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Finding God in the Deafening Drama

May 28, 2013 By Leave a Comment

storm rage calms childSometimes I feel like I live in a war zone. I hope saying that is not offensive to those who really have loved ones living there. I mean no offense.

But sometimes the level of emotional volume in our home is just overwhelming. It is loud. It is hair trigger. There is no letting go of the little things. My goodness… there ARE no little things. Every issue is a mountain. Sometimes I wish for a few mole hills.

Sometimes I long for a “normal” family – whatever that means. You know the kind.  The ones who sit quietly in a restaurant, napkins in their laps, having polite conversation. Or how about the ones who cheer for each other at various sports events? What about those who attend band concerts or ballet or drama?

No, our drama is way louder and more, well, more dramatic.

And it is emotionally exhausting.

I find myself sometimes wishing time away and I know that is not a wise response. I try to tell myself that I will miss these days. But will I? Will I miss the drama and the loudness and the hair trigger?

Somehow I don’t think so.

It affects the entire family dynamic.  And I don’t know how to change that.

Then an hour passes and a boy/man embraces and apologizes.

How can we come to the place of catching it BEFORE the drama?  Is that ever going to be possible?

I find myself needing a vacation. And when does that ever happen? I want family time… but what I WANT family time to be… what I WISH family time was.  Not what it is.  Because what it is is exhausting and draining.

I am not sure of the answers. I tell myself to find rest in the Lord. What would HE do in the midst of the drama? Certainly He is here too.  But sometimes I find it hard to hear His still, small voice.

I know it must be there but it can get lost in the deafening noise.

And then this morning when I awoke in the quiet, I heard this in my heart:

1 God is our refuge and strength, A very present help in trouble.
2 Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;
3 Though its waters roar and foam, Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride. Selah.

4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, The holy dwelling places of the Most High.
5 God is in the midst of her, she will not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns.
6 The nations made an uproar, the kingdoms tottered; He raised His voice, the earth melted.
7 The Lord of hosts is with us; The God of Jacob is our stronghold. Selah.

8 Come, behold the works of the Lord, Who has wrought desolations in the earth.
9 He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth; He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two;
He burns the chariots with fire.
10 “Cease striving and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”
11 The Lord of hosts is with us; The God of Jacob is our stronghold. Selah.
Psalm 46

God, I need to hear you in the deafening roar. Quiet me. Calm me. You are my refuge and strength. You are my present help in trouble.  You are my stronghold.  I need to hear your voice.

Listening,

Hannah

Contact: Hannah@chosenfamilies.org

Filed Under: Family, God's presence, Parenting, peace, Uncategorized

Always Enough

May 2, 2013 By Leave a Comment

BluejayI watched two jays squabbling in the front yard today over seed that Grace and I had accidentally spilled from the box. The beautiful, black-capped jays with their cornflower-blue wings showed their ugly desperation for more by screeching and flapping at each other in an effort to grab everything they could. Does a bird have a cut-off switch? It’s said dogs can eat until they vomit. I don’t know whether birds can do the same. How much seed does one bird need? There were tiny scatterings of seed beyond the bigger, central pile. But the birds went straight for the biggest payoff, missing what was hidden in the grass.

I can relate.

Money is tight. As Matt is in sales, we live on his salary, but we advance on his bonuses. Bonuses that aren’t around right now. My dear husband is burning the midnight oil on project after project, but to no (seeming) avail. Each night we pray, “Lord let a deal close.” Each morning, He answers, “Not yet.”

And then I spend a fair amount of time screeching at Him like a Jay.

We’ve already burned through our medical flexible spending program, and it’s only May. With two kids on the autism spectrum, Grace’s eye care, and my own medical needs, we spent $5,000 in less time than it takes a Kardashian to start a reality show. This study from the Brookings Institute, indicating a robust and direct relationship between income and well-being, didn’t lift my spirits, either. Apparently, money CAN buy happiness.

But not necessarily contentment.

“I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.” Philippians 4:11-12

Daily, the Lord reminds me I haven’t missed a meal. I have a roof over my head, cars that run, beautiful, healthy children, a devoted husband, and a few nice things (relics of a past, more…..er…..plentiful lifestyle). He has used our present circumstances to forge a new frugality, and we are stretching dollars like they are made of tire rubber. No food goes to waste, no excessive purchases are made. We have prayed for nearly two years that the Lord might heal our finances. His answer to us has included the practice of looking carefully for ways to get by on less.

