Forgivenss

My sweet, humble and incredibly strong friend asked me to write this. She is a saint.

OK--my take on forgiveness. Or rather why I don't want to forgive.

I've never really struggled with forgiving people I love for the little stuff. Overlooking a quick harsh word is easy since I can hand them out myself pretty well when I'm tired. Or annoyed. Or human.

But what is really, really hard to do is forgive someone who did something truly awful and they are not sorry. Or they continue to do awful things and I'm pretty sure they are never, ever going to stop. And will never be sorry.

I'd give you some examples, but that would be counterproductive. And chances are, you have a list of some truly heinous things done to you. So, there was this one particular soul I hadn't forgiven. And upon reflection it occurred to me that I hadn't and that the reason was because I desperately didn't want them to get away with it. Yes, the reason I had unknowingly withheld forgiveness was because I somehow thought that if I forgave them that they would get off scott free. So by holding on to anger, I thought the scales of justice might, just might be balanced. Or at least not so unbalanced.

When people do bad stuff and do bad stuff to us and they aren't sorry and they have apparently gone unpunished--that is hard to forgive.

Jesus tells us we have to forgive anyway.

*headdesk*  Really? Why?

Because we are Christians. Now, if you aren't a Christian, you'll have to find some other philosophy and some other source of power to forgive, because this theory of forgiveness is based squarely on Christ and His cross.

The question is, do we trust Jesus to be the Judge? Do we trust Him to make things right? Do we trust Him with justice? We should. And if we do, we have to act on that by turning over to Him this particular debt we are owed. No matter how big it is. In fact, all the debts we are owed need to be turned over to Him. He is in charge of punishment and reward and all that it involves.

Which I wasn't that happy about because I know He is pretty merciful. He likes to forgive. And that person who had wronged me might . . . you know . . . get away with it. (Guess that mercy works in my favor, so I can't be too quick to criticize.)

But Jesus doesn't just go around with some magic wand prang-ing away sins. He died for those sins. Each and every one. He took upon Himself the debts of the entire world so that at the moment of His death it was possible for justice and mercy to both exist. Mercy only and sin would have continued forever. Justice only and we all would die the second permanent death. In order for both to happen, Jesus had to die. With His death, He purchased the debts and paid them. That debt of sin you and I have accumulated, He paid and owns. That debt someone else owes you, He paid and owns.

So now we have to forgive. No choice. It has to happen. So here is what Jesus asks us to do: (In my metaphor) write the person who wronged us a blank check. Sign it. Hand it over. It might get pretty big. It has to cover all the stuff they have already done and probably stuff they will continue to do. Remember they are not sorry? So they are going to keep doing bad things. To you. You can write that blank check because Jesus will cover it for you. He never runs out. You and I will run out of the funds of forgiveness. But He won't. All we have to do is remember that we have chosen to forgive and ask Him to place the continued strength in our hearts to keep on forgiving. And He always will. He will give us that fountain of forgiveness in our hearts. We just have to ask.

This is my experience. I wrote that blank check. And it gave me such freedom. Freedom from anger. Freedom from the burden of trying to achieve justice. It protects me from this person who is still awful and does awful stuff. In forgiving I have (metaphor again) let go of my end of the rope. I'm no longer tied to this individual through hatred and bitterness. I am free. And when I struggle with living in that state of forgiveness (when the funds get low) Jesus comes in and fills up my forgiveness account.

We trust Him to make things right in the end. The same Jesus who makes us right--the one who will drag our "sorry behinds into heaven" (to quote my friend Dan) is the same one who will either fix the person who wronged us, or will make sure that they will never hurt us again (in heaven). We have to trust Him with this. If we trust Him to save us--if we trust Him to save us from our sins--if we trust Him to save us from Sin, we must trust Him to do it in His way, and in His time. It is time for us to forgive.

PS-on this earth, it is OK to stay away from awful people. Jesus doesn't ask us to sign up for abuse and mistreatment. I dodge my former debtor like a champion dodgeballer. There are even times to use civil authorities. There are times to hold them accountable. We can forgive and see that the wheels of earthly justice still turn. We just have to stay out of the heavenly stuff.

Autism Awareness Day

"So what am I supposed to do with that?", I hear someone ask. Give money? Wear blue? Find a puzzle ribbon (one of the symbols for autism) and pin it to my shirt? 

It does seem that there is a ribbon/wrist band/color for every cause. All for the goal to raise awareness. (And hopefully funding.) But all those causes can be overwhelming and being overwhelmed can lead to inaction. It seems like we need to do something "big" for it to count and if we cannot to a big thing, then we'll do nothing at all.

The truth is, big things are overrated. 

It is the little stuff. The daily little stuff. I had a friend once say, "the thing about life is that it is so daily." My life is pretty daily, cooking, cleaning, laundry, the endless kid hauling. There is always dust to wipe, crumbs on the floor and dishes to wash. Always. The daily stuff doesn't seems to matter until you don't do it. Then it matters. Little stuff is what life is made of.

And little stuff is what we can do. For every cause, there is someone suffering. For every ribbon, some family member has a loved one on their heart. It doesn't have to be overwhelming. We can practice kindness and compassion right where we are. Somebody nearby has a need, even if it is only for a kind smile or a friendly word. 

