"Not ideal"

I have a scar on my nose. Most people probably don't even notice it but to me it is blatantly obvious. I got it a couple of years ago when it was discovered that I had a basal cell skin cancer growing there. Not a dangerous type of skin cancer but one that needs removed or it will continue to grow, so they remove it as soon as they can. It was originally found by my brother in law who, when I said that I had a funny little spot on my nose, become concerned and asked if he could do a biopsy of it. A couple of months later my dermatologist was removing it and stitching it back up. I hate the scar and the reminder that it brings me of my severe imperfections. As I shared this experience with Ryan his quote that has always stuck out was, "Well, it's not ideal". "Not ideal" has become a slogan of ours since and the beginning of Garrett's kindergarten year has been just that, "not ideal".

The "not ideals" began at drop-off on the first day. I was all prepared to walk my little man in. Fighting tears, I told Ryan where to park and wait and started the walk up the sidewalk. I knew that we were supposed to meet one of his aides at the door but I felt disappointed and slightly crushed when she told me not to come in. I know routines are important and it was best for Garrett but my mom-heart ached as I watched the other moms walking their kids in and waiting in the bus room. I prayed he wouldn't be the only mom-less kid and I walked myself back to car and said we could go. It was "not ideal". I wanted the experience that everyone else had. Having a special needs child requires sacrifice in a way that I don't always expect. Ryan and I say that we feel sometimes like we live an autistic life. Every aspect of our lives is affected but some hurt more than others.

The difficulties didn't end there but, then again, I knew they wouldn't. When I picked my little man up he seemed upset and uncharacteristically  aggressive. I even pulled the car over for a bit until he could get self control and find his "kind words". His complaint was that he wanted to ride the bus which isn't really a great option for us because his school is quite a ways from our house. He was argumentative and just not his normal self. After I got him calmed enough that I could drive, I prayed for peace and clarity and we went home. He had a rough few hours but we worked with him and got him chilled out and back to normal. We talked about it, wrote a note to the teacher about the bus thing and prayed that the next day would go better. Drop-off was good but when I went to pick him up the same hostile G look-a-like waited for me. His wonderful teacher told me just to keep it up and it would all work out but it was looking bleak from my point of view. The next couple of days have brought a little change. He is still not himself but he does seem able to calm himself more easily as each day passes.

He struggles with several issues that aren't ideal including wearing shoes outside, staying awake in the afternoon, and adapting to this new routine. The "not ideals" scream to me, just like the scar on my nose but maybe, to the outsiders looking in, they are hardly noticeable. It may not "not ideal" to be autistic or to have an autistic child. It requires changes to expectations and an unpredictability that is difficult to adjust to but the best blessings are often wrapped in sacrifice and heartache. I could never and would never want to imagine my G in any other way. Yes, it may not be ideal to struggle as he does at times, but his victories are always worth the pain. Do I cry when I think of how hard it is to transition him to kindergarten? Absolutely, but the first afternoon that I pull up to that sidewalk and see my happy-go-lucky, sweet, little boy waiting for me my tears will be from my deep joy and appreciation for him. I will gladly accept the heartache for now knowing that God will see us all through to completion, even the "not ideals" are perfect in His eyes.

Trading my sorrows

There is this super cheesy worship song from back in the day. It is called "Trading my Sorrows" and the verses encourage us to trade our sorrows for the joy of The Lord. It even uses one of my favorite Bible verses when it says, "though sorrow may last for the night, His joy comes in the morning". Well, I feel a bit sorrowful tonight. I have the red-rimmed puffy eyes of a mom not ready to send her baby out into the crazy unknown world of kindergarten. I have been playing the "lets not talk about it" game for weeks now, unable to fathom how to prepare for, much less, carry out the task of dropping my G-man off at kindergarten. I have cried every time I have thought about it for the last two days and considered, more than once, just boycotting the whole thing. Then I heard that song.

I had just put the big boys to bed and hit play on their kids worship cd and there it was, the solution. God will often hit me with His perspective through my kids and this was no different. When I heard those words about trading my sorrow for the joy of the Lord, they hit a soft spot in my heart and settled my soul just a bit. Enough so that I could muster the strength to grab the old night before kindergarten books off the shelf and set down with Garrett for his bedtime story without weeping or sobbing. I found that I was grateful that had I read these books before. I could fake excitement for my Garrett because I already knew the next line, and suddenly my sorrow was his joy. Garrett was rolling with it, so on we went. We finished one and started on the second and about halfway through God did it again. He took my sorrow and gave me joy. My little G jumped up in the middle of the page and said, "I gotta go to bed now Mom. I like this song." No kisses. No tears. Heck, he didn't even brush his teeth. He just ran back, wrapped himself in his blankie, and went to bed. I asked him for prayers and kisses and he replied with, "maybe in morning", but he wanted to hear number 13 and I needed to go to the living room. He effectively kicked me out, and on kindergarten eve! What sorrow turned joy! When I checked on him a few minutes later he was peacefully sleeping right in front of the CD player, still wrapped in his favorite red blanket and wearing his favorite Pirate hat, not a hint of sorrow on his beautiful little face. I can't say I won't cry in the morning when I walk out of that school and leave my baby behind, but I can promise that I will trade in my sorrows for joy. Joy over favorite songs, and snugly red blankets. Joy over Pirate hats and easy bedtimes. Sorrow may last for the night, but His joy comes in the morning. Good night G. I will see you in the morning. :)

The Circus Act

 I juggle a lot of balls. We all do. Some of mine would be labeled with things like marriage, boys, therapies, appointments, meals, church, budgets, bills, home, work, school, friends, family. Some days I would swear that I live in a circus and I am indeed the juggling clown act. I have dropped lots of balls and, there are times that I notice a new ball in the mix. The crazy thing is that I like my juggling act. It gives me a purpose and a sense of control. That is where the problem lies, in that sense of control. Why is control a problem in a juggling act, you might ask. It almost seems necessary and appropriate. My answer is that, in all reality, I have none, not one itty bitty ounce of control and that is the way that God wants it.

