That’s my girl

At 4:00pm our house is lively. Our dog eagerly waits by the door with his tail wagging 100mph. You can hear the kids before they even open the garage door. Our 3 elementary aged children are home from school. For the next 5 minutes they are greeting the dog, asking for a snack, fighting over the bathroom, shoving papers at me and talking over each other to tell me about their day. It is chaotic and probably my favorite part of the day.

Yesterday, my first grader told me how happy she was that she was the only one in her class that could open a classmate’s water bottle. She was thrilled with her strength. And she happily showed off her muscles. I congratulated her by singing part of her favorite song to her, That’s my girl by fifth harmony. The children and I often communicate via song lyrics. I’m pretty sure that’s normal …

Anything strength related has been swirling around my brain lately. One of the areas I have the privilege of serving in at our church is youth ministry. I love it. Like truly love it. We have youth that are an absolute joy to be around. We have youth that struggle to be kind. We have youth that are obnoxious. We have youth that are difficult. We have youth that are hilarious. And I love every one of them.

Youth groups in churches vary in size and age. Our particular group has a big chunk in upper middle school. Remember that age? Or did you permanently block it? Do you remember how intense everything was? How every relationship you had, you felt with 100% emotion, how you couldn’t see past the day, you couldn’t see past whatever circumstance you were dealing with in that moment. This is one of my favorite ages (though I realize I may be in the minority) because there is an unending opportunity to point them to Christ.

In the near future, I will be speaking to the girls in our youth group about strength. I’m so excited. I hope that I can light up like my first grader. But I won’t be showing off my muscles. I will be sharing how in my weakness, in their (& my) current and future weakness, Jesus’s strength, His power is made perfect. His grace is sufficient. That is mind-blowing.

This group of girls is amazing. I am so thankful for the chance to know them. They are vastly different. Their current struggles are vastly different. I am excited to see how God works in their lives. How will they use their personalities and gifts for his glory? I’m praying big things for them. Oh that they would find their strength not in themselves, but in the Lord!

I recently shared that I turned 35. The age difference between these youth girls and myself is more than a few years. And that age difference becomes obvious sometimes. Like, picking out shirts. At age 35, my favorite color shirt is black. Isn’t that everyone’s favorite? I find myself like Lego batman. I work in black and sometimes, very, very dark gray. Fortunately for our youth group, one of the other female leaders has a daughter in this age group and she is a great reference for us. I guess black isn’t what all the cool kids wear. Who knew?

But here’s the crazy part, what is relevant and applicable to me as a daughter of the King, is also relevant an applicable to them, as well as to the preschool kids in my Sunday School class, when they put their trust in Christ. Whether they are facing trials in academics, in gut wrenching trauma, in their identity, in friendship, they can hold fast to the promises in scripture. They can find hope in Christ. They can trust that real strength isn’t about physical muscles, or putting a smile on their faces when life is crumbling around them. Real strength comes from knowing, resting in and trusting the God of the bible.

 

#thisis35

I recently turned 35. Songs from high school are now on the oldies station. I think the year 2000 was still less than ten years ago. My favorite pants are pajama pants. And my idea of a good time is going to bed early. Wow. I turned “old” in the blink of an eye. I don’t think I’ve ever wondered what 35 would be like. And, to be honest, that’s unfortunate, because 35 is awesome.

On my 35^th birthday, my son had one of his regular check-in appointments at the Seattle Autism Center with his developmental pediatrician. On this particular visit, we also had a doctor doing their fellowship and a resident. Our plan was to put the younger kids on the bus and head into Seattle. Plans sometimes don’t work, and in this case, a 2-hour school late start put a wrinkle in our plan. Thankfully, I had two friends reach out to me, knowing we had this morning appointment and ask if they could help with our other three children. #thisis35

We, my amazing husband and son, headed into Seattle a little early knowing the roads might be more winter-y than Seattleites are used to. The Seattle Autism center is a fantastic facility. They are full of resources, smiles and they have our doctor. Our doctor is kind, patient, encouraging and extremely knowledgeable. My husband tells me for the tenth? (I’m not sure, I lost count), time that he’s sorry this is how we are spending my birthday. What this handsome man doesn’t know, is that, spending my birthday with him and our son is nothing to apologize about. #thisis35

