Cobbler

In amongst the mail was a journal. Since it had a high-heeled shoe printed on the front and swirly pattern decorating the interior pages along with the phrase "Walk By Faith" across the cover, Don assumed it was intended for me. (Could've been for one of the girls, but... Nah.) I have no idea where it originated, but if the giver was a reader, then consider yourself thanked. We had a ball speculating on the journal's origin, but eventually gave up since whomever it was clearly wanted anonymity.
Just yesterday a dear friend asked me when I am going to get around to writing that book that is in me somewhere. She also asked if I journal, to which I replied that "I blog." The blogging actually came out of the same friend's encouragement to write. Which was followed by the cheerleading of several friends who were amused by my tales of "Whoa!" and dismay regarding the fat chick who haunted my mirror after Evan was born and the rebellious jeans that no longer came up over my child-bearing hips. There is an ordered mind required to write with purpose, and I find my disordered life likely indicative of a disordered mind. (Several specific disorders come immediately to mind.) Perhaps there is a book in there somewhere waiting to emerge from the chrysalis into lines of characters that march across page after page.
Or perhaps the testimony is not to be found in my beloved words. Perhaps there is nothing so finely crafted as the life I have been given. And nearly lost again and again because this body does not work quite as it ought to sometimes leading me to questions without answers and pain without release. Because I am not done. But that wee book has captured my curiosity about words and how they can be cobbled together into whatever tale is there to be told.

Tender Ignition

I'm thinking of more than one meaning. Legal tender as in what sort of currency or barter can one utilize in the exchange of goods and services. Or the verb indicative of offering something like tendering one's resignation. I'm also thinking squooshy. (Mmmm. Squooshy.) My heart needs to be squooshy; otherwise, I will cease to feel and care.
That means I am open to hurt. I tender the risks of pain and sorrow out of hope for love. What all will be placed in this offering? Name it. Hopes, dreams, disappointments, wonder, defeat, sacrifice, time, money, thoughts, hurts, joys, desires, words, but, most of all, want will be placed on the altar. I tender my heart because it must be tender or it becomes hard. What I want will be in submission to what I hope. And rather than a cold, hard heart, I will burn with the all-consuming fire that refines.

Go Out, Send Me

It's likely to be a wild day at my usual Tuesday morning coffee date. There is a difference that makes today a not-so-usual Tuesday aside from the U.S. elections. I sort of invited a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses in to visit at a friend's house a couple of weeks ago, but then I had to leave. And I had an infusion last week which kept me at home causing the hostess to push back the planned visit. So we are having coffee with a pair of very nice JWs who wish to convert a batch of Christian women. Ought to be interesting.
I do not consider the visitors to be presumptuous. I am interested in hearing what they believe, and it will be held up to Scripture for testing. I do admire that the JWs go out and take the likely uncomfortable step of knocking on strange doors to share their beliefs even though I probably do not agree with them. Yes, having heard comments and arguments about "shoving religion down the throats" of those either uninterested or otherwise believing people, I am aware that witnessing or sharing one's faith is unpopular in our culture. It's considered largely intolerant. And yet. I say that I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God who died for my sins so that I could regain communion with God the Creator of the Universe and not endure eternal torment. If I truly believe this, and I say that I care about someone, how could I possibly consider their "comfort zone" or their desire for "tolerance of other beliefs" more important than their souls?!
The ladies in the photo are not unlike the JWs we will meet with today in their desire to reach out and share their faith. All three inspire and ignite me by simply living their lives. To Krista and Shelley who say both "I'll Go" and "Send Me" and to Janene who ministers closer to home, but in ways no less powerful, I can look for examples of whose I am.

The Same, Only Different

"One of these things is not like the other. One of these things is not quite the same." That was a lyric from a song that played on one of the kiddies' Sesame St. videos as an accompaniment to an activity intended to teach "different" and "same" by showing similar pictures side by side. The song pops into my head from time to time when struck by images and situations where it is inappropriate to sing it out loud.
This photo of two 13 year-old boys bowling, one of whom is our son and the other is a friend's son, definitely has me humming my inappropriate little song. It was hugely encouraging to hear from the parents of the other young man that some of the issues we deal with are not related to Evan's diagnosed conditions, but are simply results of being a thirteen year-old guy. It was even better not to be told what we "ought" to be doing to parent him. While the differences between our son and the other young man were glaring, the similarities were comforting because they offer demonstrable proof that we are not so far off the beaten path despite the sometime feeling of wandering in the wilderness while trying to parent Evan. The constant struggle to guide the Boy toward increasing independence without pushing him out of the nest prematurely and simultaneously trying to protect him from the perceptions of others leaves me tired.

Anonymity

Yesterday I cried. I cried because one of our older neighbors shared a celebratory moment with us. Well, she shared the news of the birth of her first grandson with "Kelly" and "James". Somehow a couple of our neighbors have mistaken mine and Don's names for others at various points in time, but too much time has passed to correct the errors without potentially having the neighbors feel foolish. And we are not really that concerned about whether or not these sweet people know our names. It gives a certain anonymity to the ways in which we are able to serve them by listening, mowing their lawns, carpooling on occasion... generally whatever is needed.

