Forgetting and remembering

Sometimes the day to day feels  unexciting, unimportant and predictable, which somehow translates to me feeling unexciting, unimportant and blah. As I unloaded the dishwasher this morning I found myself praying the prayer that gets offered up about every 4 months or so, "God, is this it? Is there something else I should be doing? A goal I should be setting? "

It doesn't help that today comes shortly after a failure in my personal life. That failure finds me questioning what I stand for, who I am, what God's specific plan is for me and if I'm living it out effectively. Am I saying yes to commitments for the right reasons? All of this has appeared on the ticker in my brain, slowly repeating the same questions over the course of time.

I spent some time in 1 Corinthians 12 this morning, rightly titled "The Use of Spiritual Gifts".
12:4-7, 18 "Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit. And there are varieties of effects, but the same God who works all things in all persons. But to each one is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. But now God has placed the members, each one of them, in the body, just as He desired."

Sometimes I try to hard to contrive my giftedness. I need to remember the varieties of gifts-- that mine looks very different from a friend's, but that it is working for the common good. I tend to question the importance of my gift, looking for validation, assurance, praise, worth. (vs 14- 24 addresses that whole can of mess).

And then when I dig around with the whole validation issue, it leads me to the question, "What do I mean to God?" When I have failed, when I feel ordinary, when I stumble in my parenting and yet consider it my main goal and task at hand-- where is my value then?

My value lies in Him. It doesn't leave because I have become distracted from remembering that point. Distracted by obligations, cliques, deadlines, late PTA forms, dirty laundry and a messy kitchen counter. Distracted by focusing on images of perfection, wishfulness in the form of Facebook posts, lack of a creative teacher appreciation gift and weight gain.

Ephesians 2:4-9 But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved— and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, ...

Oh, how easily I forget. And how slow I am to remember-- but how faithful He is to remind me. 

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now

I have had that particular song by Clash going through my head over the past several weeks. I put off my urge to plant flowers that I wouldn't be here to enjoy,  began to paint ceilings and called in a realtor to walk through our home. Greg and I listed pros and cons for a potential move, prayed about it, listened to the crickets chirp instead of a firm, confident answer booming from the heavens or a steady peace about one way or another, and went on listing pros and cons. The hard part about listing the pros and cons, was realizing some cons were permanent and some were temporary and to decide how much weight each one carried.

Pros:
1. Less driving time
2. More family time
3. Great school
4. A coffeehouse in an old church building called "The Steeple" where I can see myself sitting on a weekly basis.
5. A Dairy Queen on the square of town, where you can hear chimes from a nearby church.
6. Perhaps getting a larger house and separating the girls into their own bedrooms.

Cons:
1. Leaving our church family
--- Monticello is not a place devoid of churches. Eventually one might let us continually attend, even when Brenna interrupts the scripture reader during service to share her connection.

2. Leaving our friends
--- Monticello is not a wasteland without other people to meet and get to know. As difficult as it is to leave friends behind, we would stay in touch. Eventually local people may talk to us and even come over for dinner. Maybe.

3. Packing/moving/selling/buying a home and having more time added on to our mortgage
--- Eventually we would pay it off

4. Joy leaves behind her jobs.
---Maybe the funeral home in Monticello would hire me. Maybe I could continue to sub in a different district--- or maybe I will sit and eat Dove chocolates.

4. Leaving Armstrong Program
And here came the deal breaker. While Greg was in Montana, I attended Brenna's IEP meeting. At age 14 for students, new questions are posed to parents: "Where will Brenna live after she finishes school? What kind of a job do you want her to have? What kinds of skills would you like her to have as an adult?" And the weighty reality clicked into place at the boardroom table: we weren't just deciding on a new school-- we were deciding on the rest of her life.

We know what services we have (at least for now, until cuts are final from Springfield) for a day program as an adult, for equestrian therapy, movement therapy, Camp New Hope for summer daycamp, etc. We know what friend we can call if we need someone to watch Brenna for a brief period of time.

Monticello is in Piatt County, which means we would not access her services as an adult through Champaign (and Champaign County) but through Decatur.

Maybe it was because Greg was gone for 8 days out of state. Maybe it was because I was tired of painting the ceiling and I hadn't even been painting very long. Maybe it was because the two houses I was excited to see sold the day before I went to look at them at a scheduled walk through with a realtor. Maybe it was because I was tired of trying to think 3 steps ahead. For all of these reasons and more, when he and I spoke on the phone, I told him I just didn't think we should do it. It was his call-- but this was my 2 cents to take or leave.

We're staying.

