His greatest gifts

"Do tadpoles burp?"

I'll take Questions From Boys for $1000, Alex.

The last time I saw a tadpole in a murky pool, I was a little girl on the farm behind my house, playing with my very best friend, her brother, and my sister. I'm thrilled to death we now live in a place where Henry can see tadpoles and jump in ditches filled with rainwater, but never in my wildest dreams did I expect to hear that question.

And that goes to show you that some of the Lord's greatest gifts are also the most unexpected.

Laugh. Cry. Nod and clap your hands.

I've been reading the BooMama blog as long as I've been reading BigMama, which is to say about 6 years now. (Whew, I can't believe that.) I love these ladies so much, sometimes I feel like we're friends, and I know I'm not the only reader who feels that way. They are genuine, hilarious, southern, and in love with Jesus; who wouldn't want to be their friend?

Not long after Melanie (BigMama) announced she was writing a book, her pal Sophie (BooMama) let us know she wasn't far behind. Can you imagine the delight of thousands of readers everywhere? I have the feeling there was a collective "woohoo" across the nation.

I bought Melanie's Sparkly Green Earrings off the shelf because I forgot to preorder it, but as soon as A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet was available for preorder, I got on it. As Sophie herself might say, I was like, "YES MA'AM. LOAD 'ER UP."

Anyway, I just finished A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet and guess what? She's not only hilarious, which everyone knew, but she's also an artist. This piece just struck me to the core:

Like Scout Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, I saw the effortless grace and elegance of the women around me and realized that "there was some skill involved in being a girl," and I knew I didn't just want to grow up and be a woman.

I wanted to grow up and be a lady.

So, what I'm telling you is, if you want a great southern read that will certainly make you laugh, possibly make you cry, and definitely make you nod your head in understanding, please do not delay in purchasing Sophie Hudson's delightful celebration of food, faith, and family. If nothing else, it will make you want to brew sweet tea and fry bacon. You're welcome.

Rest. Praise. Repeat.

Wow, what a difference a week makes. We've been in our new home for a mere five days, and already my mindset has changed. I yearn for a slower pace, to sit on the screened porch and listen to the rain falling on the leaves, to hold Henry's hand and walk through the woods, to watch him chase butterflies.

I didn't expect how utterly exhausted I would be after the move. I spent at least 12 hours on my feet on Wednesday; Thursday morning my entire body hurt and I had bags under my eyes. (It doesn't help that Henry has been waking me before 6am.) Yet, I still had more to do that day. Touch-up painting at the old house, picking up dry cleaning, racing back to the new house for the appliance delivery, picking up Henry at school, unpacking boxes... It was a whirlwind 48 hours, at the end of which I simply wanted to sit and enjoy.

A friend of mine said, "In patience, you were blessed." Many times I was not patient as we waited on this dream to come true, but we have indeed been blessed. And, my guess is, all of you have been blessed as well. Whether you're in your dream house or not, you have a roof protecting your head. You have some space to call your own. Maybe a whole house, maybe a room, maybe a closet, maybe your backyard, maybe your car. I encourage you to treasure it, thank God for it, lift up your praises inside it.

God wants our first and best fruits, not the rotten fruits left on the ground when day is done. As I raced around on Wednesday and Thursday, I did not offer even my leftovers. So, as I encourage you to be still in your space and spend time with God, I am pointing a finger at myself as well.

Let's challenge ourselves this week to carve out time for the One who longs to spend time with us, the One for whom we were made, and the One who offers refreshment to our weary souls.

Forgiveness.

Like I said. Maybe tomorrow, maybe two weeks from now. Today it seemed appropriate to post this song by Tenth Avenue North.


I can't believe what she said
I can't believe what he did
Oh, don't they know it's wrong?
Don't they know it's wrong?

Well maybe there's something I missed
But how could they treat me like this?
It's wearing out my heart
The way they disregard

This is love. This is hate. 
We all have a choice to make

Oh, Father won't You forgive them?
They don't know what they've been doin' 
Oh, Father, give me grace to forgive them
Cause I feel like the one losin'

It's only the dead that can live
But still I wrestle with this
To lose the pain that's mine
Seventy times seven times

Lord it doesn't feel right
For me to turn a blind eye
But I guess it's not that much
When I think of what You've done.