In much the same way that that Grandma told us of her good news, other neighbors have told of frustration and fears due to health challenges, financial crisis, difficulty with relationships, and assorted other uh-ohs. How human to need to share the joys, burdens, and day-to-day what-not of our lives with another. My tears were due to my sadness that so many people seem to have few close personal relationships which meet this need to share. So I care. I watch for the eyes that seem to be communicating more than "Hi!", or for the pause at the end of "Fine" as a response to "How are you?" that means there are many more words that can follow the expected response if I will make the time to listen and care. How precious are those moments when we are able to say without words, just by listening, that someone is precious and that what matters to them matters to someone else.
Today, I am thankful for "Kelly" and "James". I hope they will become ever more present.

Progressive

Last Saturday I lost my voice. And last Saturday evening I got my hair cut. (I do not recommend this.) The stylist repeated back my desires word-perfect, so I figured the lack of voice was a non-issue. Except that the words may not have meant what I thought they meant. I returned home with a good three to four inches less hair than intended. I went to sleep freaked out over my new Bad Hair. Fortunately, the poufing resultant from extreme loss-of-length receded with the applications of a well-placed blow-dryer and hair gel.It's taken a year and a half to grow out the auburn home color (see "fat" picture above left from 5/2007) and long locks favored for close to two decades (middle photo, 10/2008), but after the shorter-than-intended cut, the natural shade has almost regained dominance. I present the progression from hefty with hippy hair to present-day Mom-ness. While the new 'do is entirely unintentional, I have decided that I like it despite the inability to pull it up in a ponytail on lazy... er, busy days!

Early Voting

And done. We drove over to the community college today to cast our votes. I read all the different names of the candidates and decided I would stick with my straight party ticket. Now it is just waiting for November 4th to come and go so that the omnipresent campaigns will end. I would like to know where I can cast a vote limiting campaigns to a single quarter... or maybe just six weeks.

Back to School

Weeks ago Katie came to us asking to be home schooled. This request led to considerable prayer, innumerable internet searches, much discussion, and lots of opinions being offered. The great Home School Debate of '08 has come to an end for now in our household. Despite my initial excitement at the idea of spending every day with my daughter(s) rather than sending them off from 8:00 - 3:00, we have come to the decision that home school will not happen this year barring some extreme unforeseen circumstance.
During the time we spent mulling whether or not to home school, one friend realized that she and her husband are called to school their daughters while another continues to consider which route will be best for her girls. There is a measure of wistfulness as I contemplate the fun they will have, and the closeness they will enjoy with their girls as both teachers and parents. There is also a recognition of the freedom they sacrifice and the weight of being solely responsible for their children's educations. Which means I can sincerely cheer them on in their incredible undertaking while still feeling comfortable with dropping off my own duckies in the carpool lane Monday through Friday knowing that should the need to educate them at home arise it can be done well. Ultimately, all parents are teaching and training whether we do it in partnership with a public, private, charter, or home school coop. It is that sense of purpose that I believe ultimately matters more than the method or location.

Begin Again

Our Sunday evening small group met for the last time. I do not need closure. I need to wedge a door stop in to keep the entry to one another's lives open. There is a deeply rooted need to continue nurturing the relationships with our "current" friends who are slipping quietly into last week while maintaining the ties to those who we already see rarely. Resistant to the idea of "What next?" because I was content with what was, I am unprepared. After meeting weekly for a year, I find my heart invested in these people. Don and I left the last Bible study meeting and drove home talking about the challenges of building long-term relationships in a transient, mobile society.
The world is disposable, and it shows in our relationships. Our landfills are testimony to our lives from plastic diapers to paper plates and fast food wrappers, modern life runs on convenience. Without hopping on the green soapbox, I do protest the carry over of our disposable lifestyle when it comes to relationships. My friends are not starter homes that I will replace with fancier models as I move up to something better, or mirrors with only the appearance of depth, but precious individuals with unique quirks, ideas, thoughts, hopes, dreams, beliefs, and ideas. Each one is a gem regardless of cut, clarity, or setting.
So I proposed to my spouse an idea this morning. Friday night potlucks. By the end of the week no one really wants to cook, and everyone is tired. So I would like to open our home up one Friday a month to welcome our friends be they old, new, or somewhere in between to join us in a simple potluck meal. I'm going to start pitching the idea today to the mommies and see who else likes this thought, but I have an image in my head of regular informal gatherings--- a kaleidoscope of the brightest bits in our lives swirling in and out over the months. Keeping us in touch, and illuminating our home with the brightest lights in our lives. Some months there might be an e-vite, an invite, or a phone call... but entirely random because I have become ever more random myself. Yesterday's questioning and slight sadness at an ending has begun to blossom into the joy of a new beginning.

