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Everything and Nothing

April 4, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Autism awareness month, which began on Tuesday, means everything and nothing to someone who is living with it first-hand.

It means everything in that it pervades every moment of every day. Autism is something of which I am already aware: it is an experience from which I do not get a break, and therefore its call to recognition by those in positions more visible than me, means everything. It is the silent question behind the taunting kids at school (“is it because Noah’s different?”), and the quiet realization behind every self-stimulating behavior of Noah’s. It is the “oh, he must be overstimulated,” or “there are too many people here,” or “he does not like the feel of my hugs” thoughts. It is everything in every moment of every day with my son.

Which means it is also nothing. It is a part of Noah, and not the whole. It is the “this is what he has, not who he is,” and the “I don’t think I’d want him any other way” ideations that rattle through my heart each day I spend with him. It is the refusal to make excuses for him, and the toeing of a hard line, and the working to make things the best they can possibly be because an ICD-9 code and the DSM and the XYZPDQ’s don’t have a clue what he’s like in real life. It means nothing because I feel the Lord has called Noah to something great because of what he’s been dealt, and in spite of it. It is nothing he cannot handle, and apparently nothing I cannot handle, despite what my weary eyes and aching hip joints told me this morning.

It means something, though, for those who are struggling with a new diagnosis, or seeking a diagnosis, or to find the money to pay for services. It means something for those struggling to throw off the stigma of autism, and to legitimize what their children have in the face of critics who persist in calling it simply bad behavior, or the result of lax parenting. It is for the “something” people that we ought to pray; those struggling to find their way, and enough strength, and the Lord’s hand. For them, someday, autism awareness month will mean nothing, too.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, Autism, Challenge, community, Courage, Encouragement, Journey, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

Open for Business

February 21, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Routine tasks often prove the hardest for my Noah. Tasks of a higher emotional and intellectual input are nearly impossible. This move of ours – wherein we moved a mere 6 miles from our former home, kept all children in the same school, and did it all slowly, as unhurriedly as possible over the course of a month so as to prevent any psychic earthquakes – sent Noah into a tailspin. I should have guessed this was going to be the case. There is only so much cushioning you can give an Aspie when his world begins to change. So, in the wake of the final push of our move, I should not have been surprised that Noah’s behavior fell somewhere between chaos and rage. On the day itself, Noah blasted past us in the foyer, hurtling down to his room, yelling over his shoulder that he had a project he was going to do. That this was his “plan for the day.” Before we settled into our new home, Noah had packed everything from torn posters to bits of tape he’d salvaged from the walls. There were figurines with missing heads, carnival slinkies stretched beyond use, shoes with shredded soles. He was unable to distinguish between useful and superfluous, between broken and functional. Everything that could possibly be thrown away made it into a moving box and came with us. Unpacking this all gave me apoplexy. For an almost 9-year-old, a request to send him to his room to pack his belongings is a natural one. One assumes that there will be some sort of self-governance that eliminates the moving of – for lack of a better term – “junk.” But Noah’s “junk” moving was just the beginning. Once at the house, this “project” of his ate the better part of a day, and I didn’t bother to check its progress because it kept him out of my hair. When he yelled from the bottom floor, insistent that I come see what he’d done, my jaw hit the floor. He opened his closet door to show me this:

Getting down to business.

“It’s my DS store,” he said. And sure enough, on every shelf, Noah had aligned his DS games with cases upright and inserts facing out, just as they are displayed at Gamestop. Now this was a puzzle to me. The boy who packs things like books with missing pages, or plush animals vomiting their stuffing; who throws every lego he owns in a giant box, but tosses the instructions (insuring that he’ll never construct the pieces from the set in their intended way, again), THIS boy had taken the case for every DS he owns and arranged them with the precision of a scientist. WHY? This was also a puzzle to me. All I can imagine – and this is where I must be content to let the questions end (because sometimes guessing is all I’ve got) – is that this was Noah’s way of not only controlling his environment, but controlling (channeling?) his emotions through the precise, repetitive task of touching and working with the familiar things that he loved.

