“I feel the touch of Hands so kind and tender,
They’re leading me in paths that I must trod;
I have no fear when Jesus walks beside me,
For I’m sheltered in the arms of God.”
-Dottie Rambo
It was after midnight. I could not sleep. It had been a hectic week and a half--the oldest started off the activity with an allergic reaction that resulted in an ambulance ride (fortunately, his medication worked and all was well in the end, though his mother was a bit rattled till it was all said and done); the rest of us were passing illness through the house--one of the more frightening episodes being a bout of croup for the youngest that resulted in another emergency room visit; we had a lovely family reunion with my hubby’s family (blessedly unmarked by any hospital visits, although the kids and I were still tired and sick from the summer asthma/colds/croup that lingered), we had a nice visit with some out-of-state cousins we had not seen for several years; the usual summer work in the garden needed to be done; and we also began fall sports activities for the year...it was a week of ups and downs and little sleep. This was the first night that I looked forward to an uninterrupted night of sleep since the craziness began...but it was not to be.
The other half of my brain was awake too. Unbeknownst to me, she was fighting her own battles in the bleak darkness of that night. I dialed the phone, hoping i wasn’t going to wake her (due to the time difference, I wasn‘t sure if she would be asleep yet); but this night was dark and full of terrors; and, like Harold with his purple crayon, I suddenly felt a Great Need for Company. I didn’t want to be a nuisance, but this night I was willing to take the chance.
“Rose, are you all right? How did you know that I needed to talk to you? But you first...what is going on?”
In the bleak blackness of that night, we walked beside each other--with thousands of miles between, but each with an arm under the other’s burden. And somehow, our own burdens seemed to lift a bit as we shouldered each other’s. Somehow from the darkness came the thought that “all may not be lost yet.”
The circumstances that weighed on us and chased sleep far from us that night did not change. The battles yet to be fought are many. The weariness of another sleepless night was still there. But in this “one-anothering” (to use a phrase coined by Mennonite author Simon Schrock) there was new strength to bear up under the burden. Because we are not alone.
Thank God, we have a Savior--a Savior who tells us, “Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:29-30.
“So let the storms rage high
The dark clouds rise,
They won’t worry me,
For I’m sheltered safely in the arms of God;
He walks with me, and naught of earth shall harm me,
For I’m sheltered in the arms of God.”
-D. Rambo
Each time I talk to Anne, I am reminded anew of her frailty. Her wheelchair and cane are now an accepted part of life. She has acknowledged a bit ruefully that her spirit chafes a bit at this blow to her pride; but she speaks of it with grace and acceptance and a complete lack of self-pity. It is simply what must be. As I did a few years ago, again I find myself wondering how much time we have left...but it is okay. That is in the hands of God too. When it is our time to leave this earth...well, none of us knows just when that will be. He will care for us then, and those around us as well. We do not need to be afraid.
Someday we will hear that call...and even then, we will still be sheltered in the arms of God...
“Soon I shall hear the call from Heaven’s portals
‘Come home my child, it’s the last mile you must trod,’
I’ll fall asleep, and wake in God’s new heaven
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.
So let the storms rage high
The dark clouds rise,
They won’t worry me,
For I’m sheltered safely in the arms of God;
He walks with me, and naught of earth shall harm me,
For I’m sheltered in the arms of God.”
-D. Rambo
(“Sheltered in the Arms of God,” written and recorded by Dottie Rambo)
The clouds are still hanging darkly above us...but we are sheltered safely in the arms of God. I climbed back into bed and held my hubby’s hand in the darkness. His fingers curled around mine and i finally fell asleep.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Thursday, July 17, 2014
...a little princess...
She is just the best little girl ever. She was a very fussy baby, with a cry loud enough to wake the dead (one of her grandmas referred to it as her “foghorn”); shy and all but glued to my side for the first two and a half years of life (I always said I was never worried about anybody taking her--no one would keep her long once she unleashed her trademark howling, which she almost always did when someone suggested that she be sociable and hang out with someone other than mom); but for all her fussiness at the beginning of life, she has certainly made up for it since.
