Her name is Goldie.  She’s the sweetest little thing with a personality that shimmers.  She’s energetic, bubbly, and very curious.  Yes, that’s right we have a new member of the family.  After some thought I took the plunge with a net into the tank and brought home a goldfish.  She’s not some common carnival prize type fish she’s a fancy orange fantailed goldfish who now lives in an overpriced vase I bought at the Colorado Mountain Fair.

Goldie isn’t our first fish.  We started with Woody and Buzz when Luke was in kindergarten but Woody ate Buzz and that left us with just one fish.  He was a great little fish though.  Not particularly handsome for a fish but he was playful enough.  That was back in the days of the more traditional type bowl although it was a little more hip than most.  It wasn’t one of those drum shaped bowls where the mouth is a small circle at the top.  No we had a round bowl where the opening is as wide as the circumference of the bowl.  My Aunt Mabel and Uncle Morris had that kind of bowl and in my opinion it’s much better.  Your fish can swim laps instead of just up and down.

Woody had a great life in his old school bowl and he kept the boys very entertained from his spot on the countertop while they ate at the table.  Something about his circular swimming fascinated them and kept them still long enough to eat a meal thus elevating Woody’s status to a bona fide pet and member of the family.  Then it happened, our first pet crisis and we were totally caught off guard.  I know you’re thinking how can she remember this but trust me it was a big deal so much so that when I asked my friend Arliss to go pick out a new fish with me after tennis one night she exclaimed, “Oh my gosh I remember when the first one died!” 

It was a school day and Luke was in first grade and it was Wednesday the day the class took their spelling pre-test which made hump day tense.  Tense because with his perfectionist personality Luke had to ace the test or he would meltdown because having to take the final test on Friday was completely unacceptable to him.  In first grade it was a ten word test but by the time he hit eighth grade it was twenty-five.  In his entire nine year Lutheran school experience Luke only failed to pass the practice test a handful of times and every time whatever teacher he had would give me a heads up at pick-up time so I’d know what to expect when Luke got in the car.  Spelling for Luke is as consistent as Brett Favre at passing.  He’s all-pro and rarely misses.  Wednesday’s were game day. 

It was the fall and I’d dropped Luke off at school and then got his brother to preschool which left a small little window of time for me to breathe.  Before children a three hour block of time could be completely wasted with no afterthought but with two full-tilt kids every second had to count.  I came home from the second drop-off thinking I’d pay the bills, get the laundry done, and maybe squeeze in some exercise but when I went to grab a glass of water I saw Woody sideways and floating.  I thought surely he had just discovered a new stroke or was playing dead but after a few taps to the bowl it became clear that Woody had swum his last lap. 

I stood there staring at the bowl wondering what in the world I should do.  I had a brief flashback of a fish burial when I was kid where my brother dug a little hole and put our dead goldfish in it and we offered a little prayer.  That was always an option.  The boys and I were walking the beach on Bainbridge Island in Washington with their Grandpa and we found a small dead shark that we named Charlie and buried under Grandpa’s deck so I thought the boys might want to bury Woody.   Giving a shark you don’t know a proper burial suggests you’d probably want to give your beloved goldfish a funeral with maybe even a wake afterwards but who knows?  Anticipating what will go through the mind of a six year old boy is as precarious as guessing what a man in the throes of a midlife crisis is thinking.  It’s not possible! 

That, however, is exactly what living with a six year old hyper-vigilant autistic kid is like.  You have no idea what is going through their minds but you know that when a meltdown happens it’s not going to be pretty so you’re going to do whatever it takes to avoid that.  This isn’t an uncommon experience for many parents but for those with particularly sensitive children it’s all about taking off your shoes and walking around in socks so that the other shoe can never drop.

Unfortunately every parent carries a little baggage with them heading into the job and because a lot of unexpected bad things have happened in my life I’m prone to being a bit hyper-vigilant myself.  I’m not autistic but I can relate to this aspect of my boys personalities because I know how unsettling sudden change can be.  Whether it’s good or bad any new reality that emerges quickly on the scene can trigger a great deal of insecurity. 

That being said the fish is dead and it’s a Wednesday and while I was confident Luke had those spelling words down pat I couldn’t be certain so one more thing in the mix was just too much.  I panicked and then the quest to find a replacement started.  My plan – find Woody’s twin after all he was just your run of the mill goldfish so it couldn’t be too hard. 

My first stop was Walmart because we’d bought Woody there so it seemed reasonable to think I’d find his twin there.  No luck.  All the fish were too small.  Of course they weren’t as well cared for as our Woody and they were younger but these were discoveries I hadn’t reasoned through in my haste to find a replacement so next stop was the only real “aquatic” store in town.  Now of course I’ve swum to the other side of the fish pendulum and we have all sorts of fancy varieties of goldfish that look more like koi fish.  This won’t do so off I go to the pet store where I find myself standing in front of several tanks staring at goldfish.  The clock is ticking and my anxiety level is rising and after a great deal of inspection I find what I think is a suitable replacement. 

I rush home and get the new Woody in the bowl after flushing the old Woody and head out to the preschool pick-up.  This will be the first test.  If Woody II passes Chase’s inspection then there’s a shot that Luke won’t notice anything or at least his observations will all be things I can explain away.  I bring home the boy and get some lunch on the table acting as nonchalant as possible.  Chase eats and nothing is said.  Of course he was a man of few words at the time but still the first hurdle had been jumped. 

Now it’s time for pick-up and I’m nervously optimistic.  One minute I’m thinking about spelling and the next I’m wondering if the water-level in the bowl is just right.  I get to the parking lot and see Arliss who wants the full report since she was fully aware of the morning’s events.  I mention this because I consider her an accomplice in the whole fish bait and switch.  No bad plan is ever hatched alone! (Pardon all the obvious puns here!)

While Arliss and I are talking I see Mrs. Hollatz, Luke’s teacher, come out and as soon as she gives me the nod signaling a successful spelling test I breathe my first sigh of relief.  Luke hops in the car and we head home and I’m hopeful.   Worst case Luke will meltdown but it will only be fish related and not a double whammy of spelling grief and fish grief. 

We get home and head into the house and before Luke even has his backpack set down he spots the faux Woody.  He immediately asks, “What happened to Woody?”  I try for about 30 seconds to play dumb and then lose it and confess that Woody died and as hard as I tried I couldn’t save him and so I went out and got a new fish.  There was a brief pause and then the meltdown started.  Every imaginable question was raised and every answer to those questions was offered.  For example, “Did you take him to the doctor Mom?” asks Luke.  To which I answer, “No Luke I didn’t because they don’t have fish doctors?”  Luke counters with, “Well what about Dr. Patrice she’s smart?”  Then I respond, “Yes, Luke she is but she only works with children not fish.”  Then you can guess he asks, “Why not?” and the silly endeavor of reasoning with a six year old continues. 

After several volleys Luke bursts into tears and goes to his room and this is when I begin to question my parenting skills.  Of course I don’t have much time for that but while I’m keeping the household going the thoughts racing through my mind are all about why and how this has to be so hard?  I’m asking myself why anything can’t be simple.  Why is it that we can’t have a dead goldfish in our house without a meltdown? 

At the time answers to these questions eluded me like a Rubik’s cube.  I could twist and turn my mind through every possible scenario to explain things but ultimately wind up with one or two squares that just didn’t fit.  Everything felt hard with my boys and I was worn out.  Manic goldfish hunting is a sure sign of that.  Whenever you experience a response on your part that is way out of proportion to the stimulus take notice.  You have probably tapped into some deeply hidden emotional hurt.

Yes, I was afraid of the meltdown and that somehow we wouldn’t recover.  Life for parents with a special needs kiddo often involves what is referred to as the DIF/NEI equation.  All children have meltdowns, they sass back, and say no.  Every kid gets sick and all kids like structure and routine.  All parents have to deal with teachers and school stuff.  These things are part of the parenting job description.  The events involved in raising a child with a disability are not that different from the events that are part of raising any child.  The difference is in the duration, intensity, and frequency multiplied by the number of exceptional issues. 