Grace, ever the pragmatist, folded her arms in front of his closet. “Uh, that’s great, Noah. But you have one little problem. Where are your clothes going to go?” We still don’t know. For now, they’re still mostly in boxes on the floor. His room’s a mess, and so is mine. We’re not quite open for business. But we have a little peace.

~ Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, balance, Challenge, Change, Emotions, Family, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

Worn

February 7, 2013 By 4 Comments

Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. Psalm 126:5

January has left me feeling very worn.

After family sickness before and during Christmas, the return to school was anything but easy for my daughter with Sensory Processing Disorder, who missed four days of school leading up to the Christmas break with a fever.

It took a solid three weeks to readjust to all day Kindergarten and we still have some tears every morning as I drop her off. At least she is no longer crying at night as she goes to sleep, as she gets ready for school, and in the car on the way to school.

It has been emotionally draining to say the least. While nothing we tried totally worked to alleviate the separation anxiety, we found wearing her weighted vest did help to calm her when she was really upset about having to leave me.

Thankfully, her crying now stops within minutes from drop off and does not extend throughout the morning as it had been. Despite a tearful start to her day, most of her school days end up being pretty good. But I often return home from drop off with her little brother worn out from the battles to get her out the door and to school on time.

In the midst of the worse of this struggle I discovered the song “Worn” by Tenth Avenue North and it really ministered to me. I have wept on several occasions while listening to it as it gives words to how worn out I have felt in the day-to-day struggles of my daughter’s hidden disability and in the midst of my failures as a mother.

As I have cried out to God with these lyrics, I have felt His assurance that He is with me and will redeem our struggles for His glory.

Please take the 4 minutes to listen to this song accompanied with the lyrics and let the Lord minister to you as well.

Worn but anticipating songs of joy,

~Lynn

Worn Video with lyrics by Tenth Avenue North

 

Filed Under: Challenge, growth, Parenting, Sensory Processing Disorder Tagged With: , ,

Rope Burn

January 17, 2013 By Leave a Comment

“When you get to your wit’s end, you will find God there.” So proclaimed the sign outside a little country church near my house. I am pretty certain these witty, theological colloquialisms come from a book somewhere, but they are eerily prescient. Because lately, I’ve had a bad case of rope burn. Rope burn is what happens when your young, thoroughbred ex-racehorse decides that the hoof pick is a snake, and she rears up like a scene out of the “Black Stallion” while you’re clutching the lead rope like a monkey. Rope burn is what happens when you’re lashing your belongings to the back of a pick-up truck and someone on the other side of the truck – as desperate as you to speed the transition into a different house – pulls on the rope the same time you do. Rope burn is what happens when you clutch your circumstances tight, and despite your best efforts, they shift and hitch and jerk themselves right out of your control, taking the skin on your palms – and your wits – with them.

I have rope burn, all right. The Lord snatched from me what passed for circumstantial control so that I could find Him standing right in front of me, holding the rope. That’s how a tug of war is won, you see. One party loosens their grip; the other takes up the slack. And boy, that rope hurts on its way out of your hands. But “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him” (1 Corinthians 2:9), and I’m at my wit’s end.

So I suppose I’ll loosen my grip.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Anxiety, Challenge, God's presence, Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,

5 Characteristics of A Disabilities-Friendly Small Church

January 15, 2013 By 2 Comments

Jude and me at our church

On Sunday, our family took a huge step. With visual schedule in tow, Jude joined us in “big church” for the first half of the worship service and then attended children’s church for the remainder of the service. Most neuro-typical children find it difficult to sit still, remain reasonably quiet, and attend to the happenings of the typical worship service, but for an energy-filled child on the autism spectrum this can be an even greater challenge.

Thankfully, we have an outstanding church family. Many large churches fulfill the calling to love chosen families affected by hidden disabilities by creating special ministries and classrooms. Such an approach can be helpful, but many small to medium sized churches without the resources for disability ministries struggle to know how to help families like our own.

