Living Under the Influence

I was anxious about it. Without question, it was going to be a day that would leave me feeling less-than, shameful, disgraced and wasted. It was one of those situations where you just beg God to get you through what is surely going to be several consecutive hours of indignity.

A few months ago, unbeknownst to me, my auto insurance lapsed due to a paper work error when I purchased a new vehicle. Somehow in the mix of things, my insurance didn’t get transferred on time. This minor infraction was not so minor to the City of College Park who ran my plates one morning last summer as I ambled through town taking Noah to summer camp. While I did not receive a moving violation, my license was suspended and there were auspicious fines. One of the conditions for renewal of my license to drive was 6 hours of a Defensive Driving course. So Saturday morning, I set out to fulfill my requirements and put this whole experiment in failure behind me.

I’m a woman who desperately tries to give the appearance of someone who reasonably has it “together”. But invariably, no matter how dressed-to-kill I am for an interview I’ll customarily step in dog poop on my way in the door. Knowing this, I never shoot for perfection, but rather “not so bad”. But let me just tell you that there is nothing that can make arrival at a building labeled “D.U.I. School” on a bright yellow banner sexy….nothing.

Anxiously I made my way into building to register and begin the shame of this entire event. I was apprehensive because I knew there would be an examination in order for me to complete the requirements. Assessments always make me nervous. Some part of me is relatively certain that I will experience failure no matter how hard I try. I hate to fail. Loathe it. So nervousness, added to my shame, brought a specific tension to this episode of my life. Typically, this level of worry blinds me to logic and reason. To put it rather succinctly, I was afraid.

The intake process left much to be desired as the dear older woman who was hard of hearing shouted my name and the words “So yer here for license reinstatement!” at the top of her lungs. I smiled to her, and at the rest of the class who now knew that I was not here merely as a conscientious citizen who was wishing to take a class in my spare time to reduce my insurance premium. I soon found out that the rest of the class was laughing because this had happened to each one of them when they registered as well. Her abruptness created an intimacy that didn’t allow any of us to pretend why we were there. And it was funny…until Amelia came in.

Small and thin, I could see that this young girl was just as apprehensive as I was about what the class would bring. When she approached the table she found that her paperwork wasn’t there. Our kind host yelled, “What’s yer name again?”

The frail girl replied, “Amelia Armstrong.”

The lady behind the table yelled, “Its what? Yeh’ve got to speak louder.”

“My name is AMELIA ARMSTRONG!” the small girl shouted over the giggles of the class. By the time the intake lady heard her, this girl had announced herself at the top of her lungs no less than 5 times. Everyone knew her name. I began to step out of my own panic and feel sorry for this girl. The interchange continued:

“I don’t have yer paperwork! What are ya here fer?” inquired the lady.

“I just came to take the class,” answered the girl. (repeated again at ear splitting decibels)

“Well, what was yer ticket for? What did ya do to get here?” bellowed the lady.

This girl, who was at the point of tears said, “I didn’t get a ticket, I just don’t have a license and I need to take this class.”

Completely oblivious to her anxiety the woman replied, “Honey, ya only take this class if ya got yerself in a bind or are doin’ it to reduce yer insurance. Which is it?”

Amelia admitted, “I don’t have a license because I failed the test and now I need to take this class.” This, of course, went unheard and had to be repeated. It was painful to watch. I suspect that I am not the only one who just wanted it to stop but we all just stared down at our own paperwork and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. It embarrassed us to acknowledge her pain and inadequacy so we ignored it.

Once her paperwork was sorted out, Amelia took a seat at the table behind me. I could hear her quietly sniffling. My disgrace began to disappear (without my knowledge or permission I might add) as I ceased wondering how I got here and felt compassion for this girl. As the class would progress, my compassion would grow in proportion to her humiliation.

Just before our first break, the instructor, who was reading his instruction from a 3 ring binder, mentioned blithely, “This un’s important – it’ll be on the test so remember…” This was followed by a string of statistics, which he did not slow down to recite nor care to repeat. It was all Amelia could take. I overheard her crying as she talked to someone on her cell phone during the break, confessing that she should have known she’d “fail this too.”

Another hour of statistics, rules and regulations followed. It became pointless to glance at your watch because it was clear that we had entered a time warp. Just before our second break he finally asked if there were any questions. Amelia shyly raised her hand and asked, “About the test, I was told I could have accommodations.”

While this immediately captured my attention (because it is a phrase used in the world of special education to indicate reasonable adaptations to assessment), it was completely foreign to our instructor. He looked at her quizzically at first, then said, “What kinda accommodations?” as he shuffled through his binder. I risked turning to catch my first glimpse of Amelia to see her red-faced and clearly embarrassed. She started to mumble, “Oh I’m sorry, never mind.” When he shouted over her, “What do ya need accommodations fer? What kinda help ya lookin fer?” Amelia was speechless. Our instructor continued, “What wrong with ya that ya need help?”

In an effort to stop this mortifying exchange, several of us got up and began the break without permission. Amelia fled to the safety of the parking lot. Oncoming motor vehicles were a welcome threat compared to the classroom. Quite uncharacteristically, I strode toward Amelia and introduced myself. She wiped her tear stained face and politely took my hand saying, “I’m Amelia, but I guess everybody knows that since I had to yell it so many times.”

It was clear to me that Amelia must have some sort of learning disability. A few of the telltale signs were there. She was fidgety and her nails had been chewed to the quick. The document on which we were filling in the blanks in order to take notes (which was full of incorrect grammar, typographical errors and misspelled words…thank you very much Department of Driver’s Services) was full of little drawings and doodles in the margins. Her shoes were scuffed on the toes from constant rocking back and forth in anxious, repetitive movement. And she was so terribly sad.

