only we let him.   

Desert Cries: An Introduction

My sweet auntie has called me "Moset" (think Moses sans beard and perhaps an earth-toned lip gloss in lieu of a staff) for a few years now-- I suppose most people would find that quite curious.  After all, didn't Moses have trouble speaking up?  Clearly, I'm not known for being quiet by anyone who has known me for longer than five minutes.  In fact, when we have group activities at church and split off into numbered teams, my husband has been known to jokingly complain to our pastor, "No fair-- you took my mouthpiece!"

If speech alone were criteria, I'd say the dear matriarch who has known me since the womb was off-base, but girlfriend knows her scripture and she knows me, too.  She knows that "The Big M" and I have both experienced our share of learning, leading, wandering and, at times, hiding, in the desert.  While he trudged through sand dunes by foot, I have found myself traveling through my spiritual Sahara for surprisingly similar reasons.  I know some of you really dig the arid wastelands, but nothing about the desert sounds remotely appealing to me.  Dry.  Hot.  Desolate.  Beige.  Ick!  Add another "S" to the subject matter, and I'm all over it, but I can't even handle stopping in Yakima, Washington, unless I REALLY need coffee!  That said, I know that I've learned far more bumbling through the badlands than anywhere else.  Throughout the next week, with some scriptural help from the book of Exodus, I will unpack some of my wilderness wanderings with you.  When I first began to write this, I thought I could cover it in a single post, but I quickly found the subject matters to be many and the length of just one point to be a potential cause for eye strain!

I hope you'll strap on your sandals and take this walk with me.  Perhaps you'll find there's a fair amount of Moses in you, too!  

Pack Sunscreen!
~Amy 

For Miriam Project: My PPMD Story

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and body with grief.

Psalm 31:9

Walk With Me

Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Galations 6:2

Even at a gathering with like-minded colleagues, we still stuck out a bit, my quirky compadre and me.  In an attempt to keep my appetizer of nothing but meats from coming in contact with gluten or dairy, the plate was placed in very close proximity to my beloved friend, who happens to be a devout vegetarian.  As we all scrambled to find a spot that wouldn’t put meat near her, or gluten on my carnivorous antipasto, my friend winked at me and took the plate.  “Leave it here,” she insisted, “It’s fine.  Unless, of course, anyone else would like some dead animal before I put it down?”  Humor with an unexpected twist and understanding, the foundations of our friendship, were visible once more.  With hummus and edamame on her plate and “dead animal” on mine, my friend came along side me, so I wouldn’t feel alone.

            When other people in the birth community find out she and I know one another, they are somewhat surprised.  I live in the country, she lives in Los Angeles.  I have mom hair, she rocks a faux hawk.  While we both taught earlier in our lives, we were on opposing ends of the spectrum there, as well.  While I was playing “Ring around the rosie” with my class of preschoolers, my buddy was a prominent dance instructor.  While my students were barely potty trained, hers could drive!  I’m an extrovert, she’s an introvert.  I’m barely a year into birth work, she has her PHD and writes for major perinatal publications.  I drink almond milk, she drinks soy.  To say that we’re different has a bit of a “duh factor” involved.  But what brings us together?  More opposites …

            We “met” on a fellow friend’s Facebook page, cracking one another up with our shared love of zany humor.  We stayed in contact to share and discuss some hardships we had both shared surrounding our births and our battles with Postpartum Depression.  Our stories were different, even in these areas, but we both had a burning desire to support and help women.  Through our laughter and tears, a kinship grew. 

            As we grew to learn more about one another, we shared more pieces of our lives.  Some we both had experienced in one way or another, some we could not relate to, but support was always there.  One phrase I heard from her during a particularly challenging season with Wyatt gave me unexpected support from a friend who had never walked that path.  It literally changed how I view any person in crisis, whether I believe I have had similar experiences or not.  I’m sure she probably doesn’t even remember saying it.  It was so simple, but so powerful: “Wow, I don’t know anything about your life experience.”

            While you might think that made me feel alone, it actually made me feel validated.  My feelings, my situation, my struggles were unique.  Following that statement, she encouraged me by telling me that I was a strong, caring, and competent mom.   She told me she had no advice to offer, but she would listen.  She would care.  She would walk with me. 

            I am blessed with some very special friends who also have some of the same struggles I do, but none of my friends share all my struggles, and I don’t need them to.  I always assumed that “bearing one another’s burdens” required personal experience, extensive knowledge or both to be truly effective.  I no longer believe that.  You don’t need to have lost a spouse, battled cancer or experienced the sting of unemployment to be a good friend; you need to be willing to hear their stories, to see their pain and to bow your head with them as they wrestle with God, waiting for Him to lay words of encouragement on your heart.  There is something to be said for solidarity and camaraderie, but at the end of the day, if you want to be Jesus to a hurting person, leave the wisdom to the experts, the healing to The Great Physician, and simply walk with them.  

