Merry Christmas or Happy Easter

Spring break usually involves at least a few hours dedicated to cleaning and de-cluttering. While working on my kitchen counter, I found the remaining stack of Christmas cards addressed with names only, waiting to be fully addressed and stamped. These people sent us a card. They did not receive one in return. Hopefully they truly believe it's better to give than receive.

I held these cards in my hand back in early January and weighed out what to do. It was completely within logic to mail them at this point. But I needed stamps. And I didn't have any. And the post office is far away. And I never remember the customer service counter when I'm shopping at County Market. And then January was over.

One morning after my second cup of coffee, I picked them up again in February. Perhaps I would compose a witty little snippet to tuck into the envelope with our Christmas card... It wasn't the end of the world to mail them out at this point. After all, it's only 5 weeks post-Christmas. I wasn't receiving any stragglers in the mail at this point, but still, this could work.

Now it's March and we're getting ready for Easter.

Each of these cards represent a lovely person, whom I value. An ugly voice in my head finishes that sentence with "... but someone who is just not valued enough to warrant a trip to the local post office".  I feel judged by my clutter. It tells me what I didn't do, as opposed to what I did do.

I don't like facing jobs left undone because of this.

So tonight I am giving myself some grace. I'm throwing those cards in the trash and refusing to feel guilt over who didn't receive a card. If I missed you this Christmas--know that you were thought of. Not only in December, but yet again in January, February and then in March when I threw your card away.

Fear, Fearlessness, And All That's In Between

Lately I found that I couldn't "snap out of it". The constant news stream of impasse for the budget at the state level struck fear in me. Brenna turns 15 in March. What is going to be available for her as far as a day program/work opportunity  when she ages out of the school system? What if the funding isn't there? An informational meeting for parents about PUNS selection and funding made me feel ill.

Over coffee, a good friend asked "What is your quiet time looking like these days?" I began to make excuses: Sam gets up really early, I've been working a lot lately, I haven't plugged back into a Bible study group and need to do that and finally it wound back around to the truth. I don't want to. I don't want to ready my Bible. I don't want to read promises that feel like they don't apply to me right now. I don't want to pray and hope for the best when deep down, I am scared beyond belief about what her future could look like if the state government drives these fragile opportunities of future hope into the ground. Should I go back for my Master's and attempt to find a higher paying job in the future? What am I supposed to DO? I just need to know how to fix it and to know what to do. Tears fell openly at Starbucks as I told her that honestly, God felt far away right now. The coffee date ended with a small nugget of advice. Perhaps, I only needed to take a small step forward. Instead of trying to figure out so many different things, maybe I just needed to read my Bible and pray for 15 minutes in the morning and go on from there.

I dug around in the bathroom closet and found a study from several years ago, "Living Fearlessly: A Study in the Book of Joshua". It was crammed in between Angela's Ashes and a photo scrapbook and was the only Bible study book in sight. I opened the pages and was instantly transported back to that study group of ladies gathered around a large table. There in the margin was 2 Corinthians 2:14 "Now thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and through us diffuses the fragrance of His knowledge in every place." I needed this. I needed to be reminded of triumph. I needed to stop emitting the odor of fear like a dreaded deodorant fail and instead diffuse the fragrance of His knowledge and rest secure in that.  My time in Joshua and the study book hit a reset button for me that had desperately needed punched.

That afternoon, Brenna accompanied me to the grocery store. She loves to go when it's just her-- and today was her day. Near the dairy cooler, a young lady made eye contact with Brenna, smiled and began to make small talk with her. This isn't our norm. Assuming it was a past classmate, I asked if she attended school in Charleston. "No, I go to school in Arcola, but live her now. What group home does she live in?" My heart stopped. "She doesn't live in a group home; she's still at home with us right now. Do you live in one?" Before even weighing out if it was appropriate, I blurted out, "Are you happy?"

We stood and visited several minutes as the teenager told about her group home, that she had moved there last summer, loved it and didn't want to move back home. I had so desperately needed reassurance that no matter what, Brenna was going to be okay. I needed to throw off the weight and fear that her happiness hinges on my ability to care for her decades from now and Let. It. Go. This young lady who locked eyes on Brenna and persisted in having a conversation with her was nothing short of "His knowledge in every place"... even at the grocery store.  Had my quiet time brought about a magical encounter? No. Had it maybe made me more perceptive and aware going through my day, looking for God's goodness instead of focusing on a corrupt and stubborn state government? Yes.