God has placed us in a relatively small church. In our children’s ministry, we have three classrooms for infants to 2 year olds and one children’s church class for both preschoolers and early elementary schoolers. We don’t have a large building or tons of money. Nonetheless, our church has embraced a gift named Jude with eagerness and flexibility. Below I list five characteristics of our church that have helped us enjoy gathering with them for worship despite the challenges involved:

1. Our church is a place free of judgment.

As a parent of a child with a hidden disability, you constantly feel judged by other people when your child doesn’t act “normally” in public. However, our church is a safe-place. When we are wrestling our little wild man in the fellowship hall and simultaneously trying to have a conversation, we never feel anyone’s eyes staring. Jude’s first time in “big church” didn’t go great. He didn’t want to sit. He didn’t know how to be quiet. He wanted to run down the aisle or crawl under the pew. Even so, we didn’t feel like anyone was saying, “Why don’t they do something with that child?!” Rather, we sensed the prayers of our brothers and sisters as they stood with us through this transition.

2. Our church has been flexible in classroom assignments.

Most children in our church leave the nursery and join the worship service and children’s church at 3 years old. Jude, however, turns 4 next month. He spent an extra year in the 2 year old class. He is a big boy who could pass for a first grader. You should have seen him towering over the other children! Still, no one pushed us to make the transition prematurely.

3. Our church has made classroom changes for Jude’s dietary restrictions.

On his gluten-free diet, Jude cannot have the typical nursery snack: Cheerios. Of course, he doesn’t know he can’t have Cheerios, and he thinks they look pretty appetizing. So Jude has his own snack table in the classroom, where he can eat his own snack free from Cheerio temptation.

4. Our church has demonstrated a willingness to learn.

Fortunately, we have a couple of women at our church who were formerly involved in special education, but even those who have no background in it whatsoever desire to learn about autism and about what makes Jude special. Furthermore, when leadership trains new volunteers, they take time to specifically discuss Jude and his needs.

5. Our church prays for us.

At certain times, our church has prayed corporately for our family. I cannot tell you how long we have gone fueled by that encouragement! Beyond those times, I know that many in our congregation pray regularly for us during their times of personal and family worship. Even when we suffer privately, like when the children of our church (many younger than Jude) sang Christmas songs for the congregation while we held him in the audience, we know that there are people who are sensitive to our sorrows and pray for us, even when they don’t say anything.

Love One Another

In summary, these five characteristics do not amount to anything revolutionary. We have been commanded to “love one another with brotherly affection” (Rom 12:10 ESV). Through these and other ways our church has loved our family specifically, and we cannot thank God enough for the love of Kenwood Baptist Church.

Joshua

Filed Under: Autism, Challenge, pastor/clergy Tagged With: , ,

Foolin’

January 10, 2013 By 1 Comment

As the New Year dawns on a cold morning, I am lying in bed, willing myself not to hear the yelling and scuffling down the hall. Matt is still sleeping, mouth agape. He told me once that he could fall asleep on a set of bleachers during a basketball game, having perfected the skill during high school and a run of sporting events he shared with his two brothers. He can also turn off his hearing at will. It must stem from the same neurological pathway in his brain – the one that lets him not hear kids outside his door though they’re hollering at each other in full voice.

I, on the other hand, have mother ears. The kind that let you hear your crying child at the end of the hall, through two closed doors, over the hum of a box fan, in the middle of the night. So over the growing din of that morning, I heard a little hiss of something over the carpet, attended by a tiny crackle of paper.

The kids were sending us notes again, I thought. And then I threw a pillow over my face and pretended it was still only four in the morning and I had 3 hours more to sleep.

When Matt and I finally uprooted ourselves from the bed approximately 20 minutes later, I found, as I had suspected there would be, a note at the bottom of our bedroom door.

“DEAR MOM AND DAD – I HAVE RAN [SIC] AWAY FROM HOME. SIGN [SIC] NOAH”

Aw c’mon, Lord! This ALREADY? I’m only seven hours into the New Year!

I bolted past Grace and Jesse in the hallway, screaming, “Where is your brother?? Where IS NOAH!?”

I yelled downstairs into the basement, pulling on a coat over my pajamas at the same time. “NOAH!”