The Prego and the Pitbull

But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

1Samuel 16:7

There is supposed to be an order with labor and delivery, that goes as follows:  mom begins contracting, contractions increase in length and intensity while decreasing in spacing, water breaks, mom dilates, mom pushes, baby is born.  This would always be the order and rhythm of birth, if not for one little hiccup:  babies can't read.  

One lovely spring evening, I was visiting a client whose little one decided to jumble up the "order" a bit, making mom uncomfortable and certain that birth was near, but hinting that perhaps it wasn't quite "go time" yet.  In the interest of having her husband rested for the "main event," mom-to-be decided this was a good time for a walk, just the two of us.  As we headed toward the sidewalk, a third party approached our mama-doula-duo ... 

With ears perked upright, she walked slowly toward me.  Though smaller than typical, her facial features, brindle coloring and muscular physique were unmistakable.  Whether young, or mixed with a smaller breed, I was not certain, but I was completely confident that a pit bull was headed my way.  She did not charge, nor did she make a sound, but it was clear that she was not the least bit afraid of me.  Unsure of what would happen next, I simply stood there, allowing her to come closer.  Circling slowly, she sniffed me cautiously, then ran toward my client.

There was no time to be afraid for her.  In an instant, this curious canine was right next to a very expectant mother, of whom I felt very responsible.  Fortunately, there was no cause for concern, as the dog happily wagged her tail approvingly-- first at my client, then at me.  In that moment, I remembered the tendency of "bully breeds" to be protective-- even nurturing toward expectant mothers and small children.  She had no intention of attacking us, she was simply protecting a fellow female and her offspring, and wanted to make sure MY intentions were good.  

While I enjoyed our moment of estrogen solidarity, I had certainly expected it to end when we walked past our canine compadre's abode.  Surprisingly, she joined ranks and walked right next to my client, creating a physical barrier between the mother-to-be and the road.  When we walked, she walked.  When a contraction came, she stopped as I applied counter-pressure to my client's back.  When a car drove by, she would circle us protectively.  She never barked at the oncoming vehicles, but her eyes were ever-watchful.  

Though we urged our faithful walking buddy to go home, she was unrelenting of her "post," until a familiar car drove up with her owner inside.  As he apologized profusely for her "bothering us," we explained that we simply did not want her to get lost, or for her human to think she'd gone missing.  Waving to our furry friend and her "person," we continued our walk.  

In between contractions, we discussed how sweet and loyal the dog had been, and what a shame it was that the breed once called "Nanny Dogs," due to their former positions to look after young children, had, In recent history, been inbred, tortured and trained to fight to the death.  Clearly, this dog had not been raised in such a fashion, yet, due to her DNA, she would most likely be labeled throughout her life as a "dangerous dog."  We knew differently, however-- we knew this noble beast would someday be a part of a special little girl's birth story.  

That night, as I drove home for a few hours asleep before "rip roaring labor" began, I thought more about labels.  As humans, it is in our nature to judge one another by past experience, preconceived ideas, cultural bias, economic status ... The list goes on.  We have to work exceedingly hard to look past what we think we know about others, and try as we may, we all fail more often than not.  Our human hearts, eyes and minds are truly limited.  

God, however, is limitless in His ability to see each and every person for who they really, truly are.  He is not fooled, nor is He surprised by last names, bank account balances or even the history of our countless failures.  While He does not high-five us for losing it with the kids or speeding in a school zone, He is able to see the the beautiful traits we all possess-- inside and out, amidst our brokenness.  If we are willing to simply ask, He is more than willing to forgive our mistakes, heal our hurts and encourage us to use the gifts He has given us.  

And perhaps, one of the greatest gifts Christ has given His church is a blessing we choose not to utilize.  We have the power of The Holy spirit living inside of us, yet we choose to simply rely on our human eyes to see those around us.  What would happen to our families, our communities, even our world at large if we looked at one another as Jesus does?  May this be our prayer:  that we might change our outlook, which, in turn, will change our thoughts, our actions and our effectiveness as we strive to become the Hands and Feet of Christ. 

The Warrior and the Rainbow: a true account of bravery, love and beauty after the storm

Weeping may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.
Psalm 30:5b

Once upon a time, there was a brave, caring and beautiful warrior.  She had endured many storms in her life, but she had weathered them with grace and dignity.  She was ready for a moment in the sun.  Though life at home had had more cloudy days than clear, she was thrilled to know that a little life was growing inside of her.  "This," she thought, "will change my life."

