Maybe

Maybe you woke up late and you're out of coffee. And patience.

Maybe your house looks like a tornado touched down and then moved in and plans to stay for the next 18 years.

Maybe your two year old decided that her artistic medium today was permanent marker. On your wall.  On your dining room table.  On your couch.

Maybe your three year old figured out how to get in the pantry, find an unopened bag of flour, and then open it.

Maybe the mountain of clean clothes to be folded is only rivaled by the mountain of dirty clothes.

Maybe your nine year old has decided he hates everything including school, playing outside, and following directions.  Except his iPad.  He does not hate his iPad.

Maybe you forgot to send that t-shirt to school with your kid for the fifth day in a row and he was the only one who didn't have one which, to have him tell it, was the single most embarrassing moment of his young life.

Maybe the thought of doing homework with your child is giving you a stabbing pain behind your right eye.

Maybe you were late.  Again.  And you forgot to put wipes in the diaper bag.  Again. And things fell out of your minivan when you went through the pick-up line. Again.

Maybe if one more person, big or small, touches you one more time, you're going to have a temper tantrum that will impress even your two year old.

Maybe dealing with The Autism today has got you more than ready for The Wine later.

Maybe your dreams of visiting far away places and taking spa days have been replaced by dreams of eight consecutive hours of sleep and going to the bathroom without an audience.

Maybe the bags under your eyes are permanent.

Maybe your love tank is on empty and there are still 3,564 seconds until bedtime.

I'm here to tell you . . .  .

Okay, I got nothing.
 
I'm in the trenches just like you.  I have no idea what I'm doing half the time. It's a humbling experience to be a parent.  Aren't things supposed to get easier the longer you do them?  Not parenting.  Nope, parenting gets harder.  Then you add more kids (and more personalities and more laundry) to the mix.  The kids keep changing and growing and wanting to be their own person. It's exhausting and I don't even have teenagers yet.

When I feel like I am making a mess of things, I remember once being told that "these are the children God gave me." I tell myself they are mine for a reason and I think about the things I did that really mattered that day:

Did I feed those kiddos and keep them safe?

Did I kiss a boo-boo, wipe a tear, clean a runny nose?

Did I make my kiddo smile or laugh?

Did I pray for them?

Did I tell them I love them?

Sure, it felt like an impossibly hard day. But, no, it's not the end of the world if their clothes didn't match.  No one died from eating popcorn and watermelon for dinner. At the end of the day, those messy, laundry-making, disobedient, precious children know you love them.  So, they give you a final sloppy kiss goodnight, a strangling hug, a whispered, "I love you" and that makes your whole day worth it.

That and the ice cream you're going to eat once they're asleep. 

The Rodeo in the Back Row

One of my dearest friends attends the same church as us.  She and her husband have three adorable little girls and every Sunday these three little girls sit quietly with their mother and father.  They look like stair steps, going from oldest to youngest, dark hair-light hair-dark hair.  They may color or draw or sometimes play on a Kindle quietly.  Once and a while, one of them will curl up and fall asleep in one of their parents' lap quietly.  If one of them has to use the restroom or get a drink of water, they ask for permission quietly.

Did I mention how quiet they are?  

Our family sits in the second to last row, way, way in the back.  Because when you look at our row, it's not sweet little ones sitting quietly.

No, our row is more like a rodeo.

I wish I could tell you Sundays were easy but they aren't.  If I'm not careful, I start to resent them.  Six days a week, at least one of the boys has therapy, and the seventh day is Sunday.

It's not a day of rest, folks. 

First, there's getting everyone ready.  Racing around to find "church clothes" (I know, I should done that the night before. Don't judge) and then getting them in the "church clothes."  Someone doesn't like those shorts, this shirt has a hole in it, and is that even clean?  (Must have grabbed it from the wrong mountain of clothes.  Again, no judging).

I'm not even going to bring up the shoes.  

Finally, we're on our way.  This is usually the point where my husband and I get in our weekly fight.  I have no idea what it's about, why it started, or who wins.  I just know by the time we get to church, there is some door slamming and walking off in a huff.

Sunday school is next and it's not so bad.  There's some singing and some chanting and then everyone goes with their respective age group.  At this point, we have taken our six year old son, Gideon, with autism (who is still potty training) to the bathroom 14,671 times and had one success and threatened Daniel, our oldest son, also with autism, 9,643 times about appropriate behavior in Sunday school and had one success there too. But we're okay.  We're fine.