My little girl is 10 years old now, and though she bears a striking resemblance to pictures of my mother-in-law at the same age; in personality she is almost as much my mini-me as if someone had found the pieces of the mold from 25 years earlier and glued them back together. Sometimes it is a little scary, but more often it is absolutely delightful.
She loves to draw, write, and sew; and can spread a mess across my house twice as fast as her brothers. Between the crayons, papers, markers, fabric, thread, and scissors in terrible places, it drives my obsessively organized soul a bit wild. I do think she veers off from my personality slightly in this--in looking at the toys I saved from my childhood, I can see evidence of a very careful kid who could not bear to have things in disarray. But I remember a few times during the pre-teen and teen years when my room looked as if a tornado hit it...so maybe she hasn’t veered off my path too drastically.
When she was first born, I thrilled to have her; but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a little girl. I had a three year old son at the time, and I was so used to chasing after a little boy--and I had a distinct aversion to the cotton candy sweetness of Disney princess pink. Why couldn’t companies that produced kids’ clothes and other items make tasteful girly-looking things, in a variety of colors?
But every sleepless night and deafening scream has been worth it. She has grown into a sweet little princess--girly enough to enjoy watching Fiddler on the Roof and Phantom of the Opera with me while we do our nails, but still able to bait her own fishhook (even i don’t do fishhooks) and play baseball with the boys. Growing up around her daddy and brothers has kept her feet on the ground, but at times this little girl who lives at my house seems to have stepped out of one of George MacDonald’s princess stories--stories of princesses who are not only outwardly beautiful but full of honor and courage as well.
She has been my right hand girl this summer. With her oldest brother often gone to his summer job working on my cousin’s produce farm, the bulk of helping out at home has fallen on her capable little shoulders. She has learned to help with peas and beans by the bucketful, without undue complaining. She has devised delightful games for her little brother; games which, according to his behavioral therapist, have been tremendously helpful for him in learning needed social skills that are more difficult for autistic kids than neurotypical children. She is only 10, but her price is already “far above rubies.”
She also has a mild form of Tourette Syndrome herself, sometimes fighting upper body twitching and vocal tics that, a few years ago, were so severe that she could not do her schoolwork as she could not keep her head still enough to read her books. They have improved a lot, but still become bothersome when she is tired or nervous about something.
I have sometimes wondered if my little girl will look back on her childhood with happy memories or a feeling of sadness. Maybe some of both. It seems that she has had a bit more than her share of adversity for her young years. But as I watch her character develop, I am so proud of her. She has learned not to complain unduly; she has learned to be resourceful and make the best of what she has, when things are not ideal. She has a wonderful spirit and a sparkle in her eyes. As she plays with her little brother, and other small children among our friends and family, I can see she is a fun and capable babysitter (as long as there is an adult around as well, of course--she is only 10). She has produced much lovely art and writing too. I have many cards, pictures, and letters she has written, that I have kept for her to enjoy sometime when she is older. She also tries her hand at poetry from time to time, and I especially love one poem that she wrote a year or two ago.
I’m just a little kid,
but God made me, so He did.
When I am all grown
I’ll still be his own.
Thank You for making me,
compared to you I’m like a pea!
God You are strong,
and You have never been wrong.
You also have a lot of power,
or else you wouldn’t know the name of every flower.
Thank you God for being there for me,
even though I’m like a pea.
~K.H.
I wish sometimes, that I could smooth the way for my children. I watch my oldest son struggle with multiple allergies to common substances that require constant vigilance and an ever-present epi-pen. I watch my daughter endure uncomfortable jerky upper body movements without complaining, except when her back and neck get sore from the motion and her efforts to keep it under control. I watch my youngest hide under tables in groups of people and try to soothe himself when the sensory overload of daily life sometimes gets overwhelming. But I also see their endurance, their spirit, and their perseverance develop in a way that it could not have done without the adversity. The things that I wish they did not have to deal with, are the very things that are cultivating the good character that I know will serve them well as they grow into adulthood and make their own way in life.