              And it did, but not in ways she expected. 

            Clouds rolled in, cramping and pain thundered through her, and as the tell-tale signs of a miscarriage were coldly confirmed in the emergency room, down came the rain.  

            Though little Zachary could never be replaced in her heart, a beautiful blessing in the form of another little life was on the horizon.  Though scars from that storm had not yet healed, she welcomed the little ray of sunshine growing healthy and strong inside of her.  This time, she could wear maternity clothes, have baby showers, and prepare a room.  She bathed in the sunlight of fresh starts, new beginnings and hope.  Suddenly, it began to hail.

            As the precious baby prepared to meet her mother, another loved one was slipping away, years before her time.  Wrought with grief and exhaustion, the signal of labor was bittersweet.  Her journey to her mother’s arms, likewise, was unpredictable, difficult and covered with many dark, cloudy moments.  But when that little sunny-side up face came into view, the skyline changed dramatically.

            With the birth of Allison Charlotte, loved ones who had been sobbing and shaking their fists in the air to question God dried their eyes and, for the first time in days, felt inexpressible joy.  She came when she knew she was needed most, this little rainbow baby.

            More storms would come before her first birthday, causing the brave warrior to fight for the safety and well-being of her child.  My, how it rained.  And yet, with one look into her daughter’s face, she knew this storm served a purpose and would not last forever.

            As time marched on, her mother noticed the brilliance and turbulent storms constantly waging within her daughter.  Autism might be the technical name for it, but I see it as one more reason that my goddaughter, Allison, is truly a rainbow baby.  She is smart as a whip, fiercely loving and full of sunshine and enthusiasm, yet the need for rigidity, crippling anxiety, social uncertainties and sensory struggles can bring heavy black clouds into the simplest of tasks.  But her mother helps, supports, guides, soothes, and, perhaps most of all—she waits.  She knows that without the storming amidst her brilliance, there would be no rainbow. 

Happy 6^th Birthday, Allison Charlotte!

Happy 6^th Rainbow Birth Anniversary, Jillian!

All My Love,

“Auntie Mamy”  

Sister Mary Catherine

 Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Matthew 5:11

            I’ve always been a square peg in a round hole world.  I remember trying as a kid to be like other children, and woefully failing.  I’m sure some of that was due to my being a little girl with ADHD at a time when only little boys were on the radar for such things, but my desire to sing early in the morning and my inability to stop talking and eat my lunch was only part of the quirky little puzzle known as yours truly.  I was also one of the few kids I knew in school who went to church.  I didn’t go to birthday parties that were scheduled on Sunday mornings.  I didn’t listen to music that had swearing or sex in it.  Even in elementary school, that made me different, and one more reason why I stuck out like a sore thumb.  I remember clinging to teachers for companionship and support during the first nine years of school, a sort of “substitute mom” until I could return to the safety of my home, where I was loved, not just in spite of, but because of my uniqueness.  Understandably, I wanted to be protected and defended from a world that didn’t seem to understand or like me.    

            By the time high school rolled around, the few kids who had a beef with me, my faith or both didn’t bother me, because I had found “my tribe”—the art and music freaks and geeks.  In that group of students, there were people of no faith, differing faiths and my faith.  I had friends who smoked, drank and did drugs, as well as some who abstained.  I had gotten used to affectionately being called, “Sister Mary Catherine” by friends whose lifestyles varied from mine.  They didn’t see me as a threat.  Ironically, in high school, my opposition came from two teachers.

            I remember sitting in art class, while a substitute teacher eyed me warily.  I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary for me, but she didn’t trust me.  She brought me up to her desk and said, “Alright, just tell the truth.  What are you on?”  I told her nothing.  She asked me what on earth could make my pupils that big and cause me to smile this early in the morning.  I told her the truth—I professed the name of the One who had made my pupils that big and gave me a reason to smile during first period: JESUS. 

            Apparently, that was proof I was on something, and I was sent to the nurse.  When I popped my head into her office, the dear lady who saw me every day for my hypoglycemia snacks couldn’t help but laugh.  She knew my pupils were naturally large, I loved art class and yes, I loved Jesus.  We had a chuckle about it and she sent me back to class.  It was a little weird, but certainly not a life-changing occurrence. 

            My science teacher (We’ll call him Mr. K), however, attacked my faith directly.  A student teacher, who was also a Christian, had taught with Mr. K earlier in the year.  Among many other life lessons, the student teacher shared with me the importance of studying evolution, because it was school curriculum.  He told me that the outside world will never respect and consider your views if you don’t know where they’re coming from, where you agree and where your views differ.  However, if I chose to do a separate report on the Intelligent Design theory (with reputable sources to back up my position), I could share it during the last five minutes of class for extra credit. 

