Thursday, August 29, 2013

Thus saith the Lord

The Lord confronted me about my attitude today.

He wasn't mean or harsh about it, just straightforward. Direct. The sharpest blades leave the smallest scars. His is the sharpest.

I was having a pity party. I woke up today knowing that I should try to be thankful for as much as I could be, and I have tried, yet still ended up feeling kind of down in the dumps.

I would like to set you up with my excuses the context.

I've been sick with a cold for six days, and so has my son. So we've sort of been stuck together. Do you remember when you were home from school for a week in fourth grade, and you'd watched so many movies and gotten so lonely you almost went crazy? Well, my son and I were both feeling that way, but were stuck together. As a fourth grader I could just let mom take care of me, and I didn't know to be thankful for that. Now, the house gets dirtier the longer I'm sick, and that makes me feel worse.

I had a list of phone calls to make, and they kept becoming more complicated than they needed to be. I aim to live in a world of ideal essence, where the exact thing I mean is perceived in the ether, and my desired answer transmitted simultaneously, static-free. It wasn't working that way. Much of this had to do with dealing with organizing health care appointments for my son. We've been given so much in the way of health care opportunities, but there is also so much to figure out. Provider A needs something from me that I need to get from Provider B. I didn't know that, so must call B, then wait awhile to reschedule with A, etc.

I started a new semester of teaching at the community college. It went well, actually. Yesterday it worked out for my husband to stay home all day, and I got LOTS done. Even when I'm sick, I can do a lot of teaching/research/writing. It's really in the care of small dependents that I find the plastic limits of my selfish skin. Again, a relatively new situation, so am trying to figure things out as I go along. It's okay; it can be a rush, but it takes a lot of energy, leaving less for said dependents.

One benefit of teaching is that I get to take a course or two for free. I considered taking one - I still am considering it - but also thought, how can I start something new if I haven't finished the degree program I started? What if I NEVER finish this degree - and it's all - all the work, the move - for nothing?

I was mulling all of this over, and in my heart, there rose the question, "Why are we out here? Why is everything so hard?" I sensed a response, "Maybe He brought you out here to deal with your bad attitude."

Yikes. Oh, yikes. Desert wanderings... forty years... quail and manna... Oh, no...

My husband took the kids to get a movie, and after I got dinner in the oven I decided to blog a bit because this is just what's going on. There is so much bitterness in my heart and on some days it is really corrosive. Just before I sat to write, I heard Matt Redman singing,"You give and take away/ My heart will choose to say/ Lord, blessed be Your name."

I know that is the right attitude. It is so much my pride that has a problem. I just added tags to this post, and of the six, "bitterness" is the only one that has appeared before. Thematic, tracing a path through this wilderness.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Surprised by joy



 I feel like I should be writing more, but am not sure where to start. I think the days of trying to measure and mold every particle and product of my life are behind me, and I'm emerging into a brave new world of keeping up and pressing on. Which means I have to dare a little bit, and live a life that could very well be characterized by courage, grown from a mustard seed of faith.

My son has been back in school for a few weeks now. On his first day back at school, he had a rough start. They called me about an hour into the day, to let me know about an incident and injury. It was the same kind of thing he would have done at home. As usual, I have a hard time helping people know how to respond to moments like that, because I am not sure how to respond. That is a different story, though.

 My daughter and I went to a play date, which I had mentioned before. We came home, and as I was preparing lunch for the kids, I played some instrumental music while she painted. Often her paintings are kind of wild and unstructured because I just give her the freedom to play with color. She'd been quiet for a few minutes, and I began to dread the sight of paint all over the walls and floors. She never does that, so, now that I think about it, it was an irrational thing to fear. In any case, instead of my fears being realized, my blessing materialized. I walked over to a beautiful painting, the one that is now hanging in my bedroom and matches my brightly-colored IKEA bedspread (which was also a blessing at $10).

I could not believe it. She described it as lanterns, like from the movie *Tangled*. The description touched my heart just as much, because when that movie first came out, Kyrstin still had very long, blonde hair. Whenever I'd watch the lantern scenes, and Rapunzel would feel that they were somehow meant for her, it would always remind me of the song "Maybe There's a Loving God," by Sara Groves.