I told her I just wanted to help her in some way, that I wasn’t being nosy but that my son required accommodations so I understood her question, and asked if I could help. Her face looked hopeful for the first time as she asked, “Oh, do you know anything about dyslexia? That’s what I have. It’s why I failed the written test. I knew I would, but I had to fail it in order to be given the chance to take it orally so I can pass. But I also had to come here and pass this 6 hour class.” Suddenly, my fears and failures paled in comparison to the troubles of this girl who had actually been forced to fail before she could ever hope to succeed.

Over lunch, I learned that Amelia was much older than she looked. At 21 years of age, she had never even tried to obtain a driver’s license because she knew she would fail the written exam. When she heard there was an oral exam she was excited, even though realized she had to fail the written exam in order to be given a chance to succeed. Her reason for obtaining a drivers license is to have the capability to drive in order to get a job. Also, she is trying to complete her high school diploma at a local technical college with resources for learning disabled students. The special education resources in her county hadn’t been able to provide Amelia with the opportunity to graduate with anything but a Special Education Diploma, so she had dropped out of school years ago.

As I listened to her story, this frail girl transformed from a weak and delicate creature to a mighty warrior. She was the bravest person in the classroom that day. She had charged into certain failure, more than once, just for the slimmest chance she might succeed. Without an advocate, she had been marginalized and discounted for most of her academic career. And she had been more than willing to fail that first written test, risking humiliation, just to have an opportunity for something other than failure. Her courage was humbling.

So I had a choice to make. I could offer sympathy and prayer – or I could get involved. Please know that I NEVER choose the latter. I’m the advocate for one little special person and that keeps me plenty busy thank you very much. But her palpable pain was more than I could take. I knew that a Kingdom response meant more than just well wishes for her pain. In my mind I heard a friend’s favorite verse: “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.^[1]” So I “got involved”…I meddled…I was a busy body…I challenged the status quo. I stepped up for this stranger. I still don’t know why, but I did.

I pulled the instructor aside, and without much overture, explained Amelia’s disability and the nature of the accommodation she was entitled. He didn’t challenge this at all, but expressed frustration at the pressure he felt to get everyone through the class. After all, how was he going to keep his own success rate up if he couldn’t get the sleeping teenage boys through the examination? His solution surprised me. “Caint you just give her the test? If ya know what needs to be done just get her through.” Suddenly I was a test proctor.

Now please know, I was still nervous about my own performance on this test. Advocacy had not completely diminished my anxiety about avoiding failure. However, I found it increasingly difficult to panic about my own welfare while truly being concerned for another’s. So I had to quit thinking about my success or failure. I simply had no choice at this point.

I had moved my seat, at Amelia’s request, in order to sit beside her. In her words, it “calmed her down to be near a friend”. Friend? We had just met! But I was the only friend Amelia had in that room. When the time came to take the exam, I was mortified to see the worst visually organized answer sheet I’ve ever seen. Clearly designed to assist the instructor in efficient grading, it was unfeasible to expect Amelia to even see the place where she could place a correct answer. In addition to this, the recycled copies of the exam were so wrinkled and copied on such poor quality paper that I could barely read it.

I read Amelia her exam, and filled in the answers she gave. She laughed and smiled at some of the ridiculous options on the multiple choice questions. When it came time to fill out my own answer key, it barely registered that I was performing for assessment at all. I had completely lost myself in Amelia.

Neither of us failed that day.

This class – which, by the way, spent zero time on any matters pertaining to insurance violation – served to teach me about more than the consequences of driving “under the influence”. Instead, through a set of terrible circumstances I became involved in an opprotunity to live under the influence.

Living under the influence means that I, first and foremost, recognize the kingdom responsibility I have to extend kindness. “Not withholding good” means more than just the cessation of negative actions and behaviors toward the disadvantaged. It means choosing to dedicate myself to those who the Proverb writer describes as “due” a good deed. How did I know she was “due”? Well, I simply put myself in her place – which wasn’t hard to do since I was anxious as well. This started when I quit being embarrassed by her and stopped trying to ignore her pain. Not everyone I encounter will be as easy to identify with, but I pray to be attentive to their pain. Pain is a place where I can meet most of the world because, probably like you, I am no stranger to it.

Secondly, living under the influence of the Kingdom means I share my resources – no matter how meager. I mean, what did I really have to offer? We were all equally in need of what the class offered. I seemed as poor as the next person and as ill equipped to offer hope of success. What I had to offer was cheap – it cost me nothing. I listened and acted with just a mustard seed’s worth of compassion. I approached authority in her place and pleaded her case. And I was, for whatever reason, heard. From a place of poverty, my insufficient resources were more than enough for God to work through in Amelia’s behalf. Our small, inadequate, insufficient and even sometimes trivial assets are mustard seeds of potential in the hands of God.

Lastly, living under the influence of the Kingdom might mean forgetting personal fears and inadequacies in order to be fully available for God. How I helped Amelia was, by absolutely no means, a huge sacrifice. It wasn’t even a grand gesture. It’s almost not even worth mentioning. But it did require me to stop thinking of my own goals, aims and ambitions in order to allow room for “otherly” compassion. I found it quite impossible to be wrapped up in myself and act in someone else’s behalf simultaneously. I only write about it so you might see how very little it takes to be of use in the Kingdom.

I don’t really know what inspired me to write this story. Honestly, I almost quit after the first paragraph. My finger was poised on the delete button when my cell phone rang. It was Amelia. She just called to say “thank you for being my friend”. Her last comment to me was that I really must “believe in God” to have been so kind to a stranger.

I told her I hoped to see her on the road.

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^[1] The Holy Bible : Today's New International Version. (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2005), Pr 3:27.

Just Like Me

for those of you who've asked for another post and have been wondering what I've been doing...

“Mom, I need to ask you a serious question.”

This is never the way I like to begin our day. This could mean anything from “Where do babies come from?” to “Why aren’t there more marshmallows in my Lucky Charms?” These “serious questions” can be equally benign or hazardous. What followed this morning was some of the best autism born theology to date.