I HATE less. I like MORE. But I cannot deny that my heart swells with pride when I shave $50 off my grocery bill, or sell outgrown clothes at a consignment store. It is in the saving of money and our systematic downsizing that we are reminded we CAN survive, and thrive, on less. And in so doing, we are content.

There is ALWAYS enough for us, scattered somewhere in the grass.

- Sarah

Contact: Sarah@chosenfamilies.org

Image courtesy of Ron Bird/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

Filed Under: Anxiety, Asperger, balance, Challenge, Encouragement, Family, God's presence, growth, Hope, stress, Uncategorized

State of Mind

April 9, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Noah is an easy crier. But he comes by this honestly. His linebacker-sized father can cry on a dime. Once when I was pregnant, I caught him weeping at a Huggies commercial.

Noah likes to hide his tears. Not even the doctor is permitted to see him cry when we’re at his office to have Noah’s strep or ear infections evaluated. There is no convincing him that it’s okay to cry. Instead, he hurries to find a place to retreat, cover his face, wipe his eyes with fevered intensity. Restaurant bathrooms are a good getaway, for there, he crouches under the downward tilt of the automatic hairdryer and lets the hot rush of air evaporate his tears.

I am not much of a crier, myself. I would rather put on a pair of oversized sunglasses and make a joke than I would let you see me ball. I find something of weakness in it, and so like Noah, I can find crying shameful.

So imagine my surprise this week when both Noah and I let loose a flood of tears over things that might ordinarily have seemed less than tragic. I have come to realize it was due in large part to our states of mind.

For Noah, he was overtired. There is no self-regulation in him (as is often the case for kids with ASD), so he will run until his legs can carry him no further and his lungs are set to burst with effort. He will seem perfectly modulated one day, and then the next, he’s on the floor screaming, terrorizing his siblings with extra force, refusing the simplest of tasks. We had, this night, mentioned the prospect of a small change, with opportunities for all the kids to weigh in. Just bringing it up set Noah to sobbing.

As for me? Well, I too, was exhausted. After hosting a birthday party for Jesse on Saturday that lasted well into the night with flashlight tag, Matt and I unloaded the entirety of our portable storage unit on Sunday. Every last box, bin, toy and furniture item. I managed to bruise my shin and torque my elbow, and the next day, I crawled my aching body to the bed for a two hour nap with Jesse.

I might have left it at that. I knew I was overtired. Instead, I put on my riding boots and went out into the field to get the pony and our thoroughbred mare. After I finally cornered the pony, who made me chase him a good 20 minutes before capture, and in a moment of apparently misplaced confidence, I swung a leg over him in the field, intending to ride him bareback into the barn for our lesson. The minute I got on, I instantly regretted it. He swung his head around, and took off galloping toward the herd, with me clutching like a monkey to his long mane. It didn’t last long. In a moment that seemed like it would last forever, but was in reality probably half a second, I was swinging over his shoulder and heading toward the hard, hard ground.

I fell off and landed square on my pride.

It was too much for my body to handle, and mentally adding it to a long list of second-guesses in this period of my life (“This, too, is doomed to fail!”) I just rolled over and started sobbing. Jesse was calling from the barn, “Mama, are you ok? I will call daddy!” All I could moan was, “Just give me a minute!”

Where the Lord Himself stepped in was with the snuffling sound I heard between my sobs. I felt something on my head and looked up. There, around me in a near-circle were all six horses in the field who had come to stand around me after I’d fallen. Mozart, the largest, and a famed steeplechaser in his day, had rested his muzzle on my head, as if to ask if I was alright. The Lord shepherded me back to the house with my 4-year old Jesse, who held my hand, and asked if he could take me to the hospital in his ambulance. Then, when we finally got back into the house, I felt the Lord stifling a laugh when I fell on the floor crying in Matt’s office, telling him what had happened and that I felt like a failure. Jesse jumped right in: “You can do it, mom! You’re still young!” And there the Lord was, in the end, as Matt looked at me, held my face in his hands, and said, “I have total confidence in you. I love you, and I believe in you.”