Appointments for our son are emotionally draining. We know this and we think we prepare for it, but every single time, we still feel depleted. It is sort of a check yourself moment. Check yourself. Make sure you didn’t forget that your son has a lifelong neurological and developmental disorder. Make sure that as his peers from childhood are getting their drivers licenses and preparing for high school and are dating, that you don’t forget that your son isn’t like his peers. Make sure that you haven’t forgotten, that you are still in the depths of a fight. A fight for services, supports and acceptance. #thisis35

Following our appointment, I am drained. My husband is drained. But we see that our son is drained, agitated and physically and emotionally stressed. His body language, his actual language and the way he interacts with his ipad are screaming to us that he needs a break. He needs time to attempt to gain control of himself before a meltdown begins. So, we go to the van, get buckled in and my husband and I exchange our look. The look that says, I’m tired. So, so tired. But we need to find another gear, we need to rise above because there isn’t another option. #thisis35

So, why is 35 awesome? I woke up to loads of facebook posts from friends near and far wishing me a happy birthday. Friends from my childhood, friends from my neighborhood and through every chapter of life thus far, each taking a moment to let me know they care. I had text messages from friends and family when I woke up and throughout the day. I had phone calls and I think I even had an email from my dentist, all wishing me happy birthday. #thisis35

At the age of 35, I am so thankful for each of the people that God has placed in my life. I wish that I was closer in location to so many of them, but I get to stay up to date with pictures, stories and status updates from them. I know that friendship looks different than it did 20 years ago, and I’m ok with that. Thirty-five means being thankful for small things and big things. I’m thankful for the tradition of birthday donuts. I’m thankful that our kids get so excited to celebrate someone in our family. I’m thankful for homemade cards. I’m thankful for my husband, my children, my family, my friends and my church. #thisis35

At thirty-five, I know who I am. I don’t like black coffee. I have list of foods I don’t care for. I love impromptu dance parties in my kitchen with my kids. I love learning more about Christ. I love that I’ve been given his word that I can feast on. I love the most amazing man. I have the best friends a girl could ask for. I love my family. I love each of my children. I love knowing that despite life not being perfect, life is perfectly awesome. I’m grateful for every scar and wrinkle, though those could slow down … ahem … because they tell a story. A story of God’s goodness in my life. Guys, 35 is pretty great. #thisis35

God is good in Autism

Originally written May 2017

The room was tiny. Not like a doctor’s office, but more like a small office. A desk, a few chairs and some odds and ends toys. We were called into the room by the speech pathologist who had just finished compiling all the information. Information from the day and information on the previous 11 years, 11 months and 20 some odd days since the moment our baby boy was born. M had just completed the ADOS test. The autism diagnostic observation schedule is a tool used to test for autism. The lady was nice. She was good with our son and she had a very kind demeanor. She isn’t able to officially diagnose. Autism spectrum disorder (ASD) isn’t easy to diagnose. There are very few people (occupations) that can diagnose because of the complexity of the disorder.

I felt heavy. Sounds weird, I know. But it felt like I had bricks on my shoulders. We were given our “Welcome to autism packet” along with other resources and with a sympathetic smile, we were sent on our way. We left Seattle Children’s hospital that day with the same boy. The one who always kept us on our toes. The one who didn’t allow us to be on anything other than our ‘A game’ as parents. The one who I had prayed years that God would bless us with. The hilarious, often difficult, artistic, animal loving, rigid thinking, things are black and white, boy.

We got into the car, buckled our seatbelts, answered his questions of if he did ok. I think he picked up on our emotions, despite how hard we were trying to keep them hidden. Paul turned the car on. And a song came on that ministered heavy to me. I am a pastor’s wife. I know that there are many preconceived ideas that come along with that title. I enjoy some Christian music, not all. But the majority of time, it’s not what is played in my mom-van. But God knew I needed to listen to a song that I had previously heard. This time, it was just heard differently.

The lyrics cut deep. Letting go of every single dream, I lay each one down at your feet, Every moment of my wandering, Never changes what you see. When you don’t move the mountains I’m needing you to move, When you don’t part the waters, I wish I could walk through, When you don’t give the answers, As I cry out to you, I will trust, I will trust in you. The tears fell. Silently. But they were heavy. M was behind me in the back seat. Oblivious to the weighty emotion that I was trying my best not to give into. I looked over at my husband. I don’t know how to accurately describe my husband to people who don’t know him. He is a complete and total rockstar. He is amazing. He has faults, he’s the first to admit, but he truly is the best. His eyes were full of tears. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME, I thought. Visibly seeing his emotion, meant that any hope I had of gaining control of myself was tossed out the window.