 This lesson is being pushed on me intensely right now as I once again prepare for a new school year. A couple of weeks ago we found out which teachers the big boys had and we started the frantic texts and messages to see which friends they could look forward to sharing a classroom with. All the while, I felt like I was a puppet on a string. In reality, I have no say on who will lead and teach and, likely, even discipline them the majority of time for the next nine months.  I can buy their notebooks and sharpen their pencils. I can schedule haircuts and fill my pantry with fun, somewhat healthy, cold lunch options but my control is substantially limited. That doesn't even touch on the fact that in just a few days I will have to start preparing to send my sweet, protected Garrett off to kindergarten. Adding to the challenge, Garrett is going to a different school than my older kids. He will have a teacher, a principal, and a building that I know nothing about. He will be gone from my safe arms for hours and someone else will be in charge of helping him adapt and understand this new adventure without becoming overwhelmed.  He will be in a totally different situation than I am used to with special education and integration and, I am just along for the ride. I can visit the playground with him and try to explain what it will be like. I can go to the IEP meetings and listen to the plans but I won't actually be there to see if they work.  I feel excited and hopeful and, to be honest, horribly afraid.

My obvious concerns have been evident in my quiet times and God blessed me with the story of Hannah one morning. She was an older wife who longed to be a mother. She wanted it so badly that her prayers were once mistaken for drunken rantings. Finally, God gave her what she desired. She was blessed with a son, but the story doesn't end there. She had made a promise to return her son to God, and so, after a few short years of motherhood, she made a trip to the temple. I have no clue how she found the strength to do it, but she packed his bags and left her most precious child to live out the rest of his childhood at the temple. She gave up the control. She trusted in the Giver of the gift the very gift itself. What a valuable lesson!

Now,  how do I pull off this "Hannah trust"? How do I surrender my juggling act? I wish I knew the answer but, in reality, I am clueless. For now, I will do the only thing I know to do. I will pray and I will obey. I am a mother but my babies are not my own. My journal entry after reading about Hannah went like this,

"Lord, I am not in control. I juggle a lot of balls but none of them are really mine except my faith and in it I surrender all to you. Help me to trust in your ultimate plan, to keep my eyes on the path and my feet moving always forward. Yes, my boys walk with me but I hold their hands loosely, knowing that they belong to you and you will never let them go"

At the appropriate time in every circus the clown leaves the stage. I will continue my juggling act but when I am called off the stage for Someone bigger, I will gracefully bow out. I will be afraid but I will also recognize that I never really was the one in control, just a part of the show.

Just a glimpse

I notice her as I am riding bikes with my boys. It is early in the morning and there are not many out and about yet, and I almost miss her, but at second glance, there she sets on her back porch. We are too far away to make eye contact but I imagine she is smiling. Tears fill my eyes as I whisper a prayer heavenward for her peace and comfort and for her joy. I wonder if her tears are tears of joy, tears of sadness, or tears of gratefulness for another new morning. I wonder if she is praying too. I know her faith is strong. In my mind, I suspect she is closer to our God than most of us. I imagine she can almost reach out and touch Him. She is leaning heavily on her heavenly Father as she fights a difficult battle. When we need Him, we can't help but draw close, so I feel comforted knowing that she can depend on Him.

When we are in the midst of our our toughest battles we can rest in the victory. It is not an easy place to be and I can't help but think of the suffering woman that we find in the Gospels. She has been suffering for years. She is an outcast and has spent all she has and is still not well. She is desperate for help and desperate for healing so she reaches out. She doesn't want or need much, just a bit of His cloak and that will be enough . As her hand brushes my Jesus, she feels His power and is made whole. He knows that someone of faith has been healed and so He asks who touched Him. I love this part because He already knows the answer. I think He asks the question for many reasons and I wonder if one is because He wants to see her face and show her His love. I think He longs to get close to us, look us in the eyes and get personal and real. It is easy for us to say we have faith, but to walk with our Savior and reach for Him, to expect Him to make us whole, we have to be desperate.  We have to be clinging to hope. When we are deep in the pit of our circumstances, when we are fighting our hardest battles, when we feel overwhelmed,  might that be when we are closest to heaven? I wonder if those are the times when we can reach out and touch just a bit of His cloak ourselves. We have to need it deeply. I am closest to Jesus when I need Him most. When I am depending on Him, He is there and He is close. He is my victory and my healing.

I didn't see her eyes that morning, my neighbor on her porch, but I wish I had. I would have liked to have seen her peace, to share a bit of her faith. She is reflecting Jesus, His love, His comfort, His healing, His eternal victory, simply by sitting on her porch. She is trusting that just a bit of His cloak will make her whole, maybe just for today or, maybe, for forever. I would have liked to have seen it up close, but I am thankful for the glimpse. I am forever grateful that Jesus is personal and powerful. I will pray for her and look for her and hope for her.


<div id="MTc0NDQ="><a href="http://www.sverve.com/profile/Rachel-Moffa-MTc0NDQ="><img src="http://www.sverve.com/images/badges/type_1.png" width="200" height="200"/></a></div>