What I have learned is that humility comes before honor (Proverbs 18:12). And who else is more humble than s/he who cries? Jesus himself cried at Lazarus’ death – because of His personal loss and the great love for His friend. He is one acquainted with our sufferings – a “man of sorrows” who was despised by many (Isaiah 53:3). I understand now that sorrow is a perfectly acceptable state of mind; it isn’t shameful, and needn’t be hidden. Even if our state of mind is one of increased fragility, and the pain is deeper than usual, or the body hurts a little too much, we are known by a God who understands our tears, who loves us despite – and because – of them. When we’re very lucky, He even send us horses to comfort us as we cry.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, Challenge, Change, Emotions, Family, God's presence, shame, Uncategorized

Surprising Spring

March 25, 2013 By Leave a Comment

…but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life. John 4:14 ESV

I love to journal and it is one of the tools that help me stay emotionally healthy since my first bout of depression sixteen years ago.  However, I have recently (and accidentally) added a new, non-written, mode of processing my day and spending time with the Lord while………..washing dishes!

Up until we moved in October I had a large dishwasher so I loaded all of the dishes up and kept up my fast pace of life, missing an opportunity for reflection and prayer. Our new home only has room for a small built in dishwasher, so instead of running it multiple times a day, I hand wash the larger dishes. I need to be gently hand washed and made clean from my day.

I have found my dishwashing time therapeutic, as most nights I am able to have 10-15 minutes of limited interruption and I love it! Every night is different (and truth be told, some nights the dirty dishes sit in the sink until morning!) but I am learning to find ways to connect with the Lord in the midst of my day, instead of trying to add one more thing. Who needs one more thing to do?! Plus, I find shorter, more frequent times with the Lord keep me focused on Him and aware of His Presence. I crave His life giving Presence.

While we all need to be connected to the Lord, those of us on the hidden disability journey often require extra strength and grace on a daily basis. We need to combat the fear, disappointment, and frustration that attempt to invade our lives and make us dry. I am thirsty for Living Water.

Let’s be creative in finding time to process our thoughts and feelings (vent if needed) and stay connected with the Lord. If you are inclined, please share what you have found helpful, no matter how simple, to prime the pump and encourage others.

Your fellow traveler,

~Lynn

 

Filed Under: balance, Depression, Emotions, God's presence, Journey, Self Care, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

When There’s Time

March 19, 2013 By 1 Comment

I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Grace and Matt are gone for the day, and I’m home with two crabby sons: Noah is crabby because he has strep; Jesse is crabby because he’s three. To compound things, we probably pushed them too hard this weekend. Matt and I both suffer from the same disease – the one marked by lack of a shut-off valve. Matt’s plagued more than I am because my body generally gives out before his, but both of us – we don’t rest on the weekends. We run. Karate, gymnastics, physical therapy for Noah, Home Depot, cleaning the barn, organizing more closets and more shelves, entertaining, running, running, running.

The snow falling outside today is small and light, like flour let loose from a canister. And it falls slowly. It falls in such a way that I long for slow-ness myself. The Lord is here with me at the table. I’m sure He is smiling at that comparison.

“I don’t know how to slow down, Lord.”

“I know. I made you, remember? I know your struggles. Why are you running so hard?”

“Because there is so much to do, and so little time. There is never enough time.”

“There is always enough time.”

“But Lord, my list! There are so many things on it. Mundane things, like laundry and cleaning and errands. And pressing things, like taking care of the children and the animals, and paying bills, and buying groceries. And then there are the things I want to do – my riding, Lord. And my writing. But sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by it all that I just really want to go to sleep!”

“So sleep. Come to me, you who are weary and carrying so many heavy burdens, and I will give you the rest you need.” (Matthew 11:28)

“But when I do that, I wake up to even MORE things to do! Lord, why didn’t you make a 36 hour day?”

“Because your body couldn’t handle it. At the end of this perfect day I’ve created, you are forced to sleep. You must stop what you’re doing, and rest. Even I rested, you know. And I told the apostles to do the same (Mark 6:31) … Have you noticed the snow?”

I drop my head. I think I know what He’s going to say.

“Yes, Lord.”

“Sometimes there is much snow. But sometimes, it is merely a few light flakes, quiet and pretty enough for a dusting, and nothing more. It may be heavy and wet, or dry and airy, falling faster, or slower. It moves as it must, for the purpose to which it’s intended, and what the clouds themselves contain. Snow is not always a blizzard, my child. And neither can you pour yourself out so completely or quickly all the time. There will be nothing left of you for the most worthwhile pursuits if you shake out all you have until you collapse.”

Noah is coughing in the family room, and telling me his stomach hurts. His fever is back, and I get up to medicate him, and bring him more water. His sicknesses are particularly pathetic. He moans and screams in pain, particularly intolerant to it. This is consistent with studies indicating those with Autistic Spectrum Disorder have a hyper/hypo sensitivity to stimuli i.e., above average range of feeling or super-sensitivity, first written about in 1949 by Bergman and Escalona. (Contrast this with my daughter, who sliced her foot open on a beach rock in Virginia, and couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it – refusing pain meds and waving to people from her wheelchair at the airport on the way back home like the Queen of England).

I return to my seat and my coffee in the kitchen, my conversation with the Lord.

“You will finish what you need to, when the time is right.”

“WHEN the time is right? Couldn’t I just get it all finished and be DONE? That way I can rest!”

I can hear Him laughing. “And miss what I’m trying to teach you about prioritizing and resting now?”

“Okay. I give. Two things on my list today, and no more.”

“Just one, child.” He looks into the family room where the boys are watching tv, comatose under their blankets. “They need you right now. I willed Noah’s sickness for reasons you do not know, but today, it is so that you yourself might slow down and just be with them.”

“Whatever’s left on your list, you can finish later. When there’s time.”

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, balance, Challenge, Encouragement, Family, God's presence, Journey, rest, Uncategorized

For the weary of heart

March 18, 2013 By 1 Comment

I heard from a dear one today who is overwhelmed with her circumstances.  She has been burdened for so long and is carrying such a heavy load.  She is discouraged and sees no end in sight.

I know you have been there.  I have been there too.  It is part of this journey we are walking.  Part of the journey we don’t often discuss but feel deeply at times.

Only those fellow travelers who live with chronic disability or illness are likely to understand.  But we are those people and we understand.

For today, I am not there.  I thank God for that.  But I have been there before and except for God’s grace I will be there again.

If you are there today, I wanted to reach out and give you a cyber hug.

God sees you.  He sees the service you provide to your family every day.  He knows the daily dying to self required when living in a family touched by disability. He knows you are weary and worn.  He knows the hours you work doing countless unseen things to meet your family’s needs. He knows the nights you lie awake and pray for your family and the many things that are not as you wish they were.  He is God, yes, but he was fully man, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.

As we approach this Easter season and reflect on the cross, I am moved to consider Christ who prayed in Gethsemane for God to remove the cup of suffering but then prayed, “not my will but thine be done.”

This is the most godly prayer we can pray when we are in that dark and weary place — oh God, can you relieve me of this? But not my will but Thine be done.

And in those weary, overwhelmed moments, remember this:  “A bruised reed He will not break And a dimly burning wick He will not extinguish; He will faithfully bring forth justice.” Isaiah 42:3

I am praying for the weary of heart today. I pray God will reach down in a personal and intimate way and encourage you. I pray He will intervene in a way that reminds you He sees you, knows you, loves you.

I am reminded of this lovely song by Twila Paris. I hope it encourages you today.

Warmly,

Shannon

 

Filed Under: Encouragement, God's presence, Uncategorized, weariness

Raw, Raging Reality

March 3, 2013 By 3 Comments

I have been asked several times of late how the Mom in Newtown, Connecticut found herself so isolated.  Did she deliberately disconnect?  Was she protecting her son? Did she not ask for help? Given that she is gone we will never know the answers to many of these questions.

But I have to acknowledge that sadly, I understand how she could become isolated.

I am a very social creature who seeks out and wants connection.  I reach out to friends, remember birthdays, send love notes, send notes of encouragement, etc.

I even ask for help when I feel we need it.

So how is it that despite asking there is little help that actually happens?

Honestly, I don’t get it.  It grieves me.  I don’t know what more I could do to make our family needs known.  What does it take to be heard? Truly heard?

Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months. Months turn into years.

People are busy.  They are engaged in their own lives and ministries.  They have their own priorities.  Good priorities.  Important priorities.  Priorities I would support also.

And in the words of an old friend who I will never forget, “We know that when push comes to shove, God will meet your needs.” This is true, of course.  But it is true of all of us.  God will meet our needs.  But He wants us to be in community.  He created us to be connected.

So this morning I awoke with an ache of loneliness.  Yes, even I, the one who founded this community for connection, feel lonely.  Why do you think I am so aware of the need for this ministry?

What am I called to do?  I am called to continue to share transparently, even when people don’t respond.  This is obedience to Christ.  It is tempting to stop sharing.  To crawl into a cave and pretend not to need others.  But that is not true.

