For a Lifetime

Today is the last day of April and that means the last day of Autism Awareness Month.  For most of you, anyway.  For those of us with autistic children, our month is all year.  24 hours, 365 days, for a lifetime.  Don't forget about those of us who are "in the trenches" every single minute of every single day. 

Here are some ideas to help the autism families you know any time of the year:

1. Call (okay, text is better) to say "Hi," so they don't feel forgotten. Because we feel lonely and alone a lot.
2.  Invite them to something (the park, dinner, the zoo) and make a point of saying you'll help keep an eye on the kids so they'll feel less overwhelmed.
3. Bring a meal one day, randomly, for no other reason than to just provide a little break.  A great day to do that is when you know they have several therapy appointments in one day or just seem extra rundown and tired and need a pick me up.  (Psst--Don't forget dessert!)
4.  Send a card.  Just because.
5. Pray for them.
6.  Offer to babysit.  Finding babysitters are difficult for our family and, frankly, we can't afford it.  My husband and I have never been away from our children for a night together.  But even a couple hours away when we know our children are safe and cared for can make a huge difference in how we tackle the next day or week.
7. Take an autism mom or dad out for coffee or wine or beer or cheesecake. Remind them they have a friend. 
8. Wallow in the mud with them when necessary.
9. Take the time to know a child with autism.  You may be surprised what they'll teach you.
10.  If you don't know an autism family personally, think about making a contribution to a local autism organization that helps families.  National organizations do not give directly to families that desperately need the help.

I hope over the last month I've been able to share a little bit about our life and, while I wasn't trying to educate anyone, I hope you saw a different point of view.  Some parts aren't pretty.  Some parts are messy.  Some parts are painful.  Some parts are exhausting.  Some parts are bewildering.  Some parts are terrifying.

Some parts are beautiful too.

I'll still be blogging away, but more like three or four times a week.  I have loved having an excuse to write each day though but I don't believe we've eaten dinner on time once this month.  Yes, writing is more fun than cooking but it does not feed the troops (and they will turn on me at some point). I've gotten to write about many things that have been heavy on my heart for a long time and I appreciate each of you for reading it, even if it didn't make a lick of sense.  I have appreciated every comment, every personal message, every encouragement that you've given me. 
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I have a favor to ask, pretty please.  Would you be so kind as to comment below and let me know which post has been your favorite this month?  No right or wrong answer! You don't have to register for anything.  You can do it anonymously.  I would love to see what you loved as I continue writing. 
                                                                                                                 --Thanks so much,
                                                                                                                        Sharon

Pity

I wrote this a few years ago during a particularly bad period when I felt very isolated and very frustrated.  It's a little dark (for me, that is), I do apologize, but very honest, especially then. To be clear, it's not directed towards any one person but a conglomeration of many people.
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I see you over there, trying not to stare at us.  The look on your face is a cross between relief and fear but mostly pity.

You give me a weak smile, a little wave, and a nod of understanding but inside your relief is overwhelming.  Thank God, you're thinking.  Thank God that's not me. 

You're careful to keep your distance.  Of course you know autism isn't contagious but, then again, getting too close doesn't seem ideal.  You'd rather be a conscientious observer.  Aware but not involved. A month for autism awareness?  Perfect.  Then you don't have to think about it again until next year.

Maybe my children make you uncomfortable.  They are loud and messy and they don't hold back.  If they are sad, we know it.  If they are happy, we know that too.  They don't much care if you're watching and they care even less about how you're feeling. 

But I care.  I see your pity and I hate it. 

Pity is supposed to be an expression of compassion and understanding but the pity you show is false.  Your pity is tainted with relief.  You only understand enough to think my situation is worse then yours.  Your compassion is expressed briefly and insincerely with useless words, "Oh, I'm so sorry." 

You aren't though.  Not really.  I'm thankful it's not me, you think.  And you mean it.

You're wrong too.