When we were almost done with our evolution chapter, I went to Mr. K. and told him I was ready to schedule my extra credit report.  He snorted, shook his head and said, “Why would anyone listen to you?  I will not permit you to waste my time on this mythological B.S.”

Shocked and angry, I brought this information to my principal.  My teacher was forced to apologize, but I was never permitted to share my data (He always “ran out of class time”).  I got a decent grade in his class, but Mr. K never looked at me the same after that discussion.  In his eyes, my faith made me an idiot.  I couldn’t get a note from the nurse clearing my name this time. 

Jesus knew more about this feeling than anyone.  He’d been called crazy, a liar, a blasphemer and worse.  The way He loved, the words He spoke and the mission He came to complete made him a target.  He knew we would someday be insulted, hated and, in some parts of the world, even killed for being who He had called us to be.  He said we would be BLESSED because of it. 

Does anybody else struggle with this one?  It would be easy if we were called to be different and were encouraged to freak out on people who insult us.  I’d be all over debating to the death in my defense—it’s what passionate people do!  But we are called to simply love those who hate us, lie about us and yes, even those who wish us harm, and let Him be our avenger.  UUUUUUUGH, I don’t wanna!  I’ll love ‘em, but I want to have my say!  Unfortunately, Jesus didn’t put a rebuttal clause in to loving those who hate you.  Sometimes you have the opportunity to respond, sometimes you don’t.  But if Jesus could keep silent and love as He died for the sins of all humanity (yours truly included), surely I can rest in knowing that the same God who made me quirky, loud and enthusiastic will equip me to love in the face of adversity.

               

I'm Here

"As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you ..."

Isaiah 66:13a

My Sweet Wyatt,

            It’s been a wild night, hasn’t it?  What I’m about to say might seem odd now, but I think someday you’ll understand. 

I don’t know what the future holds for you, but I do hope it includes parenthood.  I say that, not only because I am ecstatic at the thought of spoiling grand kids, but because I want you to know how much I really do love you.  Yes, even when you yell, scream, threaten and say hateful things to me.  But you can’t understand that until you’re on the other side of the door, listening to a screaming child from the outside. 

When you were little, so much of the world overwhelmed you, but comforting you was tricky.  I couldn’t give you eye contact, you didn’t like to rock, there could be no noise and yet you needed to know I was there.  I often would hold you facing out, so you could feel my presence and “check out” at the same time. 

Now that you’re older, your needs are different.  You are still overwhelmed by the world sometimes, but your meltdowns are very different.  In stead of banging your head repeatedly, throwing every object in your room at the wall or screaming a single tone incessantly, you throw words at me.  I want you to know, I’m still here.  I know by the frightened look in your eyes that you don’t mean, or even truly understand the hateful phrases you hurl at me.  While I may need to step away from you, or even leave the room for a while, I’m still here.  I have not given up on you.  I never will.

I also know that when you begin to calm down, the overwhelming guilt from words and actions that felt so out of your control will wash over you.  I wish I had a stronger rebuttal for your self-criticisms, but I want you to know that I mean these words with every fiber of my being.  You are NOT a mistake.  If given the choice, I wouldn't change you.  Autism is not a character flaw or a disease.  It is part of you that I love very much.  If you didn't have autism, while it’s true that you wouldn't have so many meltdowns, you also wouldn't have cracked the phonics code at three years of age.  You wouldn't be able to calculate (in your head, no less!) the exact number of chips in a bag.  You wouldn't draw valentines with video game characters proclaiming their love for me.  Half of the awesomeness I post on my Facebook page would vanish without your wit, quirky humor and amazing heart.  Your gifts are worth the work. 

I do not know what the future holds, son.  I don’t know what you’ll need, or how I will meet those needs as the teen and adult years approach.  It scares me sometimes.  I’m sure, just like now, I will have to try my darnedest and fail often.  I know you will someday be bigger, taller and stronger than I am.  You probably won’t want to rock on my lap, as you do now.  You might even want to live on your own when you graduate.  And yet, amidst the uncertainty, this much I know: we do not walk this journey alone.  As I do my best to comfort you, The Father will shower us with His perfect love and guidance.  It is because I know He walks with me, I can promise you this, Wyatt: as long as there is breath in my body, I’m here. 

All my love,

Mom 

Scar Stories

“… and by his wounds we are healed.”