Hallowed

When Evan was a toddler and Katie was a baby, we trick-or-treated a couple of times. Then our church began to offer an alternative to the cultural celebration of Halloween. Personally, I am a fan of anything that involves dressing up and candy. I am not a fan of the macabre. Or the gross. The years of attending "Hallelujah! Night" on October 31st allowed us to not be cultural misfits, and to put off the Halloween Discussion for a time. We swayed back and forth in the years when the event was moved from 10/31 to the weekend before, and allowed the kids to still dress up, even Trick-or-Treating to a couple of neighbors' homes last year in the absence of an easy alternative.
This year is different. I feel the pull on the one hand of my culture and several decades of "Halloween Fun", but on the other hand is the consideration of how the early church incorporated such cultural what-not into the calendar just so that people would show up. Not cool. Into my quandary comes the voice of a friend's child saying, "We don't do Halloween. We go bowling. And eat candy." That voice was hot on the heels of one of my own spouting the ridiculous, "Mawwwwm--- we know it's Satan's Birthday, but it's not like that's what we are celebrating." (Otherwise intelligent child say what!?) So I told the kids to research Halloween, Sam Hain, harvest festivals, etc.
They sort of almost did (research = poll of peers), and returned with the response that the historical basis for our current Halloween traditions are based on people trying to scare off malevolent spirits or "dead souls". We added the info that people put out treats to try to bribe the same spirits in hopes of having no evil or mischief done. The children informed us that they know that stuff is fiction, and they want to dress up and eat candy.
The 13-year-old really does not need seasonal encouragement to dress in a LOTR or Star Wars costume. Those are pretty much reserved for days that end in "y". We just keep repeating our emphatic "no" for that one. The middle child was given permission to attend a Halloween theme party last night despite our reservations, and with a fair amount of discussion beforehand. She was shocked to find the level of yuck, grotesque, horror, and creepy at the McMansion where the party was held by people who really get into Halloween. There was way more talking after she returned home, and definitely more understanding of why Mom and Dad have a big thumb's down for one of the most profitable holidays of the retail year. The youngest child really doesn't care because everyday is something of a costume party for her, and as long as she gets some candy she is generally not concerned about Halloween at all. She does have a ghoulish fascination with the animatronic severed hands and ghouls that line the aisles of MegaMart and SuperSpot, but she will be equally enthralled by ice skating snowmen and dancing Santas in a few more weeks.
I am just not sure if we will be bowling, hiding out in our darkened home, at the movies, or if we will just go find a church with a "Fall Festival" on the 31st. There are likely a few more family discussions to come on this one as we hash out the latest in the series of debates on culture vs Christ.

Little Star

That is a twinkie dancing outfit on our girlie. It is not her first choice color, but it is a light blue that came in at "close enough" to gray to suit her. I love the way her instructor opts out on the Dance Nazi routine by choosing to offer the girls instruction including proper technique and terminology, but she does not treat the herd of 5-7 year olds like they are all going to grow up to be professional ballerinas. In other words, the class looked like fun while still clearly being a class.
Erin has also been selected to serve in the church's Christmas Festival by "reading" (from memory) Luke 2. The hope is that there will be four wee people reciting Luke 2, but for the immediate moment there are two confirmed readers. Katie has been volunteered as a third possibility, but she has a band concert on the Thursday night when she would otherwise be rehearsing for the big Christmas performance. Not too sure how that might work. Did I mention that Don is playing bass in the same program schedule? It's going to be a little busy, but still fun.
In anticipation of me saying, "Yes" to anything or anyone else, I woke up with a case of laryngitis this morning. Perfect reason for a quiet evening at home tonight now that my in-laws have headed back home after their visit.

Articulate

Last night Evan asked me if I am familiar with the scratching sound that cotton makes when one rubs it with a finger. He describes his response to this sound saying, "it makes my blood run cold and sets my teeth on edge". He wondered how I handled that feeling. Oh. (Big girls. They do so cry. But not right now. Because it will freak him out.) Autism is not supposed to be characterized by this sort of verbal ability. But Bipolar Disorder comes with a need to speak aptly referred to as forced speech. Sometimes the Boy is locked away in silence, but this is not one of those times.
Tonight he is wandering a path paved with words that are beginning to bridge the chasm carved out by my hopes and expectations, his wants and likes, and our shared challenges and frustrations in trying to hold onto a relationship that threatens to slither away from us as we enter the teen years.

Me around the swelling in my throat while frantically blinking to prevent tears: "That's sensory."

The Boy: "What? What's sensory?"

Me: "The feeling. It's a sensory thing... and an autism thing. You are sensitive to certain things that I might not notice, but that can overwhelm your senses. You feel things differently, but not just the sensory stuff. Your reaction to the sensory feelings are different, too. Your responses to those feelings are more like mine because they are sometimes too big--- that's a bipolar thing."

The Boy: "Oh. Okay."

Yeah, it is okay.