My children having autism does not make me worse off than you. It makes my struggles different.  It makes my struggles obvious and public.  My "blessings" may not look like blessings at first but my boys are beautiful, ruthless honest, pure in motives.  They don't look to hide who they are, even if who they are makes other uncomfortable.

Keep your pity.  Stop telling yourself that smiling and nodding and acting compassionate and understanding is the same as actually being compassionate and understanding.

What you are is uncomfortable and a little afraid.  That's okay.  Those are honest emotions.  It's a first step.  If you want to be comfortable, be uncomfortable first.  Work your way through it.  Ask me questions. Watch.  Help. Celebrate the good days with me.  Give me a hug on the bad days. I need friends, people to love on us, people on our side.

Don't give me empty words and empty stares.  Don't keep your distance and come close every now and then and expect that to be enough.  Don't be so rigid that you can't see that these little people are more important than your feelings. You miss out everything when you do this.  You miss out on how your life will be blessed. You are a fool.

I wonder who should be pitied now?

Gideon's Story

While I was pregnant with Gideon, Daniel was diagnosed with autism and I prayed and prayed and prayed he would be a girl because the chance of autism were less. Then, when I found out he was a boy, I thought, Surely, God wouldn't give me two children with autism.  But by the time Gideon was 18 months old, I was certain he had autism.  

"Oh, he's just quiet," people would tell me.

"He's fine. Just give him time," they'd say.

"He's nothing like Daniel," they'd point out.

Gideon is nothing like Daniel.

There's a saying, "If you've met one person with autism, you've met one person with autism."  Autism is a spectrum disorder and, as such, some people are just brushed with autism and some people are severally affected.  Some people are verbal and some are non-verbal.  Some respond well to therapy and some do not.

This includes the two boys in my home.

While Daniel has always had words, Gideon has very few.  While Daniel is easy to motivate and reinforce positive behaviors, Gideon is almost impossible to motivate. Daniel has been able to function in a general education classroom with support, Gideon will likely be placed in a special autism program when he starts school next year.

Gideon was officially diagnosed a few months after he turned two.  His initial evaluation indicated that by the time he was five, with therapy, many of his "symptoms" would disappear.  That's not what's happened though. Instead, we've watched him settle into a world of his own.  He enjoys being there and it's very, very hard to pull him out of it.  Even the therapists that have worked with him for years struggle to find just what motivates him enough to get a response.  If we find something he likes, he's bored after a couple of days and we're back to square one again.

Progress is slow, really, really slow.  Sometimes it doesn't feel like it's happening at all.

A couple of weeks ago I sat down with his case manager at his therapy center and was prepared to hear the worst.  Then I discovered that Gideon knows pages of sight words, reads books (and memorizes them quickly), and is mastering a reading comprehension program that involves him reading an action on a card and then performing the action.

I'm his mom and I didn't know he could do all that.  I hate that I underestimated him like other people underestimate him.  But then sometimes I think Gideon likes it that way.

Gideon is also a master strategist.  When he decides he wants something, he plots and sneaks until he gets it.  Not much gets in his way and his stealth is impressive (especially for a big guy like him).  I have to hide all the sweet treats in our house and I'm careful to do it when he's not looking.  But just yesterday, he saw me put a half full bag of chocolate chips in the cupboard above the stove.  Guess where I found him 30 minutes later? Standing on the counter, covered in chocolate.

The sensory processing disorder is very strong with this one.  He is constantly sensory seeking.  Everything (Every. Thing.) goes in his mouth.  He loves a good mud bath, bouncing on the trampoline, playing in water for hours, and shaving cream, when he can get his hands on it.  He also loves strong hugs and squeezes or a rub on the back.  When he sits with me on the couch, he's practically on top of me.

I worry about Gideon constantly.  Not only do I worry about protecting him from himself  (he has earned the nickname "Trouble" the hard way around here),  but I am most worried about his future.  Because one day, Gideon will be all grown up and one day, I won't be here to watch out for him.  I worry about him starting school and no one realizing he can read (even though I've told them).  He's an easy kid to label and that breaks my heart.