I don't pretend to think this is a fear that I will never deal with again. I know better. But I also know He has the power to reassure and remind me of promises through the prompting of the Holy Spirit. And that is a beautiful thing.

"For I know whom I have believed
And am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I've committed
Unto Him against that day."

Daniel Whittle

Counter Clutter

I have always been drawn to IKEA ads and Real Simple magazine shots. It isn't necessarily the modern appliances or style of the cabinetry that draws me in; rather, it's the clean counters. When I say clean counters, I mean a long surface area devoid of any hint of a toaster or pile of science worksheets. There are no rotten bananas in sight, lingering on as the resident baker is sure that he/she will get around to banana bread before the telltale flies show up. There isn't any wood putty, socks or a lone hairbrush sitting out. That clean straight line hints at a life that is being well managed, a good job that pays a cleaning lady to dust the empty counter, a life full of neat and orderly habits of organization.

I took a picture of my counter this morning. Normally, I find that when my counter gets cluttered that I begin to feel frustrated. But today as I sipped my way through the first cup of coffee, I looked at what was really there.

The photo of my kitchen counter can become a lot like a page from a book of "I Spy":

I spy a science worksheet, a battery, a colonial scene with pumpkins, a derby car,
Wood putty, a Lego creation and green marbles that roll far.

Sam's in sixth grade this year and I wonder how much longer I'll hear the waterfall sound of Legos being dumped and sorted on his floor. Once dumped, they need to stay out a few days so that the sorting and hunting isn't in vain. When I tucked him in last night and howled as my foot came down on a pile of Legos, he quickly assured me that he had cleared a path. It was a bit narrow, but yes, a path was there. There is an awareness in my parenting that time is moving more swiftly. How much longer will he let me tuck him in? How much longer will the path be made from cleared Legos?

Emily's art supplies and derby car add to the hodgepodge as well as her lunch bag. She is my sack lunch girl and I like packing her lunch in the mornings. I enjoy the sense of connection to her day when I do that -- even though the contents wouldn't earn a star from the health educators at Sarah Bush.

Brenna's yearbook and string only rest on the counter briefly and can't make the shot. They are too needed to lie on a surface for very long.

A friend said to me today, "We need to see and embrace the beauty around us." Things have felt rather dark lately and my spirit has felt heavy, but her words are true. My counter reminds me that there is beauty around me. In addition to the beauty that exists, we have the honor and challenge to create beauty to add to it all.

It isn't mine

I used to avoid fostering friendships with other moms of kiddos with special needs. Support groups were depressing. I didn't really want to fixate on what she couldn't do or wouldn't have. I wanted to be a glass half-full kind of girl-- to only see the good, the giftedness and embrace it. Now that she is 14, I find myself treasuring the friendships that allow me to voice to hard stuff. Because quite frankly, the teen years are difficult for most everyone, but autism has ramped up the parenting game to a level I wasn't prepared for. Most recently, it was the onset of Homecoming in the Facebook world.

The window was cracked open, allowing me to hear the steady squeak of her swing as I sat down at the computer. My breath caught as I scrolled through photos of girls the same age as my own, dressed in sequined dresses, a handsome young man standing next to them, a corsage on the wrist. I took a deep breath and exhaled. "This isn't mine and that's okay."

These girls are not mine. The slumber parties, beginnings of crushes, late night texts and Homecoming dances are not in my world. And if I look at the pictures too many times, allow myself to wonder why, and begin to focus in on that small point of longing it will go somewhere ugly.

It is critical that I embrace what is mine. What is it? Continued excitement to visit the pumpkin patch, afternoons spent on a swing, belly laughs and witty comebacks-- these are all mine. If I don't value this, if I choose to look past it to the larger group of what appears to be normal, I am missing it all. I am missing who she truly is.

Lately there has been renewed interest in Rosemary Kennedy and the failed lobotomy. At the heart of it all, I think her father couldn't embrace what was truly his. Deep down, I believe that his longing was so intense, so acute that he couldn't ignore it, had to pursue it. Because what if a surgery could restore what he felt was rightfully his? His normal child? A normal life? An eventual empty nest?  In his quest to fix what he thought was broken, he missed who his daughter truly was.

