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!