I also worry that I've not done enough to help him.  I've not found the right therapy, the right app for the iPad, the right something that will make things click for him.  What if nothing ever clicks for him?  What if he never talks to express himself?  How will I give him a voice?

It's so hard to not get discouraged.

But then I see that Gideon's voice is subtle.  It takes careful observation to see what's going on inside that mind of his.  Some times, every now and then, he'll make it easy for us.


Once, just after he turned five, I was making dinner.  Gideon sat at the table eating some pretzels.  Before long, I heard him softly saying something under his breath.  When I got closer, I found this:

He'd carefully broken his pretzels into letters which he was busy naming aloud.

About a year ago, I asked him to sing a song for me and he surprised me by doing it. His sweet little voice melted my heart (pretend I'm not there):

These glimpses I get every now and then remind me to not stay discouraged.  Maybe he'll never talk as much as we hope, maybe he'll always need constant supervision but these sweet moments let me know that Gideon is there, I just have to look for him.

The Afternoon

We are having an afternoon. By that I mean, in the last hour and ten minutes I have wanted to pull my hair out no less than seventeen times.

I had a relatively good day today.  A friend from church came over and helped fix a broken faucet and work out some issues on our minivan.  I spent two hours cleaning our house which means it's gone from health hazard to marginally messy.  (Does anyone else live in fear a friend will stop by unannounced and see exactly what a mess your house is?  No?  Just me?) Katherine, who refuses to take naps even though she needs naps, had fun making me a lunch of wooden foods and watching "Yo Gabba Gabba."

At 3:15pm, I left to go pick up the boys.  Stop one was Gideon.  I have to drive across our small town to pick him up at his therapy center.  That part went okay and it was reported that he had a good, but emotional, day.

Katherine fell asleep approximately 27 seconds after being strapped in the car.  That was just enough time to shove a chocolate chip granola bar in her mouth and cover herself with chocolate. 

From there, I drove back to the other side of town to wait in line to pick up the big boys.  This is the least fun 10 (or sometimes 20) minutes of my day.  There is a teacher that waits about half way down the block from the school that walkie-talkies the car rider numbers to the school so the kids are waiting in line when I pull up.  Today, though, she approached the van.

"Hi?" I said cautiously.  This was different.

"Hi." She smiled.  Not a cheerful smile of greeting, more of a it-sucks-to-be-you smile.  "You're going to need to park when you get to the school and go to the nurse's office to pick up the boys."

No . . . no . . . no . . . no. "What? Why?"  Please do not say it . . . .

"One of the boys threw up."

Ugh.  She said it.  I can handle sick kids.  Colds, the flu, a broken arm, an allergic reaction but when my children start puking, It. Never. Stops.

So, I slowly and with building annoyance made my way to the school and found a parking spot.  I woke up Katherine, hitched her over my shoulder, and took Gideon's hand and marched into the school.  The school that had dismissed all their students fifteen minutes earlier.

Katherine was a dead weight on my shoulder and Gideon walked beside me obediently.  The nurse met me at the front desk, the two boys behind her.

"Who threw up?" I asked.

"Daniel," she said.  The boy in question grinned up at me.  He already knew what throwing up at school meant.

"When?" I asked.

"3:31pm.  He threw up in his classroom.  A lot.  It was everywhere.  We had to change his shirt." She nodded at the too small shirt now being worn by Daniel.  "I tried to call you."

At 3:31, I was picking up Gideon.  Besides that, it's illegal for me to use my phone in a school pick up zone.  Besides that, school was nine minutes away from releasing so I don't think getting a hold of me would have made a difference.   I didn't say all that.  I nodded apologetically.

Katherine woke up and demanded to "walk."  So I set her down, even though she was still covered in granola bar chocolate and had no shoes on.  (Winning lots of good parenting awards today).

