...His love and provision...

I watched him wandering, trying to find the group he was supposed to be in.  I had seen him ambling aimlessly from the tent where the kids had been for their Bible lesson, so I had intercepted him as he tried to score a second snack for the night, and headed him in the direction of his group.  I had removed a huge pile of grass from his head too--I was  guessing he didn’t get much out of the Bible lesson. 

He knew what a soccer game was, and what the objective of the game was, but with all the distractions of the other kids and the great outdoors around him, he was unable to focus enough to actually play the game.  He lay down in the middle of the field, fortunately away from where the kids were running and kicking the ball.  Not the safest thing to do in the middle of a soccer field where a game was being played.  Then the game headed in his direction, someone almost tripped over him, and he jumped up.  He alternated between experimenting with pulling his pinny over his face (it‘s fun to look through the mesh at the altered perspective of the world through a red pinny), then running madly around the field chasing one of his teammates.  He wasn‘t coordinated enough to be able to get a kick in at the ball, though he did try a few times when one of his coaches attempted to show him how to play “defense.”  But the other kids were faster and kept the ball away from him.  He quickly lost interest when he was unable to get to the ball.

Our church does a soccer camp for school-age children instead of a Vacation Bible School for those ages.  Somewhere in the muddle of my smallest one‘s attempt at the First Night of Soccer Camp, I made the decision that this would be his first and last night of soccer camp for the year.  He just was not ready, even for the youngest group.  By the end of the week, he would either wander away and get lost, or place himself squarely in harm’s way and get hurt. 

I was still weary from unpacking after a (very lovely) vacation at the beach.  I was frustrated with trying to figure out where this boy fit.  He had done okay at Bible School last year, (at least not getting lost or hurt) but he had been somewhat confined indoors at Bible School.  Less opportunity for random wandering and physical injury.  But this year, he was too old for Bible School.  I had asked if the organizers would make an exception because of his autism, but the answer had been “no.”

As I watched my little boy in various group settings in the last few months, I was observing that he seemed to need a one-on-one adult, or at least an adult sitting close by to keep an eye on him, in almost all situations where he was part of a large group.  That is a lot to ask--volunteers for Bible School, Sunday School, and Awana groups are almost always at a premium.  I myself am pretty well fried from homeschooling for the last 8 years, from trying to stay a step ahead of my little guy 24/7, and the challenges that go with living with a mental illness.  There is no way I have it in me to volunteer for a group of kids at this time in my life.  And it felt unfair to me to send a high maintenance child to an activity that I am not able to volunteer to help out with.  I’ve done it at various times, but always with some guilt hanging over my head.

I began to run over the options of fun things I could do with him to soften the blow of pulling him from soccer camp after the first night.  I had thought about trying to send him to another Bible School, from another church, where they would have a class for his age.  But I was not sure. Likely he would be with a group of kids and adults who don’t even know him.  He would  need close supervision, if not his very own volunteer.  Arrgh...what to do?  But soccer camp was definitely not the answer.

As I was pondering the looming question of “what to do with the youngest boy?” our pastor, in heading to a point beyond me on the field, intersected with my path.  I was asked the inevitable question of “how are you doing?” which I hate to answer when I am not happy (i was quite grumpy at that point).  It feels dishonest to answer with a smile and “I’m fine! isn‘t it a beautiful evening?” when I am not so great at the moment and the evening‘s beauty is lost on me for the time being.  But it also seems rude to answer a pleasantry with “well, I am tired and irritated right about now.”  This time, honesty won out, and we spent several minutes discussing the challenge of figuring out where this boy would best fit into church activities for children of his age. 

Our church is large, and the children’s activities generally involve big groups of kids.  This obviously presents an ongoing difficulty for a child who does not do well in a large group.  Another difficulty is the fact that, although he is six years old, quite tall for his age (he is taller than two of my nieces who turn eight this summer) and precocious in some things (those things that he enjoys with a single minded focus that makes him a little expert ahead of his time), his maturity level reminds me of where my other two children were at about four to five years old (he needs very clearly defined boundaries--almost like a toddler at times, and still needs to be watched closely when he is in unfamiliar territory, due to not knowing where danger lies and his tendency to wander off and become absorbed in his own world). 

I had been a bit hurt and frustrated when I found out that he would not be able to attend Bible School with the younger children.  In spite of his autism and the fact that he was not ready for soccer camp, the age rule was firmly in place.  But I also understand that there are times when rules can be adjusted to make room for special situations, and that there are times when it is not advisable to do so.  I was not in charge of the Bible School; so in spite of how i felt about it, I tried to give the benefit of the doubt to those who were.  However, it still left me hung out to dry, with a little boy who understood that for some reason he was not accepted--everybody else was going to Bible School or Soccer Camp--but with not enough understanding to know why.