~Isaiah 53:5b

Inspiration comes from the strangest of places when you’re me-- my chickens, food (okay, LOTS of food), laundry soap … clearly, God knows that I am one abstract chick, so He goes outside the box when reminding me of life lessons.  Today’s journey takes us to the pediatrician’s office …

            My poor little buddy- if there is one thing you do not need in elementary school, it’s an additional target for teasing.  We’ve dodged a lot of the icky boogities (that is too a word, my mama told me so!) that seem to love children.  No head lice (thank you, LORD, for boys with short hair!), scabies or impetigo have crept into our homes yet, but we did have to take one of my kids in to get a wart removed from his finger.  He wasn’t afraid of the treatment, he wasn’t afraid of the doctor, but he was quite mortified that anyone aside from his mom would know what lurked beneath the bandage.

            We had tried every over-the-counter medication and a few homeopathic remedies, but this little menace kept coming back.  It was time to bring in the big guns; in this case, a liquid nitrogen variety. 

            As we sat in the office, waiting for the doctor, I could tell my son was nervous.  As a mother, it’s my job to calm him down, reassure him and be a safe place for him.  While I was trying to do that on the outside, on the inside, I was thinking, “Oh dear, I didn’t trim his fingernails!  They’re going to think this is just a lack of hygiene and bad parenting issue, I’m sure of it!  We used hand sanitizer on the way in, but did he wash his hands before we left?  I can’t remember.  His ears are clean, that’s something.  Wait-- is that toothpaste on his shoulder?  Oh well, at least he’ll know I make him brush his teeth …”  Hmmmmm, can you imagine where my child would get these irrational fears of his? 

            When the doctor came in, I braced myself for questions regarding what we had and hadn’t tried, washing regimens and the like, but what I witnessed was quite the opposite.  This dear man (who, I found out later, is also a father of three little boys himself) gently approached my son, asked to see his fingers, took a few notes and then held out his own hands, to reveal several tiny scars.  He told us that warts just seem to love little kids, and when he was young, he had them all over his hands and feet.  He empathized that they can be embarrassing and hard to get rid of, but he would do his best to take care of things as quickly and painlessly as he could. 

            I don’t know what it is about doctors, but it seems so easy to forget that they, like the rest of us are people.  They don’t start out life in miniature lab coats and nitrile exam gloves, they start out as little kids, just like the rest of us.  They get colds, break their arms, and yes, they too can get warts!  They live in the same world we do, with the same frail bodies.  Because their job is to heal, we forget that there are times when they too, need healing of their own. 

            I began to think about what life would be like as Christians if we, in stead of strutting about proclaiming our vast knowledge of how to live a perfect life, spent time with hurting people and showing our “scars.”  Hope feels a whole lot more real when you know that the life-changing gospel isn’t just something mature Christians read about to help those “poor, lost sinners.”  The world needs to know that we don't just share The Word to help others, but because it is our hope and saving grace!

            Just as the doctor had to risk someone thinking less of him by discussing a virus he had in his youth, we too, risk others removing us from a pedestal.  Frankly, can hurt one’s pride quite a bit—and maybe that’s needed.  We all know that Jesus was willing to sacrifice himself for us, but his humility began much earlier.  The God of the universe was willing to take human form from a very humble family.  Of his own free will, he chose to sleep in a feed box, poop in a diaper, skin his knees, maybe even get a pimple or two in his teen years, hang out with fishermen and endure the human experience at large, just so he could empathize with us.

As Jesus stretches out his nail-scarred hands to help us, are we willing to follow his example?  Will we reach out to others, sharing our lives, “warts and all?”  

Close to home: Amy's "Quit blaming society" rant

            I hear people frequently blaming the cultural shift toward violence, narcissism, lawlessness and bullying on the lack of prayer in school.  As someone who grew up in a post-school prayer culture, I disagree.  I believe the shift began a generation or two beforehand, and the answer doesn’t lie in changing how the school operates. 

            It may shock a few people when I tell you that I, an out loud, in public, self-proclaimed Christian tell you that I don’t actually want a corporate-led school prayer in my kids’ school.  Why?  Because my children go to public school, and we would have to include the beliefs (or lack thereof) of all families in said prayer.  It would be watered down, meaningless and, I believe, would not please God any more than the pledge of allegiance.  Do I think schools need prayer?  YES!  Do I think teachers and students should pray both on and off campus?  YES!  But this does not begin at school, dear readers, I believe it begins at HOME—but more about that later …

            I believe there were many parents in the mid-twentieth century who were rather relieved to know that Sunday school teachers and public school teachers alike were teaching their children about God, because it got them “off the hook.”  Drop them off at Sunday school, endure an hour of church and put them in a good school district, and you’re covered, right?  Throw in a memorized prayer at mealtime and bedtime (no need to bother explaining what they mean) and you can spend much of your life uncluttered by God.  No answering tricky questions, no moral dilemmas, just do what you must to ensure that your sons don’t go to prison and your daughters don’t end up in a family way. 