Then 10:30 rolls around and it's time for big church.

One of the things I love about our church is that it's very family-centered.  Children are encouraged to stay with their parents during the service.  Our pastor has four children of his own and he's learned to block out "kid noises," like most parents.  Everyone settles in.  But, for us in the way back, we're just getting started. 

In the last year, Daniel has decided that he no longer wants to sit with us.  So he sits across the aisle.  Each Sunday, he tracks down his First Thousand Words in Spanish book and that's what he reads.  While I'm not certain he could pronounce them, I suspect if I gave him a test over those words, he'd nail it. Ben, our middle son, tries to finagle his way into sitting with those three sweet girls (because who can blame him?).  I might add, he is an angel when he sits with them.  When he sits with us, well, not so much. Gideon stays with us through the first 20 or so minutes of the service before he goes to children's worship training.  Gideon likes to lie down.  He's not too picky about where he does it.  Draped over several chairs, the floor, on top of me.  It wouldn't be so bad if Gideon were not a very, very big boy.

This is the rodeo part I was talking about. 

Daniel tilts his chair back, looks at me, grins at my stern look of reproach, laughs, tilts chair back again.  He carries with him a small cloth monkey, a fidget toy, which he employs to annoy the ever-loving snot out of me in various and sundry ways.  Yes, I would like that monkey to disappear.  I never, ever want to say, "Stop playing with your monkey at the dinner table," ever again.  But for now, the monkey stays. 

Gideon is laying on my lap.  "I want water," he says.  So, I take him to get a drink and Ben follows to go to the first of fifteen bathroom trips. I wait for Ben so we can go back in all together, but he is taking forever so I knock.  No answer.  I whisper loudly that I'm going to come in if he doesn't come out.  I'm not paying attention to Gideon who is back at the water fountain and had given himself a shower somehow and water is now all over the front him. 

Ben finally appears.  "Sorry, Mom, I had to go . . . you know."  Yes, yes, I know.  That means I make him go back into the bathroom to flush the toilet and wash his hands.


We're five minutes into service now. Five minutes.

We're back in our seats.  We're singing.  Well, some of us are.  Others refuse to stand and yet another is stimming with loud vocalizations and jumping up and down.  Thankfully, our church family is used to us and no one seems to blink an eye. Ben has to use the bathroom again. Then the worst thing happens.  A new family sits behind us.  I panic.  Sometimes I want to carry around business cards that I can hand out quickly that read, "Please excuse us.  We have two children with autism. We apologize in advance." Instead, I smile (nervously) at them.  Ben comes back from the bathroom and then proceeds to spill 1400 Legos all over the floor. (Who was the dummy that let him bring those?  Oh yeah.) And Gideon wants more water and he's gonna pinch me until he gets it. These chairs should have seat belts and complimentary rolls of duct tape.

I am exhausted at this point.

Finally, Gideon is whisked away for worship training by a buddy (another way our church has been amazingly supportive of our family).  Ben gets to play with his Kindle during the sermon so he commences to blowing stuff up or building spider spawn or whatever Minecraft stuff it is he does. Carl and I can relax.  This may be the first and only 20 minutes of our whole week where we aren't worried about Gideon breaking anything. Katherine, the youngest, is safe in the nursery.  Ben is quiet. Daniel is occupied for now.  We can finally be still and listen to the sermon.

But I have to make a confession.

Sometimes I fall asleep (we still aren't judging).  It's not intentional. I'm not doing it because I want to.  It's just so quiet and I can finally relax for 15 minutes and before I know it, my eyelids get so heavy and then I'm jerking back awake. I'm sure God doesn't approve but then again, God also knows how just plain worn out I am and maybe He understands.


He does give rest to the weary, right?

Being part of a church body is very important to us.  And, may I just say, we have an amazing church family, one that has loved on us, taken care of us, prayed for us, laughed with us, cried with us, and still seem to want us.


So, we will put up with the rodeo that happens in our row in the back.  We will apologize when one of the kids is having a rough day . . . or a normal day.  We will smile (mostly) and feel blessed to be part of our church family because they accept each one of us as a child of God.  Through them, we can see God's love in a very tangible way.  Maybe some of our children aren't able to fully understand that, but they can feel it and they know they are loved.

That makes the rodeo worth it.