This is love. This is hate. 
We've got a choice to make

Oh, Father, won't You forgive them?
They don't know what they've been doin' 
Oh, Father, give me grace to forgive them
Cause I feel like the one losin' 

Why do we think that hate's gonna change their heart?
We're up in arms over wars that don't need to be fought
But pride won't let us lay our weapons on the ground
We build our bridges up, but just to burn them down
We think pain is owed apologies and them it'll stop
But truth be told it doesn't matter if they're sorry or not
Freedom comes when we surrender to the sound
Of Mercy and Your Grace, Father, send Your angels down 

Oh, Father, won't you forgive them?
They don't know what they've been doing 
Oh, Father, give me grace to forgive them
Cause I feel like the one losing
I feel like I've been losing

Oh Father won't you forgive them
They don't know what they've been doin'
Oh Father, give me grace to forgive them
Cause I feel like the one losin'
I feel like I've been losing

Oh, Father, give me grace to forgive them
Cause I feel like the one losin'

Crazy-nutso-wild

Oh, y'all. It is crazy-nutso-wild around here. My sweet Henry is tripping over his toys, I'm running into boxes, and Keith is doing his trademark heavy sighing.

We move one week from tomorrow.

I am one of the rare people left in the world who has never moved an entire household of belongings. My parents live in the same house where they brought me home from the hospital. Sure, I've moved out of dorms and apartments, and I moved all my belongings here when I married Keith, but none of that required me wrecking my parents' house.

I'd like to tell you I'm all easy-breezy about the state of things, but I try not to be a liar. My mood is heavily influenced by my environment, and right now my environment looks like Stan and Jan's inspiration for...

I know. First world problems. I'm just letting you know, the impending move means I have no idea when I'll be writing here again. Maybe tomorrow, maybe two weeks from now. I know it's not ideal! But I feel sure you will all survive without hearing from me. Wink.

The thing about blogging is...

One of the keys to successful blogging is being consistent. Decide how much you can post and stick to that amount. Let your readers know what to expect.

But here's the thing.

The difficulty in writing a blog is that sometimes what you want to write, you really can't write. Sometimes you want to say things you won't feel tomorrow. (Or maybe you will.) Things that would make readers turn away for good. Things that would make readers call Child Protective Services. (Oh, I kid.)

On those days, it's hard to find anything else to say. Really hard.

Years ago I read this mom's gorgeous blog, filled with photography and homespun craftiness and several children and hearty, healthy meals and .... I had to stop. In the beginning I found it inspiring, but eventually the constant happiness was killing me. I'm talking, it was sucking out my soul like a Dementor.

Meredith, do we need to commit you? No, I promise you don't. What I mean is that her blog seemed to paint the picture of a fake life. No one was ever sad, sick, or sarcastic. Never angry, anxious, or apathetic.  And that fake life was making me feel like my life sucked in comparison. I knew it was illogical, I knew my life was great, and yet reading that blog made me feel like trash.

On the other hand, the web is full of cynicism and depression and anger, and I don't want to hang out on those sites either. So, I aim to strike a balance between authenticity and revealing too much. I want my blog to be a cozy place for readers who, I assume, are like me.

For that reason, sometimes I'll take a little break. I'll post stuff I've been saving to share with you (only what I truly believe is worth sharing, never filler) or direct you to other blog posts I find inspiring, or I'll just say, "Hey, I need a break." Trust me - this will be way better than hearing what's actually on my mind that day.

(Like, how I dream about someone loving our dog so much that they steal him.)

(Or how I sometimes want to take a solo vacation at a monastery just for the silence.)

I'm taking a break until next week. You're welcome. :)

"Spur one another on toward love...."

I can hardly believe today is the last day of Autism Awareness Month! I've been so encouraged and humbled by your response to my posts, and I cannot thank you enough. I truly love my readers.