The list of issues for the boys at the time was long and I was worn out.  When Woody kicked the bucket I just didn’t believe I had what it took to go the distance on the fish issue.  Looking back what time and a little perspective have taught me is that if you don’t believe you have the strength to lift any kind of burden be it as light as a paperclip or as heavy as an ox you don’t. 

I didn’t think I could handle it so I couldn’t.  I’m not suggesting here that I thought I had to muster up the emotional fortitude for the situation at hand.  I didn’t think that.  I knew I didn’t have it.  What escaped me at the time is that God would supply me in my need.  In my manic spiral down I’d shrunk God’s power down to the size of a goldfish and a ten word spelling test.   I didn’t believe that, “Nothing is impossible with God.”  The promise that, “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength”, was nowhere to be found in my database.  The normal frustrations of parenting life had been multiplied and amplified so much the voice of the Holy Spirit had been drowned out.   My spiritual vocabulary had been pushed to the farthest corner of my mind because I felt pressed on every side. 

 What I needed to find wasn’t a solution (e.g. a new fish).  What I needed was a quiet moment of reason where the still small voice of God could move from behind the situation and say its okay.  Luke can rebound.  Luke will rebound and so will you.  This crisis which feels like a storm is really just a bump in the road.  Fix your eyes on me not the waves around you.  This too shall pass. I’m with you and I will carry you through this.  This burden is not heavy but the enemy wants you to think it is. 

Now looking at my new friend Goldie I have a perspective that time and perseverance bring because we survived the first fish crisis.  It was several days of questions and more than one meltdown but when I look at Luke across the table he appears unfazed.  When Goldie appeared a bit sheepish the other day I moved the bowl because I didn’t want to see her go belly up while we were eating and I was surprised when Luke noticed.  He asked why the bowl was missing and because I didn’t want to lie I said I thought she might be dying.  I paused thinking he might be concerned and then he nonchalantly said, “Oh well fish die.  It’s no big deal we can get a new one.”  Wow I thought we certainly have come a long way. 

My prayers for flexibility, adaptability, resiliency in the life of my boys have been heard.  My prayers for strength and stamina to go the distance with them through it all have been heard.  Not in response to, but in spite of my manic efforts at times, God has been faithful to provide.  He’s met our needs one day and one crisis at a time and He will meet yours.  He will meet you in the small seemingly insignificant things like a dead fish or a missed spelling word and He will meet you in the big stuff – your anger, fear, shame, grief or loss.  Your crisis is His opportunity to speak if you stop to listen.  You don’t need a solution, you don’t need a replacement you just need to be still and He will show you He is God and nothing is impossible with Him.  Looking into the faces of my growing boys I see that more and more every day.  God is good his mercies are new everyday! 

The headline read, “Cool Hand Luke”, but my sight was so blurred by the tears in my eyes I wasn’t sure I had read it right. It took Kleenex and coffee before I could read the story but the picture and the headline said it all.  Luke had won his second tournament of the summer and in just two weeks time his back to back wins and years of hard work were finally noticed by our small town paper. Luke’s won before but the newspaper finally caught up with a headline a press agent would die for.   

It sounds vain to want your child’s accomplishments celebrated in such a way.  I suppose it is but there’s a lot more to this and everyone who really knows our family understands why.  The reporter writing the story doesn’t and that’s the best part.  You see he just thinks Luke is another one of the junior players in town working his way up the ranks which is indeed true.   For our family and friends, however, it’s another matter entirely.  It’s not just Luke’s win it’s ours. 

Part of me wants the full story known because it is such a triumph.  I’d like to take the reporter aside after Luke’s interview and tell him the back story.  It would make great copy and be inspiring but is that fair?  I don’t know what the other kids have overcome to get where they are so I’m not sure I should go there.  Not to mention one of the goals for Luke has always been to fit in and he’s doing that.  He might not be the most eloquent of tennis players but he holds his own and actually handles the attention better than some “normal” kids would. 

Still, what I’m dying to tell the reporter is that this kid who at first glance looks like all the other Nike sporting teenagers in his bracket is anything but typical.  For most of his life he hasn’t fit in but with tennis he’s found his niche.  He’s got a team, or some might say a tribe, and life is a much better thing when you are surrounded by people cheering you on.

I also want to tell the newspaper man that it’s not just Luke winning everyone who has invested in his life both on and off the court is winning.  If I were to send a copy of Luke’s headline story to every person that has been a part of his success it would take hours just to get enough papers and even more time and postage to mail them all. 

Making the list would be hard.  I’m not sure how I’d start.  If it were an Academy Award moment the orchestra would cut me off before I’d even made a dent in the list anyway. How do you thank the cast of characters (I say that with love!) that have been involved in Luke’s life since he was four years old?  Where all kids have a list of folks who’ve nurtured them - life for an autistic kid requires a longer list. 

It’s a list that includes pediatricians, speech therapists, occupational therapists, resource specialists, instructional aides, and other folks who have expertise your kiddo needs.  Then you have teachers and volunteers at school who do the day in day out work and deserve more than just a nod.  Add to that the children’s church workers, pastors, and Young Life leaders that have all made an extra effort.   After compiling those names you could start with the tennis folks and then you should really add the snowboarding instructors because he’s not just a one sport kid.  The list keeps growing and you haven’t even mentioned the countless people praying for your kid who do so simply because their heart leads them that way. 

When I think about the people who make up this list I know that most of them would think they’ve played a minor role in Luke’s life even some that have worked with him for years.  It’s definitely a list of very humble people and usually they refuse to take any credit for his success.  Of course this makes them even more special in my mind because they’ve done it for Luke’s gain not their own.   I know without a doubt how vital the roles they’ve played have been in what I like to call Team Luke.  It’s a caravan of social connections that have been helping him travel through life for over 12 years now.  The road has been bumpy at times and sometimes even a bit scary but nobody gave up. 

As a result, every one of those people who has been on this journey with us has broadened Luke’s horizons.  Where the picture for his life at one time looked narrowly focused it’s now much wider than we could have imagined.  These folks have done this first by caring about him and then caring for him.  Through each one of them and their various networks we’ve been linked to something that Luke needed and later on down the road something Chase has needed.  God’s provision as we’ve traveled has been amazing. 

Over the years people have asked me what healing would look like for Luke?  Would one day we be able to say he wasn’t autistic anymore or would he always be and it was just a matter of learning to deal with it.  These are the kinds of questions that are hard to answer but I usually say I think it will come in layers.  I believe that’s how most healing we experience comes - in layers.  The philosopher/ogre Shrek said that love and ogres are like onions they have many layers and I’ve hung onto this metaphor believing the same is true of healing. 

Healing for Luke has come and is coming in layers.  Those layers have been built upon a foundation of God’s grace, mercy, and love demonstrated through all the people who have journeyed through Luke’s life with him.  Healing looks like a kid who back in the day could barely tolerate the playground and now walks out onto a tennis court in the blistering sun and gives it all he’s got.  He handles the pressure, the distractions, the weather, and even being the center of attention like he was born to do it but in fact he wasn’t.  Sometimes he wins and sometimes he loses but the picture as a whole is still what healing looks like.

That snapshot isn’t one a reporter or photographer can capture but for those in the know Luke’s face on the front page of the sports section is a picture that is worth a thousand words.  Thanks for reading these words and thanks for being a part of God’s healing hand at work in the life of Luke as well as his number one fan Chase. 

I don’t know what the future holds but if by chance it includes a Wimbledon final you might want to put in your request for tickets now!  In the meantime, there’s plenty of room on the bleachers at GJHS where Luke will be playing this fall.  All he asks is that you not say, “Good try!” when he misses a shot. 

It’s been a crazy few days around our house.  I knew it would be when the weekend started and ended with a three day tennis tournament.  Granted I’m not the player but every sports Mom knows supporting the athlete takes some effort.  There are schedules to coordinate, meals to be made, bags to be packed, and all sorts of details to be prepared for.  I don’t camp and I wasn’t a Boy Scout but I have adopted the motto “always be prepared” when it comes to a tournament.  If you don’t take a chair you are guaranteed to find your kid playing on a court without bleachers and even if you pack the most nutritious lunch possible he will be hungry again so you have to pack snacks and lots of them.

With even the best of preparation beforehand some detail will be forgotten.  In this case it was the headphones for the Nintendo DS that Chase brings to matches because for Luke’s little brother tennis is boring.  For the one match he was asked to endure not having the headphones was a crisis.  Fortunately, this tennis mom had packed a stash of tootsie pops and the crisis was averted.  However, in anticipation of the next memory lapse a back-up pair of ear buds is now in the tennis bag.  Lesson learned.

Isn’t that how life works?  Despite your very best efforts in all areas of your life unexpected stuff is going to come up and you will find yourself frustrated.  When they say the devil is in the details they aren’t kidding.  I’m not sure who the proverbial “they” are but I know they are right.  Amidst the joys of celebrating lots of hard won tennis victories and what they represented for Luke there have been some really nagging joy stealers.   

Things like a problem with the roof that required fixing, the air conditioning going out, the dishwasher leaking water, the water heater rumbling, and several large limbs from the Elm trees in my yard were brought down by the wind.  All these events were in the fixable category and then there was the people drama which usually isn’t fixable and of course wouldn’t be cool to talk about.  In a short span of time it was a bit much.  Sandwiched between all those things it was my penny anniversary which didn’t go unnoticed by me but I didn’t get the time I wanted to write about it until today.

Yes, Sunday July 11^th was my three year anniversary of penny finding.  Apart from one week while I was in Mexico this last year I have still found at least one penny a day since July 11^th, 2007.  I have to confess that not finding pennies in Mexico was a little hard for me since I’d traveled there my first year of penny finding and still found one every day.  Fortunately, the minute I stepped foot back in the States I found more than a week’s worth.  With such an immediate windfall of pennies I feel comfortable saying that my penny streak hasn’t stopped and for that I’m not only amused but very grateful.  This year’s total was smaller than the previous two with only 1,895 but that’s still a heck of a lot of pennies.  The running total now is 11,841 which when you add the decimal point and dollar sign is $118.41.  Wouldn’t you love it if someone handed you a little chunk of spare change like that?  I would and I have because every penny still means something to me.

The novelty hasn’t worn off.  Saturday afternoon during the tennis tournament when I was watching Luke’s doubles match I looked down and right next to my seven year old buddy Julianna was my penny for the day.  It was mixed in with the rust colored gravel below our feet.  I’d just moved over to sit with Julie because it was ghastly hot and she spoils her Mom and me with her mister.  Nothing beats a spray on the neck with cold water in one hundred degree temperatures!

When I reached for the penny Julie was amused and asked me how I’d noticed it since it was so well camouflaged.  I smiled and told her I have a thing with pennies.  She’s a very curious young lady and wanted to know more.  I told her my story and she responded with a big hug.  Like every kid who hears the story she wanted to see the penny with the sticker on it – the one I call my penny with a note from God.  I promised one day I would show her and then we got back to focusing on the tennis with both of us cheering a little bit harder after a booster shot of penny inspiration.

It was a fitting reminder for me of exactly why the pennies still means so much.  They are a touch point in my day where I stop for just a moment as I pick one up and remember I can trust God with every detail of my life.  It’s a pause that gives me an opportunity to acknowledge that for every pesky thing I have to deal with I have a greater measure of God’s grace to sustain me. 

It’s been said that a great life is made up of lots of little moments and I believe this.  Sadly, I think the opposite can also be true.  A great life can be undermined by lots of little things.   King Solomon speaks of this in the Scriptures when he that says we are to be mindful of the little foxes than can spoil the vineyard. Those little foxes come in all sorts of sly forms and they represent the opposition that comes sneaking into our lives.  You don’t necessarily see it happening but you feel it.  Something seemingly insignificant happens and for whatever reason you find yourself feeling angry, sad, jealous, resentful, fearful, overwhelmed and all too often very discouraged. 

Before you know it you’re slouched over like a grumpy teenager without his video games (God forbid) and you’ve succumbed to the belief that you just can’t take it anymore.  If you have to endure one more set of volleys in this game called life you’re going to scream.  You find yourself making a big fuss out of something that given a little more perspective would probably look silly.  A tootsie pop in your mouth to stop your whining would probably feel condescending but it might actually be just what you need. 

This is why I love my pennies because they are little moments in my day that counter the little foxes that like to sneak into my mind.  They creep up behind me and use my wild imagination to convince me life is falling apart while they nip at my heels.  However, if the pennies could talk I think they would say, “Trust me you can take it – you’re alright.” The penny voice says you can take it because you can put your trust in God.  That is after all the message stamped on the penny not to mention the message of the Bible!  

Replacing the subconscious mindset that you can’t take it anymore with a conscious message saying yes you can is critical. This is a faith-based mindset versus a fear-based one that convinces us we are worn out and won’t make it through any hardship we might encounter.  This simply isn’t true.   Face it if you think you can’t take it anymore then the enemy has won and you can’t. 

Not everyone has a running metaphor to encourage them daily.  I’ve had people tell me they wished they had a penny equivalent and I wish that for them too.   Looking in the penny bowl as year four starts I have forty-two pennies already which leads me to believe it’s going to be another penny rich year and a great one at that.  I’m very thankful.

The last penny of 2010 was found as I was heading home from the supermarket.  It was pouring down rain when I went in.  I’d already found my penny for the day but inside I found eleven more.  I thought surely that was more than enough.  Leaving the store I was happy to find the rain had stopped.  As I was unloading my groceries I spotted another penny.  I had a huge smile on my face because it had already been such a great day how could there be more?   I bent down to pick it up and as I was straightening back up my gaze was lifted and there in the beautiful blue sky was a double rainbow.  Now that’s a great moment!

I’m not one to say that my pennies come from heaven.  It’s a cliché I still haven’t embraced but if I’ve ever had a heaven sent penny moment that had to be it.  I drove home and my entire perspective had been changed.  Rather than thinking about my house falling apart and different folks that have been grumbling with me I thought about Luke shaking hands with his opponent in his final match and humbly accepting his kudos.  I remembered his post-match interview with a reporter and how well he handled it.  Not an easy thing when you are horribly self-conscious.   I thought about running into the kid he beat for the championship at our dinner out to celebrate and his dinner out to be consoled.  Luke went out of his way to be gracious and say hello and encourage him.   Those were the real wins – moments a parent lives for. 

With my last penny in hand I considered calling Julianna to tell her that my penny count had just gone up by twelve knowing she’d be thrilled.  At seven years old she’s easily inspired but I was so wonderfully content with the moment that I just savored it.  I drove home under that rainbow reminded that none of the nagging things waiting for me mattered.  My life isn’t the sum total of those things that bite at my heels and my life isn’t the sum total of the pennies I find.  My life is about what I do with the pennies, what they teach me, and how I use them to chase away anything that would steal away a life filled with rich moments. 

 P.S.  It’s money I’ve found and so it’s money I feel like I should give away.  This year’s pennies went to Light Gives Heat.  It doesn’t cost a penny to read my blog but it does cost this organization something to help the women of Uganda.  If you have any interest in supporting their work check out what they do at http://www.lightgivesheat.org.    

At the end of the summer when my son goes back to school he’ll no doubt be asked about what he did by his teachers and classmates.  If he has his way he’ll be able to report that he was the summer 2010 Uno Champion.  While his big brother is acquiring as many friends as possible on Facebook Chase is busy challenging everyone he can to a game of cards.  He’s figured out it’s a really fun way to spend time together and it is. 

Before the card craze started I had decided that summer 2010 with the boys had to be filled with all the simple pleasures of the season -  swimming, riding bikes, playing tennis, drive-in movies, sleeping in, 4^th of July fireworks, and lots of summertime foods like fried chicken, potato salad, barbecue, and cold juicy watermelon.  I had no idea before that weekend that Uno would have to be added to the list but after my first decisive victory I wasn’t complaining.   