The nurse handed me the school note which excused Daniel from the next day of school. (That was the part Daniel was extra happy about) and then had me sign my children out of school (after school was over so . . . okay).

It was at that point, I realized I was not holding Gideon's hand anymore. Which means, I had now lost Gideon.  I panicked and reminded myself yet again why I do not ever, ever, ever go by myself with all four kids.

"Gideon?" I shouted and turned around in a circle looking for him but Ben, my helper and brother extraordinaire, was already with him, holding his hand.  I love that kid. 

I death-gripped Gideon's hand and picked up a squiggly, highly annoyed Katherine and headed for the door.  Daniel (who has no fever or other identifying "sick" markers) and Ben shot out the door before me, not holding the door open.  But, that's what God made feet for, to push open doors when your arms of full of unhappy children. 

We made it to the minivan (in one piece) and loaded up.  I needed to run by and pick up Carl's dry cleaning which is when Ben began to complain about life in general and how running this errand was ruining his life specifically.

"You know what I want?" he asked.

"No, no, I don't."  I replied.  "I know I just want quiet.  Please.  Just quiet."

"Oh, you want me to be quiet?"

"Yes."

"Fine.  I'll be quiet."

"That would be wonderful," I said.

"That's all you want is for me to be quiet." Ben complained and I have to say he is already nailing his tortured, snotty, eye-rolling teenager voice.  And he has like five more years to perfect it.  Awesome.

"Yes!"


"Okay. Fine." I glanced at the rear-view mirror and see him with crossed arms and a scowl.

"When exactly does the quiet start?" I wondered aloud.

Then he is blissfully quiet . . . . for 30 seconds.

Daniel filled in the silence.  "You will take me to the doctors so I don't have to go to school."

"You can't go to school tomorrow, Daniel."  I sighed.  "I'm not taking you to the doctor's either. How are you feeling?"

No answer.

"It was a lot of puke, Mom," Ben chimes in.  "I wish I threw up.  Then I could stay home."

As the only adult in the van, I did the only adult thing.  I turned up the radio really loud and sang at the top of my lungs to drowned out the sound of all the children.  All. The. Children. 

We finally arrived home after ten minutes of Ben describing in minute detail every book selection in the new Scholastic Book Club pamphlet that came home. Katherine, who had remained fairly quiet up until now, began to throw the mother of all tantrums? Why, you ask?  She didn't want me to take her out of her car seat.

Not kidding.  The neighbor came out of her house and said, "Wow.  She sure has some lungs on her."

Yes.  Yes, she does.  And she's not afraid to use them.  I had to wrestle her out of the van, carry her inside, where she threw herself down on the ground and continued screaming for fifteen solid minutes because . . . who knows anymore!

I chased Gideon to the bathroom, noted Ben had striped down to his underwear already (because clothing is apparently optional in the house) and Daniel was settled into his seat at the table with his iPad.

"Mommy," he said as I walked by.  "Can I have a snack?"

Argh!  Really?

You know, I was feeling a little defeated and frustrated and angry. Okay, I was feeling a lot of that right then.  My love tank was on empty. But I got a card and a sweet note in the mail from my aunt which I sat down to read instead of taking care of my children's endless requests for food, "Octonauts," and tablets.


She wrote:

"I guess what I'm saying is that I do understand how you feel. I remember the days of frustration and anger and guilt because I felt angry and frustrated . . . . Take advantage of any five minutes you get to yourself.  It doesn't make you selfish.  It makes you human. . . . . I am praying for you to have the strength and energy to care for your family that will help each member to grow and prosper."

Sometimes it helps to know you aren't the only one who just gets fed up.  Sometimes those five minutes of sitting quietly (in a closet or wherever your safe place is) is what helps you survive the next three hours.  Sometimes it just helps to know someone sees you trying and is praying for you.

Thanks, Aunt CC.  Your note couldn't have come at a more perfect time.