That was when he jumped out from behind the couch screaming, “SURPRISE!”

Now, the time between my reading of his note to Noah revealing himself was probably a minute or less in length. But a minute of suspended heart rhythm, a minute of terror seizing the gut, a minute of “what do I do next?” is a minute too long. It was a minute that probably took six months off my life on the back end. So I’d like to apologize in advance to Delores Hornstein at the Shady Oaks retirement community, because as it turns out, I’m not going to make that shuffleboard tournament after all.

I’m panting now, doubled over in the kitchen. Noah trots over with a gap-toothed grin. He has no concept of why I am worried.

“NOAH! Why did you write that note? I don’t understand….”

“’Cuz I was foolin’ ya.”

Foolin’ me into thinking he’d left me forever. I’m remembering now when Grace was a tottering infant and Noah compulsively rubbed her head because (1) it was squishy, and (2) it made her scream, and he “liked it.”

That mind blindness of his is a real *****!

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” (John 14:27)

Do not let your hearts be afraid when you think your son has disappeared, but instead, remind, remind, remind him of what other people could be feeling as a result of his actions. Instruct, instruct, instruct him on principles of safety and awareness. Even when he’s foolin’.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Anxiety, Asperger, Challenge, Parenting, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

The Plunge

December 13, 2012 By 1 Comment

Noah and I are sitting alone at the back of the deli we frequent during our Tuesday night Karate/Gymnastics run. Grace is vaulting herself into the air across town. Matt is getting Jesse a haircut next door (a hair “cut,” is in this instance, loose vernacular for hair “shave,” as despite Matt’s explicit instructions, the “stylist” – again, using the loosest of vernacular – ignores his instructions, and takes clippers to Jesse’s whole head. Think Full Metal Jacket on a 36-pound frame). I am relishing the quiet conversation with Noah who falls to one of two extremes – harbinger of a verbal onslaught, or penitent monk, sworn to silence. Tonight, he is the former.

“And then we did flying side kicks, and I have a belt test on Saturday mom, so don’t forget, and I got there in just enough time to spar with a girl that I haven’t met before, and then another kid that I took down on the first try – “

Then his face scrunches up. He presses his eyes together, and his mouth makes a crinkled “O.”

“Mom, my tummy hurts.”

“Well honey, you just chugged 20 ounces of Powerade. Might it have something to do with that?”

“Probably.” And then he is right back to shoving macaroni and cheese in his mouth. “Where did dad take Jesse? To Hair Cuttery or the new place? What kind of haircut is he getting? Is he going to come back here – “

There’s the pained face again. Noah is normally “ticky” at dinner anyway, having spent the reserves of his self-control at school, and giving in to impulses like face-making and finger-flicking when he’s able to let down. But tonight there is something else going on with the face he’s making.

“Oooooh mom. My stomach is just KILLING me!” I can hear the intensity in his voice, and I fear that a scene is coming.  Thankfully, we’re just steps from the bathroom, and I suggest to him that he might want to visit it.

He’s out of his seat now, and pacing. “I don’t know, mom, I don’t know.”

For those of you who’ve read a few of my posts, you know that Noah has certain bathroom “oddities.” For example, he will not perform a certain bodily function anywhere BUT his own bathroom. This flavors our family excursions with the intensity of a channel swim through shark-infested waters. Additionally, Noah will only perform said act fully unclothed. Yes, George Castanza style – naked as the day he was born. Intensity, intensified. He has been known to hold up a port-o-pot line at an outdoor festival because re-dressing oneself is hard in a noxious six foot cube, and it’s even harder in the summer heat when a line of un-sober partygoers is telling you to hurry up. He will demand we re-route the car and go home if we’re 30 minutes down the road, just so his business can be done in a comfortable space. I could go on.

Now, Noah is truly beside himself. “Oh mom, oh mom! You gotta help me.”

He flies into the bathroom, leaving me at the table by myself. Help him with what?

He’s out just a moment later. “Mom! I need you to come in here! Please, please.”