Part of me is happy to be staying and part of me has mixed emotions. I hate that he has such a long drive.  If it was just a decision based on Greg, Sam and Emily--- I know without a doubt our home would be on the market and we would be moving forward with relocating. But the thing is, decisions sometimes hinge on one person. I always said Brenna would be a part of our family unit and that decisions would be made that were best for all. Sometimes it just isn't that easy. I see the gains that she has made this school year, the pride she takes in her projects and accomplishments, the way she now insists, "I want to do it by myself" and the confidence she is exuding. I don't want to take that from her.

The ceilings are painted about 1/4 of the way through the house. The sections that are painted look great. The rest look like a heavy smoker spends time in that part of the home. I'm not sure if I have it in me to finish--- the way I see it, I don't tend to walk around looking up. And it's so nice outside. So instead, I'm opting to plant some flowers and enjoy the view from my backyard.

Under Control

I realized that I have hit a snag in my parenting lately, resorting too quickly to using a harsh tone, snipping at the kids, not making efforts to plan fun things for them like I used to. I didn't come to this realization until my husband left town for 8 days, leaving us on our own.

Spending time in 2 Corinthians, I came across this verse: "For the love of Christ controls us, having concluded this, that one died for all, therefore all died;" (2 Cor. 5:14). I stopped at the first phrase: "For the love of Christ controls us".

Lately, I have been controlled more by my schedule and the push to work more hours, keep up, shuttle kids to soccer, put together a worship set, etc., etc., etc. Having Greg gone several times this month, the last trip being more lengthy, forced me to pause. As I slowed down my pace, I began to notice people around me.

When the love of Christ controls us, we become noticers instead of doers. It isn't that we stop working or serving, but rather a radar goes up. My radar had been on the fritz for some time. Noticing had ceased. If my neighbor watered her flowers and I was in the backyard, it was a quick wave and dash back into the house, not a conscious choice to linger, ask about her day and truly care about hearing her response. I had also stopped noticing details with my children-- and that one was the most frightening to me.

When I ignore small gestures and details, I miss their silent invitations into their world. "Tell me about your picture! Who did you play with at recess today? What do you like best about playing soccer?"

If love is controlling my choices, my behavior, the pattern of my thoughts, the result is going to be less selfish, less rushed, less snippy, more in tune with the fruit of the spirit. If I am pushing for family devotion time right before bed, rushing them around and then barking at them to be quiet and listen, chances are, they aren't going to have a good feeling linking mom to hearing God's Word. It defeats the purpose. I know that His Word doesn't return void, but man, there can be some real baggage to carry through life when you've heard it from an impatient person lacking compassion because of sheer exhaustion-- making you feel like you're one of the reasons she's tired and worn out.

This week I listened more to my kids and talked less, did more with my kids and worried less, spent less money and invested a little more time with them. The result? I had the most peaceful week with the least amount of fighting among my children than I have experienced in a long time. I feel as though I have been hypocritical in my parenting, hoping that throwing some Bible verses at them before bed will sink in, without following up by leading in a patient, loving example.

Greg arrives back at home tonight and the routine will change yet again. I want to hang onto the week and a half the kids and I have had and keep my tone patient and keep myself quieter as I listen and ponder what they have to say. So if you ask me for a favor this week and the answer has to be "no", just try to understand I'm going to attempt to continue the balance and focus more on who lives on Douglas Street.

In honor of autism awareness

That Saturday morning in October had been wonderful. I went rummaging with a friend and spent hours just laughing, bumming around town, and being responsible for no one. It felt like high school again. We planned to go to the pumpkin patch at 10 with friends, so I needed to grab groceries after my morning of sailing carefree around town. Greg was getting out of the shower when I told him I needed to leave for the store. I could have waited, but I didn't want to. So often I feel the needs of my family are thrust upon me when I am least capable, or ready to assume the responsibility. “Now?” He asked.

            "Yes, now," I thought with a huffy sigh. I knew it wasn't fair, but I wanted to go now. I didn't want to run late on meeting our friends and knew the trip would just take a few minutes.

            I ran to the store, just two blocks away, and frantically grabbed the chips and pop in order to make it home in time for our outing. Turning onto our street fifteen minutes later, I saw the figures of a man and child walking hand in hand. My heart stopped when I neared. I pulled the van over and stopped next to them. Greg looked at me. There wasn't accusation or anger, but just exhaustion. "Is everything ok?" I asked. He covered his face with his hand and began to sob. I didn't ask any more questions; I knew what had happened. When a spouse faces something so incredibly horrific in the absence of the other, it becomes unfair to even ask questions or probe for details. So I didn't.