Noah continued, “Why does my baby Jesus have yellow hair?” Noah was referring to the figurine of baby Jesus that accompanied our Fischer Price nativity set. After the debacle that was trying to get our Christmas tree up and decorated last night (My kingdom for a set of Christmas lights that illuminate the length of the entire strand!), holiday décor was the very last think I wanted to discuss this morning. I sighed and brought my coffee cup to my lips before responding. Before I could swallow Noah expounded on his dilemma.

“You see, I don’t think Jesus had yellow hair at all. I don’t think he looked like that. This Jesus looks like me. I don’t think Jesus was like me at all. What do you think Mom?”

I replied that Jesus probably didn’t look like us. We discussed that he probably resembled someone with darker skin and hair. I tried to compare him to friends Noah has of Middle Eastern descent. Growing impatient Noah interrupted me. He said, “But why did they need to make Jesus look like us? That doesn’t even make sense!”

Secretly, my heart swelled that Noah needs the Nativity to remain true to the Bible, but I was at a loss for a way to explain this phenomena to him. All I could say was, “Well, I think it makes some people feel more safe if Jesus looked just like them.” Noah’s conclusion to this statement was priceless. With all of the innocence that his autism riddled mind could deduce Noah said, “A Jesus that looks just like me does not make me feel safe at all. I think yellow haired Jesus creeps me out.”

I’ve been reading quite a bit of anthropology for one of my seminary classes. There is a constant tension in our reconciling the humanity and the divinity of Christ. I want him to be human. I want to know he can identify with my suffering in every way. I believe in that ἐκένωσεν – that emptying out of his divine nature in order to participate in humanity (Phil. 2:5-11). But when he is nothing more than human, I must agree with Noah “a Jesus that looks just like me does not make me feel safe.” The difference between Noah and I is that I often feel and act like it is just that kind of Jesus that I am looking for because for the most part, I try to save myself.

I desperately look for a Jesus who would handle situations the way I would handle them. I want a Christ who prioritizes my comfort instead of my character development. I’d like Jesus to be the Savior of my bills and checkbook instead of my soul. I cry out for a Messiah to come for relief in my daily struggles instead of one who is surely seeing a bigger picture of my human plight. In actuality, I am searching for a Jesus who looks just like me.

Noah comes from a different set of assumptions. As a child with acknowledged, documented and notarized learning deficits, Noah fully identifies with his need for someone other than himself to be his Savior. He does not do this through self-loathing. Noah, in realizing his limitations, is not compelled to identify so much with Jesus that he recreates him in his own image. In his own words, this does not make him feel safer about his situation. Instead, Noah finds more assurance in a God who is drastically different from him.

We might easily say, “Yes, well, if I were dealing with the disadvantages Noah does I would realize the need for a bigger and greater solution than myself as well.” My answer to that is: But aren’t we?

Aren’t we all completely disadvantaged? Is any one of us able to save ourselves? If we were the answer to our own predicament could any of us truly solve it? Oh, perhaps on the surface we could resolve some issues. The work ethic in which I was reared told me that if I just work harder and “pull myself up by my own boot straps” then I could clear any crisis. But sincerely, that just isn’t true. Hard work is virtuous, but it isn’t enough to combat the brokenness of my personal struggles or, more importantly, the brokenness of this world. Physically, I have struggles that no amount of money could cure. Spiritually, I often feel bankrupt as well. Emotionally, I am sometimes a dry well. Financially, try as I might, I just cannot get ahead. I am simply not enough. A Savior who would tell me to just work harder to make things right by my own efforts is the last thing I need. A Jesus who would solve problems like I would if I could, again in Noah’s words, “doesn’t even make sense.”

So how do I reconcile his humanity and divinity? I don’t. For me, the beauty is in the continual process of ceasing to reconcile Jesus to myself and instead reconciling myself to him. The question is not “How was Jesus like me?” but “In living, what ways did he show me a better way to be human?” The Jesus who said, “Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head”^[1] is my kinsmen redeemer. Following him never guaranteed an easy, comfortable position in this life. The kind of work I have chosen for my life will, most assuredly, bring me to financial ruin. His redemption for me is not deliverance from my hardships, but peace within them because Jesus is not like me.

When looking at suffering humanity he was overcome by compassion because Jesus is not like me. Jesus took time to bring a little child, a marginalized piece of humanity who could not possibly contribute financially or substantially to his ministry, into the midst of a busy day because Jesus is not like me. The Savior who slept at the bottom of a boat during a storm is not like me. A Messiah who blamelessly died on a cross is a Jesus not like me. But it is that same Jesus who bids me to come, take up a cross, and follow. It seems he doesn’t want me to spend so much time finding ways he was like me as he does finding ways to be like him to a world so desperately in need of a different kind of Savior. And thank God for that different kind of Jesus because I agree with Noah.

A Jesus just like me creeps me out.

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^[1] The Holy Bible : Today's New International Version. (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2005), Mt 8:20.

The Autism Gospel - of Rejection & Fortune Cookies

Noah and I went out to eat this week. It was really just something to break the monotony. Actually, we were a little down and I thought it might cheer us up. He loves to eat in restaurants, especially new ones. Yeah, I’ve got one of the only autistic people in the world who likes to travel to new places and do new things. So I figured it would be just the pick-me-up we needed to push through our week. He loves Chinese, mainly chicken wings and rice, so we tried a new place.

It had been a long day for us both. I was glad not to be cooking and just to spend some time talking to Noah. But he wasn’t even close to being in a conversational frame of mind. I could tell he was tired because he was flapping with one hand and holding an object close to his face with the other. When he stims like this, it is a glaringly obvious sign that he is physically and neurologically over-taxed. I corrected him twice and he responded with his typical, “Sorry Mom. I’ll try harder.” After a few times of that I just thought, “Screw it…I’m tired too. Flap if ya gotta flap!”

