The Autism Gospel - A Hand and Foot

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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.