I was a bit hesitant to air my frustrations to the pastor--he was not in charge of soccer camp and Bible School, though he did help out with them at times.  But even though he wasn’t in charge of them, it was an area that he had oversight of; and I did not want to be insulting or come across as accusing him of doing a poor job.  I think that he does a very good job.   I didn’t need to worry though--he was pretty understanding of my dilemma due to what he remembered from the time his wife worked with autistic children.  He understood where we were coming from--there seemed to be a place for everyone else...but not my little guy.  Although I had been assured by the Bible School organizer that it wasn’t a personal rejection, that they were just abiding by the age rule; to a little boy who was not able to engage with--or safely participate--in the activities for his age group, it was a rejection of sorts, whether it was meant to be or not.

But as I talked, another question rose in my mind too.  Why was I hurt and angry?  What debt was owed to me?  What made me feel entitled to having the program adjusted for my child?  What made me feel entitled to someone, anyone, understanding the difficulty in helping him to interact with his peers?  Why did I feel entitled to being able to find a place for him at our church, in the children‘s activities?  No one person or organization can meet everyone’s need.

Could it be that the church owes me nothing?  Christ has paid all for me on the cross.  Yes, the Bible says that as Christians, we are known by our love...but that does not mean that just because I am a church member, that I am owed love or understanding by the other members.  If God chooses to meet our needs through people in our home church, that is wonderful.  But maybe He will not choose to work through them, this time. 

Those who give love, kindness, and understanding, give it freely just as Christ gave freely when He died on the cross.  But when I expect it, I set myself up for disappointment.  We are all human and there will be times we will let others down, intentionally or unintentionally.  There will be times when, no matter how good the program, it will not meet the needs of everyone.  I would be better off to be grateful when I do receive kindness, understanding, and acceptance, but not to expect it.  God is bigger than one church.  He will take care of my needs.

But at least I had received understanding, even if there was still no good way to blend this kiddo into our church’s summer kids’ activities.  As the pastor and I chatted, we also watched my son continue to make a pretty good case for his not being ready for a rousing game of soccer with his peers.  But it was suddenly okay.  I was still sad that my little guy felt rejected from Bible School, and I knew I was going to add insult to injury at the end of the night when I told him he couldn’t do soccer camp for this year.  But God had sent someone to hear and understand, even though the ongoing dilemma of trying to find a place for my boy in his world was still going to be there from time to time. 

This listening and trying to understand...this certainly must be a big part of “bearing one another’s burdens.”  It lightened the burden that had been resting heavily on me.

And, the next night, a little church just out the road from our house began their Bible School.  I knew a few people who attended there, but had never visited it.  I had seen their VBS sign as I traveled to and from home the last few days, and realized that this might be an answer to my little guy’s longing to go to Bible School.  It was.

This new Bible School is a small Bible School, for all ages of elementary school youngsters, and all indoors.  (Small groups with little chances for escape are awesome.)  The pastor who welcomed us the first night said that there were two other Bible School students with autism, and that it was no problem to have my son there.  They were familiar with some of the issues that arise, and they would keep an eye on him. 

When I picked my little boy up at the end of the night, he was beaming.  He announced that he was definitely going back for the rest of the week.  When I asked the pastor how the evening went, he said my son was very well behaved and they had no problems with him. 

God is bigger than just one church.  No matter how many ministries and programs there are, He always ministers through people.  People, not programs.  Lots of people get lost in programs.  People with mental illness, little boys with special needs, people who have physical illnesses or handicaps, elderly people who can’t always make it to church anymore, and anyone else who doesn’t quite fit--all of them quickly get lost in a program.  But people who take the time to see the uniqueness of the person--those are the people who make all the difference to someone looking for a glimpse of Jesus and His love. 

And once again, God sent just the right people at just the right time; in their kindness, i saw a glimpse of Jesus and His love for me, and His love and provision for this little boy He entrusted to my care.

...just memories...

She was too weak to talk.  Her breathing was labored; her eyes were mostly closed.  I wished the hospice nurse would stop talking.  The nurse was probably a nice, kind lady; I knew she was just doing her job.  She seemed to be going through some kind of list of what is normal to see at this stage as someone is coming to the end of life.  But...I have been around dead and dying people, in many different settings.  I knew what to expect, and I knew what I was seeing was normal.  I didn’t want to listen to a soothing voice talking about it, but I didn’t want to seem terribly rude, either.  I tried to push the nurse’s voice to the background.  I leaned over the bed; talked about what the kids and hubby were doing; mentioned that I had had a chiropractor appointment that morning; said “we love you, Grammy.”  Kissed her soft, tangled gray hair. 