I’m new to Uno but it seems that everyone else on the planet isn’t.  In my data bank Uno cards come in a box that’s on an end cap at Target along with games like Farkle and Crazy Eights. I’ve never played those so why would I pick-up Uno?  My boys haven’t really been into card games so I never paid much attention.  Little did I know Uno is one of the most popular card games in existence with more reincarnations than Barbie who happens to have a Cali Girl Edition where you can draw a friendship card that allows you to swap hands with another player.  OMG - I had no idea!    

When Chase challenged me to a little Uno I never expected to actually like playing it.  I enjoy playing cards but prefer games like Gin Rummy while sitting poolside.  Saying “uno” when you only have one card left to play has only occurred to me when the waiter comes by and you can ask for “uno mojito por favor”.  However, Chase has found his competitive spirit and I really have no choice but to go along even if I don’t think of myself as someone who actually cares whether she wins or loses.   That was the case until we sat down to play and before the second deal I went from ambivalent to determined faster than the shuffle. 

Something about those plus two, reverse, skip and wild cards was just intoxicating and there was no rum involved!  Oh what I could do if the action cards in Uno could be used in real life! Beyond this intriguing thought why did I care so much about mastering the game and winning?  Probably for the same reasons most of us care about winning.  We want to feel successful and let’s face it winning feels really good. 

I was so proud of my big win first time out that I commented about it on it Facebook only to have my oldest son scold me for bragging which I deserved.  Besting your 14 year old at Uno isn’t really something to feel particularly proud of.  Unfortunately as much as I’d like to think I’m not insecure I am and in this case during that first game I somehow thought that winning mattered.  For some silly reason I needed to prove that I had value beyond putting a meal on the table.   I played a light-hearted game but inside I cared entirely too much. 

Winning validates us giving us the stamp of approval we sometimes desperately need - so much so that we create all sorts of symbols for our wins.  Some of them are fairly benign.  For his Special Olympics wins this year Chase got several ribbons and he displays them on his bulletin board.  It seems harmless especially in light of it being the Special Olympics. Luke has a shelf full of trophies from his tennis tournament wins.  These aren’t as benign in my opinion because they’re a pain to dust. Aside from the cleaning challenge I know that Luke puts a great deal of pressure on himself to keep winning.  I don’t think the trophies are the reason but they don’t help matters.  He’s figured out that winning bolsters his sense of self.   He also believes that if he didn’t have tennis he wouldn’t have much of a social life which makes it even more important.  Tennis success equals social success in his economy and that’s a lot of weight to carry. 

I’m no different.  I have a letter from the George H. Bush in my office that makes me feel good and one other framed commendation that I hung up because it’s hand painted and very pretty.  At least I tell myself that’s why.  Sometimes I look at those and think my work used to matter and now it doesn’t and that’s ridiculous.  Such stinking thinking I hate to admit to it. 

Western culture values winning almost obsessively to the extent that we talk about the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat far more than we do the idea that you can win while you play.  Our insecurities about losing creep into every area of our life giving birth to an inner monologue that erodes our sense of having any value apart from what we can master.  Sadly what that can translate into is wanting to master everything even people. 

Jerry Seinfeld knows this and it’s why he created the, “Marriage Ref”.  It’s billed as a television show where every couple gets what they want out of a marital dispute – a winner.   A panel of celebrities hears the disagreement, offers their opinions to the referee, and then he makes the call.   It’s a very funny show but after a few episodes you begin to realize that little thought is given to what winning will cost.  When the stakes are low it’s not that big of a deal but when the stakes are high in a given scenario not much consideration is given to what will be left of the relationship once the winner prevails.  It’s a classic example of winning the battle but losing the war.  If your sense of self is all wrapped up in the battle everyone will lose.  These are victories few can afford. 

We can’t afford them because relationships have more value than bragging rights.  The Pharisees had all the bragging rights and yet they didn’t actually know God.  They spent so much time trying to win every argument they missed the opportunity to defeat their egos and have meaningful relationships with others.  If you can’t figure out how to play with your family and friends who give you very tangible feedback you are going to have a hard time engaging an unseen God.  Relationships provide the reflection we need to see ourselves for who we really are but when you’re after a win you’re just looking at yourself in the mirror.      

I’d like to think I’m not a Pharisee but sometimes my ego is so fragile that I need to fill the void with a win more than God.  I’m blinded by my need and lose sight of the reality that winning doesn’t matter.  There’s nothing to prove. How you play the cards you’re dealt is far more important in life than whether you win every hand.  A win apart from God is nothing and a loss without Him is insurmountable. 

Fortunately Chase gets it far more than his Mom.  He wants to win and it will feel good but even with all his insecurities he realizes that no matter how the action goes down he’s still won.  He’s hanging with his family and having a good time and that beats anything.    

Checking in at a conference these days is a like checking into an all-inclusive resort.  You get a map, schedule of activities, meal ticket, satisfaction survey, and all sorts of other information designed to help you enjoy your stay.  One of the items in your goodie bag is always the dreaded nametag.  For some, a nametag might feel just fine clipped onto their lapel but for me it feels like a five pound out of focus snapshot hanging from my chest.  Whether it’s a clip-on, pin-on, stick-on, or lanyard I hate what has now become the equivalent of a resume. 

Fortunately, when I arrived at my first-ever writer’s conference last weekend a nametag hadn’t been made for me.  The registration volunteers scurried to make one but I stopped them quickly and told them not to bother I’d be just fine without it.  This turned out to be a good decision because after three days of surveying hundreds of nametags I’m not sure what I would have wanted printed on mine.

The name part seems pretty simple but since my name has changed again which name would I have used?  I could use my legal name but if I was going to promote my writing perhaps I should use the name under which it’s been published?  A quandary for sure but the good news is that I wasn’t the only person with this dilemma.  I noticed quite a few nametags where first names had been crossed off and changed and last names had been hyphenated.  I even saw a man with a hyphenated name but I wasn’t brave enough to ask him about this. 

Where you’re from is pretty straightforward but I noticed a few people who added details here as well.  The best was the tag that said, “Temporarily in Branson, MO.”  I got to thinking maybe the guy was a huge fan of country music and since the Grand Ole Opry is rained out he had to relocate for a while. 

Name and place used to be uncomplicated but we’re a society on the move struggling to find our identity so what can you expect?  Where it got really crazy was with titles and this is where I went nuts people watching.  As hard as I tried I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone because I was so intrigued with all the titles that had been preprinted and/or added in.  Despite any effort to the contrary my eyes immediately went right to the nametag.

It seems for one conference participant it was very important to let people know she’d earned her Master of Arts degree.  She’d taken a Sharpie and added “M.A.” after her name.  I wondered which art she felt like a master of - art or fine art.  I looked high and low for an R.N. or M.D. in case I started feeling faint at the sight of so many labels but I couldn’t find a medical professional in the bunch. 

Where the nametags became very puzzling was with the distinction between “writer” and “author”.  I understand the difference between a publisher and an agent even though both just essentially sell books but by definition a writer is an author so what gives?  It feels like a tomato/ta-mot-oh kind of deal but apparently quite a few of the Christian writers/authors in attendance were very concerned about being labeled properly. 

Curious lady that I am I finally decided to look up both words.  Ahead of cracking open my 30 year old Random House College Dictionary I thought surely I’ve been confused all these years and a writer must do something different than an author.   Nobody would go to the effort to change their nametag unless the difference between a writer and an author was significant. 

It seems, however, that for once I’m not confused and I do have it right.  An author is in fact a writer and a writer is an author if they actually write which they do.  A writer does need to produce something to be an author but that’s as far as the distinction between the two goes.  Now I was getting somewhere but just to be sure that time hadn’t changed things I looked up these definitions online only to discover that my Random House had proven reliable.  Time has not changed the definition of a writer or an author. 