            My mother didn’t grow up in a home like that.  Yes, they prayed in school, but her home life was different than many of her peers.  Her father, until his last year of life, rejected the idea of God entirely.  He didn’t darken the door of a church unless someone was getting married or buried, and didn’t so much as close his eyes during prayers before meals.  My Grandma, uncles and mother went to church without grandpa, and he didn’t care who knew it.  He didn’t mind everyone else in the house going, but he didn’t want to talk about it.  And yet, my mother and uncles are believers to this day. 

Why did that happen?  I believe it occurred because my grandmother didn’t expect anyone else to teach her family about God.  She read her Bible, not just in Church, but every day.  Her prayers were not limited to church and mealtimes, they were an integral part of her life.  Her faith was not a social obligation like the PTA or gardening club, it was part of her life.  This legacy would help my mother to raise her daughters in a post-church society.    

            Most of my life, I was raised in the most un-churched state in the nation, in a time when only a handful of kids went to church and schools didn’t mention the name of God, under threat of lawsuits.  I was taught evolution, that protection was important because “After all, you crazy kids are gonna do it anyway,” and that my self esteem was the most important aspect of my life.  That, however, is not what I believed then, nor is it what I believe now. 

            My parents, like their parents before them, lived out their faith as part of our daily life.  My mother didn’t shelter me from what the school taught me, she simply explained how we believed differently and why. (For example, I was taught that yes, I was unique, special and wonderful-- and so was EVERYONE ELSE, which is why treating them with love and respect was important to God, therefore, important to us.)  She prayed for me in the car when a test was coming or a bully was bothering me, and I could feel her prayers during the day.  I knew that I could pray anytime, anywhere, and I did.  My childhood and adult life were different from many of my peers, not because I went to a Christian school, or lived in some sort of time warp (as it was rumored in my high school, where my nickname was “Sister Mary Catherine").  My parents’ living out our faith in a way that was as natural as breathing, however, was responsible.

         It's not as easy as my parents made it look, for sure.  Sleeping in on some Sundays would be awesome.  My children ask questions at inconvenient times.  I have to tell my children why what I just did is not what we believe, and APOLOGIZE for being a bad example. *cringe*  I'll come out and say it, sometimes fulfilling my parental obligation to teach my children is a pain.  It would be easier if I let the school be responsible for more of my kids' outcome, but it's really not their job.  Just as it's my job to teach them manners, so they don't belch at their teachers while learning geometry, it's my job to raise moral, loving, interdependent children.  EEK!  Here's another reason why living out my faith is so important, on my own, I'm not so good at this. I need the prayer, Bible reading and faith-building as much as my children do-- maybe more.   

           

          My hope is that we stop blaming society for how our kids grow up.  If you look back to biblical history, ours is not the first to have to raise children counter to the culture in which we live.  If we want God back in other parts of our society, we need to start where all learning begins-- at home.  

Notebook Paper Protective Covering (and other doomed ideas)

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD.

Isaiah 55:8

Cooler evenings are a wonderful break for we, the web-footed Washingtonians, who become grumpy and lethargic when our thermostats dare break past 85.  One particularly toasty day had caused a case of the uber-grumps.  As soon as the temperature on our front porch read lower than our family room, I grabbed a bowl and headed out to pick huckleberries.  My eldest son, Alan, soon followed, saying his brother wouldn't join him, because he was "working on something."  That "something" is in the photo you see above you-- well, that's one of them, anyway ...

Wyatt was rather toasty still, and couldn't find his shorts.  Rather than ask for help, he decided to walk outside in his little boxer-briefs and two pieces of paper, both of which read: "Too gross to see." 

He explained that he was too hot to wear pants, and didn't want us to get a ticket for "indecent exposure."  While I was fairly certain that our local sheriff's department would probably see my son as more of an adorable source of amusement than cause for a fine, I told him we should probably find another way to help him keep cool.  

"No, mommy," my son protested, I'm just fine like this!  As long as I don't move sideways and I always hold my signs, nobody will see that I'm wearing just my underwear.  I will stay cool and I won't be breaking any laws.  My plan will work!"       

I asked him how he could pick berries, play on the swing set or ride his scooter like that, and asked him if he was sure he didn't want me to help him think of another solution-- which lead to my little man dropping his signs, curling up into a ball on my porch and sobbing, "My plans just NEVER work!  My whole day will be TERRIBLE!"  