It has been almost a year since my hubby’s Grandpop died.  Grammy has missed Grandpop terribly.  But we have had one more year with Grammy, for which we are grateful.

My daughter embroidered a pillowcase for Grammy for a Christmas present.  This girl of mine is usually a very diligent little girl; Grammy’s Christmas pillowcase was finished by Thanksgiving vacation.  We delivered it one day while hubby and my oldest son were hunting.  Grammy was delighted.  She proclaimed it too pretty to sleep on, even though her great granddaughter assured her that it was meant to sleep on.  I don’t think the pillowcase ever did make its way to a pillow.  It was given a place of honor and given its due admiration.

My little guy and I took our turn staying with Grammy during some days when the rest were at school and work, over the time when Grammy needed help at home, but was still well enough that I could bring a little boy along.  He remembers the ice cream bars she kept in the freezer, and the toy box and marble roller for little people who came to visit.  Sometimes he had fun; sometimes it tried his patience when he had to be quiet if she was resting.  But during those days with her, we learned to know her better than we had before.

She was reading a book of memories of schooldays and yesteryear, written by a man she had known from childhood.  He had included quite a few pictures in the book, and one of the faces in a group of schoolchildren was hers.  It was difficult for her to read because of cataracts; she had been scheduled to have them fixed, but was unable to keep the surgery date because of illness.  So, that day, I read to her until she was tired.  She also told me more of the story--some of the things she remembered that were not included in the book.  Then she rested while I read to my little guy, but she seemed to be listening to Peter Rabbit, the Berenstein Bears, and Frances the badger too, even when her eyes were closed. 

The days with Grammy were mostly full of ordinary things that happen in the quiet house of an elderly lady--a bit of washing, sweeping, and cooking; a bit of reading, and a few of her tv shows that she enjoyed.  I washed and combed her hair for her when she was too weak to do it herself--she was appreciative, but it wasn’t quite like she did it.  It was okay, I understood.  No one else can ever comb your hair or place your glasses just exactly right. 

Though they were ordinary, the days were special too; we knew that this wouldn’t be for long.  Her heart was giving out slowly; we knew that soon all the times with Grammy would only be memories. 

And i will hold the memories in a special place in my heart.  Late this evening, we got the call.  It was my mother-in-law’s voice, saying that Grammy had just passed away.

Hubby and I walked into the room and stood by the bed.  He stepped behind me and pulled me toward him in a hug.  We stood silently.  It was her, but just her shell.  Her spirit had flown.  He gave her a goodbye kiss; I stroked the softness of her gray hair that I would not comb again. 

...a rose...

It is a beautiful year for the roses.  A few years ago, I wanted to plant a hedge to separate the yard from the road going by the house.  Not having an over abundance of cash to work with, I began it with starts from shrubbery at my parents' house.  The little white "tea roses" begin putting out baby rosebushes galore, in the spring.  So I was able to get all the roses I wanted.  June is the most beautiful month, i think...everything is green and blooming.  These little white roses are my favorite.  

In Amy Carmichael's book Rose from Brier, she tells of how restful a beautiful picture was, in her time of illness; how it could take her, in her mind's eye, miles away from her sickroom.  So here is a rose, for the one who wishes for a breath of springtime laden with the sweetness of roses; and the dampness of green, growing woods and fields; and new-mown hay. 

"And may [its beauty]...speak not of a vanished spring, but of that to which we are hastening."

...the exactly right time...

I am not too fond of sewing denim.  It is thick; when it is doubled up--such as one needs to do when sewing it--it has this tendency to get caught in my machine or break the needle if I am not careful.  Sometimes it gets caught and breaks the needle, anyway, even if I am careful.  I am not a super skillful seamstress.  I am what might be kindly called “competent.”  I prefer things with straight seams and light fabrics and a minimum of fuss.  In my teen years, I used to love to experiment with making dolls, toys, and things like that; but now i have enough necessary sewing that unnecessary sewing doesn’t usually sound like fun.  But, I also have enough basic sewing skills that i can’t justify not doing my own mending.  And on this day, I had some mending that couldn’t be put off any longer.

I measured and pinned the material.  Most of it wouldn’t be too bad, but there were four places where I needed to sew through a folded seam of denim.  I did have a few extra needles, in case I heard the usual “snap” and felt the thread go slack.

The first item was finished quickly.  I had started it a week or so earlier, but had gotten interrupted.  Upon looking at it again, I realized it would be easier than I thought.  And it was.  The second item was the one that i expected the most trouble with, due to those stupid folded seams. 