_________________________________________________________________________________
As you might know, April is Autism Awareness Month.  For our family, every day is a day for autism awareness.  We try to spread it everywhere we go, whether people like it or now.  I would urge you this month, this very day, to find someone you know touched by autism and do something for them.  Maybe take coffee to an autism mom you know.  Maybe a quick note of encouragement.  Maybe just a hug.  Maybe offer to watch a kiddo (or four) for an hour or two,  so their parents can go on a date (or take a nap).  Maybe find a local organization in your area that gives directly to autism families and find out how you can help too. Maybe praying for them specifically every day.  

Know that whatever you do, it will appreciated.   

Guess what?  A Stone's Throw from Perfection has its very own Facebook page.  It needs friends.  Can you help?  Click here to join: A Stone's Throw From Perfection Facebook page

Did you enjoy this read?  Want a good place to start?  Click here: Telling the Truth

Of Fossils and Hope

I met Melissa our freshman year in college when were both placed on the same floor in the dorm.  Looking back, I can see how very, very different we were from each other.  Melissa is athletic and loves sports; I . . . um, walk. Melissa had fun, went to parties, and hung out with friends in college; I spent a lot of time in the computer lab.  Melissa loves Stephen King; I'm a romantic at heart. Despite all that, both of us grew up to be English teachers.

A few years ago, we reconnected on Facebook and I've been following along as her family grew and she's been following along as we found (are finding?) our way with The Autism.  Over the summer, I received a personal message from her and it meant a great deal to me.  With her permission, I get to share it with you all.

"Hi Sharon,
I just have to share this random story with you, simply because I was thinking of you the whole time it was occurring. So, last night, we went to a BBQ at a house of a guy my husband works with. My husband had told me that this man, Greg, was "different" or "odd," but a really good guy. I took in the info and off we went to the BBQ. 

Upon meeting Greg, I almost instantly recognized several signs of someone on the autism spectrum. He avoided eye contact; his house was what I would call "cluttered" (although I later found each and every thing had its place when I moved something); we were not offered metal utensils and only used plastic as he does not like the feel of metal; he asked me if I liked fossils (yes), then proceeded to show me his fossil collection with a scientific explanation behind each one (this lasted about 1/2 hour and he never once looked me in the eye or sensed my waning interest); each trinket he showed me had an exact place for it, and when I placed one back in the wrong spot, he danced around a bit and basically moved me out of the way to get it back to its precise location. 

There's more, but you get the picture. Now, I don't claim to be a spectrum expert, but with 15 years of teaching experience, I can usually spot the signs, and Greg's were overwhelming. 

Why share this story with you? Greg has a successful career, is married to a neat woman, and has two very unique but fabulous children. He has converted his garage to a climbing gym, allows his children to climb to the tops of doors (or anywhere else), has a whole room full of awesome reptiles in aquariums, and is living a very great life. 

Knowing how much we love our children, I thought of you, and this wonderful life you live with your boys. My eyes were opened a little more last night, and I thought about you. Thanks for always sharing your life, your struggles, and what the future may hold for you. I think I might have seen what it could be last night. I hope this isn't weird or somehow offensive--if it is, please do let me know as I did not mean anything offensive. It was just such a cool inside look at how "that weird kid," as I'm sure he was labeled, can grow up to be a really cool dude!"

I love so very many things about this letter but the thing I love the most is this: hope.  Of course, I hope my boys go on to lives as successful, independent members of society.  Many people with autism do.  Sometimes those people have never been diagnosed with anything except being "weird" or "quirky."  I would bet if you looked back, you could name a college professor or two that had some very strong spectrum-y qualities.  

The flip side is also true though: many autistic adults will not be able to live independently.  Most still live at home with their parents.  Many may not be able to work or communicate.  Many will not marry and have families of their own.  

Our two sons represent both sides of the coin.  

But the hope for me in this letter is this:  I can have hope because people like Melissa exist.  She sees the person and not just the autism.  She found the beauty in the quirkiness.  She wasn't put off by lack of eye contact or detailed (I can just imagine) descriptions of his fossils.  She appreciated him for those things.   

She accepted him for him.

That.  That right there.  That's the hope. As a mom of two autistic boys, I'm always worried that people see the diagnosis and not the person.  And because of this, that they'll be treated as less than a person. It's a constant, daily struggle for me.  Thankfully, our family has been very blessed to be surrounded by friends and a church family that see our boys and accept them just as they are--the good, the bad, and the quirky.  