For my last awareness post I want to discuss something close to my heart, and it starts with this controversial (at least, in my mind) picture.

My heart sank when I saw this on Pinterest a few weeks ago. The link leads to an article about a legitimate research study, but I find this image and others like it (some not linking to an article) problematic for a couple of reasons.

My first thought was, is this an image we want associated with our children? Do I want to convey to the world that parenting my child is as hellish as fighting a war? Let's think about the harsh reality of a combat soldier. Think about what he does. What he sees. My cousin's husband, having served two tours in the Middle East, won't even talk about it.  I can't speak for the rest of the autism moms, but I know I cannot compare my days with Henry to the days of a soldier risking his life, hearing the buzz of automatic fire, watching fellow soldiers' limbs blowing to pieces, and wondering if he's next.

My second thought was similar, though perhaps worse. Is this the image we want our autistic children knowing we associate with them? If they could understand (and some of them are capable of that), would we want them to know that we feel like our homes are a war zone, all because of them? If so, God help us.

Finally, I thought of the many times I've read pleas for mothers to stick together, to encourage one another, to not judge or condemn.  I have to say, this picture seems to imply the opposite. It makes me feel uneasy, as if we autism moms want to puff out our chests and insist that our stress is somehow more important than everyone else's. I feel confident autism moms aren't the only ones with stress similar to that of a combat solider. (Give people enough time and money, and they'll do a study on anything.) But if we were, what would it matter? Do we want a medal?

And this is the part that's so close to my heart. Moms, and dads too, really do need to stick together. This country is obsessed with busyness and stress, as if you're not running yourself ragged, you must not be important. I'm so tired of it. In the deepest part of me, I know this contest for who's got the most stress doesn't please God. For my last thought during Autism Awareness Month, I want to say this:

Yes, I want everyone to be more aware of the 1 in 54 children who have autism. Yes, I feel an obligation to help with that effort. No, I am not more important or more blessed than you; I also do not proclaim to be more despondent, more tired, or more stressed than you. 

I'm just a mom who takes one day at a time, putting one foot in front of the other, like everyone else. Our struggles may be different, but we all have them.

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another - and all the more as you see the Day approaching. 

Hebrews 10:24-25

What do I say?

Not long ago a dear friend confided in me that she had some questions about autism and felt I was a safe person to ask. Hallelujah. If I'm nothing else for the ASD community, I pray I am that.

She wanted to know the proper phrase to use when referring to a person with autism. Suffering from, living with, struggling with....?  I've read differing views on the subject, but I think the most unoffensive phrase is simply "a person with autism" or "a person who has autism." Here's why.

Some folks deeply grieve, perhaps even hate, their child's diagnosis. They probably would say their whole family, including the child, suffers from autism. Other folks embrace their child's diagnosis to the extreme of being happy about it. You might hear exclamations like, "He sees the world in a way that makes me a better person!" Still other folks fall somewhere in the middle. We don't love or hate it; we just accept it and love the child.

So, if you say "Henry has autism," you haven't offended a soul. On the other hand, if you call Henry an "autistic child" or autistic person,  you could potentially offend a slew of people. Why? Because this phrase makes autism supersede all else, as if autistic is all he is. Sure, the phrase is quicker to say, but I know from my reading that it offends many.

I'll be honest, it won't offend me if I hear someone refer to Henry as an autistic kid. I know they don't realize the loaded language they've just used. But please consider why it might hurt someone else. Think, for example, of how we speak of other disorders or disabilities. Do you ever hear someone is a leukemia kid, cancer kid, blind kid, ADD kid, or wheelchair kid? (If you do, shame on the folks who use that language.) By doing so, we would rob that child of their identity and the many beautiful facets of their personalities and bodies. 

I know I'm speaking only of autism here, but I truly believe this little tip can apply to all families with special needs. Finally, you might wonder what kinds of things to say to a mom or dad when you want to show your love or concern. I want to offer these suggestions that have meant a lot to Keith and me.