I glance up at the men’s restroom sign, and back at my son, and try to explain – as quickly and efficiently as possible – that because our “hardware” is different, I’m not allowed to go into the men’s bathroom, and to do so could make for both an awkward situation and a possible citation.

This explanation doesn’t satisfy him. He is very nearly yelling now. “Mom! PLEASE! You have to come in and help me!” I’m getting stares from other tables.

Okay mother-conscience. It’s go time.

“’A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii[e] and gave them to the innkeeper. Look after him, he said, and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have. Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers? The expert in the law replied, ‘The one who had mercy on him.’ Jesus told him, ‘Go and do likewise.’” Luke 30:37.

I crack open the door (to what I am imagining is certain dismay from the tables behind me), announce my presence, and come in. Noah is in the back (and only) stall, crying and tugging on the handle because he cannot get the door shut. I suddenly realize his dilemma – he was in too much pain, and too embarrassed to ask for help.

I slam the door into the frame once, twice. It doesn’t budge. I try it a third time before realizing that the frame is warped, and so (with strength I imagine comes from the same place as for those mothers who manage to single-handedly lift cars off of their trapped children) I brace my back leg against the wall, and with the other, push as hard as I could against the frame while yanking on the door. It slides into the frame with a click. Noah is audibly relieved. I leave the bathroom triumphant, but a little heart sore, wishing I’d have come to him earlier so that he needn’t have pleaded so desperately.

I thought of the Parable of the Good Samaritan on the way home, and the simple kindnesses that mean so much, and which we neglect to show. I thought of Noah, my child in discomfort, who could not articulate what he needed, but only that he needed, and the gratitude on his face when he rejoined me at the table. I was privileged to show him mercy – me, his mother, who ought always do so. Please, Lord, let me always be my children’s Good Samaritan. Let them be able to always count on mercy from me.

And Lord, if it’s just the same to you – maybe next time, I can show mercy in the kitchen.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, Challenge, Communication, Executive Function, Journey, Parenting, Self Care, Uncategorized Tagged With: , ,

Hormones and Red Dye and Crowds! Oh My!

November 11, 2012 By 1 Comment

I’m writing this post on my husband’s computer. When I booted mine up to submit my weekly post, it freaked out. It started running its own repair program, which freaked me out. My husband is a computer tech guy in his real job, so I have no doubt he’ll be able to rescue my hard drive and rebuild my computer. Or maybe it will fix itself.

Still, I’m weeping as I type.

It’s been that kind of week. Cami is PMS-ing and I’m menopausal. That’s always a great combination, right? I’ve noticed as Cami’s brain gets flooded with her monthly hormones, there are about two days during the month when we don’t even try to homeschool. Those are watch-an-interesting-documentary or read-a-good-novel days. Those are the stay-in-our-pajamas school days.

In the larger span of our life with her, I thought Cami had finally reached emotional equilibrium. I felt good about our family and our coping skills. Until we went to the postponed-because-of-Hurricane-Sandy Fall Festival at our church this week.

I should have known better. I did know better. But she wanted to go, and this is the last year she’ll be able to participate, and her dad (who was supposed to take her on Halloween before the event was postponed) was trying to meet a deadline. So I took her.

We have over 500 students in our church, and I think they were all there in the church parking lot with both their parents and at least one sibling each. I knew it would be crowded. Cami and I had discussed our game plan, decided how long we’d stay, and agreed to leave when she got overwhelmed. Life is usually crowded, and we’ve worked hard through the years to be able to coexist with the emotional stimuli in the crowded places of our lives. I prepared Cami for the Fall Festival crowd.

I didn’t prepare myself.

Within five minutes of our arrival, I was done. Even outside, the noise from a whole lot of people in a not-very-big space was disorienting. I found myself growing more and more on edge with each passing second. I couldn’t think. Earlier in the week, my good friend said she’d be working at the cotton candy station. I said, “Cami, let’s see if Miss Melisa can make you some cotton candy without the red dye.” We found Melisa at the popcorn station, which was directly beside the cotton candy station.

“Mom, can I still have some cotton candy?”

“I guess so, Cami.” I’d already brought it up, right?