It's too easy and casual to write his decision for Rosemary off as cruel and uneducated, though the adjectives are fitting. But I've tried to force my child into normal activities, especially in the early years, when I thought it might help her, gain her friendships, hone social skills, help us to branch out. I've driven my child to tears by hosting a birthday party she did not want, singing to her despite tears and then finally moving the party outside so that we could watch her eat Cheetos on the slide in the backyard. Nine months pregnant and burdened with guilt, of course throwing a big party seemed like the obvious good mom move. In truth? It was an attempt at lobotomy--- grasping for the appearance of normal for my sake and not her own. Another picture for a voyeuristic scrapbook with pictures and captions that I could control. The things in life that keep me from the doomed lobotomy-like parenting behaviors and choices are the quiet whispers of God's voice and the faithful friends he provides.

While Homecoming isn't mine this year, an appreciation for these deepening friendships has developed. To be understood and heard is to snuggle under a faithful quilt and pull it tight. The seams won't rip from the stress and the distinctive pattern isn't out of place or looked at with pity or confusion.

The Real Deal

I tried something new a few weeks back and bought "Lite" apple juice. We don't usually keep much juice around the house, but this looked appealing and assuaged some of the sugar guilt since it had less sugar (and more water) than regular juice.

It has sat in the refrigerator for these few weeks with about 2 cups worth missing. My kids weren't fooled by the claims of "All Natural! Less sugar! Great taste!". It tastes watery. It takes one sip to see through the attempt at the advertising on the label.

Out of desperation last night for a drink of juice, Sam poured himself a glass. He had a wistful expression and said, "Mom, can we get grape juice next time? I want the kind that stains your shirt if you spill it." The juice currently in his cup could have been added to a load of laundry in my washer and you wouldn't have even suspected its presence.

There is an authenticity to the grape juice he mentions that is missing from our current fridge resident. I thought about this on my Full-Moon Thursday, when the wheels fell off of my emotional vehicle, when I unloaded on an unsuspecting mother-in-law and questioned my ability to parent and lamented every other life option that could have been chosen. It was truly a moment of deconstructing Robert Frost's "The Road Less Traveled By" and having some certainty that at the end of that poem-- he wasn't praising his choice of the less traveled path, but questioning the worth of the one he didn't take. It was a moment of grape juice stains on your shirt honesty.

Maybe it was the fact it was a full moon. Maybe it was because Brenna was sent home from school for the day and I had to adjust accordingly. Maybe it was finally realizing what everyone has meant when they say that parenting is the toughest job on the planet; they weren't just talking about sleep deprivation.

It felt good to just lay it open. Here it is! Here is where I'm at! And I don't want to be here in this moment, by the way.

We'll finish off the weak apple juice at some point, but the grape juice is here in the house. The warning is clear on the label "NOT A LOW CALORIE FOOD. 100 % juice: grape." It has added ingredients and 36 g sugar. It will stain my kids' shirts unless I immediately run the area under crazy hot water. But it's real. I'll take real.

There is a place for me, even when I feel confused, inadequate and out of my league. There is a purpose for me, even when I question my spiritual gifts or talents. I hold as much value as the mom who is holding it all together today and is knocking it out of the park. I will choose to be genuine about my struggles and at the same time cheer on the ones getting it right today. I will cry with the moms who also question "why" and promise not to fix it but listen.

How's that for a stained shirt? ;)

 1 Corinthians 12 vs 1-31

A good afternoon

My sister called and asked if I had had a good afternoon with my family. The only honest response I could come up with was, "We tried. We really did try to have a good one." After a Saturday spent with our family running (some of us literally) in opposite directions, Sunday afternoon had been deemed 'family time'. We would come home from church, eat lunch and then proceed to Deming Park in Terre Haute followed by ice cream. This plan sounds so noble, so reasonable in writing.

Upon arrival, there was the reality that it was significantly warmer and sunnier in Terre Haute this afternoon than it was in fair Charleston. They loped through the park, Brenna sat in a swing; at one point we sat in the shade and I realized that I am just over summer. Over the past few months, I have taken my children swimming, visited parks, enjoyed bike rides and have played board games. I am now feeling old and I am tired of parenting. As I stood by the slide, mystified that my children weren't frolicking through the park, I realized I didn't really want to stand in the hot sun either. After 15 minutes of park time, we decided we had fulfilled the park quota and could move on to Baskin Robbins.