Why then were people so concerned about this?  I could only conclude it had something to do with ego.  To say you’re an author suggests your work has been published whereas a writer could simply be someone who has strung a few words together.  I guess this is why if you want to get your proper respect when someone asks, you can’t simply say write because that doesn’t sound nearly as prestigious as, “I’m the author of Gone with the Wind II”. 

Labels, labels, labels, everywhere we go they follow.  Sometimes labels are useful.  A short word or phrase used to describe something can be very helpful.   It would be impossible to catalogue all the information we process during our lifetime without some labeling.  Categorizing things in terms of helpful, harmful, friendly, tasty, etc. brings order to our thinking.  People, however, are complex targets and when our labels shape our perceptions and stereotype them it’s not good.

Perhaps this is why the first time the word “autism” was mentioned to me with regard to my son I passed out.  I pictured Dustin Hoffman as Raymond in the movie, “Rain Man”.  I didn’t know a thing about autism beyond what this movie had portrayed.  From that day forward more labels have been attached to his life and mine than a widowed Orange County soccer Mom of four struggling to get by.  Just like that mother would be I’m as weary of labels as I am my life experience but I suppose it comes with the territory just like author, writer, publisher, and agent prevail at a gathering of wordy people.

It’s sad because our descriptions do more to limit our understanding than stretch it.  When someone refers to an autistic as “high functioning” what does that mean?  Does it mean they look more normal?  What does normal actually look like?  Does it look like you and the people you know?  With so many possibilities the circling begins and you miss the point.  If the casual observer thinks that life for a more normal looking autistic is easier than a child who is noticeably more impacted by autism they are mistaken. 

Ask a mainstreamed autistic teenager trying to navigate the crazy social landscape of high school and they might tell you they would rather live in their own little world.  Having enough social awareness to understand that you are a fundamentally different person than your average peer is not such a great thing.  Looking like you fit in doesn’t mean you do and at times like that you can’t feel very “high functioning”.  Being more adaptable and able to function fairly well with your peers isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  The emotional wear and tear combined with hormones is a rollercoaster ride. 

Perhaps this is why all the nametags make me crazy?  Yes they can break the ice and stimulate conversation but will it be anything meaningful?  Outward appearances are deceiving.  What you do isn’t who you are and how you are labeled isn’t what defines you.  What you do with what you’ve had says far more but even if you put your life story on your lapel nobody can read you with a quick glance!

The big news around our house this Mother’s Day is that it’s been a week now that Buddy Too our Miniature Schnauzer puppy has been sleeping in his crate.  When I first brought him home I attempted having him sleep alone but it lasted about five minutes.  His crying started and because I wanted my own sleep I caved in and he was in bed with me. 

At first he insisted on sleeping right next to my neck.  He was small and the weather was cold so I didn’t mind.  We kept each other warm.  When he got too big for that I managed to convince him that sleeping on his pillow at the foot of the bed was a good deal.  The time finally came where this just wasn’t working for me.   I don’t sleep well to begin with so a fidgety puppy is not what I need.  If I’d managed to get my boys sleeping in their cribs at night I felt certain I could get Buddy to do the same. 

True to my personality I had a plan for how I would handle his protests.  I would let him cry for 30 minutes and then go soothe him and do that several times stretching out the time between calming him and putting him back in his crate.  I’d confidently show him who is in charge.  (Yeah right!)

With all my false alpha-male-bravado I put B2 in his crate at lights out and crawled into my own bed waiting for him to start crying.  I didn’t care how long the night was going to be.  If I had to drink a lot of coffee the next day to get by I would.  With all that determination coursing through my veins I don’t know how I fell asleep but I did.  About an hour later I was woken up by a noise that I assumed must be Buddy.  Not wanting to wake my actual children I crept outside my bedroom door and quietly surveyed the house only to find that all was calm.  The only thing that could be heard was the ticking of the clock. 

I went back to bed thinking I must be dreaming and luckily fell back to sleep only to have my alarm wake me up in the morning.  I was stunned and ran downstairs to check on the pooch and found that all was well.   B2 was a bundle of well rested puppy enthusiasm squirming with joy at my return.  We went outside for him to do his thing and I stood there in amazement.   How could it have been so easy?  It must have been a fluke.  I thought surely it won’t last but I’m happy to report he’s slept in his crate every night since then.  Life is good with B2 and I couldn’t be happier.

The irony of the story is that just a day before starting the crate thing I’d purchased Cesar Millan’s book, “How to Raise the Perfect Dog: Through Puppyhood and Beyond”.  I’d seen Millan’s award-winning television show and he seemed to know what he was talking about.  The book chronicles him raising four puppies one of which is a Miniature Schnauzer so I thought it must be worth reading.  Surely the man knows more than me. 

So why am I laughing about my dog’s sleeping habits and the so-called Dog Whisperer’s book?  Because success was achieved before I’d even cracked open the book.  I hadn’t had a minute to read even one page when B2 slept through the night on his own.  Success had come without input from a team of experts, in spite of my best plans, and whatever the book might have to say.  That cracks me up!

I’ve been a mother now for over 16 years and it’s been a wild ride.  Not a single one of the “what-to-expect” type books I bought prepared me for the reality of parenting and I read a lot of those books.  In fact I’d read every book I could get my hands on and I’ve read a lot more books since then.   If I’d found a book called, “How to Raise the Perfect Child: Through Infancy and Beyond” I would have bought it and taken note of every important point. 

I haven’t found that book though and on Mother’s Day 2010 I have to chuckle at myself because if there is one thing I have learned about raising children it’s that you can’t always do it by the book.  Oh how I wish that were not true because if it was we’d have a lot of perfect children out there.  All the parents who read would find the best books, follow their advice, and their parenting challenges would be tackled effectively and efficiently. 

The problem is that every book has a bias and every child has their unique DNA and you can’t change a person’s DNA.  With every parenting book on the shelf the writer is convinced that based on their experience or research this is the way you do it.  They have a vision and they want to help you get to their desired future for your children.

Therein lays the rub.  It’s the author’s desired future for your children and not necessarily yours.  Certainly there are some hopes and dreams the majority of parents share regarding their children as well as best practices with parenting.  Common sense goes a long way too.  However, no two children are alike and there are some things about your children you are likely never to change.  This is why allowing someone else’s vision to take the place of your own can work against you more than it can for you.  It creates a scenario where you are constantly comparing your children to a standard they may never be able to measure up to which can lead to a great deal of angst for you and your child.

Looking back over the years as a parent I can think of a number of times I found myself beating my head up against the wall in frustration based on some idea I’d embraced that came from a book.  One of those I distinctly remember had to do with eating fruits and vegetables.  You see I love fruits and vegetables and I’d bought into the idea that my kids had to eat them.  Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get either of my boys to take more than one bite of even some of the most popular of fruits and vegetables.  How can anyone refuse a delicious strawberry?

After months with no success I turned to the “experts” and started reading a number of books about healthy eating habits for kids.  Armed with lots of great strategies I kept pursuing the well balanced diet for my boys.  Nothing worked.  Frustrated beyond belief I even allowed a hunger strike to set in and guess who won?  The boys did because not many mothers have the fortitude to watch their kids go beyond three days without any food.  It’s easy to buy into the belief that given a limited number of options a child will begin to eat what’s put in front of them out of hunger when you’ve never lived through a hunger strike. 

Looking back, because I now understand more about my boys and their personalities I get it.  They were both born hypersensitive to sights, sounds, and smells so it’s not just simply a matter of preference with food.  If the mere smell of a banana makes you queasy it’s awfully hard to eat one.   Because it’s not always possible to de-sensitize someone to something you just have to realize that at some point it’s time to move on.  Bananas don’t come near our table and in the whole scheme of things it’s not really a big deal. 

You see one of the advantages to having two autistic kids who don’t fall into the perfect child role is that it’s simpler to clarify what your priorities are.  For me what it comes down to as a Mom is that I want my boys to be Godly and capable.  Would I like them to eat a well-balanced diet?  Yes.  Would I like them to have a variety of interests and activities that make them well-rounded?  Yes.  Would I like them to achieve some sort of career success in their life? Yes.  Will I be disappointed if these things don’t happen?  I hope not because they really aren’t the main thing for me.  My greatest hope for my boys is that they will grow-up to be Godly men who are capable of taking care of themselves.  All the rest is likely to fall in place one way or another. 

Looking beyond this Mother’s Day I do hope the dog stays in his crate because I need as much sleep as possible!  I also hope that someday the boys move out of the house.  I’ll miss them terribly but then I can put a bowl of fruit on the table and laugh at all the time and energy I spent trying to change them to no avail.  Maybe then I will have enough confidence to throw out all the books and just enjoy the story we’ve written together.   

There’s a song by Paul Simon called, “Graceland” that has been a favorite of mine for years.  It’s a funky little song on an equally funky CD that for some reason I love.  It came into my life right after my Grandmother died which was a very long time ago.  Like a lot of songs it’s one line in particular that caught my attention.  I can play it over and over and never get sick of it because it means so much to me.  The line is “Losing love is like a window in your heart.  Everybody sees you’re blown apart. Everybody sees the wind blow.” 

Of course writing it doesn’t have nearly the impact that hearing it does but if you’re careful and take each word to heart it can mean something.  I probably wouldn’t have locked onto this if it hadn’t been for my pastor at the time.  I was leaving church the week after my Grandma died and she asked me how I was doing and I just stared at her with tears in my eyes at a total loss for words.  She sweetly put her arm around me and said, “It’s like a hole in your heart opens and the wind blows through it - right?”  I could only nod feebly in agreement thankful she could see the gaping hole. 

I was very close to my Grandmother.  She was an old lady but her death was unexpected and for me premature.  I wasn’t ready and I didn’t get to say goodbye.  She was such a constant presence in my life I wondered how everyday would feel without having some word from her.  A call, a card, a note, something from her to remind me she was thinking about me and loved me.  I was devastated and somehow Pastor Lynn and Paul Simon were able to give me the words to describe what I was feeling.  I’ve offered those same thoughts to others in their grieving over the years because I still can’t think of a better way to express it.  Losing love is indeed like a window in your heart and when those that can see you are blown apart minister to you it is precious. 

What I’ve struggled with in this metaphor and what I struggle with in life is understanding the purpose the hole serves.  Intellectually I can come up with a few ideas but at the heart-level an open window with the wind blowing through is one you want to shut.  It can be so messy with everything looking and feeling disheveled as the wind scatters your thoughts, your feelings, and for that matter your whole life.

This week I was asking God for some sort of meditation that would help me make peace with the hole in my heart.  I don’t think anything going on in my life is unique to just me.  We live in a world with lots of walking wounded.  Anyone you meet is likely to have something that has broken open a hole in their heart.  They might not admit it but if you peeled back the layers you would find a hole that has been covered up.  My sixteen year old was brave enough to uncover one of his this week and I was so thankful he did.  I could sense something hurt but I didn’t know what.  When he was ready to finally share his feelings with me I was able to share mine and we found a wonderful place where we were holding each other up. 

His sharing though only increased my desire to find something that would help move me toward understanding.  I kept asking in my prayers for something to paint a picture that would comfort me.  Why Lord do we have to endure the holes?  A crack, a knick, a bruise, a scrape aren’t those enough?   I certainly think so.

My word picture came when the gardener arrived this week to trim the Evergreens that separate my yard from my neighbors. I’m allergic to my lovely trees so it’s something I have to get help with.  They had not been trimmed before the snow arrived this winter and the weather was finally warm enough for the work to be done.  As he was sizing up the job with one of the trees the gardener asked me if I was sure I wanted him to prune it.  He pointed out that the snow had collected for so long in one layer of branches they had been damaged.  If he shaped the tree a hole would be created and I might not like the way it looks.  I chuckled because he knows me too well.  I drive by this tree about six times a day and my eye is certain to go right to the hole and I will definitely notice it and not like the way it looks. 

The answer to his question seemed obvious though.  The tree needs to be pruned for its long term health.  All five trees look beautiful after 16 years precisely because they have been so well cared for.  I realize this tree in particular had a rough winter hung up by some snow but I couldn’t let that sway me it still had to be pruned.  It’s a tough-love-for-trees kind of deal.  So the tree was trimmed and the hole is obvious and you know what I didn’t like it at all until a couple days later.

I was walking down my driveway to get the paper and I saw the hole and grimaced but then I saw a lovely robin below it.   I probably wouldn’t have noticed much beyond that except that she was picking up a twig and it seemed to be a struggle.  Then before I knew it she flew into the hole because she’s building a nest in it.  Hooray instant enthusiasm!  Nothing could make me happier for my tree or the mama bird.  

I love nesting.  Every spring I get so excited to see where the mama’s will find a spot and make a home in my yard and this tree is the perfect one.  It’s high enough off the ground to protect her nest from a stray cat or dog but there’s still easy access to the lawn for worms and such.  She can see out but we can barely see in.  The wind will be able to blow through without blowing the nest to the ground.  It’s a poetically perfect little spot for new life to be nurtured and all I could think as I watched this busy mom was that the same holds true for the hole in my heart and perhaps yours.  When the time is right something will nest in it and grow.  The hole might not close and it might not be filled but something can make a home in it.  Perhaps it will be mercy, compassion, grace or forgiveness.  All should be welcome in any heart.

Pruning is a part of the life of a believer but we tend to flinch at it because it hurts.  As thinking feeling beings we pull away from pain.  A tree of course doesn’t have that ability but since we can we do and it’s our resistance that causes us to lose sight of the purpose pruning serves.  The lesson we’re to take from it was apparently important or Jesus wouldn’t have talked about it with his disciples.  In the book of John we hear Jesus say, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.  He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you.  Remain in me, and I will remain in you.  No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine.  Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.”

Thinking about this scripture and the nest under construction in my tree prompted a new picture to form in my mind.  The hole wasn’t created because the limbs were weak and couldn’t bear the weight of the snow.  Just the opposite is true. They held up the snow as long as they had to and stretched into a new shape doing so. This depending on how you choose to look at it is not a bad thing.  Now after pruning the tree will gracefully adapt and cradle new life.  It’s all part of the process. 

What’s key to see in the picture Jesus paints is that it’s the fruitful vine that gets pruned.  The unfruitful we’re told are completely cut off but the fruitful are pruned in order for more fruit to be produced.  It’s not a sign of weakness that a hole is created by taking something away from us which is what pruning accomplishes.

It’s also not expected this will be painless but we’re told that new life will come if we remain in Him.  Jesus uses the word “remain” eleven times in John 15 to emphasize his point when he teaches about the vine and the branches.  If we stay in our relationship with God new fruit will come through our losses.  We’re told no branch no matter how much or how little pruning it’s received can bear fruit apart from the Father and that we have been chosen exactly for that reason to go and bear fruit. 

Sitting on my step looking at my tree this morning waiting for a glimpse of the mother bird I asked myself to think about every loss I’ve ever endured and what grew out of it.  Some of the losses I didn’t like thinking about but when I pushed myself I had to admit that in every case good fruit was born from it.  I wrestle with questions about heartbreak only because I don’t like losing anything and I don’t want to admit that it might be good for me.  However, loss in whatever form it takes is a good thing when it creates a window of opportunity that we will allow to stay open. 

In that open space God’s spirit and the evidence of it can blow through our lives and plant seeds of new life.  It takes time for those seeds to grow but as they do the hole will close and something new will take flight.  In my trees’ case it will hopefully be several baby robins.  In my own life I have no idea what it will be but I hope it’s something just as sweet to see. 

My son turned 16 this weekend and to his delight passed the behind the wheel driving test and got his driver’s license.  I’m not nearly as scared about this as people would assume.  He’s a conscientious and cautious driver.  He’s not your average teenager so this is a big accomplishment. 

Luke is a bit of dreamer and he’s been talking about all sorts of big plans he has related to driving.  Of course he doesn’t have a car yet so I don’t worry too much about some of his more outrageous plans like driving to wherever Metallica is performing so he can see a show.  On a more realistic scale his ideas about taking friends to lunch caught my attention.  Luke somehow forgot the rules that apply to new drivers.  One of those is a six month waiting period during which a 16 year old driver cannot carry any passengers under the age of 21 other than a sibling. 

When I reminded Luke about this waiting period he was shocked.  He’d completely forgotten and ever since then it’s all we’ve heard about.  His poor little brother can hardly stand it.  He’s a bit of a rule cop so he is willing to go head to head with his big brother on this whereas I just want the conversation to end.  It is what it is and I feel no need to protest the waiting period or even discuss the pros and cons of it.  I stop their discussions with one of my famous Mom sayings, “Good things come to those who wait.”  My comment doesn’t help Luke at all because the year between getting your permit and your license is a long one.  He thinks he’s ready for full driving privileges and to him the waiting period is agony.   To me this is a trivial matter. 

The irony with this is that I’m struggling with my own waiting period right now.  It feels like there is an ocean that lies between my heartache, the circumstances around it, and the healing I want God to bring.  At times the water is calm only to have the tide change and the waves stir up.  It’s a myth to believe that God will only lead you beside still waters.  We are also led through turbulent waters. 

Waiting through your storms is a discipline that requires a great deal of endurance.  I know this because I’m not new to the waiting game.  I’ve been waiting on God for a lot of things in my life and the lives of my kids.  Good stuff like healing not a Porsche or something silly like that.  With so many waiting lists this year when Lent started I knew that I didn’t have what it would take to give something up so I didn’t and yet I’m so ready for Lent to be over I can’t stand it.  I’ve somehow convinced myself that when Lent is over there will be some cosmic shift that brings an end to waiting for me along with everyone who actually gave something up.  It’s not very logical thinking of course.

In ancient times the Lenten season was a time of preparation for new converts to the Christian faith.  The early church recognized that it was not easy being a Christian.  Believers faced persecution and pagan temptations.  It was a 40 day period of time that encouraged prayer, penitence, almsgiving, and self-denial.   The purpose of which was to die to the old way of life so that a new identity could emerge.  Originally only new converts were expected to observe Lent in these ways but with explosive church growth all believers were later asked to observe Lent to show solidarity.  Maybe this is why I’m aching for Lent to be over?  I’m aligning myself with all those folks who are so desperate to get back to chocolate, coffee, or booze.  I haven’t given up any of these things but I’ve let go of quite a few other things hoping for breakthroughs and I want one. 

But it’s hard the waiting because we want our questions answered, problems solved, and uncertainty to end quickly.  We want our victories sooner not later so that we can move on to our celebrations.  We want to be a completely new person overnight and it doesn’t happen that way.  There are no shortcuts.  All through the scriptures we see waiting.  Forty days here and there and in some cases 40 years of waiting and all this waiting has a rhythm.  We wait and in the fullness of time we see the fruit that comes from it.  Waiting it seems provides the time and space for personal transformation.

Lent is the perfect example of how we wait in chronological time for God to arrive in “kairos” time.  That is to say we wait through our days for God to show Himself in our circumstances according to His perfect timing.   Kairos is that opportune moment when all things are poised to converge.  In kairos time you are typically so absorbed in life that you’ve lost track of the clock ticking.

What makes observing Lent a little easier than observing life is that we know it will end.  Its 40 days.  If you’ve been fasting and struggling through it you know a day is coming when you get to break your fast.  If you’ve added a discipline to your life and it’s proving harder than you thought by day 20 you know you’ve only got 20 more.  You can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  Easter Sunday arrives, metaphorically speaking God shows up, and you get to let go because your season of waiting is over.  Lesson learned and now you move on.  

If only all the other seasons of our lives’ worked this way!  Wouldn’t it be nice to know that after you’d waited in agony forty days your situation would be resurrected?  God would arrive on the scene in a big splashy way and change the trajectory of your life.  If it worked this way could we call it “wading” rather than “waiting”? 

When you’re wading you are only partly immersed or sunken.  You’re not buried and you can see that you’re headed toward something.  Whether its 40 days or 40 years if you know when a tough season is going to end you are much more likely to be able to bear it.  Wading is done in shallow water but waiting is done out in the deep and that takes a lot more faith.

To be still in times of adversity requires a great strength but to tread water and stay afloat during a hard season requires a greater strength.  When we are called to work under stress, press on under hardship and smile when our hearts are grieved while at the same time performing our daily tasks – this takes a faith that moves mountains.  It’s a faith that is transcendent and rises above our circumstances. 

To wait in chronological time for those kairos moments where you see and feel God move requires keeping your eye on the horizon.  I wonder if this is what the writer of Hebrews was suggesting when he encouraged believers to “run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”  To “fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right had of the throne of God.” 

Nothing is said about skipping the cross part or the heartache it brings.  The focus is on persevering and fixing our eyes on something beyond ourselves.  I suppose that’s what’s different about wading and waiting.  When you’re wading you can keep your head down and see the bottom without drowning but when you are waiting you simply have to keep your eyes fixed on that vantage point out ahead. 

For me this year it’s got to be that picture in my mind of the stone rolled away and a crushed man risen from the dead.  When I go to church on Easter Sunday and the pastor says, “He is risen” and the congregation answers, “He is risen indeed” my waiting list isn’t going to be eliminated but HOPEFULLY my perspective will be elevated.  That can be enough if I’m willing to lift my head and fix my eyes on the glory set before me.  It’s not a bad thing to be a lady in waiting.  In fact, in the royal court it is an honor to wait on a King and maybe that’s where we actually find our victories?

A few years back my father gave me a book about grief that he thought I should read.  He gave it to me along with several others and because I have more books to read than time to read them it somehow got lost in the shuffle of my life.  Unpacking the other day the book resurfaced and something in the title grabbed me.  I put the book on my nightstand thinking I might actually stay awake long enough some evening to peak into it. 

 I was hesitant about a book on grief but finally I took a look.  It’s not an easy read but I’ve been very touched by the meditations in it.  I think we’re all grieving something at any particular stage in life and for me right now the stories in this book have been timely.  One of those is a Tibetan fable.  It is the story of Krisha Gotami.  If you are a Buddhist it’s a story that you are probably familiar with.  Where Christian’s know the story of Job and his suffering Buddhists know the story of Krisha.

For a variety of reasons I just haven’t been able to get this fable out of my mind.  One of those is that my friend Kelly who I’ve written about in a previous post is daily fighting the good fight of faith as she watches her son suffer.  With every coming and going from my house when I look across the street I whisper a prayer for this family.  At times I feel like I’m begging for God’s intervention in these prayers and in some ways I am but certainly not like Kelly must be.

I have not walked in Kelly’s shoes but I know that as a mother I struggle with wanting things for my children that at times seem out of reach.  This morning a teacher working with my youngest son was sharing with me some struggles he was having and it was all I could do in the meeting to stay composed and not start crying.  I saved my tears for later when I shared my feelings with my own Mom. 

Perhaps that is why the tale of Krisha has come to mean so much to me lately.  If you’re not familiar with it Krisha is a young woman who gave birth to a son.  When he was year old he fell ill and died.  In her grief Krisha walked through her city holding her son in her arms begging for medicine to bring him back to life.  She was ignored, scoffed at and others thought her mad.  She came upon a man who told her that Buddha could help her.  She went to Buddha and told him her story.  He listened and then told Kisha that he would help her if she could bring him a mustard seed from a home in her city that had not known death. 

Believing this was possible Krisha set out to find a mustard seed.  She went door to door and at every household was told by the owner that she could not be helped.  Every home had seen death.  Krisha was then finally able to say goodbye to her child and bury him.  She returned to Buddha to tell him that she understood what he was trying to teach her admitting that she was too blinded by her own grief to see that we all suffer. 