I carefully sewed past the pins, only stabbing myself a few times and not even enough to draw blood.  So far, so good.  I carefully sewed through the folded seams by hand-turning the wheel instead of letting the machine do the work.  I got through all of them without breaking a needle, or any other annoying or disastrous mishaps.  I lifted the pants from the machine and reached for the scissors to cut the threads.  There was no bobbin thread to cut.  Aaack.  Bobbins are notorious for running out of thread at inconvenient times.  On my machine, I cannot see the bobbin thread unless i open the compartment and lift the bobbin out--thereby making it difficult to see that how close the bobbin is to being empty--but neither is it possible to sew with only the thread from the needle.  The stitches do not hold.  When the bobbin runs out of thread, the only thing to do is to refill it, go back to where it ran out, and re-stitch.

Now when did that run out?  I started examining the stitches I had just put in.  Probably I would have to go back and re-sew at least part of what i had just finished--and Murphy’s law would dictate that I would probably need to go back over at least one or two of those troublesome seams. 

I looked closer.  The stitches were exactly where they were supposed to be, right down to the tacking at the end, that i put in to hold my sewing in place.  I looked at the bobbin.  It was definitely, completely, out of thread.  But it had not run out until I had completely finished my sewing, even the tacking at the end.

I seemed to hear a still small voice...”remember, I do love you.  I am watching over all the little details of life, right down to whether the bobbin thread will hold out or not.” 

I had been so exhausted lately that I didn’t feel much love coming from anywhere.  Deep down, I know that, whether they say it or not, my family loves me dearly.  My friends do too.  But I had been so tired lately that all I wanted to do was to hide from everyone.  My kids’ baseball season is in full swing.  Life has been revolving around games and practices.  School is soon finished for the year, and with no dearth of field trips and other end-of-year activities.  I was hoping that hubby’s changed work schedule would help lighten the load, this spring...but it didn’t.  I am still doing most of the activities on my own, usually with my youngest in tow.  His routine has been mostly thrown out the window, so he is more defiant and difficult than usual.  I am exhausted with correcting socially inappropriate speech and behaviors, and from trying to keep him from injuring himself in such exhilarating pursuits as jumping from the tops of bleachers and throwing himself flat on the ground from a standing position, etc. 

My kids have so little “normal” sometimes, because of their Daddy’s erratic work schedule, that I try to make it to as many of their games and school activities as possible.  I want to do that much for them, at least. 

And lately, probably partly due to the busyness and the need for extra vigilance with the young one, the terrible fears are setting in again--if I sent the older children to their games with someone else so that I could have a little breathing space, I would be almost frantic till they got home.  So, while I have help available in the form of other parents--and also their grandparents--who could give them a ride to their games, it would not help my state of mind much.  It is sometimes a necessity to find one child a ride with someone else, at times when they both have games at different places at the same times; but my relief is great when we are all safely together again.  It is hard enough to send everyone to work or school right now.  I know that they are fine--that school and work and activities are just part of life, and that my husband and children are in our Father’s care wherever they may be...but try telling that to my brain.  Behavioral therapy is a nice idea, but there is a difference between giving someone the tools to deal with a difficulty and preventing the thing from happening.  I have the tools to deal with panic attacks, but I still have to deal with them.

So has God abandoned me?  Do I not have enough faith?  Life, just plain old normal life, is still really hard right now.  Shouldn’t I be full of peace and joy if my faith were real?  If He were real?

But...I have not collapsed.  He has given me strength and provision for each day, right down to the details of how much thread I needed for a sewing job I dreaded.  I have the panic attacks, but in spite of them, a still, small voice still speaks peace to me.  I am tired, but I can still laugh at some of my little guy’s speeches and antics (the socially acceptable, less dangerous ones).  I can share my daughter’s pride when, the first night she got a chance to pitch in a game, she made the game-ending out by striking out the batter who said, “she’s just a girl, this will be easy.”  (“His face was so red, Mom!“ she said gleefully...)  I even enjoyed a field trip to Baltimore with my oldest son’s class, in spite of the fact that “everybody and their brother” decided that that would be a good day to take a bus trip to Fort McHenry and the Baltimore Aquarium.  I was “field-tripped out” by the end of the day, but I had a good time.  Even my 13 year old, almost-too-cool-for-enjoying-stuff-anymore, kid had a good time.  He told me so.  (Oh, the teen years.  And this is just the beginning...)  And Baltimore Aquarium’s gift shop carried, amongst all the expensive souvenir junk, real live Venus flytraps.  My science junkie kid has been wanting one of these awesome plants for years and we couldn’t find them.  So now there is a Venus flytrap sitting hungrily on the kitchen window sill, slowly digesting its latest fly.  i can’t help but hear a still, small voice whispering love to me even in the finding of that Venus flytrap for my boy.

So, as I keep saying on this blog, He still has not failed me yet.  Once again, I am finding that He gives me what I need at the exactly right time.