Baskin Robbins is much like a forbidden bowl of Fruity Pebbles-- it brings back all that was best in my childhood. The ice cream was fabulous. The ride home, however, quickly deteriorated. Because this afternoon was about quality time as a family with no screens, because it was about enjoying each other's company and watching the trees and hills roll by outside the van window, I had not allowed any screens on our outing. Full of bravado, a few hours earlier it was easy to take a firm stance, "We're going retro! You're going to enjoy an afternoon like I did in the early 80's. You'll look out the window for entertainment and talk to each other."

Personal space was encroached. Seatbelts did not remain in the proper position. Ear wax was waved on small fingers as a true threat. Strange smells came from the back seat. By the time we reached the Charleston city limits Greg had turned off the radio and asked that the children stop speaking. We finished the ride in zen-like silence. I began to remember what long rides in the Buick had been like when I was small and realized that by the time I was the same age as my kiddos, my brother and sister had moved out. That's why I had nostalgia over a quiet backseat with cornfield rows passing by my window.

Within 15 minutes of arriving home, we sent the children outside to play and Greg and I dozed off on the couch. After that nap I felt like a new woman and parented the remaining evening hours like a champ. Granted, two of them were gone to youth group for a few hours, but I digress.

I saw a reminder on social media today that my remaining Saturdays with my crew are limited. I realize that they are. I just find that when I stop trying so hard, we enjoy the weekends so much more. There can be an internal pressure to schedule fun for them, make every moment count, squeeze each last great experience we can out of the days we have. I think I squeezed too hard today and wound up forcing an outing on my children that none of us were truly up for. Note to self, only local parks for the remainder of fall.

More Than Coincidence

I love hummingbirds. For the majority of our summer, we have faithfully kept fresh sugar water in the plastic feeder and watched from the kitchen window as frequent customers make trip after greedy trip. But then, three weeks ago I dropped the feeder while trying to reattach it to the hook. The plastic end broke off, making it impossible to hang (unless I used duct tape-- which I refused to do).

This was disappointing, but I reasoned that since flowers are low to the ground, hummingbirds could access the feeder close to the ground also and promptly placed it on the fire pit. Nope. No dice. The ants thoroughly enjoyed it, but not a hummer in sight.

Fast forward through 3 brand new pairs of school shoes, new school outfits, school supplies, registration fees and all that comes along with the end of summer. Each trip to the store, I debated buying another feeder, but decided against it. There were so many other things needing taken care of-- it could wait a few more weeks.

Because of the three new pairs of shoes, new "first day of school"outfits, the entire list of school supplies (yes-- one of my children donated their supplies: scissors, art box, the whole shebang, on the last day for needy children overseas) and registration fees, the checking account was tapped out. With a week left before school would start again, we had last minute summer fun to squeeze in and "Minions" to see. The solution for extra cash flow? A rummage sale, of course! The items to potentially sell were plentiful: from a Roto Rooter to Uno Attack--- we were well stocked and ready to sell the treasures cluttering up the house and garage.

Friday evening (night one of the two day household liquidation extravaganza), a gentleman who used to attend church with us approached us and asked to buy Greg's power tools. As he walked to his car, he turned and asked, "Do you guys ever feed the hummingbirds?" Greg replied that we did. The gentleman dug around in the backseat and pulled out a brand new feeder. "Could you use this?" It was a heavy glass feeder with a plastic moat at the top to discourage ants and a small ring to allow the hummingbirds to perch as they ate. It was perfect. Greg, unaware that our feeder was broken, accepted the feeder, planning to hang it in another part of the yard.

When Greg walked into the house with the feeder, I was speechless. What are the odds of someone we haven't seen in almost a year coming to our home and then offering us a hummingbird feeder just weeks after ours had broken?

I've heard this kind of thing referred to as a "God-wink". It felt like far more than a wink: it was a big bear hug that lasted several seconds and squeezed any lingering anxiety right out of me.

Matthew 6:25-26 "For this reason I say to you, do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on . Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they?"

This went beyond me and my desire to watch hummingbirds linger at my kitchen window. This was truly Him feeding those tiny birds.