And what do I do when I ask for help and it does not come?  How do I respond then?  I pour out my heart to God.  I weep.  I thank Him for His presence.  I remember Jesus experienced the most raw, raging, gaping loneliness man has ever experienced.  He went to the cross and became sin on my behalf.  And when He did, God turned His back on Him.

Unimaginable.  Unfathomable.  When all others fail I have the Father.  I can’t imagine Jesus’ suffering to not have Him either.

He is my sustaining grace when I am lonely.  When I long for someone to understand the daily journey.  When I long for someone to reach out to my son, I ask, I appeal, and it doesn’t happen.  My heart breaks.  My soul grieves.  How must I respond?  I must forgive even if they do not realize their need for forgiveness.  Because I need to forgive them.  If I don’t the enemy will use it to stir bitterness in my heart.  I refuse that outcome.  I reject it completely.

So today, if you are feeling lonely, disconnected, know I hear your heart.  I see you.  And more important, the Father sees you. He knows your life. He sees your loneliness. He can be trusted. Remember with me this sweet word from I Peter 4:19: “Therefore, those also who suffer according to the will of God shall entrust their souls to a faithful Creator in doing what is right.”

You are loved and prayed for today.

Shannon

Filed Under: community, Forgiveness, God's presence, grace, Uncategorized

Ode to Parents

February 15, 2013 By 1 Comment

Ever since one of our children had cancer, children and oncology have been near and dear to my heart. Often the side effects of chemo leave children with disabilities, cognitive or otherwise. We have no way of knowing if any of the ADD or learning disabilities our child faces is from chemo or not. Maybe future studies will reveal that. But regardless the cause, I am inspired whenever I witness the courage and resilience of young people doing life, at some disadvantage, while on the playing field with everyone else who is “normal”.

They school me. I totally understand how Paul could say to young Timothy, “let no one look down on your youthfulness, but rather in speech, conduct, love, FAITH and purity, show yourself an example of those who believe.” 

I Timothy 4:12

Recently I was given this blog post written by a young man who graduated to Heaven. He wrote this before he was diagnosed … before that refining suffering, yet God gave him insight beyond his years in particular areas. He gave his parents permission to share his posts with anyone who could benefit.

They did, I benefited. I think you will too. I believe God gave these words to this young man, who, though youthful, was an example of humility and faith … willing to pass along words of encouragement to older believers (parents, like you and me) who know we are turning out, in his words, “broken and incomplete” children …

An Ode To My Parents…

I was just thinking…

I guess I always knew that parents weren’t perfect. I was always told that, and I think everyone agrees that people aren’t perfect – and parents are people.

I was just thinking of the way I was brought up, the way I was taught, the patterns and behaviors that are with me now. And I just wanted to say that I think parenting has kinda gotten the bad rap – really gotten the bad rap. Like something was done wrong, something that has to be done better, something that has to be changed because of the baggage that has resulted – baggage that causes pain and hurt. And I see the changes that have been made and the intention to not produce the same baggage.

But maybe that’s the thing about parenting; no matter what methods are used, it will always be incomplete and there will always be baggage. Maybe God wants it that way, because He is the One that makes the method complete, He fills in the holes and takes the baggage that is produced. If parenting could be perfected, then no one would ever need to leave home, no one would never need to mature as an individual, no one would ever need any more faith than what their parents had, no one would ever need to have a personal relationship with God – their parents would be enough….

So parenting is not about turning out perfect kids before God, it’s about doing the best job you can and then turning them over, broken and incomplete, to God to continue His work and draw them towards perfection. I hope that’s an encouragement…

I am crying…

Craig Stoltzfus

 

Schooled by the young,

Joan

Filed Under: God's presence, Parenting, Uncategorized

Just Passing Through

February 6, 2013 By 1 Comment

I sat in a meeting of young parents (mostly of elementary kids) last evening as we discussed social skills and our school system. I am on the local Special Education Advisory Committee and we were holding a joint meeting with the Elementary PTA.  We have lived in this system for our children’s entire school experience and have been thoughtful and engaged parents.

I listened to the presentations of competent professionals sharing the many wonderful things they do to help kids learn social competency.

I looked around at the faces of many young, engaged, type A Moms and was deeply grieved. I was taken back by the emotion.  Our son is a senior and we are close to closure on this part of our journey.

No matter what plans they make or programs they have, some kids are going to fall through the social cracks.