Also, could someone let Carl know that I'm hiding in the upstairs closet? I haven't made dinner yet.  And bring chocolate. 

Swimming Lessons: Strength and Character

"We're going to be here forever," Ben whined.  He was right, we probably were, but since it's frowned upon to leave six year olds to their own devices, he was stuck.

All six of us had loaded up early that morning and driven thirty minutes away to see Daniel participate in in his first Special Olympics swim meet. Daniel was over-the-moon excited.  He'd spend all day, every day in the water if we let him.  We'd been told to prepare for a long day.

"These things never really run on time," The coach told us.  She tried to guess about when Daniel's events would be up but, even then, things did not go as planned.  At the Special Olympics, we discovered, they are much less concerned about keeping to a schedule of the races and much more concerned about the people in the races.

So, we waited.  We sat in the bleachers in front of the pool, crushed against the side of the wall.  Daniel was already in his swimming trunks, smiling broadly and ready to compete.  Katherine, at 14 months, sat in her stroller, calming taking in her surrounding.  Gideon was held firmly by Carl because being this close to the water but not in the water was like torture for him. Carl and I struggled to get comfortable on the 18 inches of hard metal we were sitting on.  The air was humid and heavy and too warm.  Everything was loud, sound bouncing off the water and the walls.  Every whistle, buzzard, and shout intensified.

While we waited, we watched the relays happening in front of us.  For the most part, they went smoothly.  Occasionally, there was a hitch when a participant started to get anxious or didn't want to get in the water.  The coaches were patient, talking calmly to the swimmers, easing them into the water, the spectators, encouraging and positive.

The kids squiggled and groaned, tired of waiting and, I'll admit, I had a moment of Why are we doing this again? 

The next relay was a 50 meter race across the pool.  Six participants of various ages (Daniel would compete against a 51 year old man later that day) and genders, ethnicity and abilities lined up to start.  The timer went off and they all jumped in.   Two of them took off quickly, clearly gifted in the area of swimming.  They finished to cheers.  The next two swimmers weren't far behind them.  More cheers.  Swimmer number five took a breather mid-way through the race.  She floated on her back for a few minutes and then faced the crowd, smiling and waving.  She too finished to cheers.

But swimmer number six, she was taking forever, as Ben pointed out.  She'd swim hard for a minute or two and then stop, rest, take a deep breath and start again.  She never went more than a foot or two each time.  Her progress could be measured in inches, not meters. 

As she got closer to us, I realized why she was so painfully slow.  She only had one arm.

One arm.  Think about that for a moment.  Think about the perseverance, the commitment, the strength of character, the sheer will.


Ben sighed next to me and I bumped his shoulder.  "Ben, look at her.  Can you see why it's taking her a long time?"

Around us, the crowd was a force, cheering her on.  Her coach followed her progress on the side of the pool, yelling at her.  "You got this.  A little bit at a time.  You can do this."  One of the swimmers at the finish line doubled back to swim next to her. The excitement, the crushing encouragement was like its own living thing, pushing her on, building her up.

Ben stood up next to me.  "Mommy," he said suddenly.  "She only has one arm.  She's swimming with one arm."  His voice was incredulous and excited and, before long, he joined the crowd, clapping and shouting along with everyone else.

And we waited again but, this time, with great anticipation. 

Finally, fifteen minutes after every other swimmer had finished, she reached the other side of the pool.  The crowd went wild.  Not one person cared that a race with world record speed under 25 seconds took her almost 20 minutes.  Not a single person was concerned about her form or that she may have held up the next race.

All they cared about was that she finished.  It was hard but she finished.

"That was so cool, Mommy," Ben shouted.

I, sap that I am, wiped the tears off my cheeks.  "That was way cool, Ben."

This is going to sound strange but at that moment, I was glad that Daniel and Gideon had autism and here's why.