With that, my heart hurt for my defeated son-- not just because he was so upset, but because he felt unnecessarily hopeless.  I knew right where his shorts were in his drawer, and I would have been happy to help him.  Unfortunately, Wyatt's encounters two gigantic hurdles when dealing with situations like this: 1.) he has to look at the situation from an angle he did not previously calculate or expect, and 2.) he has to ask for help.  Those may seem like little speed bumps to you, but for someone on the autism spectrum, they are mountains.  

My first instinct was to scoop him up, bring him inside and put on his shorts for him.  That would be less drama for everyone, right?  Well, in the short term, yes.  However, these skills will not become less of a need in his life, nor will they become easier without practice.  I have to walk the tedious, repetitious and frequently frustrating road of gently coaching him, but not forcing him.  Empowering him, but not enabling him to sit back and expect that someone else will always do things for him, especially if he does not communicate the need for assistance.  It's exhausting.  It's relentless.  It's --exactly what God does with me.  

I cannot count the number of times I have conjured up what I had conceived to be the perfect plan for my life.  In my little human perception, I had thought everything through, and all I needed was for God to secure my little paper plans in place, and I'd be SET!  I hadn't bothered asking God for his opinion on the matter, since, after all, I had it all worked out!  "Just bring on the supernatural superglue, LORD, and I'm good to go!" 

When He says "no" to helping me bring a doomed plan into fruition, I seldom even consider that I'm being spared from something disastrous.  No, I generally sit on my bed, wondering when I will come up with the perfect plan, lamenting how hard my life will be, since I can't have what I THINK I want or need. 

Finding the right path in my life takes two difficult steps: 1.) I have to admit that I might not have the best plan, and I need God's help (Mmmmmm, who wants a slice of humble pie?)  and 2.) I have to be willing to look at a situation in a way that might not even make sense to me.  

Once Wyatt got calm enough to ask me for help, he was NOT impressed with the suggestion I gave him.  I told him I would show him where they were in his drawer.  "No, mama-- they're not there!  I know they're not, because I already looked!"  Because I know my son, I know that he doesn't always look past the first layer in any given area.  I knew the shorts were UNDER the pants he had deemed "too hot to wear."  It took a lot of coaching, patience I do not naturally possess and biting my lip (at times until it nearly bled) for a good thirty minutes before we got this kiddo in shorts.  As I began to feel a sense of great accomplishment and just a hint of pride, I remembered how many days, weeks, months and sometimes YEARS God patiently waits for me to come around to His perfect, wonderful and amazingly compassionate plan for me!  

I'm so thankful that He doesn't just leave me locked outside, holding my pathetic little paper signs, convinced I've got it all figured out.  I've said many times that there is no manual for raising a highly inflexible, hyper-focused, highly intelligent, yet lacking in reason child like Wyatt, forgetting that my Heavenly Father made both my children!  He is on call 24/7, waiting for me to simply ask Him for guidance and possibly embrace a new avenue!  I know I certainly didn't expect spiritual growth to come from my son tromping outside in His skivvies-- just more proof that His ways are NOT our ways! 

An iPad, Glow in the dark bubbles, and a trip to Bora-Bora

Those are just a few of the items on Wyatt's birthday list-- or rather, his animated powerpoint presentation.  He was rather offended that I wouldn't give him birthday spankings (some traditions are just unwise when you live with a highly literal autistic child!), but he reveled in his special day none the less.  Birthdays with Wyatt have always been like my boy himself-- a little off the beaten path, but a genuine celebration of life. 

Wyatt's first birthday had me panicking about something completely stupid-- my toddler was not toddling.  I remember trying to help him take steps while holding my hands-- he wasn't having any of it.  I had no idea at the time that my son was autistic, I just assumed that he needed a gentle nudge in the right direction.  By the time our guests were arriving, I let my agenda slide for the first time all day and admitted defeat.  "Oh well," I thought to myself, "I'll just let him play with paper and bows and smash cake all over his highchair.  I'm sure Einstein wasn't walking by his first birthday, either."

When I let go of my plans for the day, I enjoyed watching my son reveling in the crinkling paper (while ignoring his presents).  While the cake was mysterious at first, once he got going, he coated everything within his reach in frosting.  Because I let go of his lack of walking, I was able to enjoy my son.  

We've had our share of "unique" birthdays.  We had years when we had to whisper the birthday song (while facing the opposite direction), just so Wyatt wouldn't get overwhelmed and cry.  To help Wyatt tolerate people at his parties, we let him watch movies while we opened his presents. He had cake and Veggietales-- what was not to like?  Again, this is probably not in Martha Stewart's "how to entertain" manual, but Wyatt loved it.  

Now that he's a big eight-year-old, he enjoys the birthday song.  He still loves having control of the remote on his birthday, but he also loves being with us now.  Also, I wouldn't dare attempt to open his presents now-- he enjoys it far too much!  