My son is one of those children.  As social and engaged as I am, as active of an advocate as I have been on his behalf, he has still fallen through their net.

And there are no words to wrap around that grief.  Indeed it feels like the wind has been kicked out of me.  I would love to be able to explain it.  If I shared it with my son, the one who struggles socially, he would have the perfect analogy to explain it.  Not good — perfect.  His word pictures capture the heart as well as the mind.  He is gifted that way.

Having lived this journey so many years now, I am always a little surprised when the wave comes and knocks me off my feet. Again.  Going under, flailing to get to the surface, I come up for a breath. Then I swim to shore and wait for the wave to pass.

And I am reminded of this sweet passage: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you.” Isaiah 43:2

Look again at this… THROUGH… THROUGH… THROUGH.  We are passing through.  We may feel like we will get stuck in that grief.  But we won’t.  He is taking us THROUGH.

So grateful for the God of through,

Shannon

Filed Under: God's presence, Grief, Uncategorized

The Mole Hole

January 31, 2013 By 1 Comment

“Look at that baby,” I cooed to my husband leaving church on Sunday. “How precious does she look with her little face sticking out of that pink car seat cover?”

Matt looked over at the family, fussing over their kids, stuffing arms into coats. “Ah yes …. The mole hole.”

I laughed. “Yes! The mole hole! Do you remember the black one we had for Noah? He would grin at us from inside, and his little head was so sweaty when we pulled him out!”

When he was six months old, Noah’s mother, a first-time parent, believed he would be frozen in a state of suspended animation if his portable car seat (the “bucket,” we called it – apparently, our early parenting years were beset with plenty of pseudonyms)
wasn’t covered with his elastic-banded, fleece lined, water-repellant cover with the perfectly-sized hole for his head. In the most inclement weather, the hole could be closed with a lightweight flap, and Noah would emerge as safe and dry as the moment he went in. The mole hole, we were convinced, was the best of all the baby paraphernalia we toted.

Now, Noah’s room is his mole hole. It is the place to which he retreats when he needs a separation from the overly stimulating distractions of his world. I often find him in the corner of his room, where it is darkest, where the space is tightest, where he clicks away on his DS, lost in Mario something-or-other. He still prefers to sleep with his head mashed into the corner of his bunk bed, much as he did when he was an infant, and he would press his head into the crib bumper as if to wear it like a hat. Something about the snugness of that covering calmed him.

Now, I am Jesse’s mole hole. He is calmed by little else than my arms around him, tight like a vice. He wants the squeezing of his body, and the rubbing of his back, and it will not do from anyone else. In the middle of the night, somewhere around 2:00 a.m. give or take 30 minutes, a forceful knock sounds on my door, and I shuffle to open it and find Jesse standing there. Every night. Jesse gives me no chance to argue or rationalize him back into his bed, but darts past me like a tiny locomotive and pulls himself up into my bed. While I am not a “family bed” advocate, and Matt and I have taken great lengths to encourage our children to stay in their own beds, Jesse will not be otherwise convinced that where he sleeps after 2:00 a.m. is with us. And so I have given up fighting it.

Don’t tell Jesse, but I am (despite months of cyclical fatigue and interrupted sleep) kind of okay with it. The feet pressing into my thigh and the head in my armpit don’t so much bother me, as remind me. They remind me that Jesse, like Noah, is “unique,” and that he is as motivated by anxiety as by anything else. Perhaps he cannot articulate what rouses him from sleep so that he tears down the hall and into our bedroom. Maybe it is a nightmare, or a pain, or a fear that cannot be described, and so for now, I am alright with where his night prowling takes him.

But I too, need a mole hole. I need the Lord’s covering to calm me. I need that safe place, that quiet place, that dark place. I need a mole hole where I might close my eyes and feel the Lord’s presence above and around me, and I can press my head close to Him and feel His peace. We have just received an autism spectrum diagnosis for Jesse, and now in our second round with ASD, we are more aware of what titanic efforts must be expended on his behalf. We are tired just to think about it.

“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” Psalm 91:4

When my sons emerge from their mole holes, their worlds are more manageable, their fears are quelled. What refuge their spaces have given them is sufficient to heal them for a moment. The dark stillness is good to provide them the separation they need, so that when they return they are strengthened and ready, until they must retreat once again. My mole hole – that quiet place under the Lord’s wings, full of dusky mysteries – does that, and more.

But for all time.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, Autism, Challenge, God's presence, Uncategorized
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