We would never have been at that swim meet that day.  Ben (and for that matter, the rest of our family) would never have been able to see these extraordinary people do extraordinary things.   He would never have seen the effort that it took for her to finish.  But he saw it and then he really saw it. 

People with special needs are some of the strongest people you will ever meet.  They sometimes only survive on sheer force of will and stick-to-it-ness.  They live in a world that won't adapt for them; they have to adapt to the world.

Daniel is named for a guy in the Bible.  You know, the one from the lion's den.  And I was struck by the fact that my Daniel (and Gideon) spends his whole life in a lion's den.  The world is a scary place for him, but every morning, he gets up and he lives his life.  He faces a lot of challenges, tough, tough challenges.  He lives in a world that doesn't make a lot of sense to him but every single day, he takes it on and he does it smiling.  Every day.

Talk about the perseverance, the commitment, the strength of character, the sheer will that takes.

I sometimes forget how much Daniel and Gideon can teach me about life.  I'm not just talking about patience and compassion, things that don't come naturally to me in the least, but also how to be strong in the face of adversity, to struggle and struggle but not give up.

To finish something even though it is hard.

That's something we can try to teach our kids about until we're blue in the face but they don't get it until they can see it.  That day Ben got to see it in action, right in front of him.
  

Daniel and his two medals

People often point out that as a mother,  I must be so strong and special to be a mom to my kids but they miss the point.  I'm not the special one--my children are.  Daniel and Gideon teach me by their examples of strength and perseverance.  It is their sheer force of will that gives me the strength to fight for them.

I know that day we saw a woman with one arm finish that race made an impression on Ben and I hope it is one that lasts his whole life. I want him to remember seeing the people he met at Special Olympics.  I want him to remember his brothers.  I want him to remember to always finish the race even when it's hard and that strength on the inside is worth so much more than muscles or speed.

I want to remember that too. 

The Daddy Monologues: Part Three (A Guest Post from The Hubs)

Today is the last day of Carl hijacking . . . er, guest-writing.  I hope you've enjoyed getting a bit of his perspective.  He is such a great "autism" daddy.  Not a lot of men could exhibit the patience, understanding, and care that he does with all our children.  He's a pretty great guy.

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Today was a mess.  Sharon had to go to church early for music practice. I had to get the kids clothed and fed and to Sunday school on time.  Need I say more?  I never feel less prepared and inadequate as a father than at these special times.  But these are the times of our lives.  They teach us lessons that the good times often cannot.

Sharon is so amazing.  I would go crazy if I had to get the kids ready every day.  She is such a great woman, wife, and mother.  She is a super mom.  I can deal with big issues a lot better. The stress I was put under as a chaplain was often not as hard to manage as trying to find all the kids’ shoes in the morning.  Are they in the closet? Upstairs? In the van?  Are those the right shoes for Katherine or does she have church shoes . . . .

Wait.  What was that?

Loud banging of something coming down the stairs. Excuse me for a just a moment.

I am back.  Katherine decided to see what it would sound like to throw the Connect 4 game down the stairs.  I thought it was much worse except disciplining Katherine who is going through her terrible twos is always an adventure.  Again, these are the types of things that make me pull out my hair.  It is the cumulative effect.  Things are not going well at work, I have a million things to do at home, and I am tired.  I begin to feel that I really cannot do it all.  This whole business of fatherhood of four kids, two with special needs, looks greater than the flood that hit Katy earlier this week.  The flood of stress hits hard.  It is too much for this man.  So many demands and seemingly no mercy and grace when things do not go as planned.

These are the times when the local church and the gospel mean so much to me. 

First, the church.  The local church is not a building.  It is people meeting as a community to worship God.  All of the believers in the church are united together because Christ is our brother.  As Sister Sledge used to sing, “We are Family!”  I was so tired during service today.  I was beyond the stress because I did not have the energy for it.  I took Gideon out of worship so he could go to children’s church.  Usually he has a “buddy” but I did not see one.  Sharon was singing so I could not ask her what was happening. I was a little confused. 