  I'm trying to work things out
 I'm trying to comprehend 
Am I the chance result 
Of some great accident 
I hear a rhythm call me 
The echo of a grand design
 I spend each night in the backyard 
Staring up at the stars in the sky
 Maybe this was made for me 
For lying on my back in the middle of a field 
Maybe that's a selfish thought 
Or maybe there's a loving God

 I'd always thought that a mural of the lanterns floating upward would be great for my little girl's room. Beautiful, dreamy and symbolic of an upward call. I've never quite been able to express that to her; she will understand someday, I am sure. Especially when He really starts calling her. I've been sentimental about the lanterns all the same, and for her to paint them, and for us to share this joyful moment together, was a blessing I'm so glad I can frame and hang on my bedroom wall.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

I can't keep up

Yesterday I meant to write a post and tell you about the blessings of the day before. I got interrupted, mid-way, by my son. When I got him up, we played for awhile, and in our play, he started naming things. I had grabbed a wand with a pointy hand on the end of it, and pointed to "truck, box, Stefan." He grabbed the wand and went around the room, showing me up. "Box, truck, truck, table, chair, shirt, milk..." Of course the words weren't clearly articulated, but they were there, and he knew. Not just receptively - he can speak. It was a little miracle that came out of an interruption. It reminded me of a quote from Caussade embedded in One Thousand Gifts. "You would be very ashamed if you knew what the experiences you call setbacks, upheavals, pointless disturbances, and tedious annoyances really are. Youwould realize that your complaints about them are nothign more nor less than blasphemies - though that never occurs to you. Nothing happens to you except by the will of God, and yet [God's] beloved children curse it because they do not know it for what it is." I will get back to telling you about the other day - the surprise blessing of childhood creativity - unless God keeps interrupting and I never catch up.

Friday, August 16, 2013

In search of transcendence

This post is a companion post to the previous. I wasn't sure why I posted about the trip to Costco. I guess I felt that reality has two sides. I mean real reality - the one that includes everything the fallen world includes, and everything God's grace restores and renews. And I am just seeing fragments of both, I am sure. In the midst of carrying my screaming, wriggling son down the aisles of Costco, and every time he melts down in public, or explodes in the middle of the night, I am usually telling myself that I just need to push through this. That's sometimes the best I can hope for. Some people complain about mundanity, and I understand that - the wanting of something fuller, less cardboard. The awful, screaming times are worse than mundane, though, because you know that every energy you have to make something beautiful out of the mundane is being drained from you, that at best you could just forestall things getting worse, and when it's over, all you can do is rest so that you don't pass out on your return trip. He slept through the night that night, and then woke up at 5am. My husband's usual routine is to leave the house shortly thereafter, so my mommy day started at 5am, with an overly tired special needs preschooler who was supposed to start his first day of preschool. He would not hold still long enough to take a first-day-of-school picture, so I figured I'd get one after the 3-hour preschool day. Drop-off was awkward. He was not happy. When I left, he was out in the hall with the special ed teacher, calming down, separated from his class. He frequently has these separation fits, so I left with my daughter. I was very much hoping that with him in school I could spend time with her, time that the locusts had eaten during these years. At the playground, a friend called happily to my little girl from the swings. She played on the equipment, had snacks, talked to friends, acted a little goofy. It was so appropriate. Just a play date. I'm not sure we've ever had one so blessedly drama-free. Then we went home. She finished breakfast, did her lesson on ABCMouse, and then wanted to paint. I turned on the instrumental hymns station on Pandora, and set her up. She painted and I got lunch ready. The melodies touched the words I knew by heart, and my heart started to sing. I must pause in posting this to provide more later, because, upstairs, my little boy is crashing around in his room, shaking the metal fixtures of the lights in the kitchen. I need to investigate and possibly get him up from the nap he is not taking and allow my daughter a chance to rest. This is frequently part of our lives.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

We have color enough, thank you.