Our Father knows what we need. And He loves these little people--well, not so little anymore, but to me they will always be my “little people” that I love with all my heart--He loves them more than is humanly possible for me to love. He knows what will turn my daughter from a little girl into a beautiful, courageous lady; he knows what will turn my sons into men of strength, courage and honor. I am so proud of my kids and I know I can trust His mercies to give them joy in life even in the adversities they may face.
For today, I wanted to spotlight my little princess. She is just a pretty awesome kid.
My little girl is 10 years old now, and though she bears a striking resemblance to pictures of my mother-in-law at the same age; in personality she is almost as much my mini-me as if someone had found the pieces of the mold from 25 years earlier and glued them back together. Sometimes it is a little scary, but more often it is absolutely delightful.
She loves to draw, write, and sew; and can spread a mess across my house twice as fast as her brothers. Between the crayons, papers, markers, fabric, thread, and scissors in terrible places, it drives my obsessively organized soul a bit wild. I do think she veers off from my personality slightly in this--in looking at the toys I saved from my childhood, I can see evidence of a very careful kid who could not bear to have things in disarray. But I remember a few times during the pre-teen and teen years when my room looked as if a tornado hit it...so maybe she hasn’t veered off my path too drastically.
When she was first born, I thrilled to have her; but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a little girl. I had a three year old son at the time, and I was so used to chasing after a little boy--and I had a distinct aversion to the cotton candy sweetness of Disney princess pink. Why couldn’t companies that produced kids’ clothes and other items make tasteful girly-looking things, in a variety of colors?
But every sleepless night and deafening scream has been worth it. She has grown into a sweet little princess--girly enough to enjoy watching Fiddler on the Roof and Phantom of the Opera with me while we do our nails, but still able to bait her own fishhook (even i don’t do fishhooks) and play baseball with the boys. Growing up around her daddy and brothers has kept her feet on the ground, but at times this little girl who lives at my house seems to have stepped out of one of George MacDonald’s princess stories--stories of princesses who are not only outwardly beautiful but full of honor and courage as well.
She has been my right hand girl this summer. With her oldest brother often gone to his summer job working on my cousin’s produce farm, the bulk of helping out at home has fallen on her capable little shoulders. She has learned to help with peas and beans by the bucketful, without undue complaining. She has devised delightful games for her little brother; games which, according to his behavioral therapist, have been tremendously helpful for him in learning needed social skills that are more difficult for autistic kids than neurotypical children. She is only 10, but her price is already “far above rubies.”
She also has a mild form of Tourette Syndrome herself, sometimes fighting upper body twitching and vocal tics that, a few years ago, were so severe that she could not do her schoolwork as she could not keep her head still enough to read her books. They have improved a lot, but still become bothersome when she is tired or nervous about something.
I have sometimes wondered if my little girl will look back on her childhood with happy memories or a feeling of sadness. Maybe some of both. It seems that she has had a bit more than her share of adversity for her young years. But as I watch her character develop, I am so proud of her. She has learned not to complain unduly; she has learned to be resourceful and make the best of what she has, when things are not ideal. She has a wonderful spirit and a sparkle in her eyes. As she plays with her little brother, and other small children among our friends and family, I can see she is a fun and capable babysitter (as long as there is an adult around as well, of course--she is only 10). She has produced much lovely art and writing too. I have many cards, pictures, and letters she has written, that I have kept for her to enjoy sometime when she is older. She also tries her hand at poetry from time to time, and I especially love one poem that she wrote a year or two ago.
I’m just a little kid,
but God made me, so He did.
When I am all grown
I’ll still be his own.
Thank You for making me,
compared to you I’m like a pea!
God You are strong,
and You have never been wrong.
You also have a lot of power,
or else you wouldn’t know the name of every flower.
Thank you God for being there for me,
even though I’m like a pea.
~K.H.