See, my sons just want to feel accepted and loved no matter who they are or what their quirks happen to be.

Then again, I think all of us could say the same thing.

__________________________________________________________________________________

As you might know, April is Autism Awareness Month.  For our family, every day is a day for autism awareness.  We try to spread it everywhere we go, whether people like it or now.   I thought to challenge myself this month to share story about autism in our family every day.  Every day this month.  That's a lot of days but, then again, I have a lot of stories.  

I would urge you this month, this very day, to find someone you know touched by autism and do something for them.  Maybe take coffee to an autism mom you know.  Maybe a quick note of encouragement.  Maybe just a hug.  Maybe offer to watch a kiddo (or four) for an hour or two so their parents can go on a date (or take a nap).  Maybe find a local organization in your area that gives directly to autism families and find out how you can help too. Maybe praying for them specifically every day.  Know that whatever you do, it will appreciated. 

The One About April Fools'

"Hey, where you boys going?  There's no school today!" our neighbor, Mr. Joe, said this morning as we were loading up the van to head to school.

This was after 17 minutes of me asking, "Are your shoes on?" or "Did you brush your teeth?" or "Where's your backpack?"  You know, typical morning. Also, being a typical morning, one kid was complaining about hating wearing a jacket, getting into the van, school, shoes, and the universe at large.  Another kid had his head buried in his tablet while he pursued world domination (or whatever the heck happens in Minecraft) and was completely ignoring everything I said.  Boy number three ran around the van a few times and laughing hysterically while I clumsily chased him (because morning plus running.  Just no).  And The Girl was following me while I chased her brother, demanding chocolate for breakfast.

Like I said, typical morning. Which mean we were running late.  And I was exhausted already and hadn't had nearly enough caffeine for these morning shenanigans.

"There is too school," Ben called back to our neighbor.

"No there's not!"  Then Mr Joe paused for a few seconds and shouted, "April Fools'!"

Ben grinned.  But Daniel, well, Daniel gave me a look very similar to this:

I already knew what was coming.

Daniel is nine (10 next month, actually  EEK!) and he has autism.  People with autism are very, very literal.  I mean, really literal.

For example, one time, he was sitting with a friend of mine while a big old Texas rainstorm raged outside.  "Wow!" she said.  "It's raining cats and dogs."

Daniel gave her a look very much like the one above and said, "No it's not.  It's raining water."

Jokes are also hard for Daniel.  Sarcasm is almost impossible.  (How he got me for his mother is beyond me.  My spiritual gift is sarcasm).  That's not to say Daniel doesn't have a sense of humor.  He's a very silly guy and has earned the reputation of class clown.  He finds things funny all the time to laugh about but he'd rather see his humor than infer it.  So, whoopee cushions and flatulence are funny. Knock-knock jokes and tricks? Not so much.

April Fools' Day is kind of a nightmare for him. 

So this morning, he looked at me and said, "We don't have school today."  It was a statement, not a question.  He was not about to get in the van.

I took a deep breath. "Daniel, you have school today.  It was a joke."

"No, we don't have school."

"It's April Fools' Day.  It was a joke.  You have school."

"I don't want to go to school.  We don't have school."

I can't tell you how much I appreciated Mr. Joe  about then.  I appreciated him like I appreciate root canals and Justin Bieber music.

Finally, finally, he got in the van and finally, finally, we were on the road. I tried again to explain April Fools' Day to him.  "It's a day to play jokes on people and sometimes people lie and make things up as a joke."

A blessed moment of silence.  Then, "Lying is bad."

"Well, yes, lying is bad. But sometimes people make stuff up to be funny."

Daniel is a terrible liar.  This is often the case with people with autism and, hey, I'm not mad about it.  He's honest to a fault.  When he tries, on the rare occasion, to lie, it's so obvious it almost hurts. Plus, I reinforce all the time that lying is bad (it's one of my pet peeves) so I could understand his confusion.

"He was pretending, Daniel.  You're going to school."

He didn't reply.  I took it as a win for me.

I'm not sure how his day will go.  The social nuances of April Fools' are hard for Daniel to understand and a part of me worries he'll hear something he thinks is true and won't understand why it's not.  On this day, when lying is not only socially accepted but also encouraged, I hope my un-sarcastic, super honest boy will find some humor somewhere.