I’ve read the story over and over and I’m moved by it for more reasons than I can possibly write about.  However, one detail in the story strikes me more than anything and that is the mustard seed.  Krisha only had to find one mustard seed and Buddha would have restored her child to life.  I realize this Buddhist tale is meant to point out the universality of suffering.  This is an idea that is not readily embraced by the American outlook on life where we look at health and happiness as a promise life makes to us.  Buddhists, however, believe that all of life is suffering and that only by eliminating desire can we eliminate suffering. 

If you’re a Christian and believe what the Bible says you have to consider what Jesus said, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) This tells us yes we are going to have troubles and suffer and yet we can take heart.  That is a statement filled with promise and counters the idea that desire is the root of all our suffering. 

When you tell someone to take heart you are telling them to hang on to something.  You’re telling them to hang on to their hopes and dreams.  This says that hopes and dreams are okay to have which means we do get to want for things.  We get to want to see people healed physically, emotionally, spiritually, and even financially.  We are allowed to desire life abundantly.  The Scriptures tell us this over and over. This has to mean it is never wrong to seek after healing of any kind.  Never – ever!   I’m thankful to know this because I pray for healing everyday for my children.  Not in every area of their life but I ask God to heal what needs healing. 

Was Krisha a fool to be seeking out healing?  Should she have just acquiesced to her suffering? No, especially when all she needed to find was a mustard seed.  Oh how I wish she had met a disciple with a worldview different than Buddha.  A disciple could have told her that she didn’t have to go out and find a mustard seed.  A mustard-seed-sized faith was already available to her.  Through the power of the Holy Spirit available to every believer in Christ she could have a faith that big. 

This is a poignant reminder for me because what I know from experience is that faith is a fruit of the spirit which means I don’t have to go out and find it I just have to nurture it.  This is a relief because as hard as I try I can’t always find a mustard seed in my heart or anywhere else.   Intellectually I have that much faith but often my heart just isn’t there.  The faith I muster up in my mind doesn’t sink into my heart.  I wish it did because then I would have an enormous faith. 

I think this is where honesty is required.  If we can believe that our desire for healing and wholeness in life is acceptable to God then we can ask for the faith to believe that healing is possible.  We can admit that we have the desire but we don’t have the faith or maybe one should say “hope” to go with it.  This frames the picture differently.   Without the necessary hope to accompany our desire our spirit is flat.  The animating energy that we need to sustain us just isn’t there. 

I wonder if in the big picture scheme of things what Krisha Gotami was really asking for was the peace hope brings.  In the face of any devastating loss isn’t the faith to survive it part of what we seek?  We want what was lost back but we also want to know if that is not possible that we can endure without it. 

This is a hard place to be at emotionally and yet it’s the best place to truly meet the Holy Spirit.  This is where you can learn that it’s not through your strength that hope is created it’s through the Spirit.   The fruit called “faith” is a spontaneous filling up by the Spirit of God and is available simply by asking.  Not door to door from others, like Krisha was told to seek, but in our daily conversation with God - if necessary, in our minute by minute conversations with God.  To humbly ask for hope the size of a mustard seed or as big as a tree is a request God will always honor. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”  (Psalms 34:18)

I won’t promise to make this my last post about Buddy Too (B2) our new puppy because he’s just so darn cute.  I’m sure he’ll inspire lots of ideas for me but I don’t picture another “Marley and Me” type story coming from his life with us.  It’s only been a week though so who knows! 

B2 is timid little guy and he sticks very close to his “Mama” as my son Chase likes to refer to me.  I would tell you this is just because he know who feeds him.  My own Mother, however, would tell you it’s because he’s found a spot on my bed where he feels safe and warm so he’s just working me.  One little whimper and flash of the sad eyes and he’s got me under his paw and he knows it.  The little guy follows me around just waiting for me to stop long enough to scoop him up and shower him with attention except when we are outside. 

Out in the big world of his backyard he’s a sight to behold.  For such a shy little guy you might think he’d be intimidated outside but he’s not.   He comes alive.  On his first night in our home last week I was determined that he would go outside before everyone got tucked into bed.  He’s paper trained but he has to be house trained and so determined Mama that I am out we go.  I didn’t expect it to go well but I had to try. 

It was a beautiful Colorado night.  The air was perfectly still with a mix of clouds and clear sky.  Snow was falling and the quiet was piercing.  I took a deep breath in and exhaled with a genuine reverence for the beauty of God’s creation.  I wondered in that moment who it really was that needed to go outside me or Buddy? 

I set my little bundle down and wondered what he would do.  For a few minutes he just sat in a puppy lump on his tail with his paws spilled in front of him and then something, I don’t know what, caught his attention.  Before I could figure out what it was he was off frolicking on the grass.  He’s so small and light that he doesn’t even seem to touch the grass or the snow he just grazes it.  He treads so lightly that you wonder if he’s actually making contact with the surface below.  What gives him traction to move I don’t know but he moves and it’s incredibly fun to watch?

Buddy, however, is not one to let you just watch him he wants you in on things and so before you know it I’m playing chase with a puppy on a snowy night in my high heeled boots and cashmere coat not worried at all about ruining either.  We played for 20 minutes which is a long time for an 8 week old puppy and a 40 something at the end of the day but it was worth every minute. 

Later that night, bundled up in bed I pondered why it is that Buddy can tread so lightly and my steps fall so hard on the ground?  It’s not just a matter of size.  He has an advantage there, of course, but being light on your feet isn’t always a matter of size.  Muhammad Ali could float like a butterfly. 

I think for Buddy and Ali it’s has something to do with resiliency.  Buddy is just a dog, of course, so he doesn’t really ponder all that much but one thing he’s figured out is that when he’s playing if he falls down he can just get right back up again.  No big deal.  It might take a little doing for his uncoordinated puppy body but that makes it all the more fun.  Ali being a boxer knew how to take a punch and keep fighting.  When pushed to the ropes you fight your way out that’s what boxing is about.  Pretty simple stuff really but why is it so hard for some of us. 

I read recently that the elderly, who are typically thoughts of as fragile, are far more resilient than their juniors because they have figured out that they can weather emotional upheaval and still survive.  Resiliency is after all the product of surviving difficult emotionally demanding situations.  A resilient person internalizes the knowledge that they can and will prevail.  Stress only comes into play when a person doubts their ability to overcome. 

It’s doubt that makes a person’s steps heavy.  When we feel confident and capable we are light on our feet but when we question every move we make we hit the ground hard with our uncertainty. 

Unfortunately life can regularly challenge any confident spirit we might have prompting us to question our internal and external resources. 

On my part I forget that, “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength”!  I lose sight of every resilient quality God has instilled in me.  I forget that God has given me a mind capable of solving problems, gifts and abilities, a sense of humor to laugh at myself, family and friends that love me and that with His help I can adapt and change with the circumstances around me.  I can get knocked down and get back up again and keep going. 

This sounds so cliché like a pep talk and I hate pep talks which is funny because I give them all the time.  I hate them because often they minimize a person’s internal turmoil and they tend to ignore the idea that we are opposed in this lifetime.  You can call that opposition whatever you like.  Call it the enemy, Satan, adversity, negative energy or just simply resistance.  By whatever name we all know it’s invisible and it’s insidious.   It’s a destructive force that rises up whenever we are trying to do for ourselves or others something that might be good.  It will take shape in almost any form possible and weigh you down and this is when your steps become so heavy.  You can’t float like a butterfly and everything feels like a bee sting because you’ve given in to resistance lost sight of the resilient person God created you to be. 

What then is the antidote?  For everyone I suppose it’s different.  For me it’s a matter of acknowledging that my heart and therefore my steps are heavy and that I need my perspective changed.  I need the voice of God to be louder in my mind than the voice of resistance so that I believe I will bounce back even if I make a mistake.  When my internal dialogue is saying I can’t bounce back I probably won’t.   When the voice inside of me is shouting that I can - I become more resilient.   I can tread through life with more spring in my step knowing that even if I make a wrong move and fall God will help me get right back up so that I can keep chasing after His will for my life.  He loves me that much and He created me for that much.  I might ruin a coat or even a pair of boots in the process but I won’t ruin my life.