That being said, we still keep things low-key.  Not too many friends, no pinatas (again, an ASD can of worms I do NOT wish to open) and Chuck E. Cheese is always warned to stay FAR AWAY from my mascot-loathing son.  And just when I think I've got this all figured out, Wyatt starts fretting over the weather forecast (even though his party will be INDOORS) or asks for a trip to Bora Bora for his birthday.  Perhaps the only thing I should expect on June first is the unexpected-- which, as I have learned first hand, can often be quite wonderful.  

As I stroked the sweat-dampened hair of my youngest son tonight, I thought about what a gift my son has been to ME for the past eight years.  Unexpected?  Always.  Frustrating?  Often.  Worth every minute of it? ALWAYS!!!  

My precious little boy, thank you for changing my life in ways I never knew I needed.  I can't give you Bora Bora, but I promise to continually fight for you, love you no mater what and bathe you in prayer as long as I have breath in my body.  Happy Birthday, Wyatt!  

Point, Click, Purchase

Black Friday was rather unconventional for me this year. Normally, I’m hopping out of bed at 4:00, putting on my Christmas sweater and heading to Cutters Point for my first 24 oz. quad shot rice milk peppermint white mocha of the season. Why? Because I’m headed to Fred Meyer, Kohl’s and (if I’m feeling especially brave) Wal-Mart, of course! My mommy, sisters and I head out and shop till we drop, hoping to have all our Christmas presents (plus our families’ holiday clothes, winter jammies, socks and underthings for the year) purchased at rock-bottom prices by lunch time. This year, however, was fairly unconventional.

First of all, I wasn’t in my neck of the woods—I was chillin’ with my parents in Ocean Shores! I had intended to possibly drive thirty minutes to Aberdeen (the closest chain-shopping area), but that didn’t happen. After a full day of cooking, I was exhausted. At seven weeks post-surgery, my energy level, while leaps and bounds higher than it was in the hospital, is still not at 100%. I woke up a good four hours later than I usually do on Black Friday and only purchased 7 gifts. My money may not have all been spent—but I sure was! The rest of my shopping was done in my parents’ living room online. Point, click and purchase.

This year, I needed the simplicity that online shopping offers, and I’m glad I did it. However, I’ll be happy when next year rolls around and I’m in ship-(shopping) shape! I don’t mind grabbing the odd specialty item on amazon.com, but doing the majority of my purchasing in front of a screen left me feeling hollow. After a few days of reflecting, I understand why …

Even if I’m sitting next to my sisters on “Laptop Island” (otherwise known as my parents’ living room couch), I’m looking at a blaring monitor, not them. Having someone send you a link from four feet away doesn’t feel the same as Laura holding up an article of clothing and squealing, “Sissy, look at this!”

I missed the greeters at Fred Meyer, who offer a smile, hot cider, coffee and doughnuts to all the shoppers. I missed talking to strangers in the sock aisle. Even the simple act of being handed a receipt feels better to this extrovert than a confirmation email— clearly, I NEED face time!

Purchasing the gifts themselves felt less like shopping and more like paying a bill. My transaction doesn’t feel “real,” because I don’t have anything in my hands. When I leave a store, I have presents in my pretty holiday bags. Online gifts, however, arrive a week later in ugly cardboard boxes. It feels cold and impersonal.

Even if I know precisely what I’m looking for, there’s something about going down the aisle and choosing the gift myself. Even if there are dozens of identical items, the object I hold in my hand is exclusively for someone I love. How do I know that someone in a warehouse isn’t going to grab a scratched, dented box? I don’t. Even if inspector #29 really cares about his/her job, I know they don’t care like I do. After four thousand dolls cross their conveyer belt, will they notice that this particular specimen is having a really bad hair day? Probably not—after all, they only see a toy. As an auntie, however, I see a precious playmate for my niece, which I would prefer not to look as though she has had an unfortunate episode with a light socket.

So much of the communication in our lives today feels terribly impersonal. Facebook with my family is a blast, but it doesn’t compare with our genuine time together. There is no emoticon that adequately captures Janet’s “snerd face.” LOL does not truly express Laura’s infectious, doubled-over laughter. “*Hug*” cannot possibly encourage, comfort or express my mother’s love. While technology has its place in my life, it will never replace my need to be with family and friends.

As I say this, my list of things to do is already reeling in my head. This time of year, when my schedule becomes crazier than usual, it’s so easy to miss out on time with people in the name of preparing their gifts, food and cards. Perhaps I’ll put a sticky note on my monitor to remind me of the importance of scheduling genuine “face time.”