You're a great mom/dad for him. God gave him to you for a reason.
I'm so happy to know Henry.
Henry seems really happy and _____ (fill in an appropriate, positive adjective).
Henry is so good at _____.
Are you and Keith ok? 
Do you need anything?
Can I cook you a meal sometime?
What can I do to help?
Do you need a sitter for a date night?

I hope someone finds this post helpful! Have a beautiful weekend.

Empathy vs. Pity

Yesterday I asked the question, how should I feel about special needs families? I'm not 100% sure how to feel, honestly. I'm writing here as a discovery process and certainly not as an instruction manual. I welcome feedback.

The one thing I do know, without question, is that we have to give each other grace, both the "normal" families and the special needs families. The normal folks certainly need to extend love and kindness to the special folks, but those of us in the special needs category need not get our panties in a bunch when the other folks seem to be pitying us. They're doing the best they can.

But that still leaves me with the question, where is the line between empathy and pity? If my goal is empathy, what does that look like? Maybe a look at the definitions will help.

empathy
1 : the imaginative projection of a subjective state into an object so that the object appears to be infused with it
2 : the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner; also : the capacity for this

pity
1   a : sympathetic sorrow for one suffering, distressed, or unhappy

b : capacity to feel pity

2

: something to be regretted

Obviously, I don't want anyone to feel the second kind of pity for my family. To regret the autism diagnosis is to regret Henry. There is no Henry without autism, just like there is no Amy without her disabilities. God help any of us who regret a child.

Admittedly, I can only think, feel, and act from my own experience, which is limited at best, but I think most special needs families would be happy with the other definitions. I particularly like:

"imaginative projection"
"understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing"
"sympathetic sorrow for one . . . distressed"

I'm relieved to see now that I was not pitying Amy and her parents on Sunday. I felt no regret, but merely felt sorrow for what they must face. Our struggles are mild in comparison, but they do help me imagine.

So this is what I've come up with so far, but I know many people (sometimes including me) still wonder what to say. What words are off limits? What conversations? What can I do to help? Come back soon, and I'll offer some suggestions. I would love to hear your thoughts too!

How should I feel about special needs families?

Last Sunday was my turn to care for a child with special needs during the worship hour. Amy* is a nonverbal 8-year-old who loves to walk, climb stairs, watch you climb stairs, move furniture, rock in the rocking chair, watch doors open and close, and bang on objects to hear the sound. In just two visits I've learned her happy sounds and angry gestures. I know when she's pleased that I understand her commands, yet I also see her frustration with me when she plops on the floor and refuses to move.

Being with her makes me happy, and I truly admire her forthrightness. Her feelings aren't hidden like ours so often are. I think she must be a fighter. How else could she adapt to this strange world and learn to make her needs and wants known?

But last Sunday was also the longest worship service I can recall in our time at UUMC. At noon I guided Amy to the bench where we would meet her parents, but she bored quickly and hopped up to resume her pacing. I mostly acquiesced to her demands, but kept her in a small area so her parents wouldn't have to look too long for us. She wasn't happy about that. The second hand seemed to drag through mud, and when the service ended at 12:30 I was hungry and a little irritable.

But, wait. Irritable? I was angry at myself for feeling this way. Really, Meredith? You can't spend 90 minutes with a young lady who just wants to walk? Who wants your love and attention?

The guilt settled in as I began to think of her parents and the struggles they must face. To attend the worship service and know their daughter is safe must be a relief. I know this feeling well, yet I don't know the intimate details of their lives. I don't know Amy's official diagnosis. I don't know how often her parents laugh or cry. I don't know if they sometimes want to throw things, hit things, or scream until their throats are raw.

And I don't know how Amy feels.  Does she have a voice on the inside? Does she think we're crazy for speaking to her even though she can't talk back? Is she glad we speak to her? Does she feel angry at her condition? Does she even know?

As I allowed myself to imagine all of this, I became keenly aware of the fine line between empathy and pity. Back up, Meredith. Are you pitying Amy and her family? That is exactly what you don't want for Henry. I left church wondering, what's the proper way to feel?

Join me this week as we think about this: How should we feel towards special needs families?