            Moments after I had left the house, Brenna had taken advantage of the moment while Greg was in the bathroom and had promptly opened the front door, walked outside alone and left Sam and Emily in the doorway, sucking their thumbs and watching her wander away. In the few minutes I was gone, Greg had paged me at the grocery store while I loaded groceries in the parking lot in oblivion, called the police and had taken off running down our street, calling Brenna’s name. He and I both knew she wouldn’t answer to her name, in fact may run from her name being called, but the instinct in every parent is to search loudly and frantically. Several minutes later, he had found her several houses down the street, in the backyard, looking at a neighbor’s dog.

            Statistics show that 80% of marriages between couples with a special needs child end in divorce. I believe it is true. There is something so raw and draining at times like this that it appears laughable that this relationship is meant to anchor the entire family. How do you become stable enough for anyone to hold onto when this sort of terror is never more than a moment of distraction away? It's no one's fault when Brenna runs from the house, simply caught up in a mission of finding a puppy in someone's backyard. And that is perhaps the sting. There is no one to blame. This is simply life and Brenna doesn't know any better.

            Brenna is unmoved by her Daddy's choked voice and tears that he quickly wipes away with a closed fist. Has she noticed him crying? Does she even care? I don't know. It's hard to say.

            At a conference in Bloomington a few years back, a mother commented that she didn't understand why people were devastated when finding out their child had autism. She was thrilled with her son, exactly as he was. I found that that statement completely psychotic. Who wishes for a life like this? For a child who is so prone to danger and unaware of consequences? I don't wish for a different personality for Brenna, but at these moments, I would give anything for her not to have a disability. I no longer care about the semantics of language and "special needs" or putting the child before the named challenge. This is a moment of my life that is hard, and some unnamed force is responsible for it. Proper language becomes ridiculous at a moment like that.  I want to scream, "Forget the details of the label! Just help her! Help me."

            She's sleeping peacefully in her bed tonight, unaware that her 15 minutes of roaming the neighborhood unhindered by parental supervision changed my life forever. There is a weight on my shoulders and a responsibility that won't be easily lifted. There will forever be a constant scanning and awareness—a counting of heads and urgency to continually do so. I suspect Greg may feel the same, though neither of us wants to voice it. I don't know what the answer is to this question that is so hazy. Psalms tells me to "cease striving" and I wish I knew how. When I try to do that though, my daughter gets lost and it feels like my family will fall apart.

Change is hard

For several years, I wished for a cherry tree: not just any cherry tree, but a sour Montmorency cherry tree that produces the most divine pie cherries you could ever hope to taste.

My Grandma Ellis had a mature cherry tree at the house in town. It almost gave my mother a stroke to find her 90 year old mother on a ladder, leaning forward, eyes shielded from sun by a type of baseball cap with a yarn ball on the top, picking the ones up high because “You kids missed the good ones on the top and the birds were just going to get them unless I picked them.” When her house was auctioned off after her death, I could still picture her perched at the top of the ladder in a thin cotton housedress, or maybe culottes, ankle socks rolled halfway down and sturdy brown low heeled, lace up shoes on her feet. 

Last summer, Greg surprised me with a cherry tree from Prairie Garden. We aren’t typically Prairie Garden people, more like Wal-Mart or Rural King shrubs, trees and discount flower types. But this tree was special—it even came with a 1 year warrantee. In other words, if we would faithfully water it, pie cherries were just a few short years away. I named her Cherise and watered her every day for the duration of the summer. 

Several weeks ago, Greg called me after his annual review and said that we had been asked to consider relocating for his work. All I could do was grip my coffee mug and stare out the window at that tree. It’s small and hopeful, with the base of the trunk wrapped and branches bare, reaching just a few feet out in any direction. There won’t be a sign of a cherry on it for at least two more summers. And yet, we planted that with the full intention to pick cherries and bake pies that our children and grandchildren would eat. I want to be flexible, have an open mind about living somewhere new and hope that Brenna’s school will be just as wonderful, but I want to keep this life with the cherry tree.

Living in one area for 16 years tends to grow thick roots. Because they lie hidden underground, one can too easily take them for granted, forgetting that the long ties are there, binding the soil to keep it from blowing away in a hot summer wind and spanning great distances to find water. And yet, I find myself peering down below  and surprised as to where they have formed. A few roots that have tangled my feet the past few weeks: we finally go places in public without stares. Most people know Brenna, or our family and find our more eccentric behavior unexciting. Miss Mindy keeps our children in exchange for leftovers once a month so that we can go on a real, honest to God date. Who will babysit in exchange for Cashew Chicken in Monticello? I know the kids that I work with at the school, and anticipate that my favorite will call me “Mr. Kaurin” and tell me when I’m “in the house”. What if I don’t have a Q dog favorite at a new school? When Goldie lost power steering in the parking lot at County Market, someone knew me and within moments had asked what help I needed. What happens now? Who will give Emily piano lessons? Who will Sam build snow forts with? Who will know how far Brenna has come and recognize her progress and not just see her challenges? Why did I ever start marking down our kids’ height on the little wall with the phone? How do I take that with me? Who will I wave to when I drive the kids to school? Who will I “walk and talk” with? Don’t even get me started on trying to find a new church. 