I wish sometimes, that I could smooth the way for my children. I watch my oldest son struggle with multiple allergies to common substances that require constant vigilance and an ever-present epi-pen. I watch my daughter endure uncomfortable jerky upper body movements without complaining, except when her back and neck get sore from the motion and her efforts to keep it under control. I watch my youngest hide under tables in groups of people and try to soothe himself when the sensory overload of daily life sometimes gets overwhelming. But I also see their endurance, their spirit, and their perseverance develop in a way that it could not have done without the adversity. The things that I wish they did not have to deal with, are the very things that are cultivating the good character that I know will serve them well as they grow into adulthood and make their own way in life.
Our Father knows what we need. And He loves these little people--well, not so little anymore, but to me they will always be my “little people” that I love with all my heart--He loves them more than is humanly possible for me to love. He knows what will turn my daughter from a little girl into a beautiful, courageous lady; he knows what will turn my sons into men of strength, courage and honor. I am so proud of my kids and I know I can trust His mercies to give them joy in life even in the adversities they may face.
For today, I wanted to spotlight my little princess. She is just a pretty awesome kid.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
...love that can be trusted...
At the end of the day, I looked at the clean living room and the folded wash waiting to be put away, and wondered how it had gotten accomplished. Supper was a simple affair--meatloaf, peas from the garden, baked potatoes (the potatoes are not hubby’s favorite, but food to fill our bellies, and something the kids can be trusted to cook competently). Sometime around lunch, anxiety had begun to build; and my ability to concentrate or pull thoughts together began to slip away into the wild blue yonder...or somewhere else unreachable.
It got worse throughout the evening. The kids were up late doing their Fourth of July fireworks with Daddy. We don’t go all out--just a few for fun, relatively low-powered stuff--but even a few sparklers were enough to send me to a place where I could not talk. I got a few words out on autopilot, and hoped the rest of my family did not find me a huge damper on their enjoyment of the evening.
Morning dawned, fresh and beautiful and fragrant, with no change in my state of mind. Only a mountain of peas and green beans to pick. I am grateful. Somewhere, I remember that gratitude trumps impatience. But I don’t think gratitude trumps this feeling. The panic is still there, though I am grateful for the garden full of good things. I still have to pick these good things, blanch them, and get them in the freezer. I will have to do it in tiny increments, such as one pea pod at a time. And kids, made to do endless boring slave labor, such as pea picking and snapping green beans, will talk endlessly. How am I going to listen to them today? I am still in that dark, silent place, where I cannot talk.
I often have pushed away the question of “why?” Why must this be? Why does God allow pain and suffering, mine or other people’s? I have told myself, deep down, that my pain is so much less than some others’ pain. That i don’t need to ask why. It would open up a whole new world of pain. Besides, the “why” doesn’t matter, does it? I should be more concerned with how I should live with this, how to play the hand that has been dealt me. “Why” doesn’t change anything.
But this morning He pointed me to a chapter from Amy Carmichael’s Rose from Brier, called “Thy Calvary stills all our questions.” And here, Miss Carmichael had penned her own struggle with this “why” that I refused to even think. I still do not have any answers to the “why,” or even to the question of how I am going to get through today, but there was comfort in the words.
He who died for me will also make me able to live for Him, even if I have to get through the day one moment at a time. That is all we are given anyway, one moment at a time.
“But, though, indeed, we know that pain nobly borne strengthens the soul, knits hearts together, leads to unselfish sacrifice (and we could not spare from our lives the Christ on the Cross), yet when the raw nerve in our own flesh is touched, we know, with a knowledge that penetrates to a place which these words cannot reach, that our question is not answered. It is only pushed farther back, for why should that be the way of strength, and why need hearts be knit together by such sharp knitting needles, and who would not willingly choose relief rather than the pity of the pitiful?
...What then, is the answer? I do not know. I believe that it is one of the secret things of the Lord, which will not be opened to us till we see Him who endured the Cross, see the scars in His hands and feet and side, see Him, our Beloved, face to face. I believe that in that revelation of love, which is far past our understanding now, we shall “understand even as all along we have been understood.”