Then again, he'll be in a room half full of third grade boys.  Eventually one of them will fart.
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As you might know, April is Autism Awareness Month.  For our family, every day is a day for autism awareness.  We try to spread it everywhere we go, whether people like it or now.   I thought to challenge myself this month to share story about autism in our family every day.  Every day this month.  That's a lot of days but, then again, I have a lot of stories.  

I would urge you this month, this very day, to find someone you know touched by autism and do something for them.  Maybe take coffee to an autism mom you know.  Maybe a quick note of encouragement.  Maybe just a hug.  Maybe offer to watch a kiddo (or four) for an hour or two so their parents can go on a date (or take a nap).  Maybe find a local organization in your area that gives directly to autism families and find out how you can help too. Maybe praying for them specifically every day.  Know that whatever you do, it will appreciated. 

The Drive of Shame

 

My minivan is a disaster.  I'm not talking about a few Cheerios and a candy wrapper. I mean, a real state-of-emergency disaster.  Two days ago, I cleaned it out.  I removed two full bags of garbage.  Out of one average-sized minivan.   I actually picked up all the car seats to clean under them.  Never again.  I had nightmares after that.  Ignorance is bliss for a reason, people!   Plus another bag of junk to bring back in the house. Books. Baby dolls. Lost (and now found) shoes. A leftover lunch (like really leftover.  Think Easter and then go back a week), The purse I couldn't find and then the purse I was using because I couldn't find the first one.  12,642 plastic Easter eggs from two egg hunts and four kids. My dignity.  My self-respect.  

Look, I know I need to clean it.  It's just that . . . laundry . . . a pregnant, hormonal cat . . . television . . . reading . . . sleep . . . Facebook . . . flossing . . . anything . . . . Perhaps the minivan is my secret rebellion.  "Ha! World, take that.  I don't have much but I can laugh in the face of all of you by leaving my minivan a pit of filth."  

Nope.  Really, it's just the four kids.

The worst part of having a messy minivan is what I like to call "The Drive of Shame."  Every morning and every afternoon I make the trek to drop off or pick up our boys up at school and every morning and afternoon, I say this prayer silently in my head:

"Please Lord, do not let anything fall out of the van.  Please keep the eyes of the staff be directed anywhere but the floor of my minivan.  Please, please, please don't allow any adult to make direct eye contact; I can't take that look of horror.  I promise to clean the van.  I promise.  Amen."

Teachers and staff, I know what you're thinking when you see me coming.  I'm really sorry.  I really am.  Please know it's not a reflection of me as a person (mostly).  I apologize in advance if any flying or falling debris lands on your foot or in your eye.  It was completely unintentional.  You might want to remain a healthy six feet back from the vehicle as a precaution. 

Several months ago, not only was the van growing fungus inside, but the entire door just fell off one day.  I'm not kidding. 

It came right off the track and dangled there.  After laughing and then crying and then laughing again, we got out the duct tape. I drove the van around for close to three weeks (while we waited to get it fixed) with a door that was duct taped closed.  I lived in fear the duct tape would fail while I drove down the freeway and one of the kids would fall out. It also happened to be the door the kids used to get in and out of the van at school.  So, I had to rig up more tape and a sign to keep the staff from trying to open it.  (This is a dramatic recreation below).

Not quite accurate.  There was more tape involved in real life.

Oh Minivan, my Minivan . . . why art thou so disgusting?  Oh, yay, that's right.  The four kids. We haven't even talked about the smell.  Spilling milk in your van is bad.  Bad. Bad. Bad. 

I sincerely hope that our minivans aren't a reflection on our lives.  If so, Houston, we have a problem here.

But that's definitely not true.

Right?

Crap.

Telling the Truth

The other day Katherine and I stopped by the 99 Cent Only store to do a little grocery shopping. (Don't knock it until you've tried it, folks).  After getting back in our van (with my $1 a box protein bars!), loading up the groceries and Katherine, I turned on our 2003 Honda Oydessy and sat for a moment.  I won't say I was enjoying the air conditioning since it was close to 90 degrees that day (the AC doesn't work right now) and I wasn't hooking up my iPod to the radio (since I have neither a iPod or the fancy hooking-up receptacles to do this).

I was just taking a quiet moment, a deep breath, when The Girl was contained and I could sit.  Just sit.  And of course, I was checking Facebook.  My window was rolled down to let the air in.  Rolled down windows aren't that common in Houston, I've noticed, especially since that's how I roll these days. This might have been why I attracted the attention of the shopping strip security guard. Dressed in his "security blues," he resembled a (great) grandfather more than an actual impediment for any would-be thieves.