It was a little early for the dinner crowd, so we had most of the dining room to ourselves at first. But just after we ordered our meal, a well-dressed couple was escorted to the table beside ours. Just as the lady sat down, Noah flapped. Then I heard it – a gasp-grunt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her flag down the hostess. She said, purposefully loud enough for me to hear in an otherwise quiet dining room, “We can’t sit here. We’ll have to be moved.” Well, my head spun around on my neck because I thought there must be a leak in the ceiling over her table or rat droppings or something to put her nose so out of joint. But when I turned around and met her sneer, I realized that her problem was us. Noah continued to flap (this whole exchange lasted maybe 45 seconds) so he missed her subtle eye roll in my direction.

I felt like I had been slapped hard across the face. Now, I’m not completely unaware when we are attracting attention to ourselves. I work pretty hard at making Noah aware of his behaviors and try teaching him to curtail the completely unacceptable things he might be prone to do. So I can honestly say that, as disturbing behaviors go, I’ve seen lots of “normal” kids behave worse in a restaurant. But this wasn’t about being around children in general, because they were sat by a family of 4 in the far corner of the room. No, it was about our “differentness”.

This has happened before. But it was a long time ago. I had forgotten the painful sting this brand of rejection leaves. Honestly, I could barely breathe. The waitress, who had seen the whole thing unfold, was quietly sympathetic. She spoke kinder than was necessary to Noah. He, of course, returned her kindness with over-the-top manners he must’ve picked up from watching re-runs of some Father Knows Best variety television show. He said things like, “thank you for being so sweet to us” and “I hope you aren’t tired after work tonight” and “aren’t you kind”. The more he tried to show thanks for simple kindness, the more sick to my stomach I became. When I knew she would watch him while I went to the restroom, I quietly excused myself. Once safely in a stall, I cried my eyes out. After washing my face in frigid water to get the swelling down, I returned to the table.

Just when I thought the worst was over, I felt someone else staring. From over the top of the partition, I saw the hostess catching a peek. As if on cue, Noah began flapping again. I sighed and put my head in my hands. When I looked up, I saw the hostess escorting another couple to the other side of the restaurant. It was now the dinner rush. I watched family after family come in only to be seated as far as possible from Noah and I. We had been quarantined.

At some point Noah noticed because he glanced around and said with a grin, “Well, I guess it’s just us huh? Kind of romantic.” I smiled a watery smile and choked down a bite of dinner. Its funny how even the moistest of food can turn to sawdust in your mouth. But then Noah began to tune into the worst thing he possibly could have – me. He read my distress and responded with, “Mom, I love you.” I answered that I loved him too. More than anything. No less than ten times during our meal, Noah told me that he loved me – more than anything.

At this point, you may be wondering why I collapsed instead of responding in my usual snarky flesh. All I can say is: Sometimes, even the feistiest of us loose our snark under the strain. It did occur to me later that I could’ve hollered across the room to that first woman, “Hey lady! Did that lump you came in here with tell you he loved you during dinner because this kid that wasn’t good enough for you told me about ten times!” I thought of TONS of horrible things I could have said. Luckily, I was just too beaten down to come up with them at the time. But then I had a thought that I’ve been prompted to consider through some reading and preaching I’ve been listening to.

What would Jesus have done? Not WWJD – “What would Jesus Do?” But, what would Jesus have done if he were me living my life in that very moment. The process of trying to picture Jesus as the parent of an autistic child proved too much for me that night. But I did wonder this: What would Jesus have done if he had just happened into that restaurant that very night and seen everything unfold? Believe me, I was praying desperately to feel him at that table. The rejection was so, well, violent.

Normally we think of violence as a physical act of aggression. But I think I experienced a subtler and deadly form of violence, and perhaps one more common than even physical aggression. We were simply rejected precisely for who we are. There was no second chance at redemption. We weren’t offered an opportunity to explain our exceptionality. We were just cut off and discarded as broken beyond repair. We were an embarrassment. Our awkwardness and inelegance brought shame and isolation. We were invisible.

We were each story of every marginalized creature Jesus came upon during his ministry. We were ostracized and in need of inclusion. We were diseased and in need of healing. We were unclean and in need of justification and cleansing in order to be made whole again. And we aren’t the only ones.

As alienated as I felt that night, and for several days afterward, Noah and I are not alone. More and more frequently, I am becoming alert to hurting and broken people. Often we are tempted to think that people are experiencing a reality they had complete responsibility for influencing into existence. Often times, as with us, that is not simply the case. Even the most sinister of objectives have unpredictable conclusions. Likewise, the most innocent of best intentions can be catastrophic. There is not always a simple answer for suffering. And even if it appears there is a simple answer, the root causes for some issues are too complex to explain away in an attempt to systematize pain and suffering. I’ve noticed when we work so very hard to explain affliction and distress that we are doing so in an effort to exclude ourselves from a possibility of such tortures in our own experience. In other words, if I can explain how that person got into his or her situation I can keep myself from suffering similarly.

But we are missing the point.

I don’t think we need to explain it away. I don’t think we are ever called to figure it out. As a matter of fact, I believe we’ve been mandated to act in light of the fact that we cannot comprehend it. I don’t think love takes the time to evaluate suffering that way. Love simply acts in the face of the uncertainty. Love moves in the midst of the mess. Christ’s kingdom on earth wasn’t meant to assess every risk and liability associated with agape love. If that were the case, no one would take a risk on Noah and I because we don’t look that good on paper. No, kingdom doesn’t work that way. It isn’t logical. Very often it is counter-intuitive. It runs toward instead of away. It embraces instead of alienating. It takes on the suffering of the world. It takes those we wish were invisible and brings them into glorious, healing light.