And till then? What does a child do whose mother or father allows something to be done which it cannot understand? There is only one way of peace. It is the child’s way. The loving child trusts.
I believe that we who know our God, and have proved Him good past telling, will find rest there. The faith of the child rests on the character it knows. So may ours; so shall ours.
...But we know our Father. We know His character. Somehow, somewhere, the wrong must be put right; how we do not know, only we know that, because He is what He is, anything else is inconceivable.
...There is only one place where we can receive, not an answer to our question, but peace--that place is Calvary. An hour at the foot of the Cross steadies the soul as nothing else can. “O Christ beloved, Thy Calvary stills all our questions.” Love that loves like that can be trusted about this.”
-Amy Carmichael
It got worse throughout the evening. The kids were up late doing their Fourth of July fireworks with Daddy. We don’t go all out--just a few for fun, relatively low-powered stuff--but even a few sparklers were enough to send me to a place where I could not talk. I got a few words out on autopilot, and hoped the rest of my family did not find me a huge damper on their enjoyment of the evening.
Morning dawned, fresh and beautiful and fragrant, with no change in my state of mind. Only a mountain of peas and green beans to pick. I am grateful. Somewhere, I remember that gratitude trumps impatience. But I don’t think gratitude trumps this feeling. The panic is still there, though I am grateful for the garden full of good things. I still have to pick these good things, blanch them, and get them in the freezer. I will have to do it in tiny increments, such as one pea pod at a time. And kids, made to do endless boring slave labor, such as pea picking and snapping green beans, will talk endlessly. How am I going to listen to them today? I am still in that dark, silent place, where I cannot talk.
I often have pushed away the question of “why?” Why must this be? Why does God allow pain and suffering, mine or other people’s? I have told myself, deep down, that my pain is so much less than some others’ pain. That i don’t need to ask why. It would open up a whole new world of pain. Besides, the “why” doesn’t matter, does it? I should be more concerned with how I should live with this, how to play the hand that has been dealt me. “Why” doesn’t change anything.
But this morning He pointed me to a chapter from Amy Carmichael’s Rose from Brier, called “Thy Calvary stills all our questions.” And here, Miss Carmichael had penned her own struggle with this “why” that I refused to even think. I still do not have any answers to the “why,” or even to the question of how I am going to get through today, but there was comfort in the words.
He who died for me will also make me able to live for Him, even if I have to get through the day one moment at a time. That is all we are given anyway, one moment at a time.
“But, though, indeed, we know that pain nobly borne strengthens the soul, knits hearts together, leads to unselfish sacrifice (and we could not spare from our lives the Christ on the Cross), yet when the raw nerve in our own flesh is touched, we know, with a knowledge that penetrates to a place which these words cannot reach, that our question is not answered. It is only pushed farther back, for why should that be the way of strength, and why need hearts be knit together by such sharp knitting needles, and who would not willingly choose relief rather than the pity of the pitiful?
...What then, is the answer? I do not know. I believe that it is one of the secret things of the Lord, which will not be opened to us till we see Him who endured the Cross, see the scars in His hands and feet and side, see Him, our Beloved, face to face. I believe that in that revelation of love, which is far past our understanding now, we shall “understand even as all along we have been understood.”
And till then? What does a child do whose mother or father allows something to be done which it cannot understand? There is only one way of peace. It is the child’s way. The loving child trusts.
I believe that we who know our God, and have proved Him good past telling, will find rest there. The faith of the child rests on the character it knows. So may ours; so shall ours.
...But we know our Father. We know His character. Somehow, somewhere, the wrong must be put right; how we do not know, only we know that, because He is what He is, anything else is inconceivable.
...There is only one place where we can receive, not an answer to our question, but peace--that place is Calvary. An hour at the foot of the Cross steadies the soul as nothing else can. “O Christ beloved, Thy Calvary stills all our questions.” Love that loves like that can be trusted about this.”
-Amy Carmichael
Friday, June 27, 2014
...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.
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.
Friday, June 13, 2014
...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.
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.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
...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."
Thursday, June 5, 2014
...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.
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.
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