The salty, chewy softness I devoured hit the right spots. It was lunch, and a reward for the shopping nightmare. It wasn't just the cup-and-a-half of poop I must have cleaned from my son's bottom in the parking lot at Whole Foods. Poop happens (it was really, really a lot, though). It started when my son didn't want to ride in the cart. When do I let the meltdowns commence? Not as soon as we hit the first store. I guard against the meltdown by allowing my son to walk around. He checks every bin of beans. I put him in the cart. He fusses to get out. He opens and closes cooler doors. He picks up a clamshell of muffins. "Gugays!" he cries, showing them to me, and I know that they are not cupcakes, and more importantly, they are not going to fit his special diet, so I try to take them away. He maneuvers around a display of baked goods, I hear a clatter, and realize I am going to buy a six-pack of muffins. Okay. We move on. I realize about five minutes into our visit that I am not going to accomplish much with him, but must accomplish a few things so that he has gluten- and dairy-free snacks to take to school tomorrow. So we get to the checkout lane with a pthalate-free boat toy, a handheld mirror, a package of naan, and $60 of product I actually want to buy. As I am getting my credit card out of my purse, distracted, I realize he has run off. The store has sliding automatic doors, and I don't see him, so I leave the register in pursuit, and outside, a kindly stranger has him by the arm. I walk up, harassed and thankful, take my son. "He really got away," I say, sheepishly. "Yes. And someone could have run off with him," she says. "I know," I say, grimly. She keeps giving me the "do you really understand how close that was?" Look. I just stare back. She smiles weakly and says something like, "Okay, take care." I don't really hear because I am struggling with Stefan, trying to get back inside to get the groceries I left. Thankfully they put back the boat, naan, and mirror for me. I wouldn't and couldn't have made it. A man comes up to me with a very-clearly rehearsed story about how he needs me to meet his wife somewhere to use my debit card to pay for gas. I tell him I can't help. Why couldn't I just tell the lady, "Thank you," and leave it at that? Because I wanted to say more. I wanted to say, listen, I came to this store today BECAUSE my son is autistic. And sometimes, having an autistic son makes shopping difficult. Do you understand? Also, I think I need to get a child leash. People will judge me for that, too. Sigh. Proceed to Costco. We have to get wipes, and some other things. Once again, he will not ride in the cart, and if he walks, he wanders. The only position he'll allow me to transport in is with me holding him in my arms, his bottom resting on the handle of the cart. People look at me funny for this, and I think, "It's this or a meltdown, people. I'm sure I know which you'd prefer." We make it all the way around the store, and I'm starting to get frazzled. Twice he has gotton down, and plopped on the ground, refusing to budge. I am sweating from the exertion of trying to hold him still as I navigate the cart. Front of store, the employee tells me that wipes are all the way in the back. "Shoot," I say. I don't usually express my frustration aloud over things like this. But honestly, why are they all the way in the back? Why aren't they in the front with all the other medical/toiletries like they are in Sam's Club? Ugh. The squeals and screams heard throughout the warehouse are coming from my boy. People turn to look. I know they just want to see if everything's okay. At one point I stop, near the almonds, to let him rest. He sits on the ground. I pray, "Dear Jesus, *please* let us find a short line at this store." Why are the lines always so long at Costco? Why isn't there an "autism line" for kids who unravel so easily? Why did I even bring him with me today? I did it because tomorrow is his first day of school, and I'm going to miss him. I wanted to get him prepared as best I could, which meant some shopping. Close to the checkout lane, which thankfully, is only one deep, I swear I see the same lady that helped me at Whole Foods. I am not sure whether her seeing me again, in this situation, gives her more understanding, or more opportunity for judgement. Because now, I'm unloading my groceries onto the belt, and Stefan is running off again, this time to the nearby cigarette cage. Bringing him back brings more wrestling. The gentlemen in line behind me kindly steer my cart toward the cashier because my hands are fully of my writhing 3-year-old. The cashier kindly offers to have someone help me with the cart. Stefan screams and struggles all the way out to the car. Before that, the man helping me with the cart asks if a coloring book would help? I just shake my head, conserving energy. It's actually laughable, but my sense of humor is completely smothered by chagrin and crisis management. He still stops to get the coloring book, makes sure I have the crayons. I thank him for the gesture more than the gift. He helps me load the stuff we need for raising our screamer: wipes, grapes, lunch meat, spinach. Stefan calms down once he is in his carseat in the van. I don't understand the cause of the meltdown, exactly. Stefan is largely a mystery to me, though I know he is not mysterious to the Lord. All I can do is put my head down on the steering wheel and rest; I must, or I will not be able to drive home. Shopping was a workout today. I shall have Taco Bell, I think. And I did.