Where was Jesus in the Chinese restaurant? He was a young woman who appeared to be about 5 months pregnant who was waiting tables. Her eyes were tired and she looked dead on her feet. I’m sure she didn’t understand the complexity of Noah’s neuro-diversity. She probably didn’t have a certification in Autism Spectrum Disorders. In all honesty, I think she was probably a college drop out. But she didn’t seem to feel the need to place us on the continuum of acceptable risk. Instead, she was kind. And it didn’t cost her a thing.

I ended up bringing most of my dinner home. I even packed up the fortune cookies because I just couldn’t stay in that room one more second. A few days later Noah pulled his off the counter and opened it. It read: “You will influence many people with your words and travel far.” Ironic, but no less so than mine which read: “You are cherished.” Neither fortune seemed appropriate that night because I forgot that kingdom is often found in the small, least likely of places – like the face of a waitress who wasn’t too tired to be kind to a child who appeared to be retarded on the surface but could meet kindness with kindness. And in the words of that same child as he comforted his mother with the words: "Mom, I love you more than anything."

Maybe our fortunes weren’t so wrong after all.

The Autism Gospel - of Owning My Shoes

....for Virginia, who asked for it:)

Autism has encouraged my own sense of style. When I’m truly being “me” my natural curly hair is flying in no less than 100 directions and the only make-up I wear is lip gloss. Business casual for me is cargo pants and flip-flops. If it is winter, I might wear my favorite pair of cowboy boots I got second hand at a thrift store accompanied by my ripped jeans. I can dress up. I actually clean up really well I’ve been told. But why bother? Some days are just a waste of make up. And who wants to make the commitment to get all “cover girl” when your kids spazzes out when you turn on the hair dryer?

So, whereas a lot of my friends have gotten all grown up and started dressing like respectable women of society, I remain resolutely unrespectable. My dearest friends know this about me. They don’t expect me to get prettied up or carry a purse (which I also loathe) when we go out to dinner. They know that “cute” is not a word that can ever be applied to my persona. Ever. They don’t try to “cute” me up. This is what makes them my friends.

Most of my clothes are given to me because I HATE to shop. I’d rather have elective surgery than go to a mall. It’s just who I am. My friends know this and don’t even think about inviting me to the Black Friday Shopping Day. They know I’d rather be home watching football and reading. Despite all indications to the contrary, I think I might be missing a chromosome somewhere.

Having an autistic kid has been a great excuse to get me out of some things I already hated doing. There – I said it. Now you know.

But in all sincerity, shopping malls are sensory minefields. The lights, sounds, smells, and crowds of a store are very difficult to navigate. Many times we have had to throw coats over our heads and take the perfume counter at a dead sprint because it “smells naked”. (I think that means that it smells like one might when just out of the shower, but who knows what Noah means sometimes.) I lose count of how many times Noah fell into fountains because the stimulation of the sound and smell of chlorine threw off his vestibular senses. And trust me, we make a BIG splash. Rounding off our “greatest hits at the mall” is the fact that Noah loves the silky feel of lingerie. Nothing like taking an autistic 9-year-old boy into the lingerie section for a sensory break. Sometimes I am even creeped out by us.

So when I needed new shoes for a wedding I was attending, you can only imagine my joy at taking Noah along. Rejecting the idea of a traditional mall, we went to a shoe store at an outdoor mall. I figured we would make less of an impression, there being fewer people to witness us and all that. But I knew the smell of leather was a trigger, so I put him in a large shirt that he could pull over the lower part of his face. So into DSW I go, accompanying Noah who looks like a terrorist or bank robber with his shirt collar pulled up under his ears and only his eyes showing. I remember opening the door for him and thinking, “let’s see if we can get in and out of here without hurting ourselves or anyone else”.

I was looking for black pumps. How in the hell was I to know there would be just over 30 varieties of black pumps? Who has the time to design all these shoes? I don’t want to tank our economy or anything but don’t we still need a cure for cancer or something? I sighed a sigh of exasperation as I walked the aisles with Noah in tow.

When I began trying on shoes, I let him lie prostrate over one of the benches in the aisle. Sometimes laying upside down and changing his horizon line can reboot his sensory input and give us a few extra minutes. I learned this little trick early on and would often encourage him to hang upside down at any opportunity if it gave me extra time to accomplish some task or another. Seeing the world upside down makes him feel better.

I had finally found a serviceable pair of shoes when I turned to find Noah gone. My heart lurched into my throat as I went into full panic. Quickly scanning the rows, I could not see him. But then I heard it – the “ooo-ooo-ooo” that characterizes our self-stimulatory behavior. I found him two aisles over sitting cross-legged on the floor and rapidly flapping over a pair of shoes. Dampening down my panic, I strode up the aisle to make our get away.

When he turned and saw me coming he jumped to attention and said, “Mom, I found them. I found your shoes!” In his hands Noah held the most vulgar pair of red, patent leather, spiked high heels I have ever seen. In my mind I could hear my grandmother commenting on the parentage of a woman who would wear these shoes in public. Only a woman of “ill repute” would even admit to having these shoes in her closet. And Noah thought they were the most beautiful things he had ever beheld.

“Oh, sweetheart.” I prepared him, “I just needed plain black. But thank you so much for helping me and doing such a good job of being patient while I was looking.

Then Noah said something that completely threw me under the bus. “But Mom. These are your shoes. You own these shoes Mom. They are beautiful-shiny. Just try them on. Please!”

What did he mean I owned these shoes? Was he questioning my parentage? Nope. The look of adoration on his face said that he thought these were the most stunning pair of shoes he had ever seen. To him, they were made for my feet. Tears were swimming in my eyes as I hastily looked over my shoulder to check and see if anyone from the church was in the immediate area . (You know they have radar on their staff because just order a beer in a restaurant and six elders walk in.) Secure that we were alone; I rummaged the shelf looking for my size. Sure enough, there was a pair of size 6s.

He began to flap excitedly as I slipped off my flip-flops and into the red high heels. When I had them on his face broke into a joyous grin and he loudly said, “Those are your shoes! You own those shoes! You own those shoes!” I checked the price and gasped! There was no way I was buying these shoes. But then he said, “Mom try them out with me. Can I have this dance?”

Suddenly I realized the in-store music was playing “Unchained Melody” by The Righteous Brothers. Noah stepped toward me and put his dirty little hand in mine and proceeded to slow dance with me in the aisle. He watched the shoes as we danced and repeated over and over again, “Mom, you own those shoes! So beautiful- shiny.” Hot tears ran down my face and into his hair.

In Noah’s eyes, I was the most beautiful woman in the world deserving the most beautiful and shiny pair of shoes in the world. Where I didn’t see myself as equal to these shoes, Noah thought they’d been made for me and me alone.

I am now the owner of a pair of red, patent leather, spiked heels. Every time I look at them I am reminded that someone thinks I am a “beautiful-shiny” lady worthy of attention getting shoes. The way Noah sees me is completely different from the rest of the world. My sense of style doesn’t bother him and he doesn’t categorize me because of it. He honestly thinks I am made to wear beautiful shoes, even though most days I wear flip-flops and my hair wadded up in a knot at the nape of my neck. Noah sees in me what I can’t even see.

I am at a point in life when I am trying to “own my shoes” in a lot of ways. Owning who I am means that I am at peace with my profession (or lack thereof at times). It means that I can smile at my wild hair in the rear view mirror and have serenity with my waistline. It means that my accomplishments, intelligence and appearance come second to embracing who I am. And that means knowing that I was made the way I am for a reason. I can only suppose the respectable woman of society might freak out if they had to completely suspend the use of their hair dryers, products and perfumes. Other women might long for a day at the mall to shop and spend their time trying on outfit after outfit. But that is not who I am.

For years I tried to fit that mold so that I could identify with people to whom I ministered and spend time with them. When that didn’t work, I just busied myself with work so I was unavailable during these social outings. Then I just isolated myself altogether and hated myself for not being more “normal”. I’ve had a hard time owning myself.

But at our house, normal isn’t even a setting on our dryer so I fit in here. I don’t care if I use double fabric softener in every load to make our clothes and towels extra soft to avoid sensory meltdowns. I don’t care that routines take precedence over spontaneity – I hate surprises anyway. It’s just fine with me that we need to watch the same movies over and over again. I’m not embarrassed that Noah wears the same outfit to church almost every week because, well, it is his “Sunday outfit” and if we don’t wear it, it might not be a Sunday. I’ve learned to own who we are.

Noah has coached me in many of the unseen mysteries of life, but perhaps his most influential lesson has been “owning” who I am – shoes included.

I love my racy red patent leather spiked high heels. I wear them with my ripped jeans. And I own them.

The Autism Gospel - "Are we through changing yet?"

Most days are really great. We are past some of those more difficult phases that accompany early diagnosis. I remember the days of detective work in which I wondered if actions stemmed from the neurological deficit or behavioral patterns set into motion by said deficit. I remember speculating if some of his self-flagellations would be something we’d face at the end of every day for the rest of our lives. The holidays have always been especially tiresome. No one really believes that the extra wattage put off by our Christmas tree adds up in our sensory index. I know exactly how many Christmas movies, carols, light shows and other assorted holiday sensory exhibitions it will take to throw us into a meltdown. Don’t be jealous…it took me almost eight years to learn.

The real issue is that as excited as Noah is about the holiday season, it brings an element of change into our daily schedule. The anticipation of the change stuns us before we even begin to process the expectation of what the holiday brings. Today has been one of the days when I’ve noticed more than others just how difficult this is for us.

It began with the daily trip to the Advent Calendar. As Noah placed the numbered felt object on its corresponding spot on the calendar he announced how many days we had left. Soon his fingers began that rapid tapping. Methodically, his thumb meets each finger on that given hand. Beginning with index finger and proceeding to pinky finger and then back again, both hands simultaneously calculate unseen factors. Then we begin to plan for the day ahead, as well as for the remaining days of this week. (And help me Jesus if the schedule changes this time of year!)

Today our plans were to clean the house together, work in the yard and then make dinner. After today was sufficiently mapped out, Noah asked what we were doing tomorrow. I should have known it would throw him for a loop but sometimes even I forget how much I have to prepare him in advance. I said, “Tomorrow is our day to have Christmas with your cousins.” He spun on his heel and look at me incredulously. “It’s not either. We do that a Sunday. Tomorrow is Thursday. Tomorrow is also not Christmas day. I can’t give them their gifts tomorrow.”

You see, for Noah it is all about the action of him giving the gifts. He will wordlessly open his own presents, but his real joy will be in seeing his cousins open what he gives them. Because the action of giving rests on Noah, I have inadequately prepared him for this even by moving it up in the holiday calendar. After I explained why we were making this change, Noah quietly retreated to his fortress of solitude – his room. Unfortunately, I had plans for that room right about then.

Generally, Noah’s room looks like rats might vacation there. While it is all arranged by some system involving texture and size and patterns concealed to the human eye, to me it is an abomination with which I’ve learned to live. But today, the sheets on his bed needed to be changed. I typically do this on days when he is at school so he doesn’t know I’ve done it, but I thought we could handle it. I was wrong.

I asked for his help in stripping the bed, thinking it might give him a measure of control in the situation. Ignoring the sound of his hyperventilation, I removed his pillow from its case. I thought he was going to pass out. While he was able to allow me to take the dirty bundle, he began to stim as I carried them to the laundry room. All the while I explained to Noah, “We have to change your sheets Noah.” He screamed, “Not change!” – which really irritated me because we both know good and well that I ALWAYS get the very same sheets back on the bed before nightfall! So I ignored him. But Noah couldn’t ignore me, or what was happening.