During this confusion one of our elders came and took Gideon by the hand and spoke to him.  He then told me that I could leave.  He had it covered. He does not know it but that was such a blessing to me.  It was so simple yet very profound.  The elder did not make everything better but his act of kindness to me and to Gideon made me feel not so alone.  Someone showed that they cared and did not judge Gideon based upon his behavior.  It was the church being the church.  And that is what is special about the church when it behaves like Jesus Christ. 

I have been reading about how through faith in Jesus we as Christians are reconciled with the Father.  Our elder brother, Jesus Christ, brings us into the fellowship and love of his Sonship with the Father.  Our big brother and Father stand together in their love for us.  There is no guilt and shame.  They are not asking for us to be perfect or we will be judged unworthy.  The Son reconciles us to the Father and by the Spirit we become a new creation.  It is then that we can be freed of what brings us low.  We can freed from the performance trap.  This is good news and it is what the church should be about. 

I leave you today (and the last of my three guest posts) with what lately has become one of my favorite passages of scripture:

From now on, therefore, we regard no one according to the flesh. Even though we once regarded Christ according to the flesh, we regard him thus no longer. ¹⁷ Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.^[b] The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. ¹⁸ All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation; ¹⁹ that is, in Christ God was reconciling^[c] the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. ²⁰ Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us. We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. ²¹ For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. (2 Corinthians 5: 16-21)  

The Daddy Monologues: Part Two (A Guest Post from The Hubs)

This is the second of a three-day posting spree by my husband.
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I have always been a shy, quiet type of guy and this reputation has followed me for many years.  One time, I went caroling with a group of friends.  Some knew me well and others were only acquaintances.  We had a great time even though it might have been the coldest night in the history of Houston.  When we were finished, we dropped off some of our friends at church.  I got out of the car to switch seats and one person said, “He did not say one word the entire time!”  This became a running joke with some of my close friends.  But that’s who I was, I was very shy and did not say much except to those I was close.

I have always had a problem sticking up for myself or pushing for what I want.  I have never been good at interviews.  I have always thought of myself, if only subconsciously, a little less than others.  At seminary, I always loathed those who would kiss up to the professors.  I swore that I would never be that guy.  I, after all, had principles.  But I was also not good at asking about or planning how to turn my calling into my career.  I have always been inside my own bubble. 

My children, especially Daniel and Gideon and their autism, have pushed me out of my bubble.  I have had to do not necessarily what I want, but what I need, to help be a good father and provider for them.  I am usually very even-tempered.  However, if you want to see my bad side, if you want me to really get angry, then mess with my family.  Once, a person very close to me, made fun of Daniel.  Usually I can keep my temper in check but he was messing with my son and that would not do.  I tore into him.  He was very surprised but I did not back down.  He ended up apologizing for his behavior. 

When I was a chaplain, the nice-y nice Jesus who loved the sinners and suffered with them was stressed.  Lost was the Jesus who overturned tables or said to one of his disciples, “Get thee behind me Satan.”  Jesus loved so much that He could not only remain gentle Jesus, meek and mild, he got angry.  He was angry because He loved and glorified the Father and because He loved His church.  As a Christian man and Father, I must get angry sometimes and make sure others know about it. 

I do not completely know why it has taken me this long to realize this truth in practice.  I often gave lip service to it but I am only now able to start practicing showing anger for the right reasons, for the ones I love.  For the helpless and suffering.  For the ones who can’t fight for themselves or cannot speak for themselves.  I truly love my family and I must show my love by fighting for them.   

Sometimes that also means stepping out of my comfort zone for what I want.  More flexibility at work.  Going in earlier so I can be home early enough to eat dinner with my family. Maybe it is going out of my comfort zone so I can find a job I am passionate about and support my family.  It can take many forms but I have learned that as a man, I cannot sit passively by and let life happen.  I must prayerfully lead my family into life as we love, worship, and give glory to God together.