Ready or not, wanted or not, we were now a part of the parents of an autistic child club. I struggle with how to communicate all the emotions we felt. I knew that this would be a rollercoaster. I just assumed that it would stop. Or slow down. And maybe, eventually it will. Our son’s official diagnosis followed a few weeks after the day I described. We are 6+ months post diagnosis. Here is a list of some of the things I’ve learned in that six months.

1. Our son is truly amazing. He, like each of our children, was created in the image of God and for a purpose. He struggles so hard with everyday tasks, things that come as easy as breathing to me, take a tremendous amount of strength for him. Some days he’s able to do better than others. But all those years where I thought he was just being difficult, I understand more now.
2. We have an incredible support system. What I left out in the day I described above, was the texts that I received from friends. I have a couple friends who check in with me to see how I’m doing on a regular basis. I have the freedom in those relationships to talk as much as I want about autism or to say nothing at all. Our family loves M. There are people in our family who celebrate M’s victories just as hard as we do as his parents. They see him. They love him. Our church. I really should say churches. Plural. We’ve been so blessed to be a part of a couple churches who have saw difficulties that M has had. And they roll up their sleeves and walk along beside him and us. They pray for him. And they pray for us. I am so thankful for the people God has placed in our lives. It is lonely and often isolating when you have a child with a disability. It is difficult for people to truly understand, but we have a tribe of people who try to understand and even if they can’t, the love us regardless.
3. Nothing really changes. I thought that when we got the official diagnosis. When he was given the ASD diagnosis, people would understand more. They would see that he wasn’t trying to be difficult when he was scrambling to get away from smells he doesn’t like. Or when he shuts down from sensory overload. But we still have to fight. That isn’t going away. People still have preconceived, uneducated opinions about him and his ability level or even the diagnosis itself. Some days when I run into those people, I am patient. Other days, it takes every ounce of effort not to throat punch them. To be fair to them, they don’t know. They have no idea what our life looks like. What kind of systems our family has in place in order to help him get through his day. Or what happens when he just can’t function. They don’t know the depth of our struggles over his entire life. And it’s unfair for me to think they should. I just hope that people can as a whole, be a little more compassionate, not to me, but to him.
4. I really do have to trust. I 100% believe that God is good. I don’t know why M has autism. I don’t know why I don’t. Or why our other children don’t have it, too. Or even why he has the ability to speak. Or why he can present well on some days and not on others. I truly have zero control over autism and it makes me crazy. It highlights my inability to make life for my children look the way I think it should look as their mom. M knows that he autism. But he doesn’t know why and he wants to know. He tries to come up with a reason. But there isn’t one. Trusting God with my children is difficult, though that’s really dumb considering that he loves them far more than I can even fathom. I don’t have parenting figured out. Not even kind of. Not for any of my children. On difficult days, which sadly, is pretty much daily, I have to get my strength from Christ, because I am exhausted. Overwhelmed. Unqualified.
5. Counting my blessings. I am so thankful that in the midst of hard days, weeks, months or even years, God has given me the ability to see past whatever struggle I am having and see glimpses of how he is working things to my good. Some days this is easier than others, but it’s still there. Our daily goal is for God to be glorified. For him to be made much of. I don’t know why M has autism. But I know that God is glorified in it. I know that in the nitty gritty details of our lives, God is there. I know that in the big moments of our life, God is there, too. I know that in the moment where we are given our back stage passes to the autism club, God is there. He is there and he is reminding me that I need to lay down all of these dreams I had for M and each of our children at his feet. In the moments that I am wondering what is going on, what the future holds, HE knows. I can’t move mountains. I can’t take away the way the air smells. I can’t take away crowds from places. I can’t take away loud noises or bright lights. Or magically make my son aware of how to behave socially or have the ability to read social cues. But I can wake up each day and trust that God is good. He loves my son. My autistic son. The son that he knit together in my womb. And I love him, too.

The Journey Begins

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton