From the desk of Theology Barbie

Living Under the Influence

2012-01-09T11:49:00.002-05:00

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.

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

Just Like Me

2011-11-29T11:01:00.002-05:00

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.

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

The Autism Gospel - of Rejection & Fortune Cookies

2011-03-20T21:13:00.002-04:00

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

2011-01-29T17:28:00.003-05:00

....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?"

2010-12-22T20:25:00.001-05:00

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

2010-12-11T06:32:00.002-05:00

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

2010-11-28T19:31:00.002-05:00

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.

The Autism Gospel – Flapping Like God

2010-11-20T21:26:00.001-05:00

Another trip to the Lawrenceville Food Co-Op today. Noah was up late so I was afraid I’d have trouble blasting him out of bed, but he sprang right to life because, in his words: “Okay Mom, let’s put a wiggle in it – we can’t be late for the food delivery.” (I’m learning that I dearly hate hearing my voice echoed in his. I must choose my phrases more wisely…)

I don’t know how much baby food and toilet paper we delivered, but it filled my mini-van to the brim. So much so that Noah rode with Mr. Mike in his truck because there was no place for him to sit in the van. When we arrived at the co-op, Noah began to work himself into a frenzy. As he ran, he flapped his way across the parking lot and I cringed. Honestly, I confess that the hand flapping is one of the behaviors I could do without. Try as I might, I just can’t find a therapeutic substitute. He generally does it only when he is keyed up. When he gets excited about something or over-stimulated by lights or noise, it runs down his arms and they start flapping in rhythm. I admit that there are times when I see this small sign of our neuro-diversity and become disheartened. I can vividly remember feeling beaten black and blue from the inside out during pregnancy due to, what I described to everyone as my baby “flapping like a bird”. (See #3 under the criterion listed below)

DSM-IV Autism Criteria

Section C: restricted repetitive and stereotyped patterns of behavior, interests and activities, as manifested by at least two of the following:

1. encompassing preoccupation with one or more stereotyped and restricted patterns of interest that is abnormal either in intensity or focus

2. apparently inflexible adherence to specific, nonfunctional routines or rituals

3. stereotyped and repetitive motor mannerisms (e.g hand or finger flapping or twisting, or complex whole-body movements)

4. persistent preoccupation with parts of objects

I even joked that everyone was going to be surprised when he was born with wings like a bat. In uterus, he responded this way mainly to music. Piano and organ at church or Billy Joel in the grocery store – it never failed. Directing the children’s musical 9 months pregnant was downright painful, but the kids liked watching my shirt move during the more lively songs. Flapping has always been a part of who we are. But I’d hoped by the time he was ten years old, he’d stop out of fear of how others might perceive him. But that’s not the way it works. Flapping for him is as part of his behavioral pattern as sweating when you are nervous or hot – it’s not something he can control. I’ve tried just to accept it as a part of who he is, but no mother wants to see people stare across a room, store or parking lot at her son who is having a neurological overload he can’t help.

But the truth is, if Noah ever flaps his way toward you consider it a huge compliment. It means he is delighted to see you. Most of us have found ways to restrain our elation into socially accepted mannerisms. We might clasp our hands or smile. Your eyes brim with tears of joy or you might even give a spontaneous hug. But not us – we flap and “ooo-ooooo-ooo”. I like to say “we flap and ‘ooo-ooo’ and hang around with those that do”. There is just no containing Noah’s joy. So it runs down his arms in flaps and off his tongue in “ooo-ooo”s. I know it makes people uncomfortable, but if they knew what a tribute it was to his love for them, I think they’d see it differently.

So between each trip from the loading dock back to the van for another load, he flew with flaps and “ooo-ooo”s. Armload after armload, back and forth, he carried bag after bag. Then I heard him mumbling as he carried certain distinct packages “man with green shirt brought this” or “lady in red sweater gave this”. It was then that I realized that Noah wasn’t only seeing the small step of delivering the food – Noah sees the entire project from beginning to end. In his mind, he could see each member of the church as they entered North River with their contribution. Then he pictured it in the pile. From there Noah saw it going in the van and then onto the loading dock. Afterward, Noah could already see it pulled from a shelf into the bag of a family. It took me all day to process this simple, yet profound point. According to part 4 of section C, Noah shouldn’t really be focused on the whole, but rather a small part of this project. There is no provision within his diagnosis for Noah to cognitively encompass the entire process of the mission – from grocery store to the arms of those in desperate need. But not only does Noah seem to visualize the entire process at one time, he also seems to connect the specific people involved at various steps of the way.

Case in point, after we were through unloading he asked Mr. Mike to take him to see Linda, the resident saint-in-charge of this ministry. He had to put the last piece in place. As we wound our way through the church that houses the co-op, I saw Noah glance at the weary faces seated in pews with their children, waiting to be called for an opportunity to obtain food for their families. Immediately, his hands began rapidly flapping. It was then that I realized – oh, he is seeing the end now! Mike got Linda’s attention and Noah extended a flapping hand in her direction. Her face broke into a smile and, God bless her, she extended a flapping hand back in his direction. Linda also, standing in the face of the end result of grace, needed to flap in response. Images began pouring into my mind: the Father of the Prodigal running wildly down the road toward his wayward son; Angels in heaven winging ecstatically at the confession of a lost soul; and maybe even God himself wild with enthusiasm and elated with his Beloved Son descending as a dove at Jesus’ baptism. All flapping, all enraptured with the end result of grace. Maybe God flaps for us when we can see the whole picture and become lost in him alone, basking in his grace.

In the car I asked Noah how he enjoyed his morning. His response was typically profound. He said: It makes me feel like Christmas inside. I couldn’t resist and asked how so. This was Noah’s answer:

On Christmas God gave Jesus. Food is the Jesus we can give. I think being like God is the Spirit of Christmas Mom. We can be like God and it feels like Christmas inside.

I sense Noah feels a part of a larger redemptive grace. He knows he can’t give these people a Messiah – he can’t send them a Jesus. But “the Jesus we can give” is food. Therefore, just as God gave and made provision for mankind, Noah feels he can mirror that behavior in giving. In this way, Noah feels he is being like God. He feels Christmas inside.

And being like God makes him flap. And suddenly, that is just fine with me.

Following Small Steps

2010-11-02T22:18:00.003-04:00

Upon the request of a few friends, I'm posting a letter I wrote after hearing about my minister's visit to Grandparent's Day at his grand-daughter's school. They read a poem about "Why I Love My Grandparents". One stanza read: I love my grand-parents because their "steps are small". Here is what I wrote...

Jim,

Your status and story about the poem which declared love for grandparents because their “steps are small like mine” was beautiful to me. I had the privilege of being loved very much by my grandmother. If you’ll allow it, I’d like to think more about it.

Her life had been hard. She was the youngest of three, born on the cusp of The Great Depression to a quiet woman of faith and an alcoholic. She saw a brother go away to war and miraculously welcomed him home again. She didn’t go to school beyond the 8^th grade except for cosmetology school, which helped her begin her career at the age of 18. She “did hair” exclusively in the city of East Point, Georgia for over 50 years.

She married young and was a divorced, single-mother in the 1950s. While her divorce carried with it the all-important distinction of “biblical grounds”, she was still marginalized in the South of the 1950s. After her divorce, she moved back home with her parents. Her father died shortly after her move home and it would only be after another brief respite that her mother would begin to show the signs of early onset Alzheimer’s. I remember the story of how she checked my great-grandmother into a nursing facility when her behaviors became overwhelming. She said that once the sun went down she knew she’d made a mistake and she cried all night. That was the only night my great-grandmother, after whom I am named, spent away from the home she had made for her children.

My grandmother married again when my mother was a teenager. Knowing the story as an adult, I believe she probably married out of loneliness and fear more than anything else. They were only married a short while before he was diagnosed with cancer and died. The majority of her life was spent in a small, yellow shotgun house on the corner of Semmes Street and Westwood Avenue. Most of that life was lived in the company of her beloved dogs, all of whom are buried in the backyard. Most of this life was also lived alone.

Looking back now, I don’t know how she did all of this alone except for sheer strength of will. The yard blossomed with flowers and shrubs that came to life under those same fingers that rolled many a permanent wave. The home of her childhood became her own home. I can recall her saying that she loved to travel and see the sights of the world – as long as she was at Semmes Street when the street lights came on. Like her mother before her, she loved the house she had made into a home.

Before I paint too rosy a picture of my predecessor, let me say that she was quite a character. Perhaps a local minister characterized her best during the days as she lingered before death when he said, “Well, I imagine God’s trying to decide what to do with her: heaven won’t have her and hell is afraid she’ll take over.” Known for speaking her mind, she was a woman feared by many. Her personal credo was to let people know exactly what you were thinking because it would either 1). Endear them to you or 2). Cull them right out of your life, for which she said you’d always be better off in the end. She was tall and intimidating and of strong persona. She didn’t like too many people and only had a handful of friends. But she loved me fiercely.

I christened her “J.J.”, a name of uncertain origin. When my mother corrected me, her statement was: she can call me anything she likes – as long as she calls me. I think it was in these early moments that her steps began to shorten. While she had little use for children, or people in general for that matter, she saw something of value in the girl that bore her mother’s name. I can say, without question, that the women in my family have been the greatest female influences in my life.

With her patient insistence, I learned to walk on the same wooden floors that my grandmother did. Before I was 3 years of age, I had regular nights of the week when her home was also mine. In her kitchen I learned to cook. In her yard, I learned to garden. This woman, feared by many and hardened by circumstance, consciously shortened her steps so that I might walk along her side. If she ever tired of my presence, I never knew it. By the age of 4, I knew her work schedule and would call before her last appointment of the week to ask when she was coming to get me and bring me “home”. I know that, to some degree, this hurt my mother. The only reasoning I can give is that J.J.’s steps were shorter and easier to follow. Now my mother, in turn shortens her steps for her own grandchildren.

Short steps allow for little ones to keep up. Adults are often so busy that they stride through life purposefully with long strides and much to accomplish. When I came into my grandmother’s life, I think her steps shortened because the only thing she felt she had to accomplish was to love me deeply and make sure I knew it. Those steps that often left people quaking in their wake, were a safe place for me. Time was ours and it seemed unlimited. Because she was willing to take short steps and allow me to follow closely, I am the person I am today.

I’m still convinced that I am the child of some Jesus loving, academic gypsies and not my family because I am so different from any one of them – including my grandmother. Never a reader, she seemed to tolerate my quiet presence in the rocker beside the front door with my nose “stuck in a book”. While she had been raised “in the church” herself, she hadn’t the temperament for memorization of scripture her mother had desperately tried to instill in her. But I think she saw in me, the redemption of her ways. I have early memories of stories of my great-grandmother, the “first Vangie” and how she loved the Bible. She encouraged this love of knowledge and memorization and told everyone who would listen how gifted I was. I was even trained that my name came from the word evangelist and that I was to be one who would spread the Good News. It was in my name, and it would dictate my steps for the rest of my life. (Unfortunately, her Restoration Movement view of Church also led her to say many times, “it is just such a shame you weren’t a boy….the things you could have done for the kingdom of God!”) Nevertheless, my love of learning was encouraged in her home. While those were not the steps she chose for herself, she could make her steps short enough to allow me my own way, even though it was different from hers. It seems that shortening her steps also allowed me to out pace her at times without resentment.

My favorite memories are of riding with her through downtown Atlanta. As winter approached, she always found extra money to go to Kmart and purchase fleece blankets. On the coldest of nights, she would come over shortly before dinner to announce that she was “taking me to Shoney’s” to celebrate some accomplishment – usually a good grade. Now what I knew, which my parents did NOT, was that this was actually code for something altogether different. Upon leaving my parent’s home on these cold winter evenings, we would hit a drive thru and then head into downtown Atlanta. She always took the back roads anywhere she went. Her justification was that she had learned to drive without the interstate and didn’t need it to get where she was going. These paths often took us into the roughest areas of town, which is just what she had in mind. We’d drive around for an hour or so and each time she saw someone down on their luck without a jacket she’ d say, “Vangie, hop out and give them a blanket.” So an eight year old, little white girl from the suburbs would jump out and deliver a blanket to a stranger with a smile and without judgment or fear. I think she knew this was the greater gift than the blanket itself.

Short steps taught me that there was always someone in worse shape than you. Short steps trained me that it was not in my heritage to turn anyone away who came to the door asking for food. My great-grandmother had given out food in this house to anyone in need, my grandmother would give the last of her leftovers to anyone who asked, and so would I. Short steps taught me the pace of the Kingdom of God here on earth, as such as that we gave to those in need without concern for our own well-being. We were God’s sparrows and he’d care for us. Only short steps can teach these truths because long strides in this direction create fear and uncertainty. But somehow, walking short steps in the ways of the Kingdom made it easier to learn this kind of faith. How thankful I am for those short steps.

As her steps did, literally, begin to shorten she would often ask, “Vangie, are you going to take care of Semmes Street when I’m gone?” I would dutifully reply “yes” even though I could not fathom a world without her in it. Even as I decorated her home for what I knew would be her last Christmas in 1997, I could not imagine this place without her presence. She died in February and through the spring as my mother cleaned out her house, I was unable to enter my safe haven. In a time of transition myself, I was suddenly without a place to live. To my mother’s credit, it made complete sense to her that I would move to Semmes Street. I recoiled at the idea because of the pain her absence left in that place. But after a few months, it became clear that my steps would lead me to Semmes Street once again.

It was the end of May when I moved in and my heart lurched as I moved my things into her home. I could hear her each time I went out the back door say, “Vangie, don’t slam the screen door!” I could see her at the sink each morning when I rose to make coffee. And, worst of all, I could smell her in each room. I remember distinctly the day I knew I could make my own steps in this place. The second week of every June, her gardenias dutifully bloom. So on a beautiful Georgia June morning, I awoke to the smell of 8 gardenia bushes –all as big as Volkswagons – blooming in unison. I could feel her say, “Vangie, take care of Semmes Street. I’m still here.” And it was in that time that I learned that taking all of those short steps had led me to a place where I know who I am. That is the best way I can describe how I feel here in this place so many women in my family have called home. Walking in those same short steps remind me, daily, that I am Evangeline – a bearer of Good News about this life. Treading the short steps she taught me to take is helping me train my son in them as well.

Knowing the ways of the kingdom of this world, anything small is also seemingly insignificant. The tiny and minute are generally marginalized in favor of “the bigger the better”. In our super-sized worldview, small steps seem like a waste of time. But I believe that the small steps are of greater value than the greatest strides. At least I know that to be true in my own life. So I pray that I, too, will leave not great marks on this world but small steps in which another can imagine walking also. For I have found that it is the small steps which lead me on the most beautiful path.

The Autism Gospel - On Being "Good" & "Sorry"

2010-10-27T19:34:00.001-04:00

Christmas Eve has always been almost as hallowed as Christmas morning. It has been our family’s custom to celebrate the advent of Christ this night at a Candlelight Communion Service. It is the moment of the entire holiday season that I treasure the most. Amidst the insanity created around being thankful and the celebration of Jesus’ birth, these few moments are especially sacred.

Well, they were sacred until autism came to live in my house. Because this is a family event, no one expects complete silence – even during “Silent Night”. However, the fits and challenges of living on “the spectrum” dropped like a bomb on our “O Little Town of Bethlehem”.

When first negotiating our event calendar after the diagnosis, I became practiced at carefully planning our sensory diet in order to participate in “real life” as much as possible. Even though it was necessary to forego many activities that “normal families” share, the Candlelight Service was non-negotiable. I even surmised that the low lighting would, in fact, contribute to our success since it eliminated a source of sensory input. That was before I learned about all the hidden senses and how this event would trigger them in bizarre ways.

As sacred an occasion as it was, as a staff member at the church, Christmas Eve was a work night for me. My portion of the service was limited to the reading of a passage of scripture, but this would still necessitate that I leave Noah’s side for a portion of the evening. However, I took extra precautions to insure our success. I planned for my family to sit in the balcony (closed to the rest of the public) so that we could be isolated. I took Noah through the event, by walking him – literally - through the Sanctuary and explaining everything that would happen. I planned for him to have his favorite quiet manipulatives to play with and something to chew on. Then I used one of the most time-honored tools a parent can use – motivation (I prefer this term over the vulgar “bribery”). I allowed him to pick one gift from under the tree and told him that if he could hold it together, he could open it in the car on the way home from church. His four year old eyes lit up and he was ready for the challenge.

Dressed in our best non-itchy clothes, we prepared for a contemplative evening. Noah was ready and excited. At this point in this development, many will remember his repetitive phrase was “I want to be a good boy.” Over and over and over again, I would hear “I want to be a good boy. I want to be a good boy.” And no matter how many times I reassured him that no matter what he did, he was a “good boy”, Noah would repeat his mantra. I still remember that as he sat down on the church pew and swung his little legs over the side he was chanting “I want to be a good boy”. I think it was just he way of psyching himself up for what he knew was coming, but it still cut at my heart to hear him expect so much from himself.

It was looking hopeful until the organist began playing. It was then that I met sheer terror in the eyes of my son. Quickly, I assessed that not only was the organ louder in the balcony, but that we could actually feel the vibrations in our body from here. It was as if the music was inside us and we had no control on the volume. But I was prepared – I reached into our bag and found the preemptive bag of Goldfish crackers I had brought along. He took the silicone sensory tubing we carried with us everywhere out of his mouth and happily replaced it with a cracker. Pieces of Goldfish fell out, however, as he murmured “I want to be a good boy.”

Then I noticed the slight smell that the candelabras were creating. I also noted that every other person in the room had on red and while it was beautiful, it was also a riot of color from our perspective. Noticing more and more pieces of this puzzle, I gently took Noah’s shoes off. I could already tell they were on his mind and that we would need to manage some of this stimulation soon. I went to read my passage and when I got back he was rolling around under the pew. Now, I didn’t really care as long as he was contented, but it was the rigorous flapping at his wrists that let me know this was just the calm before the storm.

As the music swelled, so did our potential to come completely off the chain. Three songs in, Noah was chewing on his candle. Honestly, I remember thinking: When I was unwrapping those candles were there any warnings about ingesting any part of them because if not, I don’t care if he eats the whole thing. I’ll spring for an extra candle at this point if this will just be over soon. It was during the devotional that I could sense we were not going to make it through this experience. I knew the timeline of the service and thought if I could just help him make it through a few more moments he would have something to be proud of. He could call himself a “good boy”. But I tried a moment too long.

I was able to cover his mouth with my hand before the wailing began. As he just about beat me black and blue with full armed flapping, I wrapped him in a bear hug and out the balcony doors we went. There is a small communion table in the balcony foyer with an oil painting of Jesus hanging over it. I rushed him to the table and sat him on it to try and comfort him eye to eye as best I could. I was in tears, not because of embarrassment or because we hadn’t been successful but because I knew what was coming: a litany of “I-want-to-be-a-good-boy” that would break my heart. Instead, when he got his breath he turned his tearful face to the wall behind him. Gazing up at that portrait I heard my little boy say, “I’m so sorry Jesus. I wanted to be good.”

Looking back, I am amazed that Noah had the capabilities then to internalize the feelings of an “abstract” authority figure. But in that moment, it burst a dam of emotions within me and I began to sob. With rare indulgence he allowed me to hold him and tell him over and over again, “Baby, Jesus is not mad at you.” He wasn’t afraid that he had disappointed me, but he knew this night was about something bigger than he and just wanted to be a part of it through obedience. He was hoping his goodness would allow him full participation in grace and favor. And when his goodness was not enough and he had reached the end of his personal resources, he was very, very sorry.

I have recently been in similar straights. I have had the need to sit at the feet of Jesus and say, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I got here, Lord, but I am so sorry.” I am feeling particularly in need of grace and favor. Much like my boy, I want do desperately to be good. I chase God with a relentless drive and determination that can be frustrating for those around me. My love and pursuit of the knowledge of God has ostracized me from more than one friend. My obsession with him makes me difficult to understand and synthesize the world around me on occasion. I’m not a lot of fun at parties. So how is it that someone who rushes after God so passionately can miss the mark so badly?

I am desperate to feel his arms tightly holding my flailing ones. I wish I could actually feel his loving restraint as he tells me the truth about who I am and how hard I strive and try and fail. I don’t know what he would say to me, but I wonder if he’d tell me the same thing I told Noah – “Baby, I am not mad at you.”

If you’ve ever been at the end of your personal resources because you haven’t been able to be good enough, maybe you understand what I am feeling. The good news is, even though I am working hard to convince myself of this now, Jesus is not mad at us. Our own goodness and personal resources were never going to be enough in the first place. There was no way we were getting through this experience without relying on him. All the chew toys and Goldfish (or those more things we adults use to comfort us in an attempt to adapt to our circumstances) were not going to make our goodness more effective. Sometimes, we just fail.

But we are a part of something much greater than ourselves and as such have resources available that extend beyond our own. Today I am going to try to rely on his goodness. I want to rest in his grace. I am striving not to be good enough on my own, but to trust in his favor and love. Trying to be “good” enough results in nothing but being “sorry”. When I operate under these conditions all I am is “good and sorry”.

Reflecting on Noah’s way of negotiating the ethical implications of his own personal failure has made me see myself through similar eyes. Once again, autism has given more than it has taken away.

The Autism Gospel - A Hand and Foot

2010-10-23T12:30:00.001-04:00

He was so excited that he laid out his clothes 3 days ago for this morning’s outing. That’s the thing about living on the spectrum – we like to plan in advance. Actually, we’re lucky today even happened because we almost didn’t get to do the big event. If it hadn’t been for the extra work of two precious men who choose to see beyond our restricted vocabulary and arm flapping, I’d probably be managing a major meltdown this morning due to “change of plans”. I hate it when we change our plans. It leaves me feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus.

The countdown started on Thursday night: “only two more sleeps (as in a night’s sleep in Noah language) until the best day ever”. Then on Friday morning: “I can’t wait until tomorrow. It’s gonna be the best time ever.” So with our favorite shirt, our most comfortable shoes and Winnie the Pooh we head out into our adventure.

Now some of you must be thinking that I took Noah to a carnival or fair. Surely, only something to rival Disney World could command this much planning and preparation? Maybe we went to see a movie at his favorite theatre and then stopped to carb load on the way home? Nope. Today we got to deliver food to the Lawrenceville Food Co-Op. Yep, that’s what all the excitement was about. Let me further explain…

As I cited in my last post, Noah has become obsessed about the food ministry at church. He “helps” take donations each Sunday morning by greeting church members ever so warmly at the door with “hey…where’s YOUR canned fruit?” (Mental Note: screen for autism among the greeters at your church…I’m just sayin’) Each week he helps stack and count the contributions. He has also been part of the decision making process for each week’s featured donation item. I imagine in some way this has helped him order his environment at church. But, oh, if only this perservation was restricted to the church building. In addition to shopping on Sunday afternoon – that’s right, the WORST time of the week to grocery shop and thereby, loose your anointing – for this week’s item, Noah has solicited donations from family members and friends. He just cannot understand why everyone has not caught on to this exciting phenomenon.

So this morning, we visited the Food Co-Op and delivered donations. One of those sweet men who’ve so kindly adopted Noah called the ministry ahead and told them about Noah. The director of the Co-Op was so happy to hear of his interest (that’s a mild way of putting it I think) that she made plans to give Noah a personal tour of the facility. My only prayer was that we would not make a bigger public spectacle of ourselves than we usually do – on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being “wow, did you just see what they did”) we typically average out at a 7.

We couldn’t even get in the parking lot of this modest church in Lawrenceville. Mike had warned me that it would probably be crowded and noisy on a Saturday morning. Noah had actually asked me on the ride up, “So mom, what exactly will this be like?” It has probably only been in the last year and a half that I ever dare take Noah anyplace I have not scouted out previously. I would always have to report how it smelled, the noise level, and lighting conditions to him before we ventured anyplace new. Well, this morning I couldn’t do that so I answered, “Well, Buddy. I’ve got no idea.” His response was typical Noah: “Well, this will be something to remember then, huh Mom?” My first thought was, “dear God I hope not”.

After Noah helped Mike carry in about 10 bags of groceries (the heavy work was very good occupational therapy before the noise, sights and smells…thanks for that Lord – wouldn’t have though of it), Noah was greeted by the director. He couldn’t make eye contact, but offered her a very flappy hand shake. She was warm and wonderful and put Noah at ease immediately. It is obvious that she is practiced at (and has perhaps perfected) the art of restoring dignity to the broken. So she began to take Noah through the building. She explained the in-take process and when he loudly asked, “hey, who are these people?” she calmly explained that they were waiting to go back and get their food. She even took Noah through the offices there and showed him her filing system and explained how they manage helping so many people. He insisted, of course, checking the S file cabinet to see if we had a file. She was un-phased by his questions and requests. She introduced Noah to everyone as if he were a celebrity. Noah dutifully gave each volunteer the same view of the top of his head, and flappy hand shake. No one seemed to think anything of it. At one point I heard her gently explaining to Noah that giving is a way we can be “the hands and feet of Jesus for people who need his help”.

Noah said very little, but was his usual stealthily observant self. I allowed him to bring the camera so that he could take pictures. I thought maybe it would quench some of his interest, truth be told. When we got back to the rows of food, I could see him mentally inventorying the shelves. I allowed him the camera and he began snapping away. I was dismayed to find him reading the labels on the empty shelves. Sure enough, later in the car he was able to tell me everything they were out of. His biggest excitement was seeing a table set aside for baby food and formula.

I waited until the ride home to ask Noah what he thought. He typically speaks better when we are in the car and I’m driving – always has. I think it is the combination of not needing to process my facial expressions and read my social cues during a conversation and the stimulation from a moving vehicle that helps him communicate better in this way. Here is what Noah said:

“I feel proud to be a hand and foot. It was a great day because Jesus helped people today. Babies won’t be hungry now. Oh, and mom…they are out of toilet paper.”

Mike had given him a list of the Co-Op’s Top Ten needs. Noah read them silently until we reached the interstate. Somehow I don’t think today quenched Noah’s desire and passion for the food ministry. Instead, we may have just created an all hands and feet monster that might go through your pantry should we stop by your home to see if you have any of the featured donation of the week.

Everybody lock up your toilet paper.

The Autism Gospel of Green Beans & Samaritans

2010-10-03T09:03:00.001-04:00

“Mom, don’t have hurt feelings, it’s just a growing up thing to do.”

This is how Noah started a heart-to-heart conversation with me about a month ago. I was terrified as to what would follow this declaration of independence, but encouraged him to continue. Not a fan of “small talk”, Noah got straight to the point. “Mom, I want to put myself to bed at night.” I tried not to emotionally respond to this newly found sense of autonomy but my heart cried out, “No! Not the bedtime routine!” (Sometimes I wonder who the autistic person around here is…maybe it’s contagious after all.) So without any emotional affect at all, I asked what this might entail. Just which parts of our routine was I to forego in the spirit of pre-adolescent development? To my surprise, his idea of putting himself to bed meant that Noah would say his prayers himself.

Now I should say that when we first received our diagnosis one of the most bone chilling prospects of 299.0 was the “lack of social or emotional reciprocity”. What was that going to mean for Noah? Would he be capable of a conscious or was he destined to become a serial killer? Many nights would find me bleary eyed cruising the internet for adaptive behavioral methods that might be the cure for our curse. My biggest fear was what this would mean for Noah’s spiritual life. Without emotional reciprocity, could he ever respond to God as his Savior and forever friend? And he couldn’t even talk to me or conceive of me as a person when I was right in front of him. Could Noah ever conceive of a God who loved him enough to send his son to die for him? Would he be able to ever communicate with God?

To say these thoughts plagued me daily in our early years is the epitome understatement. I methodically tried different approaches to break through to a place where I could access Noah’s soul. My only solution to the prayer problem was to make a small photo album with pictures of those for whom we could pray. Using photos from Christmas cards, I used this book each night to hopefully convey to Noah that praying included talking to God about other people. While it has been a long time since I’ve needed to use the book to break through to Noah, I have still often wondered at night: Does he even listen to the words I pray or is this just part of the routine to him? Like the parent of any “normal child”, I have wondered if my child would internalize his faith.

While I am sometimes tempted to feel that autism has robbed me of certain liberties as a parent, I am constantly reminded that it has given me far more than it ever took away. While I don’t even pretend to have this disorder “by the tail”, I can say that I’ve found there is much more happening than often appears on the surface with an autistic individual. Whereas before I might have deduced from certain behaviors that my son lacked emotional reciprocity, I now see that I believe Noah has been gifted with heightened senses. I can only speak for “our case”, but I know that Noah feels and sees things that elude those unfortunate enough to be normal. Here is how I know…

Our church supports a local food co-op to provide for families in need. We’ve participated before by bringing in assorted canned goods and allowing Noah to place them in the grocery cart located in the foyer. However, last Sunday’s emphasis was on green beans. Somehow, Noah really caught on to this specific idea. All week long he inundated me with reminders that we had to get green beans for the “hungry people”. And when I say that Noah reminded me, I mean SEVERAL times a day because when we focus on something we REALLY focus on it.

So on Saturday when we did our grocery shopping I patiently waited while Noah picked out just the right can of green beans – which turned out to be a 4-pack but this is for the Kingdom right? He placed them in the buggy and checked on them several times as we continued to shop. When we got to the check out, Noah dug them out from under the rest of the groceries so that they would be checked out first. I grimaced as his arms flapped when they “beeped” over the scanner. Then I promptly forgot about the green beans. That “to do” had been checked off my mental list.

Last Saturday evening, I stood at the door listening to Noah’s prayers. Even though it’s a “growing up thing to do” Noah still prays aloud with his hands clasped to his chest. I heard him say, “And dear God, please don’t let me forget the green beans! Don’t’ let me forget the hungry people.” My mouth went dry. I swear that I believe the salvia was immediately redirected into tears because I instantly wept.

Dear Lord, please don’t let me forget the green beans and the hungry people. When was the last time I prayed with the sincere spirit to remember and not forget?

It was then that I remembered Noah has also been fixated on the story of The Good Samaritan – or as he calls it “The Story of the Guy on the Road”. I find it interesting that Noah doesn’t identify with the hero, but with the wounded. I’ve acted out this story dozens of times in Sunday School lessons. No one really wants to be “the guy on the road”. It’s the Samaritan that is the hero. We even make a big deal about how marginalized the people of Samaria were and how extraordinary it was for Jesus to choose this unlikely hero. But Noah never seems to get past the image of the wounded man. It seems Noah has a heightened awareness for those in pain and need. I don’t have to wonder why.

I can still see Noah laying under the table in most of the Sunday School classes he attended as the rest of the class sat obediently around the story circle. My wounded little boy would stay on the fringes of his own society, paralyzed by his own brain for many years. I wonder if when Noah sees the picture of the man prostrate on the road, some part of him doesn’t transport his mind’s eye to the perspective of laying on the ground himself. I believe that even though we could not see it at the time, Noah was desperate for someone to come along and be his Samaritan. And many teachers did just that. In this way, he identifies with the wounded and passed by in a way most of us cannot.

What I find difficult to grasp is Noah’s desperate plea not to forget those in pain. Having experienced so much pain himself, why would he want to remember more? Well for Noah, I guess he can still see from the perspective on someone on the road. And contrary to all logic, Noah prays to remember and not forget. He prays not to forget the pain and suffering with which he identifies. In his own way, he is willing to relive that scenario in his memory in order to keep his perspective. Most of us spend our energies avoiding personal suffering or, at the very least, trying to put it behind us so that we can “go on”. But Noah asks to remember.

I hope that one day, I can grow to a place where I can ask God to help me remember my pain and not forget it in order to benefit someone along the road. Until then, I will remain inspired by green beans and Samaritans.

Today is “Tuna Fish Sunday”. Our cans are packed and in front of the door so that we’ll have to trip over them to forget. But I have a feeling that Noah won’t let me forget...

The Autism Gospel - The Barefoot Confession

2010-09-12T16:11:00.002-04:00

Today I baptized one of the finest human beings I’ve ever known. I’ve written about my Gillian in previous blogs. She is a child affected by autism and it’s challenges. I wrote about how her first word was Jesus and all she had taught me about that “Name above all Names”. Today, Gillian taught me another lesson about the Kingdom of God.

She has displayed a deep love of Jesus Christ for many years now. Despite her attention deficiency and sensory issues, I could always depend on Gillian’s piercing blue eyes to be glued to my face whenever I taught. Those eyes always caught me off guard. I am accustomed to the autistic child who avoids eye contact, but this was never the case with Gillian. At one time, I confess, I considered her stare blank and vacant. It seemed her gaze just rested on you without intention. What I came to discover was that, while her gaze was without “intention” it was not vacant or without cognition. I say it was without intention because I learned that when Gillian gave you her interest, her eyes would reflect that she took you at face value. Perhaps because of her social difficulties, she didn’t expect anything from me during our interactions. The result of this was that Gillian was able to process and reflect on my words much more quickly than other children.

Perhaps my favorite Gillian story was from our unit on The Prophets. One of our first lessons highlighted the life and story of Isaiah. We presented the call of Isaiah in a tandem-story method that allowed me and another storyteller to narrate the story together at a pace that moved the excitement of the story in a direction that communicated the wonder of Isaiah’s encounter with God. We told about Isaiah’s vision of God complete with seraphs and the train of his robe that filled the throne room and everyone crying “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.” For many of the children this was the first time they’d heard this portion of scripture. I was especially concerned about the younger children and wondered if they would fully understand the significance of this passage.

Immediately after the lesson, I felt a tug on my pants and turned to see Gillian’s big blue eyes meeting my own. Her commentary on the lesson still rings in my mind. She said, “Miss Vangie, when you told me about Isaiah and those flying snakes and everybody crying ‘holy, holy’, I forgot my tights were itchy!” In other words, the passage had made her forget her momentary (but very real) physical and neurological discomfort. I told my co-teacher we’d never hit a home run like that again no matter how hard we tried.

Soon after this Gillian began to say, “Here I am Lord, send me!” in own special way as she began to discuss her desire to be baptized. Always cautious, her mother and I continued to dialog with Gillian but wanted to be sure she “understood” the significance of her decision. Looking back now, I could kick us both. I should have realized that Gillian’s response was exactly like that of the prophet. She was ready to have her life given over to someone who’d be with her always.

So a few weeks ago Gillian finally had enough and asked her mother, “Why do I have to wait?” Her mother hadn’t made her older sister wait. Gillian could see that she was being handled differently. She is generally at peace with being treated differently because she knows that she is different from her siblings. But on this issue, Gillian had had enough and stated in no uncertain terms that it was time for her to be immersed.

I’ve found that autistic children, perhaps all children really, tend to have what I call a “person”. This is usually someone to which they have developed a close attachment. Often, these bonds are formed as their “person” guides them through a difficult time or transition. I am humbled to say that I am “Gillian’s person”. I don’t say this to brag, but rather to put this covenant into words in order to make myself accountable to the responsibilities of being her person. So when the question was posed as to who would baptize Gillian, there was no question in her mind that I would perform this honor. I can’t describe what the process of immersing a child into Jesus Christ means to me. But to be chosen by Gillian to be both her “person” and the one to immerse her, all I can say is that it takes my breath away.

This morning I got an S.O.S. from the Children’s Ministry Intern letting me know that I might want to arrive at church early to reassure Gillian. This was shortly followed by a text from Gillian’s mother expressing the same idea. I was reassured to know that Gillian was expressing “normal” tendencies toward nervous anxiety and it confirmed for me that Gillian really did understand the magnitude of her decision. When I arrived early, I walked her into the Sanctuary to rehearse The Good Confession once again. It was here that Gillian reminded me of a critical Kingdom Principle.

As I knelt in front of her and explained that her current Children’s Minister would be taking her confession Gillian said, “I can say it, but can you hold me while I do it?” What she wanted was for me to kneel behind her with my hands around her waist as she spoke those precious words she holds so dear. She knew she believed them, she was ready to say them, but she wasn’t afraid to ask to be “held” as she carried out what she knew God wanted her to do. Oh that we all could be the Arms of The Kingdom for those in the family of God who need to be held as they carry out God’s work in their lives!

Instead, we try to bravely go at this life alone either hiding our inadequacies or pretending as if they don’t exist at all. I have a feeling many more of us are paralyzed by fear than admit it. We see our fear as a lack of faith and a limitation in righteousness. And because we can’t share our own fears and doubts, when others live out circumstances in their own lives that indicate struggles, we move quickly to forming an opinion about that person. Before we know it, we’ve judged them based on their fallen humanity without ever recognizing our own.

So how is it that these neurologically challenged children can embrace this kingdom ideal and we cannot? I think part of it lies in their so-called social deficit. It never occurred to Gillian that 1). It was unnatural to ask for support or 2). I would say “no”. I also believe her ability to take me at face value (or at my word) made it easier for her to diminish any suspicions she might have had to my response. She needed me and I am her “person”, so naturally, I would be there in her time of need.

As I knelt behind Gillian and felt her heart pounding through her little back, I was reminded of the morning’s New Testament scripture reading from Romans 8:

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?...No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.^”

I might also like to add: “Shall an imbalance in sensory input, or decreased social skills, or pervasive and repetitive behaviors or neurological deficit separate us? Will the way the world views those who just happen to hear the electricity run through the walls keep us from internalizing the message of the Kingdom? Will those whose speech cannot express the inner workings of their mind be left out of this kingdom?”

Conversely, I believe people like Gillian and Noah are here to show us the kingdom in it’s purest, most undiluted form. In their minds, if someone needs it and I have it to give – well, they can have it. When presented with the most difficult of Jesus’ teachings, these children have the ability to internalize and accept them. Why? It is kind of like Gillian’s piercing stare – they take Jesus at his word. There is no doubt that he is True. Jesus becomes their “person”. How many of us can say “Jesus is my person?”

And what a beautiful Jesus they internalize – full of compassion, love, mercy and grace! To them he is a Savior for the marginalized and forgotten. He is the Redeemer of Broken Toys. Fully recognizing their own brokenness, they not only welcome a humble Messiah, they are able to turn their hearts completely to him in obedience without fear or reservation.

I mentioned in my previous blog that Gillian prefers not to wear socks and shoes. She was intent on looking her best this morning - after all she was meeting her very forever friend today. However, her choice of shoes was already an issue by the end of Sunday School. As I was walking with her, I noticed she was having problems with her praxis and foot placement. When I asked her if she was alright she said, “Oh Miss Vangie, it’s my shoes. They are pretty but they are so tight. They hurt my feet and I can’t think.” My heart melted for this dear child who wanted so badly to have a “normal moment” just like everyone else, but was unable to function because of something most people can compartmentalize.

I told Gillian what we’ve said before: “If Jesus is in your heart he can’t see your shoes. Take them off Gilly…you stand on holy ground.” She replies, “Just like Moses and the bush that burned.” With tears I said, “Yes, baby girl. Your shoes don’t matter – your heart does.”

She gave her Good Confession barefooted. Today, that piece of ground was holier because of a wondrously created child of God who confessed him with volume and confidence without reservation, overcoming great odds beyond her control.

Holy ground indeed.

The Autism Gospel - Fidelity

2010-08-28T07:54:00.002-04:00

It was obvious that his teacher was concerned. I wasn’t sure just which of the symptoms with which Noah’s disability manifested itself was her primary concern on this particular day. She began by saying, “Noah is very attached to you.” As I couldn’t really dispute that statement I just smiled and waited for her to continue.

She went on to tell me that their first unit had been about Friendship. I am sure this was the most proactive way to begin teaching social skills to a group of 9 special needs preschool children. While 6 out of the 9 children in that room were non-verbal to some degree, it was clear some children in that room would never master oral communication. So it was logical that in order to attune them to an environment filled with other children with whom it was hoped they would become attached to, and thus, find a desire to communicate with, the school year would begin by drawing their attention to friendship.

They were teaching them to be aware of their surroundings and the people therein. As few of them were able to speak, they allowed the children to point to pictures of their peers they’d taken with a disposable camera when asked the unit objective: “Who is your best friend?” The problem seemed to be in the fact that Noah would not respond to the question. As the teacher pointed to each picture she’d say, “Noah, is Malcolm your friend?” Staring at the floor with a polite back and forth shake of his head, Noah would indicate “No.” Undaunted the teacher would ask, “Noah is James your friend?” The response would be the same. The teacher said she had almost given up hope when Noah began to touch the file folder in which she was taking her anecdotal records. She allowed him to open the folder and he thumbed through a book I’d made about Noah called “All About Me”.

Silently he flipped the pages filled with pictures of his grandparents, cousin, teachers from church and pets until he found the picture for which he was searching. Turning the book around he mumbled, “bes fwend” as he pointed to a picture of me. She tried to explain to Noah that I was his mother and not his friend, but Noah was insistent that I was his best friend. As she finished this story, she gestured to the small bulletin board at the front of the room labeled “Friends”. I saw that in the lower left hand corner, my picture had been wedged between the board and the trim. She explained this was the only way Noah would engage in the Circle Time associated with this unit. I was his best friend and he would acknowledge no other.

Much time has passed since I sat cramped in a little chair at that parent-teacher conference. I’ve read tons of information on social skills development for the autistic child. We’ve had the play dates in which I stood behind Noah like a puppeteer in order to engage him with other children. If you were to ask him now, Noah could give you a list of people he considers friends. He’ll tell you about Clara, Grady, Bobby, Luke and Mr. James. But as for a best friend, that position is still reserved for his mother and no other. Until recently, this has been a cause of concern for me. Then I began to try and see things from Noah’s perspective – most of the time it honestly makes more sense and is usually always closer to God’s perspective.

Noah considers me his best friend for one reason only – fidelity. Fidelity is defined as “the strict observance of promises and duties; loyalty; adherence to fact or detail”. Anyone having read the DSM-IV can recognize the similarity between this definition and the characteristics of a person with autism. The only difference is the diagnostic manual frames these behaviors in the negative, not the positive. There you’ll read: “encompassing preoccupation with one or more stereotyped and restricted patterns of interest that is abnormal either in intensity or focus”. Now I fully appreciate the work and clinical expertise that went into the DSM-IV. Believe me when I say that I was thrilled when we were given the code “299” because it meant a pathway to assistance and help for us. But it also means that I must come to terms with how that diagnosis is going to frame my reference of Noah. And because I must add my faith in our Creator into the equation, I constant realigning my point of view on how much of Noah behaviors are correctable – or if I even desire them to be so. And the most bizarre twist of all is how in this road of “restricted patterns of interest” and exacting routine, a reciprocity has been born within me. Somehow, Noah has taught me faithfulness and fidelity.

Noah has found me faithful. We’ve been through a lot together. Sitting through hours of silence together drew us closer than all the hugs he couldn’t tolerate from me. Allowing myself to weep with him, showed Noah that I identified with his pain and uncertainty. Pushing Noah to achieve more has only always been possible if I would say to him, “I know you can do this and when you are finished I am going to say, ‘Noah I’m so proud of you.’” How these magic words have always been a comfort to him I don’t rightly understand.

But I think the part of me that Noah finds the most faithful is my willingness to allow him to be treasured without changing one thing about himself. Please don’t find me heroic in this - most of these moments are born out as I cover immense fear that Noah will be rejected for the person he is. Yet still, I want Noah to be able to be himself and be cherished for it. I believe it is this alone that has won me the place as Noah’s best friend.

It is really an interesting turn of events because his namesake is also one who “found favor in the eyes of the Lord”. I wanted my perfect little baby boy to be one with whom God would find favor because of his faithfulness. At the time, I could not have foreseen the hours of therapy and IEP struggles that would stretch out before me. I couldn’t have possibly known the road to faithfulness was paved with hours of learning as much as I could and then praying about what I’d learned. As it turns out, it has been Noah who has taught me to be faithful.

And he is, just as I had hoped, one of the most faithful friends you could have. Once you see Noah through a crisis and he can trust you, he is your friend for life. It doesn’t matter what you say to him, how you might forget or betray him, Noah will forever be faithful to a friend. He expects very little in friendship. For Noah, friendship is mostly about knowing a person is there and that he can trust them when in need. He requires very little, but gives much in return.

Just last night, Noah passed by the dining room table where I sat reading and stroked my hair as he said, “Here is my best friend.” What an unbelievable honor! I am awestruck each time he says it. Despite my faithfulness, I’ve done nothing to deserve the privilege of being known as “Noah’s Best Friend”. He so noble in character that, in comparison, I find myself humbled beyond knowing at his gestures of love and fidelity. He knows my every nuance. Don’t believe anyone who says the autistic child is incapable of emotional return. On the contrary, I think Noah has the capacity to feel more than the average human being. Without a word or a glance, Noah can read my feelings and no amount of faking it can fool him. His emotional telepathy is one of the most frightening and tremendous facets of his personality.

“Here is my best friend.” Those words still stubbornly lodge in my brain. But as I reflected this morning, I wondered if this is what we will experience when we see Jesus someday. I can imagine him surrounded by a crowd clamoring for his attention. Over someone’s head he sees me and stops his conversation and says, “Here she is, my friend!” How I long to be considered a friend of Jesus. And this side of heaven, I’ve found few that can show me what that looks like apart from Noah. I think his picture of fidelity and friendship have reshaped the way I believe Christ looks at me. And in addition to this, Noah has given me a great reward for the faithfulness he has guided me to develop – a place as his best friend. A greater honor, I could not ask.

The Autism Gospel - Brokenness

2010-08-24T21:52:00.001-04:00

When Noah was able to piece together sentences we really began to be able to acknowledge each other’s existence. People with babies that babble on time and have toddlers that love the sound of their own voice probably won’t appreciate what a revolution it was for us to be able to make noises to one another and communicate through them. But know that for Noah and I, these milestones marked the miraculous.

Even so, it was tough going because of Noah’s speech impediment. I joked that I could get a job at the UN as a translator because I seemed to be able to interpret anything. Add a vowel to a garbled grunt and I could tell you what it meant. For this reason, Noah rarely left my side. Attending a Special Needs Pre-K through Fulton County Schools opened Noah’s world and his vocabulary. Unfortunately, it also raised his frustration level as he tried to communicate without me at his side.

Upon daily carpool pick-up, I could sense at a glance how Noah’s day had progressed. Usually the day had proved so taxing emotionally that he often stared slack-jawed into space for several hours before showing signs of life again. It was at this time that I began to wonder how Noah was coping with his disability. Without functional language, the only way to gauge his emotions was through behavior. The signs were not good, but I remember the day Noah confirmed for me what I feared – he knew he was different.

He hadn’t turned four years old yet and was only attending the pre-K class part-time until, when at age four, he would become eligible for full day services. I picked him up after lunch, where he was being trained to eat in a crowded and noisy cafeteria in order to help integrate volume into his fractured nervous system. On this particular day, his teacher said, “Lunch was really hard for him today. He didn’t eat a bite. You should probably feed him again when you get him home.” So when we got home I tried to engage him in picking out something to eat but he just went into his room and shut the door. Since he’d never done this before, I went in to investigate and awoke to my nightmare.

Noah sat on the hardwood floor beside his bed with his arms wrapped around his knees rocking back and forth. When I called his name he didn’t respond in any way or stop the rocking. I was terrified. Not knowing what else to do, I sat on the far side of the room and waited even though I didn’t know what I was waiting for exactly. After around 20 minutes he began to slow the rocking and finally crawled over to a pile of toys. I, however, was too afraid to move. He picked up a cheap Happy Meal toy that had broken the day before and pushed it to my feet. I thought, “Okay, here we go again with him grunting and me explaining that I’ll try and fix this toy even though it is beyond repair.” But then Noah stunned me with the following statement, one I will never forget.

Without looking at me, his small voice said, “Bo-ken. Bo-ken Mama.” Before I could launch into my speech about trying to fix the irredeemable toy he continued. Suddenly, miserable eyes staring at me from a tear stained face met me. As he held the toy in one hand, he took his other hand and pointed to his head. He said, “I bo-ken too. I bo-ken here (pointing to his head).” I barely had time to process the tears on his face, the gesture to his head and his deduction that he was broken before he said: “Mama, you fix me. I bo-ken Mama, you fix me?” In that moment I knew that Noah fully realized his limitations and was heart broken because of them.

I’ve recently been made ever more aware of my own limitations, my own “brokenness”. While it comes as no great surprise to our Christian sensibilities that we are in a broken and fallen state, sometimes the daily management of our lives becomes overwhelming. Much like Paul “I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” It seems the harder I try, the more I fail. To say I fall short of perfection is the world’s greatest understatement – and those are usually my very best days. I spend much more time turning my own tear stained face to the heavens and asking God to fix my brokenness than imaginable. Truly, some days it is unbearable and I wonder what the Creator of the Universe sees in this severe mess of a human. I wonder if there is redemption for my brokenness.

You might be wondering what my response to Noah was that day. Shockingly, I didn’t cry in despair, or tell him he was fine just the way he was. For some reason, that moment in his bedroom floor served as a catalyst in my life. I was scared beyond recognition. The fact that Noah had observed enough of the world to find himself insufficient terrified me. He was defeated and rejected – at 3 years old. I had few answers and little hope in that moment. But something that had lain dormant inside me began to slowly and powerfully rise. It was as if a sleeping beast had suddenly been awakened in my heart as I heard my son ask me to “fix him”. And with strong voice and complete assurance I said, “Yes Noah. I will find a way to fix you.” I believed it too.

I’ve learned a lot from Noah, but one of the foremost lessons has been how to manage brokenness and rejection. As I am continually reminded by this violent world we live in, I am insignificant and powerless. To gain power is to survive. To wield intellect and influence is essential to life. I am told that I must fight my way to the top, to prove my merit and justify my existence as worthwhile. And to be honest with you, it just can’t be done. I just can’t be everything that every person desires me to be. I am without superior intellect or skills (even though some have found my wit especially biting). I don’t know how to do a lot of things. And like the apostle Paul, I fail in my moment to moment attempts to allow the Holy Spirit to guide me. Instead, I listen to the Voices of this fallen, decrepit world tell me that once again, it’s my Fault. And I fail again to meet the standard. I am broken. And I am without redemption or hope, salvation or rescue, joy or peace. It is at these times that I remember Noah’s misery as he wondered if he could be fixed.

For anyone who might be broken too, I have reassuring news. You’ve been fixed.

I’ve learned that more than countless hours of speech therapy, occupational therapy or early intervention the best medicine for Noah is unconditional love. I can only say I know this because my Creator uses the same therapy to heal my brokenness. The Bible is the story of a relentless pursuit of humanity by God because of his unqualified love for us. We have been loved with a fierce love. Beginning with the covenant relationships of The Patriarchs down through the time of the Prophets, God sang a song of unrequited love for his creation. And at the apex of his opus, the cry of a baby boy born in Nazareth confirms the lengths he was willing to travel to sing his love song for humanity. While this symphonic theme is similar through the pages of scripture, its resolution is on the Cross of Calvary when he sang in a loud, anguished voice, “It is finished.” My child, you are no longer broken. You have been fixed, repaired and made whole. Listen not to the cacophony of Voices which carry the stench of condemnation and death – hear my song instead. You have been redeemed and are no longer under condemnation.

For me it is a matter of daily attuning myself to that great song of love. Despite my failures, which are copious, I am not irreparable. In fact, that same brokenness is God’s chosen vessel to carry his Holy Presence into a world that has never heard His song. I cannot describe the challenge I face as I try and find the rhythm to this song each morning. Sometimes, for months at a time, I fear I have forgotten the tune all together. Then I become afraid that maybe I imagined the whole song. So I write. I allow my pain to channel my thoughts into patterns that can help me reason through the torture that is sometimes my existence. And through my pen I somehow manage to hear a faint tune, the theme that violence has trained me to forget.

The song soars on the air: “For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father’. The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.” Be not afraid. You’ve been adopted. Your heritage is no longer fear and condemnation. You are a child of the Most High God.

Tonight at bedtime, we read from Noah’s “Day by Day Bible”. He can quote the line of Patriarchs from Abraham through Joseph – backwards. When I asked him how he could remember all the way back to Abraham and his wife Sarah he simply replied, “Oh, we read that on a Tuesday.” It seems like Noah has learned to listen to the song better than I could’ve ever dreamed.

May he sing it for us all to hear.

Held in Readiness

2010-08-08T18:31:00.000-04:00

When you “grow up in the church” you learn its language. While different ecumenical traditions produce their own dialects, the meaning of some phrases is the same. Now I grew up in a hymn-singing church. In the age before screens and worship software, this necessitated hymnals. I can still remember the sound of 150 hymnbooks being drawn from their wooden slots on the pews. I can hear the pages being rustled – a distinctly different sound that the delicate pages of Bibles being turned. And we loved to sing. My childhood was filled with Sunday evening “Sing-Spirations”, where several local congregations gathered quarterly do nothing but sing for 2 hours. I remember leaving feeling like we could’ve stayed all night. In fact, there was an “All Night Singing” we attended each September. It was held in a pole barn down the road in South Georgia. In South Georgia, it is still really hot in September. For this reason, I remember my mother declining the invitation to go but my grandmother was always game for a road trip. We’d pile up in her Caprice Classic and take the 2 lane back roads south - she didn’t believe the interstate highway system because she said she’d learned to drive without it.

Now truth be told, I probably enjoyed singing so much because it was really the only thing a little girl (or grown woman) could really contribute to Church. I learned to harmonize and read music before I could read words. My ear became trained to the sounds of the melody going up and down the scale at a young age. Our hymnal also used “shaped notes” which made it really easy for anyone with a reasonable understanding of geometry to learn the sound of each “note”. (Not really, but this is just the way “I was raised…in The Church”.) Reflecting back, I am pretty confident in saying that women in our church took singing so seriously because it was their only offering to God. Singing was the Main Event for me. The “lesson” (or preaching) was just something that had to be endured between songs.

I am reflecting on a phrase I always heard just before the preacher got up to deliver his sermon. The worship leader would always announce the next hymn so that, upon the Invitation, singing could commence immediately. (I guess we weren’t high church enough to have one of those signs up front that you could change the numbers on.) So after the song before the sermon we’d hear, “Hold in readiness hymn number….” In this manner everyone would be ready when the time came for the Invitation. Holding a hymn “in readiness” could involve putting an attendance card in it’s spot or marking it with the silky page marker that ran down the center of the book. “Holding in readiness” never entailed turning down the page of a hymnbook or laying it open face down on the pew beside you. This was sacrilege.

So each week we practiced holding something in “readiness”. It never occurred to me how odd a phrase this was. I suppose it was important for the hymn to be “ready” when the preacher finally wound it down, but couldn’t someone have come up with a more creative phrase? It seems to me now this was tantamount to having the get away car running so that we could make a fast escape after the sermon. Remembering my grandmother’s disposition, I am surprised she never made fun of this herself. “Okay, keep your finger there – even if it turns blue - cause we gotta be READY!” (As you might guess, she and I were often separated during church because we misbehaved.) But I wonder now about the period during which we wait for readiness.

How do we know when we are ready? Does God have a timer going somewhere that is going to ding when I’m ready? Will there be such a radical transformation of my character that everyone will automatically know when I am ready? And ready for what by the way? I still attend a denomination that is predominately male lead. There are still precious few things a woman need even be ready for. We might be asked to read scripture or pray, if the setting is right, but that is pretty much still our limit. When you’ve been asked to pray aloud you’ve pretty much peaked in your ecclesiologic career as a woman in the South.

Enter “Theology Barbie”…

True to form, I am in general dissent with this practice. I don’t particularly have a “feminist theology”, I just like to tell people about Jesus and I happen to be a woman. I still love to sing and I can read the heck out of a passage. I can probably read it too well. Years of Sunday School and Bible Bowl has given me the distinct disadvantage of over-familiarity with Scripture. I know it, literally in some cases, backward and forward. But its more than that – I crave it. Knowing about the Bible makes me want to know it more. I’m not happy unless I can cite the passage I want to reference without looking it up first. It’s like a drug or something. My textbooks for my first semester of seminary just got here and it’s like I’m on crack or something. I start Greek in a little over a week. I’ve waited my whole life to learn Greek. Actually, I borrowed a textbook from a buddy and studied all summer. I find myself seeing the Greek word when it’s read aloud. Sometimes I even substitute it without realizing I’ve done it. This is not normal. I am not normal. I’m not even close to normal. I can’t even see normal from here.

The number one question I’m getting right now is: What are you doing with your ministry degree? The answer (which is technically “nothing but reading”) is: Going to seminary. The number two question is: What are you going to do with a seminary degree? The answer, technically and officially is: I don’t know. That’s the ugly truth of it. I just have no idea where I will ever fit into the picture I’ve been given of Church. As a matter of fact, I can be pretty sure that I won’t. But I still have a sense of longing and passion to do this. Am I wasting my time? Have I heard the wrong “call” (how I deplore that phrase…)? Is the return going to be worth the investment? Am I just driving my family into the poor house for nothing? Will I ever have a place in the Kingdom where I belong? Will I know it if I do? Is it possible to live for an extended period of time with this much uncertainty about the way God “gifted” you? I feel like a balloon with the air let out of it one minute and I run to my Greek flashcards the next. Is this healthy? Am I addicted to Mounce? How much Nouwen, Hauerwas and Wright can a girl read during a summer? (That one I actually know the answer to but decline to answer for fear of incriminating myself.) When will I know if I’m “ready”? And ready for what?

So I feel “held in readiness” right now. I try to focus on the word “held” rather than “ready”. I am aware that few of us ever feel ready. But to be held, that is a different proposition all together. I am desperately clinging to the idea that God is holding me. Holding me up…holding me in…holding me back….holding me together. I know not for what purpose. But I want to believe I am being held by the hands that formed a little girl’s brain differently - despite her church culture. I want to believe that there will be a time and place where I may be “ready” to be of help to someone again.

My skill set is, well, let’s just say diverse. I feel the first impression of being both too much and not enough at the same time. I’ve been told that I am among a rare breed of female theologians. Some days I feel downright endangered. But still I cling, tighter to the hands that “hold me in readiness” for something. Like that silk cord that marked a place for us to end our time of worship, I am shut tightly in a place where I’ve little room to move.

So I’m trying not to move at all, but rather grasp the hands that hold me in readiness.

The Autism Gospel - A Name Above All Names

2010-07-24T16:29:00.001-04:00

When she was very small, most people handled her by giving her whatever she wanted, letting her do what ever she wanted to do and a lot of space in which to do it. I remember the day our Nursery Director at the church asked me to “come look at this one”. Before I go any further, you have to know that our Nursery Director never needed me for anything. Her years of experience with babies had far surpassed any conventional wisdom I’d even dreamt of having in infant development. So when she mentioned she’d like to drop by the Nursery the next time this little girl was checked in, I made a point to do just that.

The day I made my visit, I found Gillian sitting quietly in a corner with her back to the crowd playing a solitary game with her favorite toy – behavior not too terribly uncommon for a child not yet two years of age. It was the words of the Nursery Staff that caught my attention as I observed: “Not too close or you’ll set her off.” I wondered exactly how bad it could be to “set her off”. This little blue eyed, blonde haired angel couldn’t possibly be the terror everyone feared could she? Then I noticed it. She was bare-footed – in February.

I knew her mother quite well. Her children were always clean and well groomed and I knew she hadn’t merely forgotten the socks that morning. I asked the staff where her socks were and they replied that she wouldn’t wear them. I feebly asked, “So she takes them off?” They replied, “No, you have to wrestle them on her and trust us, it’s not worth it.” Then I realized why they’d asked me to come and observe Gillian. She reminded them of my son Noah, who’d been recently diagnosed with Autism.

If there were two things I had learned about Autism at that point in our journey, one of them was that diagnosis was a tricky beast. (At that time, it was actually only in the most profound of circumstances that a child under five years of age would be formally diagnosed.) The other thing I had learned was that you could NEVER diagnose some else’s child – especially a friend’s. As a Children’s Minister, it was also professional suicide to run around suggesting neurological deficits among our congregation. But as I continued to watch Gillian during the coming weeks, it became apparent to me that she was in need of a lifeline to the rest of the world.

When I approached her mother, she was not only gracious but relieved to hear someone else suggest, “Have you ever wondered…?” As it turned out, Gillian was much like Noah in that she was also non-verbal. No babbling, no cooing, no gesturing or pointing – only earsplitting screams. Unlike Noah, who would avoid conflict and confrontation via the “flight method” (of “fight or flight”), Gillian tended toward “fight”. The only way I can describe it is that it was like wrestling a baby alligator. Her mother and I learned to avoid the bruises by pulling her in close if we really thought she was a danger to herself during one of her moments of frustration. Thankfully, or tragically depending on your point of view, Gillian was worse at home than she was at church. This left her mother with unanswered questions and doubts about parenting Gillian that would scar her soul. Of course, this is true of any of us who’ve been gifted with a child who learns differently. As we go to bed every night the last thought of our weary brain is “did I do enough to help them today?”

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Gillian soon moved up to the 2 Year Old Class. I helped interface with the teachers about how best to approach her. This story is to their credit more than it will ever be to mine. They were flawlessly patient and creative in allowing our “Gilly” her space while also seeking to engage her lostness. Classroom routines that had been in place for years were quietly “tweaked” to accommodate Gilly. And when, suddenly, every 2 Year Old decided to take a page out of Gilly’s book and decline socks and shoes, those teachers patiently removed each pair and lined them with up with military precision outside the classroom door. The days of enduring ministry by those teachers remain in my heart as some of the truest example of Kingdom love I’ve ever witnessed. This often required someone holding Gillian down for a few moments of circle time so she wouldn’t be so afraid of the other children. Procedures such as these can become hazardous to your health. But the uglier it got, the more tolerant they became.

Still non-verbal, Gillian was a handful. She gave no eye contact. No small hint that anything was ever getting through. She wouldn’t be touched. She rarely smiled, and then when she did, not “at” anyone. In case you are wondering, I am not misrepresenting the past for the sake of a good story – her mother and I have often wondered at the miracle we would soon witness in Gillian’s life.

So her faithful mother dropped her off each Sunday morning with an apologetic smile. She tells me she never felt that anyone was judging Gillian’s behavior or her parenting, but that she felt truly sorry for what these people would bear for two hours. And each Sunday as the invitation hymn was sung, her mother would hustle downstairs to embrace those teachers and apologize for whatever had happened. (A “special needs mom” often learns all kinds of tricks and ways of learning to be liked in hopes that it will earn her child the many mercies they need from other adults.) Then one fateful Sunday, the unthinkable happened.

Her mother entered the room as always and began to debrief the day with Gillian’s caregivers and teachers. She was preparing to hold Gillian down in order to get a pair of socks and/or shoes on her feet when Gillian began to pull her by the hand over to the Story Corner. Her mother was earnestly appreciating the teachers and working toward moving in the other direction, but Gillian was insistent. Without realizing what was happening, her mom was coerced by that small force into the corner where Gillian began to adamantly pat a pastel story picture of Jesus from the day’s Bible lesson. The patting became so firm that her mother was forced to look at Gillian’s little hand to see what this persistence was all about.

It was then that Gillian looked up into her mother’s eyes and uttered her very first word – “Jesus”. And she smiled. Then mother held her breath as Gillian said it over and over and over again. Immediately after leaving the classroom, her mother rushed into my office, tears streaming down her face, with the following words: “I don’t care that it wasn’t ‘Daddy’ or ‘Mommy’! I don’t care that it wasn’t me who did it, even after all of this work. All I can think is that the ONE thing that got her through is the ONLY thing she can say – Jesus!”

The Name Above All Names had captured Gillian’s imagination. The Name of the only Beloved Son had so enraptured her neurologically challenged brain that it got through the dark sensory jungle and connected to her heart. And it didn’t happen with highly trained professionals or adaptive therapy or cutting edge technology. It happened because Gillian felt Jesus in the arms and hands of others and then knew what this man Jesus was all about. And knowing who Jesus was became the starting place for Gillian’s journey of self-discovery. Oh, that we were all so lucky.

Wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing to start our process of self-discovery over again from a completely Christological perspective? If I could say no other word or know no other thing, Jesus would be more than adequate. His love is more than big enough to envelop my inadequacies and faults, his mercies are genuinely new every morning and his grace is abundant and sufficient. Why can’t I just see myself as His? Why can’t I insistently and passionately pat a portrait of him the way Gillian did and say, “No, this is who I belong to! I am who He says I am. No one else matters. Only Jesus.”

Then I wonder this: What if each one of us who knows that Name Above All Names could use our arms and hands as tools of love the way those teachers did each week. Could we do allow him to so capture our imagination that we would endure rejection, pain and uncertainty in order to tell someone his name? Would we hazard personal injury, whether emotional or physical, in order to be sure someone knows his name? Can we allow ourselves to really know no greater name than Jesus?

Gillian’s birthday party is tonight. She’s seven now. She loves horses, whales, and singing. She has a beautiful solo voice and uses it in church whenever she gets a chance. She still struggles with the social and emotional issues that accompany those on the autism spectrum, but Gillian’s central concept of life is still Jesus. During a discussion about wishing stars a few weeks ago Gillian decided they “aren’t true” because Jesus is in charge of everything, but that it might be okay to think about them. She is Jesus’ girl.

Gillian still prefers to walk around bare-footed. So do I.

The Autism Gospel - Making a Difference

2010-06-30T14:49:00.001-04:00

When Noah was about 5 and still pretty non-verbal for the most part, I had one of my first revelations that there was more there in Noah than it often seemed. The previous year at school had been hell. By October they were telling me that Noah was, quite probably "unable of cognitive thought and reason". In November, they came to me with a catalog for straight jackets and helmets and announced that they were in favor of moving him to the "behavioral unit" because he was unable to learn. They told me he was functionally retarded.

Now a lot of people who look back on this say, "I always knew Noah would be alright." Well, that must've been nice because I didn't. In my heart of hearts I didn't know if he'd be okay or not. But I fought anyway. After contracting a TON of work with Standard that winter, I hired an educational consultant (to the tune of $115 per hour) and had a $700 IEP meeting to get him out of that particular school and into a special ed kindergarten. Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief, VBS rolls around.

The theme I'd been pimping myself out to ALL WINTER LONG was "Trading Places - Make a Difference with Jesus". I'd preached it in 6 states. By the time it actually got here I was on auto-pilot most of the week. I did my song and dance, led worship at least 3 sets a day, and taught a couple of lessons all about how we can "make a difference" with Jesus. But, there was Noah to deal with...

He had absolutely no tolerance for all things associated with VBS. He hated the music, the assembly, his class, the crafts, the t-shirt - all of it. I remember thinking, "if you knew me preaching this stuff for the last 6 months had saved your scrawny butt you'd like it..." Somehow we got through the week. Then it was VBS Sunday. Now, if I do say so myself, nobody can plan and execute a children's worship like I can. I am a PRO-fessional. I had it all planned out. I had skillfully picked 6 songs, taught the kids 5 verses (all with hand motions) and each group of kids had something special to do, say, sing or recite. It was going to rock it. And to be sure not to leave the little people out, the preschool had 2 songs to sing. This is where it hit the fan.

There songs were very simple. I know how to select the best music for each age. Their songs were uber-repetitive and had the cute factor too. Those kids could've peed on the walls of the sanctuary. but as long as they were singing those songs people would eat them up. The problem was, you guessed it, Noah.

I knew he hated worship, so I wasn't going to press it. If he didn't want to wear his shirt, I was going to let it go. If he didn't want to sing, no big deal. I figured he could sit in the Nursery or under the sound board with Duane. That morning he put on his shirt (I probably promised him it was the last time he'd ever have to wear it), and I timidly asked if he was going to sing with us in "big church" that morning. He didn't make eye contact, but nodded "yes". Trying to hide my shock and joy I said, "Noah that's great you get to sing 'I've Got Joy' and the VBS theme song. You'll do so good and then you can go have goldfish and juice." It was at this moment that things turned ugly.

He turned on his heel and said, quite clearly I might add, "No. I sing "Make A Difference in Me". I couldn't even figure out how he knew the name of that song since he'd been refusing to come to worship all week but, trust me, that was NOT his song. That particular song was beautiful but had been the most difficult song I'd ever taught children. It was wordy (beautiful but wordy) and had American Sign Language that did all kinds of developmentally inappropriate things. Hell, half the adults I had in VBS couldn't pull that song off. Plus, it was the sweet, slow song and I had it saved out for the last thing before Communion. That way the kids were wound down and the energy of the service became focused on Christ. It was masterfully done...seriously.

So, I respond to Noah's declaration with: "Oh sweetie, no. You sing the first two songs and that is all." Noah's juice cup hit the kitchen floor as he said, more loudly this time: I SING MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN ME. To which I replied, "No you don't." This went on for more than a few moments as I tried to clear up this communication glitch we were having. Soon half and hour had passed. By this time Noah's arms were folded and so were mine and it was a stand off. In the back of my mind I thought, "I'll show you. I'll park your little fanny in the Nursery and you'll miss the whole show but you are NOT screwing with MY worship little buddy! This is going to function beautifully to show the church as a whole that we are converting from the childcare model to the children's ministry model and you will not throw down in the sanctuary today!"

We weren't speaking to one another as my husband Duane drove us to church.

I hastily explained to a friend my problem with Noah and she said he hated crowds so much she really didn't think he'd even go in the sanctuary but not to worry because she was "on it". With a deep sigh of relief I went ahead and readied the children to dazzle the church. Everything was in place early and I got to feeling guilty for not speaking to Noah so I went down to the preschool hall to patch things up. He was glad to see me and I asked him again if he was going to sing, he said, "Yes. I sing Make A Difference in Me." At this moment, something in me snapped and I actually said, "Holy cow! What is the deal with you and this stupid song? Why does it have to be this song? You don't know that song. That song is WAY to hard for you. Anyway, it is the very last song and there is NO WAY you can make it until the end. Trust me Noah, you can't do this. Just sing the first two songs and sit down for Christ's sake and mine too!"

He put down his juice cup and stared at me for half a moment and then his eyes filled full of tears. Before I could even feel bad he screamed, "Because Jesus make me different Mama. I broke - but Jesus make me different! I want be different Mama. Jesus make me different." And he began to weep giant tears.

I was completely devoid of speech or thought. The only thing that I could even conceive was: the most unlikely kid got it. I had just told him myself what I'd been fighting others for saying for months - that he wasn't able to learn the message. But Noah learned the message behind the message: not only that we can make a difference in the lives of people by giving them Jesus, but that by doing so, he makes a difference in ours. Noah had grasped the transforming love of Jesus Christ better than anyone had that week. He had become different because he believed in a man named Jesus.

I took his little hand in mine and we walked up the stairs with the rest of the preschool children. Their songs were first in the order of service and Noah dutifully stood there on the back row with his hands over his ears while they sang them. When the rest of the children went to have goldfish and juice, Noah sat quietly with my friend Kay. We sang the next 3 songs and I had the congregation convinced that these kids were the best thing since Jesus Christ, but I don't remember very much about it. All I remember is what happened next.

I handled the transition between the next-to-last song and "Make a Difference in Me" the way I had all week long. The usual "trash talk for Jesus" that brings everyone to a point of focus before the best part. The children stood on cue and as the first measures of music began to play the servers came forward to retrieve the trays. it was then that I saw a little blond head bob and weave it's way through the crowd. Noah quietly made his way to the front row of the choir loft and waited for the song to begin. Then in perfect American Sign Language far too developmentally advanced for his crippled little hands Noah signed:

Make a difference in me, make a world of difference,

from the inside out, let it show.

Make a difference in me,

make a world of difference. Change me so the world will know.

You are the potter, I am the clay. Mold me and make me:

this is what I pray.

Make a difference in me, make a world of difference,

from the inside out, let it show.

Make a difference in me,

make a world of difference. Change me so the world will know.

I signed along with the children but was unable to sing. As tears poured down my face and wet the collar of my well worn VBS t-shirt that read "Jesus Makes a World of Difference" I had my Damascus Road moment. I had missed the point for 6 months in 6 states. I wasn't making people different by sharing Jesus with them - he was making me different. He was changing me so the world could know him. And he was so gentle about it, he used a 5 year old autistic boy with his daddy's eyes and my grin. And that day, I began a journey of knowing what Hauerwas means when he says, "To be disabled is to be forced to have the time to recognize that Jesus is the inauguration of a new time constituted by prayer. To be disabled is to begin to understand what it means to be an infant vis-à-vis the kingdom brought by Jesus."

The Autism Gospel - Learning to Speak

2010-06-27T16:58:00.001-04:00

Not every child on the Autism Spectrum has the same difficulty with language. For this reason, the saying goes, “when you’ve met one autistic child, you’ve met ONE autistic child”. My child happened to have various forms of language difficulty. For instance, not only did Noah have dyspraxia which affected his tongue muscle and made speech a practical impossibility, he also had neurological processing issues that inhibited his ability to access the parts of his brain which control language and communication.

So when my friend’s children were babbling and cooing, Noah remained silent. This, coupled with his lack of eye contact, helped Noah present himself as one of the most stoic and solemn little people you’d ever meet. Our home was notoriously quiet. I remember my friends commenting on how well behaved Noah must be because when we were on the phone they never heard him. Of course, the reason they never heard him was because he never made any noise. Ever.

He would watch television and play with toys and listen to quiet music. Often he’d sit and listen to my niece and I (who hasn’t quit talking since she started) carry on a conversation. But it took Noah a long time to make that initial contact with anyone through language. One of the first things he would do is bring me his sippy cup and stare at my feet. I’d say, “Noah, would you like some more juice? Can you say ‘Juice please?’” In return, all I could get was a glimpse of the top of that beautiful blond head. Because he couldn’t nod or gesture or point, this is was what communicating with Noah was like for the first three years of his life.

Despite the desperate moments when he’d become so frustrated that he’d lock away inside himself, I don’t regret this time of Noah’s development. I always viewed it as a period of unique growth that Noah needed. It was as if he was taking in the world and deciding how to process it before he even tried to vocalize his place in it. I respected that. I still admire the quiet observer in him. It seems to serve him well.

It is this kind of “in-between” place that I find myself right now. I am between worlds, so to speak – no pun intended. I am between lives, jobs and destinies. So much like Noah, I am learning to take it all in and observe quietly.

So many of you have asked me, “Why quit your job now that you have a degree in it?” “What in the world are you going to do with a seminary degree?” “Do you ever think anyone else will hire you at a church?” There are a variety of answers to these questions, some short and some longer. But mostly I am just having an “autistic season” I guess.

I am, in some ways, locked away within myself during this season. I am coming to see it as a blessing from The Giver of all good things. Instead of being in the middle of the fray, I am quietly observing from a distance. Whereas before, I was writing, saying, singing or teaching all the right words, now I am simply listening.

In this time of listening, I am asking God to teach me, again, to speak. Not my old language, but one that is new. As a fallen being (a little more fallen than most some would say), I am ill equipped to speak of his majesty and greatness the way I’d like to be. I doubt it will ever be possible to achieve the verbal ability to disclose his greatness with any accuracy. Often I feel like Noah in that my tongue seems dyspraxic in its ability to speak with the words I’d like to use. I also feel that I can’t access the appropriate parts of my brain necessary to capture the ways I’d like to communicate his redeeming work for our world. His idea of Kingdom is so vast and beautiful that I am simply learning to hear it. So I’m listening and waiting to learn how to speak.

I am praying for the chance to learn the new language of this great love that surpasses reason. I don’t believe for a moment that I’ll ever be able to fully understand it, but I’d like to be able to speak about it a little more fluently. I hope to be taught by the Master how to access the parts of my brain and, more importantly, my heart that will allow me to minister to the hurting, the disenfranchised and the marginalized of society. Somehow during my journey this far, I neglected the opportunity to hear this language and I surely don’t know how to speak it.

I pray the Lord will be patient and extend his loving-kindness to me as I redevelop this piece of myself. When Noah was in this stage of learning, he was very restrictive about the people with whom he would attempt to communicate. I had the opportunity to serve as Noah’s primary translator to the world. With just one shrug of his shoulders or, if I was lucky, glance of those sweet blue eyes, he would reveal to me his need and I would then attempt to draw it from our world into his. It sounds tedious, and I suppose some days were longer and more difficult than others. But I will always remember this time as a gift. Noah has showed me how to hear, listen, observe and learn.

I feel the tables have been turned during my current season of life. Mostly I spend my days in reading as much as I can about God. I think this will improve my fluency some, but I pray that I will be gifted to retain a portion of this knowledge. I, too, am finding the value of simply listening and observing. I pray a lot – for peace, for direction and for purpose. I pray that when I am ready, God will let me speak for him again someday.

We never thought Noah was really picking up on anything in those early days when he was on the fringes of our world. But he really was listening and processing the places in which he’d been placed. What we thought was a pervasive developmental delay was actually, in reflection, a form of wisdom. So I’m praying that I can take a page out of Noah’s book and immerse myself in this autistic season. Just as I kept an eye on Noah during this season of his autism, so also, I know that I am not alone.

“I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go…” Genesis 28:15

Speak Lord, for your servant is finally listening…

The Autism Gospel of Non-Violent Resistance

2010-06-26T21:44:00.000-04:00

This is actually an old note I wrote to a friend several months ago after borrowing some books. It was before I started my blog. It fits in nicely with The Autism Gospel so I thought I’d post it.

For about 3 weeks last summer my sister kept Noah during the day so that I could get my office hours done. For some reason, all of my sister's kids go through a mean stage around 4 years of age. (Seriously, it must be some genetic thing! I can hardly stand to be around them but they usually end up at "Camp GiGi" to get some Jesus and have it exorcized from their little hearts at some point during this year). My nephew turned 4 last March, so he was in the throes of his meanness last summer. Each day when I would pick Noah up he would be quiet but nothing really concerned me until the end of the first week.

I got out of the car and could hear my sister screaming at the top of her lungs from the pool in the backyard. "Do it Noah! I said do it!" I ran to the back wondering what on earth Noah had done to make my sister go over the edge and found her holding her son down and Noah cowering 5 feet away. When he saw me he immediately ran and threw himself into my legs and began hysterically weeping. Because language is hard for him, I just got him over the dry heaves and sent him into the house to get a cool drink of water. I asked my sister what happened and here is what she said:

"Grady (her little boy) has been mean as a snake all week long. He has been merciless to Noah. He has hit him and bit him and kicked him and yelled at him and made fun of him and I've had enough of it! So when he tried to drown Noah in the pool and was beating him up I wrestled Grady to the ground and told Noah to hit him back! Enough is enough! I must've confused Noah because he didn't know what to do. Explain to him that I am not mad at him, but that I am trying to help him take care of himself."

So I went into the house and it took me 10 minutes to find Noah. He was under my sister's bed weeping into the carpet. I couldn't get him out so I just laid there beside him until I could get him to the point where he could talk. I finally asked, "Grady has been pretty mean hasn't he?" Noah answered, "yes ma'am."

I reasoned, "Aunt Stephanie was trying to teach Grady a lesson. She was trying to help you defend yourself. She isn't mad at you. She just wanted to give you a chance to hit Grady back."

At this, Noah became completely hysterical again. Finally, I asked, "Noah what is wrong?" He said, "I can't."

I said, "Can't what baby? What can't you do?"

Noah cried, "I can't hit Grady. Please don't make me. I can't hit Grady!"

"Why baby? It's okay. Why can't you? You are 8 and he is only 4. You are so much bigger than he is? Why can't you hit him? Why do you let him beat you up?"

The next words would stop me in my tracks and become a matter of serious debate in my family for weeks.

"Because I love him," and Noah began to weep even harder.

The idea of striking Grady cut him to the core not because he was afraid of doing it, but because he loved him too much to retaliate. The debate that ensued is something that grieves me now. Had I read these books last summer, I could've stopped it. But instead, I just let the family carry on their debate which went something like this: "This is why Noah will always need someone to take care of him. Aren't you afraid of what kind of person he'll become when he grows up? He'll never make it. Poor Noah. Poor you. You'll be caring for Noah for the rest of your life. Autism has done this to him."

Autism has done this to him. Huh?

Autism cleared his neurologically deformed brain of pride long enough not to think of himself but of someone else. Autism convinced Noah not to consider his own injuries but to see the person who was injuring him as one in need of patience and compassion. Autism stopped him from perpetuating the cycle of violence. Autism caused him to love someone else more than himself. Autism made him more like Jesus. Maybe we need more autistic people in this world.

Strangely enough, Grady stopped being mean to Noah that day.

After all of this reading (I'm almost done and will get your books back to you soon:), I remembered this horrible day. When I picked Noah up on Friday of last week I asked him if he remembered that day. Tears sprang to his eyes and he said "Yes ma'am. I still love Grady but I want to be a good boy but please don't make me hit him." I pulled the car over and climbed into back seat. I held that neuro-diverse little person in my arms and told him that he was right and everyone else was wrong and that he had soon what Jesus would have wanted him to do.

I guess Jesus was neuro-diverse too.

Celebrate neuro-diversity...Vangie

The Autism Gospel

2010-05-31T04:51:00.002-04:00

Its been said “what doesn’t kill, us makes us stronger”. I’m not sure if I necessarily believe that’s true but I do believe that, most of the time, the times we wish it would kill us takes us to a new level of understanding. That has been my journey with autism.

I’ve heard it compared with planning a trip to one place and finding yourself in a very different destination upon arrival. I guess that’s kind of true but most of life really doesn’t turn out the way we had expected it would does it? There is also a great deal of debate about whether or not the puzzle piece is the best representation for the cause. Some people are very offended by the idea that their child “is a puzzle”. Quite frankly, I’ve never one who isn’t a puzzle at one time or another. (I suggested they make it a bottle of anti-depressants for the parent’s sake but not everyone believes in “better living through pharmaceuticals” I guess.)

For me, autism has just refined me into a better version of me. Please don’t misunderstand me - it hasn’t always (and isn’t still) an easy path. Most of the time we are a – track with me here – a Public Spectacle. We wear earmuffs in July into restaurants that are too noisy and laugh at COMPLETELY in appropriate things. But despite all the bizarre ways we are different, I am finding a peaceful coexistence with autism. As a matter of fact, I think we are better off for it.

My son has given me insight and perspective into so many facets of life that I wish I’d started writing them all down years ago, but I was too busy reading textbooks about how to get him to make eye contact and speak. But not many days go by that God doesn’t bring something to mind that says: Ya’ll are marked for a different, wonderful existence that, in it’s own peculiar way, will point to me. So I thought Theology Barbie could put some of her more specialized skills into practice and exegete our experience once in a while.

Most recently, I wrote about Noah’s Batman Theology (see April 1, 2010) as he theorized that Jesus came to save the super villains too because “Jesus loves them more than they are bad”. Yes sir he does, and praise God none of us are getting what we really deserve. My little peacemaker plays with the villains as much as he does with the heroes because he sees their redemption, where I cannot. I wish I could do that. Jesus did. Tax collectors and zealots, Roman soldiers and Pharisees, women of “ill repute” and thieves on crosses all had redemptive qualities in the eyes of Jesus. So when Noah made a WANTED poster for Mr. Penguin, it was simply because he thought Jesus would have wanted him.

Maybe Noah remembers what it was like to be cast to the side and unwanted himself. I know what it’s like to be the parent of the child everyone had hoped was staying home that day. (Hey, I was a teacher too so I’m not judging anyone here.) I remember seeing it in their eyes as I dropped him off a little late (because we’d has to wrestle socks onto his feet amid shrieks of torture). Their mouth said, “Noah is here!” but their eyes said, “Excedrin – now!”

When Noah was between 2 and 4 years of age, you really had to look hard for those charming redemptive qualities you find in “normal” kids. Almost completely mute, and most definitely unintelligible, communication was difficult on it’s best day. Coupled with lack of eye contact and a serious aversion to touch and other human beings in general, Noah was a real charmer. But baby sitters loved him because in his own environs he was quiet and easy. I found myself saying, “Noah pretty much just does his own thing” quite a bit. I know part of it can be attributed to neurological processes that were occurring in his brain at the time, but I also wonder if Noah just instinctively knew on some level that we weren’t ready for him. Whereas I often took his aloofness as rejection, he was merely protecting part of himself that he knew would be misunderstood at the time.

Now call me crazy (trust me, better people than you have done it) but I think about this every time I read Jesus telling someone not to speak of a miracle he had performed. Early in Mark’s account of Jesus, we see him heal a man with leprosy and send him “away at once with a strong warning: see that you don’t tell this to anyone” (1:43). Again in chapter 3, Mark tells of Jesus driving out demons giving them “strict orders not to tell others about him” (v.12). I used to wonder why Jesus would even bother to heal someone if it had to be kept a secret. I mean, seriously, how could you go and present an offering for ceremonial cleansing when everybody knew you had been a leper yesterday and not tell them what happened! But we know that Jesus didn’t want the notoriety and frenzy that he knew would soon follow the truth about who he was. The people were ready for it yet.

They weren’t ready for the concept of “God with us”. It was too much too soon. He needed time to bring about his kingdom slowly and methodically. There was so much he wanted to teach them before he became a public figure, so he often isolated himself and withdrew to “lonely places” (1:45). It would have been too beautiful for them to see all at once.

I’m reminded of the play Our Town by Thornton Wilder. In act 3 Emily, one of the main characters whom we watch grow through adolescence into adulthood, dies during childbirth. The scene takes place at her graveside as Emily begins to converse with the dead around her during her funeral. As they watch, they ruminate on life saying, “I’d forgotten all about that. My, wasn’t life awful- and wonderful”. Emily is given the gift of returning to life for one day and wants to choose a “happy one”, but is advised not to select a special day because it would be too painful. Their words prove true as Emily becomes overwhelmed with emotion watching scenes from her 12^th birthday. She realizes how wonderful and complex the little things are when viewed in perspective. She says to one of the dead, “They don’t understand do they?” who replies, “No dear, they don’t understand.”

In the same way I wouldn’t have understood had Noah been able to reveal himself to me all at once. I wouldn’t have been able to grasp all the wonderful ways his neurological diversity would point to God. It would have been too “awful – and wonderful” at the same time. No, I needed to be taught lots of things along the way. I had to take the journey, or acknowledge the puzzle, in order to be prepared for the wonderful Gospel of Autism – where every villain is offered redemption and it’s only normal to be different.

Together, Noah and I have journeyed to some “lonely places” of our own. But much like an X marking a remote spot on a treasure map, we have found something priceless in each place. The Autism Gospel has given much more to my life than it has taken away and I am a better me because of it.

The Church in Room 409

2010-05-03T19:32:00.000-04:00

I pretty much went to the Information Session on a dare. College was a dream long forgotten, but to appease a friend I thought I’d go and hear what they had to say. It was in the Library Board Room with 36 strangers that I first heard the word “cohort”. If anyone had told me that word would become central to my academic and spiritual development I probably would’ve laughed in their face.

I still remember the night of the first class. I threw up before I left home and, truthfully, almost turned around 3 times on the 2 mile ride from my house to the college. I kept thinking to myself, “What on earth am I doing?” I convinced myself to make it through the first course before I dropped out. I believed that if I could just go in, focus on the task and talk to NO ONE maybe, just maybe, I could make it for 5 weeks. I was unprepared for what would happen next.

My personality is best described as “all point and corners”. Miss Congeniality – I am not. Even so, my plan of sitting alone and pushing through this would be thwarted by several factors. I learned quickly that we’d be introducing ourselves in every course by telling the professor and our cohort something they didn’t know about us. As I sat trying to come up with a creative, yet violent, federal offense I might have been convicted of that would keep everyone away from me something began to happen in that room. People began to tell their stories. Some of them were wilder than the stuff I was trying to come up with to scare people away so I gave up on that option. These people were, well, all over the map.

Some of them described themselves as “lay pastors” with jobs in offices. Others told of coming to ACC by the leading of the Holy Spirit. Some told us they were relatively new believers. Others could recount breaking free from lives of addiction and sin. I’d love to tell you that I immediately embraced this motley crew of would be disciples, but I didn’t. I became even more convinced that I couldn’t be a part of this. I couldn’t be this real with people. Then I rationalized that maybe I could just coast my way through using my award winning personality and distance as my offensive weapons. Then the instructor dropped the bomb all of us would come to dread…group projects.

I thought I had died and gone to Hell. (I’m still not totally convinced there won’t be group projects in Hell, by the way.) Not only would we need to work together to present a project in EVERY STINKING CLASS to complete this degree, we had to use our so-called Strengths to do it. So much for staying under the radar and coasting my way through this degree. It appeared they were really going to make me get to know these people! And so it began.

Pretty soon new cohorts were formed and we found ourselves getting to know even more people (imagine my joy). We got moved from the Library Board Room to Room 409 in Hathcock. By then we were mixed up with Cohorts 1-3 all in the same group, all studying Bible. While the idea that we would be there to study Bible was somewhat unifying, there were as many Biblical/Church traditions represented in that room as there were people. We were like a box of Crayola crayons – even the similar backgrounds were shaded differently because of our personal experience. We were hippies and addicts, conservatives and liberals, black and white, young and old. I remember thinking, “Now the group projects will get REALLY interesting! I can’t wait to watch these poor professors deal with this group!” But deal with us they did, and they did it well.

I wish I could go back and remember exactly when I knew it was happening. For the life of me I can’t recall. All I know is, somewhere along the way, we began to be a community. Maybe it was how we began each Tuesday night with prayer. At first the requests would be pretty superficial, but you can’t spend 4 hours trapped in a room with someone every week without getting to know something about the rhythms of their life. I can remember praying for at-risk pregnancies and loved ones who were being deployed to Afghanistan. There were requests for sick family members and jobs that were lost. Then the requests became more personal. Tears were shed one evening as someone asked for prayer for a loved one who did not know the Lord. Another one of us asked for prayer as they were anticipating being reunited with a parent they hadn’t seen in years. Our marriages were in jeopardy. Our children were hurting. Our faith was rocked and we all became very attuned to one another’s lives.

Cell phone numbers were exchanged and if you were late, you were bound to get a call from someone asking if you’d broken down or if you were just stuck in traffic. And if you missed a class due to illness, you could expect your inbox to be full on Wednesday with emails from everyone wanting to know if you were okay. We were becoming more than a community – we were becoming family. As you can imagine, it was impossible to stay invisible in this group. They began to wear down my “points and corners” personality and get under my skin and into my heart.

As students of the Bible, we’ve studied some pretty heavy topics. (I think we are all still surprised we lived through Biblical Theology with Rodenbeck.) But amazingly, somewhere along the way we all lost the need to be correct in our own belief system and learned to listen and process the viewpoints of others. When our theology led one of us to a hard place in the road, we all found ourselves there and what’s more – not one of us was willing to leave another behind in confusion. We haven’t let each other quit when it got hard. We have forced one another out of confused isolation into family so that burdens could be shared among many shoulders.

Somewhere along the way, we became a church. More than mere members of a cohort, we’ve defined ourselves as a group of people called out to live under the authority of scripture. We identify with each other in certainty and confusion, in victory and in sorrow, through happiness and tears. We’ve become a group of disciples devoted to the teaching of God’s Word and to one another. There have been many “pastors” who’ve led us for five weeks at a time. They’ve become dear to us and part of our fellowship. They may have come to teach a class, but I think they realized that they actually joined a church too.

To answer the question, “What on earth was I doing?” I can say: Something NOT of this earth. Something that looks very different from the Kingdom of this World. Each Tuesday has been what I think church was meant to be. We’re a group of VERY different people who’ve become bound by Jesus Christ. Our variety doesn’t scare us. While we tease each other about our differences, we’d fiercely defend one another should a stranger try and do the same. Our love and devotion to Jesus Christ has bound us together in a way nothing else could. In Christ, we’ve been liberated to love one another the way we never could’ve outside Room 409.

I understand not every cohort has had this experience. For that matter, everyone within my cohort may not have had this experience. To that all I can say is: I’m so sorry. The Church in Room 409 has been one of the most precious gifts God has ever allowed me to experience. I could never have asked for or anticipated anything like it. God has used this church to grow and change me in many ways. The Church in Room 409 will stay in m heart and my prayers for years to come.

Who is Theology Barbie?

2010-05-01T13:16:00.002-04:00

It started out as a way to make fun of me and my passion for God's Word. I won't say who started it:) It caught on and friends have added to the joke by accessorizing her with a laptop (with Logos) and a t-shirt that reads "I'd rather be exegeting". I won't get into some of the things my closest friends have suggested she might say...

What started out as a joke has actually become something that works for me. I'm the kind of person who never really "fit in" anyplace they ever tried. My personality is best described as "all points and corners". I've always been too much and not enough all at the same time. But when I really began to think about and embrace Theology Barbie, suddenly none of that mattered any longer.

So at this transition time in my life (as graduation and seminary loom ahead of me) I'm changing out the title I carried as Children's Minister for so long (High Grand Diva) to who I think I really might've been created to be - Theology Barbie. Lest you think too highly of me - or think that I think highly of myself - let me tell you a few things about Theology Barbie:

She doesn't have as many answers as she used to. She reads the Sermon on the Mount A LOT and wonders how it should be transforming her life. She asks "who is Jesus and what difference does it make?" Upon waking every morning her question is likely to be: okay, who is going to be God today? She is trying to live out the personhood of Jesus Christ in all she does - not just on Sunday mornings. You are likely to find her camped out with her theology books and a beer trying to make sense of how she should behave in this world as a resident alien of it. (She prays it doesn't involve giving up the beer by the way:)

So if you are looking for answers, her blog is not the likely place to find them. But if you are a fellow wanderer in the wilderness, if you too feel like you don't belong, or if you are also struggling with the idea of "kingdom" and what it looks like you might find some useful musings.

The perfect, sinless people need read no further...

Success

2010-04-28T08:37:00.002-04:00

Success is really a complex concept. It's contextual and as such, it's definitions vary widely. I've had the opportunity to share with other people in ministry to children what I think success looks like. That has been fun. But more often, I am asked what things I have personally done that account for any success we've had in swcc kids. This is a little more difficult because of the varying definitions on "success in ministry". However, regardless of what those definitions are, I can feel confident in offering a few insights.

In order to have "success" in ministry:

JUST SHOW UP...I am completely serious about this one. I noticed early on that children are the victims of a culture that moves at an increasing rate of speed. Teachers, coaches, friends and sometimes even parents move in and out of their lives haphazardly and without warning. There is very little they can count on and find faithful. When people ask me, "What do you do it get the kids to love you and listen to you?" my answer is: I just show up. I'm consistently a part of their lives. And if I'm not going to be there, they usually know about it and are prepared because they know I'll be back. They trust me because I just show up.

LISTEN TO GOD...The Christian publishing industry inundates me with ways to "take my kids to the next level". Here is the problem with that - they don't know my kids. As well intentioned as those people are they are writing curriculum from an office and packaging a product. On occasion, God has led me to some spectacular products but I always asked him first what he wanted me to teach. Listening to God is becoming a lost art. Instead of frustrating myself by listening to all the gurus that are convinced they know what my kids needed to know, I just learned to ask God. I never had to wait very long for an answer either. He really is an excellent communicator if we would just be willing to listen.

PUT A STAMP ON IT...Now many of you aren't going to believe this, but I will go to my grave saying the most effective things I did were notes I put a stamp on and sent out to encourage the body of Christ. Both postcards to kids and cards to volunteer staff members - these are the most important things I did. We live in a world that is constantly trying to make us loose our focus on Christ. It is a long time between Sundays. Just giving small reminders to people that they belong to God and have inherent value for that fact alone has made the biggest difference in my day to day ministry. I actually made it a discipline of sorts. No matter how big a disaster an event or a Sunday was, I could always find at least 3 people to praise God for. After I did that in prayer, I'd send them a note telling them the same thing.

DON'T PLAY SCARED...One of the biggest criticisms I have faced is that I am "too passionate" about what I do. I guess people could say worse things about me than that I was just over the edge of reason for Jesus Christ. During my time in leadership, I read the Sermon on the Mount continuously and let it drive my work. I looked at the way Jesus ran his ministry and it inspired me to preach, teach and lead with wild abandon. I asked the impossible from people in the name of our risen Christ...and I got it. I pleaded that they serve our Lord with unwavering commitment because of what he did for them...and they did it for Him. I wasn't afraid to expect people to be powerfully affected by the gospel message...and they always were. I didn't play this game of ministry scared. I played it and I played it hard. I always went for it on 4th down. After listening to God, I called the hard plays and trusted the Holy Spirit to empower a rag tag bunch of volunteers the same way he did the first disciples. I let the Holy Spirit have it's way with me and with our ministry to children...and boy, did he ever.

I know this isn't the practical checklist everyone would like me to produce. I could go over best practices for administration and curriculum development (and I will for anyone who really wants to know). I could talk about marketing and communication and other stuff like that. But on reflection, the things I listed are really the only things I know for sure I would do exactly the same way again.

Just show up for God. Make it a practice to listen to Him. Encourage one another (and put a stamp on it and mail it so they can have it to look at later). And for heaven's sake, quite literally, don't play scared.

On Taking a New Direction

2010-04-12T13:04:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends and Family,

It is with no small amount of regret that I hereby tender my resignation from the position as Minister to Children at Southwest Christian Church. After considerable prayer and soul searching, my husband and I feel this is a step necessary for us to take at this time. The past seven years of ministry experience have been truly life changing for me. We pray that we are leaving the ministry more whole and healthier than when we began serving it full time those many years ago. It is also our goal to make this transition as seamless for the children and families of our church as possible. The transition out of my “official position” will be slow and carefully considered in each step. I also plan to be a part of the transition team that will seek my replacement, working alongside them for the health of the body of Christ at Southwest.

Please continue in prayer for us as we seek to realign our priorities around worshipping God and continual service in His kingdom. We love Southwest Christian Church with all of our hearts and pray to continue our partnership in the gospel of Jesus Christ with you always. I look forward to continuing my ministry at Southwest as a volunteer in Children’s Choir the way I began my ministry twelve years ago. In addition to taking the opportunity to worship together as a family, I am also excited about my plans to pursue my seminary education on a full time basis. Learning more about Jesus, the kingdom he came to establish and what difference he makes in our everyday lives can only strengthen me as a disciple and my family as a witness of His love for the world in which we live.

“And this is [our] prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.” Philippians 1: 9-11

In His Service,

Vangie Shaver

Tyler Was Listening

2010-04-06T07:35:00.002-04:00

I'm spending quite a bit of time in reflection of both Jerusalem proper and our Jerusalem Marketplace this week. Here is a story I can't help but share:

At the end of the day as Libby was trying to corral the tribe of Joseph into their tent, she overheard Tyler talking. Now this is not unusual in itself - Tyler is a pretty social little fellow. But it indicated to Libby that she'd lost one of her sheep so, being a good Tribal Family Mom, Libby went to retrieve Tyler and bring him back into the tent. As she poked her head out of their tent she saw Tyler in deep conversation with someone who'd just exited the Sanctuary Service.

Tyler stopped the man (who was to him a stranger) and asked, "Do you know what happened in Jerusalem today? Do you know Jesus? Do you know what happened to him?" Thankfully, the stranger was in good humor and, seeing Tyler's enthusiasm replied, "No, I don't know what has happened!"

Tyler went on to tell the man that his tribe had encountered the someone in the market who had reported that Jesus had been arrested. Then he went on to tell him everything they learned in Synagogue School about the Tabernacle and The Mercy Seat. After that, Tyler told him he had met Malchus and that he had blood all over him. Tyler then recounted the story of how Malchus' ear was cut off when the disciples reacted with violence at Jesus arrest. He told him how Jesus reacted to this violence with peace and healing. (I included a picture of Tyler that I took during the drama. I knew he was absorbing some of what was going on but I had no idea just how much!)

It appears that Tyler was listening. And after listening, he had to talk about it:) My favorite part of the whole thing is that in his exuberance to share the story, Tyler approached a total stranger without a thought and asked this question: "Do you know Jesus? Do you know what happened to him?" With the innocence and excitement only a child can capture, Tyler encountered the first person he met with the gospel message. Tyler is my hero.

As I reflect on Jerusalem this week, I pray that I can live a life that says: Do you know Jesus? Do you know what happened to him? Jerusalem is not over...it had actually just begun. Now is the time when we should feel challenged to take this message so seriously that it inhabits us. Resurrection Sunday is not a one day event, but a pivotal moment in our history that should forever change every minute of our every day.

Tyler was listening. Tyler gets it.

Batman Theology

2010-04-01T05:18:00.003-04:00

Some of you may have noticed the "Wanted" posters in Jerusalem. I was very interested in these myself, seeing as I wrote the curriculum and have no recollection of this ancillary product.

Sunday morning Noah had the tape from my desk and several posters he had drawn up himself. At the top it says, "WANTED". Immediately under this mandate is a picture of Noah's favorite super-villian - Mr. Penguin from Batman. (You know it is Mr. Penguin because of the top hot and monocle...not many bad guys can pull that look off.) Under the picture Noah wrote "get he"...we obviously still need to work on our pronouns.

Now call me narrow-minded, but I could not make the immediate correlation between Batman, super-villians and Jerusalem. So I had no choice but to ask Noah on the way home what his inspiration was. This was his reply:

"Well, mom it is like this. Mr. Penguin was a super-villian...you know a bad guy. He makes bad choices. And he reminds me of Pilate...you know the guy who was kind of like a king or something. And Mr. Penguin has his own henchmen and those are like Pilate's soldiers who came to get Jesus and arrest him. The henchmen are bad guys too but they can't help it as much. Then there is Batman...he is like Jesus. Do you understand this mom?"

Suddenly it did make total sense. But then Noah elaborated even further...

"But, when Mr. Penguin is captured Batman and Jesus will just love him even though he is bad. The henchmen too, Jesus loves everyone more than they are bad. Right mom?"

I told him "yes", Jesus loves everyone more than they are bad. That is really what the story of Jerusalem is all about. Redemption and reconciliation of a very bad people (complete with super-villians) to a God that just flat out loves them "more than they are bad".

Batman theology...not so far off base.

Sneezing Jesus

2010-03-31T05:04:00.001-04:00

I have this crazy professor (ask Jason Westbrook and he will testify to this) that has the most bizarre way of phrasing things. Last night in class he said, "I almost bought the domain name sneezingjesus.com"

We were all laughing too hard at first to take him seriously, but then he began to explain. He said that for the rest of his life, with whatever time he has left, he wants to "be viral" in his belief of Jesus Christ. He expressed a desire to live in such a way that his belief in Jesus Christ is contagious. You see, the only way the world is going to catch this "virus" is for us to go out and, well...sneeze on them.

As a bunch of ministry students, you wouldn't think we would find this profound right? I mean, this is what we are in school for. But in all actuality, we all get so caught up in our "to do list" and programming life that, even as ministers it is profoundly difficult to find time to sneeze Jesus to the world. It is hard to find time to "be viral" and different because just like everyone else, the pace of our lives tempts us to put evangelism off for a more convenient time. "One of these days I'll get all my life in one pile and THEN I'll be able to devote more time to being on mission for Jesus everyday...As soon as I get this one thing behind me Lord, then you can send me out...When I know more about what to say to others and when I can carry out the logical argument, then you can put me there Lord..."

The excuses abound. I hem and haw and procrastinate and pray for more wisdom while the world continues to wander about in a wasteland of confusion, guilt and doubt. The saddest thing is: God doesn't want me to "have it all together" before I am sent out. As a matter of fact, the Biblical track record suggests that he kind of prefers screws ups like me to deliver his message. And all I really need is the message of the gospels. The Bible will really do it's stuff if I'll just do a halfway decent job of representing it and then share it with others and let it do it's thing with them. I just need to get out of the way and let the Bible do it's stuff - in my life first and then just share that experience with others.

So that is what "sneezing Jesus" is all about. This is one of the only times of the year when the world even recognizes Jesus existed. I hope I don't blow my chance to sneeze on someone this week.

The Passing of a Legend

2010-03-30T04:49:00.000-04:00

One of the most intimidating things in my job description, by far, is helping children somehow deal with death. This week has been particularly challenging as we've lost a legend within our Sunday School ministry. The impact Mr. Bob made in his 10+ year tenure as our 3rd - 5th grade boys teachers is immeasurable. However, I found quickly that just his presence on our hallway affected and impacted not just the boys he taught but the girls on the hallway as well.

Maybe it was the creative way he taught. People have joked that Mr. Bob was so old that he used antiquated ways of communicating "but he didn't give up his flannel graph until the end". The truth of the matter is, Bob was far more inclined the have the boys make paper airplanes (really, really good ones) and then challenge them to fly them across the balcony of the Sanctuary. Of course, no matter how good the plane was that is a pretty big distance to cover with a paper airplane. Just when the boys would be worn out and discouraged from running the stairs to retrieve their airplane and start again, Mr. Bob would stop them and say, "Boys, this airplane is like us...we just can't make it the distance to God alone...we needed Jesus." It was this kind of creative thought pattern that kept his 80-something year old brain young enough to communicate deep truths of the Bible with people of all ages.

I was prepared for our children to be devastated. My own son has fervently prayed for Bob every night of his hospital stay. When Bob didn't make it to Jerusalem Noah said, "who was that guy in the Carpenter's Shop and where is Bob". You know us autistics...we like things to stay the same. I know of other boys, too, who were going to grieve terribly over the passing of this great friend. And I wasn't wrong. There are some children whom I will be counseling for weeks to come. What I didn't anticipate was some of the other reactions.

These encounters are why Jesus held up the faith of a child as the gold standard:

"Mom, for Sunday lunch today let's do something special," Noah says. I inwardly groan because I was kind of counting on Easy Mac. "What's the special occasion Noah?" "Oh, I just want to celebrate because Mr. Bob has a new body to tell people about Jesus in. Let's celebrate his new body!" So much for Easy Mac...we had a Cowboy Bob Hot Dog feast and watched The Tales of Desperaux because Noah said it was an adventure tale about courage and "believing things" that made him think about Mr. Bob. Wow.

"Miss Vangie, do you want to know 2 freaky things?!" (These conversations usually never end well but I have no choice but to say yes.) "Well, I can't decide if it is a coincidence that Mr. Bob died on this week of Jerusalem. I don't think so because firstly, now we know what it is like to loose our carpenter too. And second, I just think Jesus wanted to let Mr. Bob be in heaven for Easter Sunday. He is really going to like that!" I kissed her sweet head and thanked her for sharing her freaky thoughts with me.

I've struggled with what to do with our Sunday School program during the weeks following Marketplace in Jerusalem. I've come to the conclusion that there is no one who I can put in that classroom this spring. The boys just won't be ready. So I wrote a Bible Skills unit "Mr. Bob Style". I think it is something he'd be proud to teach. How the Bible works and was put together was very important to Bob. So for April and May, we're going to combine the kids and do it like that.

I’d like to lovingly dedicate this unit to the memory of Bob Hodge whose years of fearless Sunday School teaching will live in the hearts of children forever. Bob was respected by our children, even as an elderly person, as someone who cared enough to share his knowledge of scripture with those not as far along as he. His tireless efforts to make the Bible come alive in the hearts and minds of children will inspire me for the rest of my life.

So Mr. Bob…”sound off…ONE, TWO…sound off…THREE, FOUR…sound off…ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…” This one is for you:)

Check Me Out

2010-03-29T17:19:00.000-04:00

So I'm so really "web 2.0" - I don't know what that means but I hear Duane say that a lot.

I really just wanted another forum to make announcements and let everyone in on the cool things I see in our ministry to children each week. Everyone always tells me "you've got to write this stuff down". (Really Duane wants me to write books because of the royalties so that he can retire...he has this idea that I will be the "Beth Moore of Children's Ministry"...free loader.)

So today I learned how to Blog, how to make revisions to our swcc kids webpage and other stuff I've already forgotten. I promise to make an effort to keep all of this stuff:

1. up to date

2. funny

3. thought provoking

4. informative

5. insightful...if it comes from our kids it can't be anything but

So I'm excited:)

peace out...vs