“But what about the red dye?”

When Cami’s cousin was diagnosed with a severe allergy to Red Dye #40 several years back, we paid close attention to Cami’s reaction after ingesting it. We observed that when she eats or drinks anything containing red food dye, she gets grumpy and edgy. She’s learned how to read food labels for herself, and we avoid all food dyes most of the time. We don’t go to Valentine’s Day parties (red candy). People have stopped inviting us to birthday parties (red dye in the icing). The first step in sorting Cami’s Halloween candy is to separate all the suspected red-dye candy from the okay-to-eat candy (mostly chocolate). We order special red-dye-free candy canes around Thanksgiving so they’ll arrive in time for Christmas.

But cotton candy always has red dye in it. And Cami loves cotton candy.

I said, “Well, Cami, let’s think this through. When we leave here, it will be shower time and then bedtime, so I think you’ll be okay.”

“So I won’t have too much time to feel grumpy.”

“It’s up to you, honey, but I think it will be okay if you want to eat some cotton candy.”

God tried to warn me. While Cami was waiting in line for the cotton candy, another young man asked about the ingredients in the cotton candy mix. One of the youth workers read aloud the label on the cotton candy mix carton. Sugar. More sugar. And Red Dye #40. I heard it. I just didn’t pay close enough attention to it.

Within 10 minutes of eating the cotton candy, Cami mentally checked out. Y’all, the cotton candy mist-ified her brain. We spent a lot of time standing around because she couldn’t decide what she wanted to do. We met up with some of her friends, and she couldn’t make even simple conversation. I grew extremely frustrated because she was waiting for me to lead her through the carnival games. Only I didn’t want to be there, so I was waiting to follow her wherever she wanted to go. Only she wasn’t going anywhere.

At one point, I said, “Cami, this is your thing. I’m not going to decide for you where to go. You go where you want to, and I’ll follow you.”

“But that’s a problem, Mom,” she said, “because I can’t decide what I want to do.”

So I started asking her questions:

“Do you want to play the games inside or outside?”
“Do you want to go in any of the bounce houses?”
“Do you want to play this game? Or that game? Or this game?”

“Do you want me to stop asking you questions?”

As she flapped her hands, she said earnestly, “I don’t know! I don’t know what I want to do! I can’t think!”

“Do you want to go home now?”

“No, but yes. It’s confusing because I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to leave this place either.”

I pointed at the church building and asked, “Do you mean this place,” then I pointed at her feet and asked, “or this place?”

“I don’t know!” More flapping hands and now she was frustrated with me as well as with herself.

I took a deep breath and tried again. “Cami, do you just need for me to decide for you?”

“Yes. Please.” Neither one of us was crying yet, but we still needed to go to the grocery store on the way home. There was still ample opportunity for meltdown.

We left the church and made it through the grocery store with our emotional fortitude still relatively intact. We arrived home, she got in the shower, and I sat on the couch and cried.

What did I learn from this circumstance?

Notes to Self upon Attending the 2012 Fall Festival:

  1. Show up at a crowded event when you think the most-crowded hour isn’t.
  2. Keep in mind any emotional stressors you and your child may already be under (e.g., fatigue, hunger, hormones). Adjust your expectations accordingly.
  3. Keep communicating, even when you’re frustrated by your child’s “non-cooperation” and your child is frustrated with your questions.
  4. Save the cotton candy, full of Red Dye #40, until last.
  5. Or better yet, don’t eat any at all.

If you saw me at the Fall Festival, and if I was rude to you, or snubbed you, or frowned in your direction, please forgive me. It isn’t pretty when I flip into survival mode; you know the mode: where I try to manage everyone and everything, and above all, make sure Cami is safe and feels loved. This time, I mostly managed to save it for my couch in my home instead of spewing my helicopter-mom habit out into the crowded parking lot. Mostly.

At least there won’t be cotton candy for another year, right?

Have I told you lately how thankful I am for this blog community where you know what I’m talking about, even if my words are inelegantly expressed and oddly punctuated? I am so grateful.