"Ma'am?" he said, coming close to my window. (Yes, I'm called ma'am now.  Ugh).

"Yes?"

"Everything okay?" he asked.

I looked around quickly.  Had I been so engrossed in Facebook that I failed to notice a bomb detonating or a carjacking?  "I'm fine."

He nodded and threaded his thumbs through the belt loops on his pants.  "Good.  Good.  I just wanted to check.  You never know with these old cars."  Then he smiled and walked off.

I sat there for a moment, a little embarrassed, a little tired, a little offended. 

Let me explain.  Generally speaking, I could care less what we drive, that most of my clothes come from the thrift store, that I can stretch $100 to feed our family of six for a week if I need to.  I could care less than our minivan and our car are 12 and 13 years old respectively; they are, after all, paid off. But I got embarrassed anyway and I got my feeling hurt a little (even though Grandpa Security Guard was just being nice).  I don't want to be reminded that our financial struggle is real.

Three or so years ago, my husband I gave up our credit cards.  All of them.  They've been cut up, thrown away and unused.  We gave up our credit cards so that we could work to become debt free.  See, when we moved to Houston seven and a half years ago, we were debt free. And then autism happened.  And then surprise kid number three happened. And then my husband struggled to find a job.  And then autism happened again.

With all those things, our debt grew.  It grew and it grew and it grew and . . . well, you get the point. These last few years have felt like watching a horror movie at times.  I watch my life and wince.  "Ouch, that one hurt." "Oh, that's going to be hard to recover from." "That one's gonna cause some bleeding, folks."  I've had to take my life with a sort of observational detachment or I would have long ago been locked up somewhere in a strait jacket.

Sometimes, life turns out to be nothing, nothing, like you expected.  There are some moments that are such pure joy--a love, a marriage, a baby, a new home--and some things are harsh, hard, messy. So, I'm going to fess up now.  I'm not good at the serious stuff usually.  My natural inclination is to crack a joke and laugh because that is so much easier than crying (plus I'm less likely to look like a sobbing tomato).

Today, I'm confessing: My life is hard. 

There, I said it.  Things are not easy.  I'm struggling with anger and resentment.  I'm struggling with depression and anxiety.  I'm struggling with financial worry and feeling inadequate. I feel a little like God handed me a gigantic pile a of dirt, said, "Here, move this," and forgot to give me a shovel so I have to use my hands and my hands hurt from the calluses and the broken nails and the bleeding.

My life is hard when we are struggling to potty train a six year old and I have to change yet another pull up.  My life is hard when I sit and wait while an insurance company decides the fate of therapy for our boys.  My life is hard when I juggle bills and more bills.  My life is hard when I see our families distance themselves.  Maybe that's actual distance because they live far away or maybe it's distance because our kids aren't perfect and never will be.  My life is hard when I have to make people see my kids aren't just a diagnosis or when I have to stay on top of teachers, when I have to fight.

My life is hard when I have to ask for help.  I know that sounds stupid, but . . . Oh. My. Goodness.  I hate asking for help.  

Here's another truth:  I'm tired.

This is not the kind of tired that a 14 hour nap will fix (however, I am willing to try if anyone wants to give me the opportunity).  I suspect this is the kind of tired that is soul deep.  That may not ever be fully healed until I'm in Heaven.  This is a lingering, overwhelming tired.  It's a tired that keeps me up at night. 

Since I'm letting it all hang out: I'm overwhelmed.

Am I making the right choices?  Is that what I should spend my time doing?  Should I worry about this?  Have a done enough?  No, really, have I done enough?  How can our family thrive when each day, each hour, sometime each minute is a lesson in survival?  How?  How?  How? Why? Why? Why?

But, and here's the good part.  Here's the only part I have to hang on to.  Here's the part that never gives up and never lets me down.  Here's the truth: God loves me. 

God loves me so much, He knows me and still loves me.  God's love for me showed up as Jesus.

Jesus' life was hard, especially his death.  Brutal, wretched, bloody, gruesome, necessary.  Jesus' hands did literally hurt from the calluses, the broken nails, the bleeding.  For me.  For you.  Jesus understands that life is hard. He knows.  He understands.

Jesus knew about being tired in his soul.  In the Garden of Gethsemane before he's taken away to his death, he said, "My soul is very troubled (Matthew 26:38)." His death was foretold and imminent.  Jesus was tired. He knows.  He understands.