As the washer consumed his sheets with soapy water Noah asked, “When will we be through changing them?” I sighed and said, “After they wash, they have to dry. It’s going to be a while.” He left the room but returned at the change of each cycle of the washer. During the spin cycle I thought I might have to call the paramedics. When the washer finished it’s work he announced, “We are through changing!” I said, “No. Dryer.” He cringed.

I busied myself with some studying to keep from loosing my mind with worry at his continued self-talk as he comforted himself that he was “almost done changing”. I was ripped from my intellectual haze by the dryer buzzer. I always keep the buzzer off but Noah felt like we should turn it on so we would know immediately when we “were done changing”. Unfortunately, it took several of those super-sonic, earsplitting buzzes to completely dry his sheets and quilt. By the third buzz he was doing the “Charlie Brown dance” (you know the one the kids do while Schroeder plays) in the kitchen and I was considering running away from home altogether. Please remember – all I’m trying to do is change the sheets!

It has been a few hours since I restored order to his room, but his nervous system is done for the day. He is stemming so loudly from his room that I’ve got the television set at a volume I could hear from the sidewalk. Today, I feel like a mean mommy because, today, I forced change. A few moments ago I wondered if God has these exact same moments.

I’m changing a lot of things in my life right now and I’m pretty confident God is directing each change as only he can. I’ve got a lot of friends who are experiencing this holiday through change. One is spending her first Christmas morning without her children due to a custody arrangement. Another is spending an anxious holiday unemployed. Still others are in the midst of divorces or grief or struggles or illnesses that are changing the people they once were. Like Noah, many of us are yelling “Are we through changing yet!” Some days it appears to me that change is the only constant. But I loathe it.

Still I feel I can hear God’s sigh as I perform my own dances in depression or wrong thinking – very unbecoming self-stimulatory behaviors I might add – as he says, “all we are doing is making a change…” To him, we are changing the sheets. To me, we are turning my ontological framework inside out. Like Noah, I want to set that panic buzzer and each time I see a sign of change I want to ring the alarm. Unlike me, God doesn’t want to run away altogether – though he might want to have my medication adjusted.

So what am I to do on these days? With Noah, I patiently love his idiosyncrasies. I made one of his favorite dinners and indulged him as much as I could. I know that tonight he will roll over on a pillowcase pungent with extra Downey Fabric Softener and say he likes the smell. I know that the change, no matter how staggering it has been to our day, was both necessary and worth it in the end.

With me, God smiles and does the same thing. As I lay my head down on my newly laundered pillowcase tonight he will whisper: “I am he who is able to do immeasurably more than all you ask or imagine…no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived — the things I have prepared for you because you love me…nothing is impossible with me.” Maybe I will dream and then know that the changes, no matter how staggering have been worth it in the end.

The Autism Gospel - On Stealing Jesus

Living day to day on the “autism spectrum” has changed our life. We have been forced to view each encounter and situation through a neurological lens. Questions like, “How will this event smell or sound?” and “How will his eyes process this event?” and “What hidden senses will be triggered by this event?”, are paramount to our success. And when I say event, I mean something as simple as a trip to the grocery store. Life is complicated.

So when we were on the way home from church last Sunday and I received a call notifying me that our home had been burglarized, we entered a trauma mode. Knowing where all of his possessions are is very important to Noah. Realizing that someone had 1). Entered our home in violence and 2). Possibly moved or touched some of his possessions or 3). Possibly stolen some of his possessions was traumatic. When Noah encounters a trauma his brain responds by shutting off what it perceives as non-essential functioning until the shock wears off. In most cases, Noah becomes a “selective mute”. While this once lasted for hours or days, now I can usually bring him around within a 60-minute period. All the way home I explained that in these exact terms; “It’s alright because there is nothing they could take that we can’t replace. It is alright because the dogs are safe. It is alright because the police are there. It is going to be alright...”

He was eerily quiet as we got out of the car and proceeded into our home. At once, he began rummaging through his room in order to mentally catalog his prized possessions. Suddenly, he came running out into the living room. He made a beeline for the antique hutch where, just the night before, he had arranged our Nativity. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him snatch something and hold it tightly to his face. Then he ran to me and spoke the first words he had said since our trauma had begun: “Mom, it’s going to be alright because, look, they didn’t take our Jesus!” Then he unwrapped his small fingers from around a manger with Baby Jesus inside. “They didn’t take our Jesus, Mom! It’s going to be alright!”

I must confess, to this point I had been inventorying my biggest losses - my laptop and our 36-inch television. I had already thought, “The next lap top I get goes with me everywhere - this just tears it!” Suddenly time stood still for the police and other persons in the room as we realized there are some things that cannot be stolen. Later that evening Noah was headed out the door with his father to go and see Santa. He stopped at the threshold and turned to ask, “Hey Mom, I know everything is alright but I can I take Baby Jesus with me? I just want to hold him extra close for a while.”

While I had planned to chain my new laptop to my person, Noah was more concerned about holding Jesus more tightly. More than just a preoccupation with the arrangement of the Nativity, Noah saw the need to carry a part of it with him. I believe that, not only does Noah see his world Christologically, but also as a part of a bigger story. His responses to what others view as crisis and hardship consistently stun me into silence. It’s not unusual for the autistic individual to maintain a different and fixed perspective on circumstances. For my son, this happens to include the idea that most situations are not about him. Maybe it is because he has been so trained to be continuously aware of his environment and his response to them. Has this taken him out of the center of his universe and somehow placed him on the outside looking in? I don’t know the answer and probably never will. In any case, it is clear that Noah knows his story is part of a bigger narrative.