Pressing on and looking up, and avoiding red dye everywhere,

Cassandra

Filed Under: Parenting, Sensory Processing Disorder Tagged With: , ,

A Timely Tweet

September 17, 2012 By Leave a Comment

In the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation. Psalm 5:3

God continues to surprise me how He speaks and reveals Himself ever so personally and often at just the right time.

I was recently processing a disappointment that I thought I had adequately dealt with and moved on.  However, I soon realized there was more work to do and I needed the Lord’s help with it – AGAIN!  So this morning, I searched my heart and confessed all I was feeling regarding this issue. I confessed my pain and brought Him my questions.

Then I returned to Psalms, where I had been reading, with no real answers or resolution. There were a couple of verses that jumped out to me and applied to other concerns in my life. I prayed through them and gave thanks for the insights I gained and the blessing of His Presence.

I woke up the rest of the family and went through our normal morning routine.  My son and I returned home after dropping my daughter off at school and I sat down at the computer to quickly check email and Twitter.

There it was.

My answer came through a tweet by pastor Rick Warren that the Holy Spirit powerfully impressed was for me in more ways than one.  It read: “Trust God’s timing. ‘Not yet’ isn’t ‘No.’ A delay isn’t a denial. Wait patiently.”

The Holy Spirit comforted me in a deep way through this truth and reminded me I really can trust His timing. I was filled with joy and peace about the situation and how the God of the universe would speak to me, even through Twitter. :)

I have learned that often times the Lord speaks to us not only for our benefit, but for the benefit of others as well. I am to receive His personal word for me and look for opportunities to share it so He can bless someone else. It’s just how the Kingdom of God works.

So friends, you really can trust God’s timing with whatever you are facing.  Although waiting is hard, it has the potential to move from ‘hardly bearable’ to ‘transformational’ when we focus on the Lord and allow Him to work in us.

Trying to wait patiently,

~Lynn

 

 

Filed Under: Challenge, Depression, Encouragement, General, God's presence, Prayer, Trust Tagged With: , , , ,

God in the Mess

August 16, 2012 By 2 Comments

While I’ve done my best to condense it, I want you to know this missive is long, so you might want to get a snack.

(I’ll wait.)

Truth is stranger than fiction, and our lives are even stranger than that. So let me paint you a picture. I won’t need to review much history. Just a simple span of 72 complicated hours will suffice. I’m convinced God’s got a sense of humor. In fact, I find His timing to be downright hilarious.

But I find Him when I look for Him – because He makes Himself known.

On Friday, Grace’s beloved beta fish, Ariel died. I wasn’t too heart broken, as the fish had made it about one year – high achievement for something the size of a half dollar. So, we went to get another fish, and decided on two tiny tiger barbs. Grace was elated. At Noah’s strong suggestion, she named them “Barbara” and “Barbarian.” This is the saccharine “Dawson’s Creek” moment in the story. We are headed next into “National Lampoon” territory.

At the same time, Grace and Noah were approaching the last of their summer camps; it was a traditional, north-woods camp experience that we deemed their “big finish” to the summer, but which required a physical for entry. Their pediatrician couldn’t get them in until September. Had I waited too long to make the appointments? Yes. Yes, I had. So we took them to the Target “Minute Clinic” for a check-up, and a signature on the all-important health documentation. We did this on a Saturday. Two weeks before the start of school. After gymnastics and karate classes. Before Jesse’s nap. On a SATURDAY.

Two hours, three screaming children, and two signatures later, Matt was headed home with the kids in my car, and I was headed home with a trunk full of groceries in his. A party followed that night, wherein Jesse peed himself and spent the rest of the evening undressed from the waist down. I’ve apparently gotten lax in potty training the third time around, because while this isn’t the first of our training mishaps, I’ve yet to see fit to stick a spare pair of undies and shorts in the car. Apparently, I’m too good for a back-up plan.