Jesus was overwhelmed.  As he hung on the cross, he was overwhelmed by our sin, the sin he took on for each of us. He cried out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me (Matthew 27:46)?" His why was much bigger than mine will ever be.  His why was for me and for you.  Jesus was overwhelmed. He knows.  He understands.

This is the truth I have to hold onto because it makes all the hard, all the tired, all the overwhelming worth it.  The truth is simple and so, so hard to comprehend.  But that truth is mine.  I just need to remember it and take hold of it. When all else fails (and life is teaching me, it will), this is the truth I cannot forget: God loves me.

I don't have a monopoly on the hardness, the tiredness, and the overwhelming. Each of feels this in some way.  Maybe the season is short for you and maybe it's much longer.  But know that this is your truth too.

God loves YOU.

He knows.

He understand.
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God loves YOU.

That One Time I Took the Boys to Get Their Pictures Taken . . . .

Preface:  I wrote this story almost seven years ago (and posted it on Facebook) but I thought it would be fun to add here on the blog (that I sporadically post on).  Just a month after this happened, Daniel was formally diagnosed with autism, although we were already fairly certain that would be the case.  At the time, Daniel was a month shy of three years old, Ben was a little over one, and I was five and a half months pregnant with boy number three.  So, yay, not sure what the heck I was thinking!  I hope you get a good laugh out of it. 

"Let's start with him," the photographer said, pointing at Daniel.

Neen was the photographer's name, or at least that's what his nametag said and he looked all of 18 years old. He had a wide smile and an eager expression and I knew, I just knew, that he'd be no match for Daniel.

Somehow, in my great wisdom, I had decided to single-highhandedly (and five and a half months pregnant to boot) take both boys for photos. There was trouble on the horizon and I was all alone.

Daniel looked at us, dressed in a blue striped shirt and matching shorts. His eyes round and owlish behind his glasses. His face shone with the innocence and obedience of any sweet, precious toddler. And then, as is often the way with two year olds, the switch flipped and that look was gone, replaced by outright stubbornness and defiance.

"Daniel," Neen said. "Could you sit down for me?" He pointed at the white backdrop that covered the wall and ground.

"No."

"Daniel, can you stand here for me?"

"No."

"Daniel, can you catch the ball?"

"No."

And so on and so on and so on. I tried to help. I resorted to begging, pleading, bribing, and finally threatening . . . but Daniel stubbornly refused to cooperate. Oh, he played with the props--a duck, a monkey, a bear--but he wouldn't go near the backdrop. Neen was not to be deterred though--he got help, in the form of two other employees. They tried too--they begged, they pleaded, they bribed, and I'm sure ten minutes after meeting Daniel, they really WANTED to threaten.

After perhaps 20 minutes of trying to coerce Daniel into something that resembled a smile, and failing miserably, Neen decided it was best to "give Daniel a break" and move onto Ben. Little Benjabean (my nickname for him) had looked on with interest from the stroller and when it was his turn to perform, he did not disappoint. Of course, if you've ever met Ben, you'd know that there's nothing he likes better than smiling and showing off for people. So Ben laughed and smiled and Neen took about 30 pictures in which Ben posed for the camera each and every time.

Meanwhile, Daniel played with the monkey.

Then it was time to get pictures of the two of them together. There is was, a spring background, a cute little "wall" for them to sit on, and let the fun begin. Not one time would the two of them sit next to each other. Not once, for even a split second did they both look at the camera at the same time. In fact, what happened was a wrestling match of epic portions.

In the end, Neen's smile was much more wobbly than when we started and if he ended up with even half the headache I did, then I hope he took the rest of the day off. I'm certain he had a deeply philosophical inner-monologue about his career choice.

Afterwards, exhausted and grumpy, I chose pictures quickly and it wasn't too hard since my choices were very limited. The boys sat quietly next to each other this whole time and devoured a bag of Goldfish crackers.

One day, I'm sure I'll look back on this and laugh and think about how silly my boys were when they were almost three and 14 months. And one day, when they are big and grown, I might even wish to relive this day just to have them little and cuddly again, to see Daniel with that look of pure mischief in his eye or Ben with his cheeky little grin. Even though it was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad trip to the photographer's, I still thank God that I have two little boys to do it with. Motherhood is the coolest job in the whole world, even on days like this.

Of course, I couldn't tell this story without proof so . . . . Enjoy!