Stanley Grentz maintained that knowing our place as a part God’s kingdom in relationship to the narrative of scripture is key to our theology. He writes, “Narrative thinkers reminds us that we must view theology in terms of its relationship to the story of God’s action in history.” (Theology for the Community of God) Being a thinker that is able to view their part in any circumstance as a smaller part of a greater work changes their entire perspective. Furthermore, “….the revealed truth of God, which comes to us fundamentally in the narrative of God’s actions in the world, forms the ‘basic grammar’ that creates Christian identity…Rather than merely being a product of our experience, as certain strands of liberalism tend to argue, in an important sense this truth of God, this retold narrative, creates our experience.”

It is an identity crisis of sorts I suppose. Who are we? Why are we here? What is our purpose? Does God have a plan for my life? What does the Bible mean to me? Can all of those stories mean something today? How can I draw meaning from this book? All of these questions function in the same way. They ask “Who am I in the bigger story of the world?”

When I was in children’s ministry I had a phrase I said so often that the kids could mimic me with lethal accuracy. When I’d pick up my Bible I’d begin by saying, “This is God’s Book, the Bible…” Then they’d join in and finish the line: “and every word in it is true. It is one big story from beginning to end about how God is crazy in love with us!” More than just a collection of stories on par with Hans Christian Anderson, these stories are about us. They are the beginning of a narrative of which we are a part. When we see our lives as a continuation of God’s work since the creation of time, we should have an identity crisis. Grentz wrote, “The biblical narrative forms the foundation for a conceptual framework by means of which we view ourselves and our experience of the world.” No longer can we experience relationships, hardship, joy, adversity, hope or suffering without realigning our focus.

For some reason, this is Noah’s primary perspective. He is centered by the concept that he is a minor character in a larger drama that unfolds throughout time. In this instance, it manifested itself in a tight-fisted clinging to the manger. By wrapping his heart so fixedly around Christ, a violent invasion seemed nothing more than an affirmation of God’s story.

So for everyone who is wondering how we are making it - me and Noah and doing okay! After all we know our story. And they can’t steal our Jesus.

The Autism Gospel - Hope for Misfit Toys

I’ve been doing “research” for a message I’m giving next month. It’s a holiday gathering so the theme is preset, and I’ve got a pretty good idea where I’m going with it but I still like to research thoroughly. In doing my research, Noah and I have been watching some of the classic holiday movies. Watching a movie with Noah can be a strenuous experience. You have to be prepared for a lot of stopping and rewinding so that he can memorize a line in order to quote it perfectly 2 months later. As far as Noah is concerned, on the 8^th day God made TiVo.

We were watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. As we began Noah had several comments to make about how the characters looked, or how much he loves Christmas and how excited he is that “its almost here”. But his comments about Rudolph gave me cause to muse. It wasn’t very far into the plot before Noah grabbed the remote and, instead of rewinding, paused the dvd and said, “Now that is my favorite character – Hermie the Elf.”

I replied, “What do you like about Hermie so much?” Noah answered, “Well, we both have kind of yellow hair and also, Hermie is happy and sad at the same time.” When I asked how it is possible to be happy and sad at the same time, Noah said, “Well, you see Mom, he is a misfit. He is happy because he wants to be a dentist, but sad because no one understands him. So he is happy and sad at the same time.” Not passing up on a “Noah moment” I asked, “Are you happy and sad at the same time?” Noah answered, “Yes I am, it just depends on how I open my eyes.” While I pondered the weirdness of that statement, he began the video again.

Soon, Rudolph and Hermie have teamed up and run away in an effort to “be independent together”. They jump on an iceberg and head out for points unknown and arrive at The Island of Misfit Toys. At this point, Noah stops the video again and says, “Mom pay attention, this is the important part.” (At this point, I also grabbed my laptop.) They are greeted first by the sentry who appears to be a Jack-in-the-Box, but informs them that he is actually a Charlie-in-the-Box. This is why he is a misfit - because, “No child wants to play with a Charlie-in-the-Box”. Soon many other toys that have peculiar traits greet them. “How would you like to be a spotted elephant, or a Choo-Choo with square wheels on its caboose, or a bird that can’t fly but swims?” they are asked by the toys. When Hermie and Rudolph inquire how they got to the island they answer that the king of the island, King Moonraiser, searches for toys that no one wants and brings them to live on the island until someone wants them. Noah turns to me and says, “See, the king has open eyes.”

Now its quite possible that Noah was just discussing the finer points of 1964 made for tv animation, but somehow I don’t think so. You see, it’s a story of Hope. Advent is a season of preparation for the coming of Christ and a part of that larger story is Hope. In fact, it is woven all the way through scripture. In this story, the toys on the island have cause for Hope because they have a king that sought them out when no one else wanted them. And more than that, he provides for them a safe place of respite until they are wanted again. Please don’t miss the point – the king searched for them. This is the best part of the Hope: because the king had ‘open eyes’ no toy – no matter how big a misfit – went unredeemed. All toys are of value to the King, no matter how broken.

Noah changed the direction of my research. He indicated we can be happy or sad about who we are, it just depends on how we “open” our eyes. I rolled that over again and again in my brain all evening. I finally gave up around 4am and grabbed my Bible and began reading. Here are a few passages I was led to:

For the eyes of the Lord range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him. 2 Chronicles 16:9

I praise God for the Hope I can find because I have a King that came looking for me. Unwilling to allow me to remain a misplaced, misfit – he is redeeming the parts of me that he can work with and discarding the parts that he can’t. I’ve got Hope.

Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Hebrews 12:2

I thank God for the Hope of the season that comes in the form of a source on which to fix my eyes. I’m a misfit, but he isn’t done with me yet. I am actually beginning to suspect that we misfits might be his favorites. Maybe it’s easier to show us how to direct our gaze. After all, it’s all in how we choose to open or focus our eyes. I’ve got Hope.

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Cor. 4:18

I thank God for embracing the misfits and then using us in a wonderful way to show his glory. We have a marvelous Hope because we open our eyes to the eternal and not only the temporal. I’ve got Hope.

To all the misfit toys out there, Noah says there is Hope for us yet…it just depends on how we open our eyes.