That evening, I reviewed a copy of the MRI report sent to me by my doctor after my recent brain scan. You see, Behcet’s (Disease) is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get. After some disconcerting neurological symptoms appeared (including memory loss and problems of cognition), I underwent an MRI which revealed subtle changes in the white matter of my brain, probably due to cerebral vasculitis (up to 20% of Behcet’s patients suffer from a sub-set of the disease involving the brain). Not knowing when to leave well enough alone, I hit the internet hard. What came up was “vascular dementia.” I turned to Matt. “Well, it’s official. I’ve finally lost my mind.”

We thought we would sleep in on Sunday, and give everyone a chance to recover from the previous day and get ready for a busy week. Zelda – our Texas Heeler dog of previous reference on this blog – had other plans, and decided she would set to work destroying not only an entire wall of basement insulation, but the heirloom crib that’s been in Matt’s family three generations. We had begun the post-apocalyptic clean up job before we realized that the shop-vac was missing its filter. Matt headed to Home Depot, and I re-settled my over-stimulated, under-slept three year old in his bed for a nap no fewer than four times before we began repairing in earnest. Jesse then repaid my patience by knocking down the hall table and sending a filled vase careening down the second floor landing. “I forgive you!!!” he yelled at me – clearly not understanding the concept. “I FORGIVE YOU!!” He was desperate. And heart-wrenchingly reminded me “I a GOOD KID, mama! I a HERO!” This is what your preschooler says to you when you have said something you regret to him (or screamed it, perhaps?) in the midst of a reprimand.

With the basement finally in order, we sat down to dinner. I filled Noah’s plate. Noah’s eyes filled with water. He stifled a gag, insisting, “There’s gasoline in the brussel sprouts!” I fought the urge to retort, “Well you better not light a match.” Sunday night, Matt and I collapsed into bed, making it until 4:00 am, when Jesse got up and insisted, “it’s mornin’ time!”

Monday morning, the kids were scheduled to be at camp by 8:45 a.m. In a flurry, I sent Matt down to our neighbor’s house so he could feed their dogs and let them out. Our friends were taking a well-deserved trip to the beach, and we had agreed to dog sit. Matt was back within five minutes, and pulled me aside.

“Prince is dead.”

I don’t know what I looked like at that point, but I’m pretty sure I made whatever face cartoonists draw to indicate surprise. I think there was an exclamation point above my head.

For you dog lovers, let me say that Prince was 13 (that’s 91 in people years if you’re doing the math), on heart medication, and of limited mobility. There was no indication of pain or suffering in his passing, and Matt was there to be with him at the end. It was definitely that sweet dog’s time to go.

But I wasn’t thinking about that when Matt came home. All I could think of was how to pull off a three ring circus in 90 minutes.

Thinking fast, we decided to get Grace and Noah to camp, drop Jesse off with the neighbor’s nanny, go back to the house to tend to our neighbor’s other dog, and load their deceased dog in the back of Matt’s car so I could take it to the vet and Matt could be ready for his 10:00 a.m. conference call. All this, I was going to attempt with a husband who had a (1) rotator cuff tear and (2) compound fractures in his shoulder. He literally cannot lift his fork without moaning.

Somewhere between the mania of heartache and humor, loading Prince into our car, I looked at my husband and blurted, “There’s no one I’d rather carry a dead dog with than you.” Because it’s true. Because I love him the way only God can show you how to love another person – through all the mess and in spite of it.

God was in an open pet shop, and the smile on Grace’s face when she gingerly held her new fish on the way home. God was in the signatures on the medical forms that got Noah and Grace into, as Noah called it, “Camp I-Wanna-Pee-Pee.” God was in an excuse to redecorate because a vase was broken, and Zelda’s wagging tail and cocked head – so excited to see us, and covered with insulation. And God was in Matt’s re-scheduled meeting that meant he was with me Monday morning, and able to help – instead of in North Carolina, as originally planned.

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.” (Psalms 40:2) Thank you Lord, for a firm place to stand. Thank you for reaching out your hand to me when I’m covered in mire, because you love me, even when I’m a mess.

I’ll sign off for now. I have to go flush Barbara down the toilet.

- Sarah

Filed Under: Asperger, Blessing, Challenge, Contentment, Courage, Encouragement, Family, God's presence, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,
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