I’m not as shiny and sparkly as I used to be. Friendships take longer to form—I’m more cautious to open up and share my heart. I love the idea of Greg not being on the road for so many hours each day and gaining time as a family, but selfishly, part of me doesn’t want to go.

When I came to Charleston in my early 20’s, there was a sense of excitement at coming to a new place with the belief that a new group of friends was just waiting to be made. Now it feels harder to leave than it ever felt leaving a place before.

I can smell the tangy damp scented earth, feel the heavy grit of it and hear the ripping of the roots as we make a list of home improvements and begin to look at houses. And still, I stare out the window at that cherry tree with the tiny buds on the ends of its branches.

Cat Woman and Growing Up

Today is Marvel Monday at Brenna and Sam's school. Sam had no desire to dress up, but Brenna did. She decided to be Cat Woman, a super villain. While dropping off the kids, I scanned the crowd, trying to see how many kids had chosen to come in costume. I saw a few superhero t-shirts, but no other cat women entering the building. The good news is, we probably aren't duplicating anyone's costume today. The bad news is, Brenna started her period this morning.

I knew this was coming. It shouldn't come as a shock, but there was something that twisted my gut into knots to know that she had reached this milestone on a day that she was happily eating her Honey Bunches of Oats, wearing her sequin cat ears with a tuft of black "cat hair" glued to the headband.

It doesn't feel fair. And shouldn't I really be past that point of reasoning by now? Every parent of every child walking the planet knows that life is not fair. Every special needs parent experiences the unfairness on a fairly regular basis. And yet, I wish that I could wave a magic wand and never have her enter physical adolescence. It opens up doors in my mind that lead to places I'm just not ready to go yet. Brenna will always have a vulnerability because of her disability. The start of her period reminds me that adulthood awaits and the path continues on, despite my lack of readiness.

Different points of my parenting journey have had different levels of dependence upon God. I think we're approaching a time of serious spiritual growth for mom, starting now. And that isn't a bad thing. It's a good reminder that if life were fair, there would be no room for forgiveness, no room for salvation. So, I'll take unfair, at least for today.

Autism Awareness Day

While cleaning out a closet last week, I found a creased and stapled packet of papers with "Brenna Kaurin" printed on the  first page: it was her IEP from 2007. Some of the goals included trying to help her mimic speech by repeating what others said, using pictures to indicate wants and reduce tantrums, to learn turn taking, find ways to help her refrain from running away and use a tissue when appropriate.

She has come a long way. And yet, we still have further to go. This week her Dad and I made our decision official and shared with her teacher that we wanted to enroll her in Armstrong School next fall. This decision has been nothing short of excruciating.

I toured the facility back in February and mentally prepared myself to have an open mind and see it through an unbiased viewpoint. But when I walked into the room of older students, preparing for job interviews and honing work skills, panic coiled in my belly. It wasn't the setting, but rather it was the reminder of what we are working towards: someday Brenna will be an adult and will need to have supportive people and an engaging activity, like a job, to feel fulfilled.

Coming home, my mind raced. She could be content at the Middle School. It would feel so normal to just drop her off there each morning and pick her up at the conclusion of her school day. It would feel very typical to progress to the same school as all of her classmates, with no major differences, aside from hair twisting, redirected conversations, adapted curriculum and an IEP with LBS1 instruction.

However, for me to continue in my pursuit of the typical for typical's sake would be a disservice to her at this point. Greg and I realize she needs a chance to start working on life skills in a setting where she isn't behind everyone else, but neck and neck with them.

It's hard to engage in full inclusion from kindergarten to 6th grade, only to find we are now at a point where those familiar peers will keep moving to the right, while our path diverges and we shift left towards a new school with new friends. And though this choice is ours, it is not an easy one. I know that at this point, it is likely that her other peers with special needs will continue on to the Middle School, where their families feel they will best learn and grow at this point. I completely respect their decision.

Today is Autism Awareness Day. Perhaps what I have become most aware of in my parenting journey is that everyone has different needs. There isn't a "one size fits all" educational approach or life approach. Truly, it is a moment by moment, trusting your gut, white knuckled grip of a ride.

Wear blue today, but don't forget the compassion and patience to go with it. And after the shirt has hit the hamper tonight, keep the open mind.