It might be the lonely neighbor who has lost her husband. Or the single mom who is always short of funds. It could be a family at church, still grieving a loss that everyone else has moved on from. It could be the a co-worker whose spouse was just diagnosed with cancer. Look around. We won't have to look far. There will always be someone who is "neighbor" to us--someone fallen and injured by the thieves of life, waiting for someone else to offer mercy and help. Someone waiting for the good samaritan, their good samaritan to come and offer help. Us.

And our help doesn't haven to be big. It can be small--a note, a plate of brownies, a $20, a meal, a phone call. Something small to let them know that someone sees, and cares. 

I remember the little stuff done for me. I remember a dorm roommate, who turned down my bed for me after a late night.  I remember the woman in the grocery store who came over and said a kind word about my parenting as I talked my daughter out of a fit. I remember a little bouquet of wildflowers someone left on my dresser after a particularly hard day at work. I remember the little things. 

What's Your Name?

Miss C, my lovely daughter, has a lot of questions. She picks just one (for about two weeks) and asks everyone she meets this question. Everyone. Everywhere. Here are a list of her questions in the past:

Do you have a dog?
Do you have a cat?
What is your job?
What is your favorite color?
Do you have kids?

These past few weeks it has been "what's your name?" Wait staff, cashiers, librarians, strangers in the park, and today, a doctor. (Who was slightly offended at the question and told her she could call him Doctor.) Eyeroll. Most people immediately soften, smile, say their name, and then she rolls out hers quickly enough that I get a quizzical look and I translate for them. But what really touches me is how she touches them. Up until that moment we are all following a script.

Can I help you?
What would you like to order today?
Will that be all, mam?
Have a nice day.
Thank you for shopping.

But she is having none of it. She wants to know their name. She wants to know who they are. She wants to make a new friend. Social conventions and cues sometimes escape her. And while that may complicate her life occasionally, it gives her wonderful freedom to be authentic. To be honest. See, unlike me, she is genuinely interested in the person on the other side of the counter. I just want to make my transaction and move along. I'm busy. I'm educated in social conventions. I know the words you are supposed to say; hello, good-bye, how are you, fine thank you, have a nice day. She knows that a) she is a person and b) they are a person. Something we sometimes forget.

I know that the guy who checks us out at the bookstore has two chihuahuas. I know the nurse at our pediatrician's office has three boys. I know that the lady walking in the park is named Summer and her dog is named Windsor and he loves to fetch and swim. I know that Courtney at the grocery store wants teach children, but she is a little afraid of the parents. I know the girl who helped her find the right fashion glasses just got back from Mardi Gras and regrets dyeing her hair purple and pink. I know the look on a police officer's face when she ran up to him in his patrol car on Christmas parade night and said "please be safe, please stay safe." I saw him tear up and heard him say, "that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."

I know a little more about what really matters than I did yesterday. She is teaching me. She knows what matters. I think she always has. 

Questions I get asked often. 

Question: Why are autism rates rising so rapidly? That seems kind of high, like 1 in 80 or 100 now? 

Answer: I have no idea. (I have to fight being on the defensive because when I'm tired/cranky/down I hear: are there really that many kids with it or is this just another medical fad? Does your kid really have it? Most people are just benignly curious though. I hope.) Really, really smart Ph.D. types are mystified by this. Highly motivated moms and dads haven't figured it out either. I can tell you that after sitting in my daughter's classroom of nine kids, every one of them needs to be there. All of them. And she is in just one of two classrooms in a very small school. It is a problem. Truth is, I'm no expert. I'm just a mom. 

Question: Do vaccinations cause autism?

Answer: Nope, not going there. I'm either pro or anti- and you are either pro or anti- and I'd like to stay friends. Next question?

Question: Have you seen the Temple Grandin movie?

Answer: No, my library lost it. I've read a few of her books though. 

Question: Have you tried x supplement or y diet?

Answer: Sigh. Here I start fighting the urge to back away slowly. Is someone trying to sell me something? Have they just read a book recently that purports to be a cure-all? Are they offering to come and cook for me for free? (The last one has never happened). Most people are trying to be helpful, but don't realize that parents have kept pretty up to date on stuff and have a handle on it. 

Question: What is ASD?

Answer: Autism Spectrum Disorder. There are entire webpages dedicated to defining it that do a better job than I can. PDD-NOS is the designation give to individuals with some ASD traits, but not all. ASD is an umbrella that covers both autism and Asperger syndrome.  

Question: Don't kids with autism lack empathy?

Answer: Not mine. Not at all. She can hear a weeping toddler from across the store and we will talk, talk, talk about how she wants to help them. Yes, they have a mommy, yes she will take care of them. At a pool once, one darling little child had walked the skin off her toes on the concrete bottom. I couldn't drag my child away until the mommy fixed her. "Can I pet her" "awww, poor little baby," "it is OK, it is OK," she fussed over her and loved on her while I watched closely to see that we weren't stressing the mom. She will feed our dog and lizard--overfeed--out of the anxiety that they might be hungry. She is deeply empathetic. 

Question: What do they do for autism?

Answer: A lot. Speech therapy, Occupational therapy, Physical therapy, ABA therapy (Applied Behavioral Analysis) and a ton more that I've either forgotten the name to or haven't heard about yet. And they all are very, very expensive. The public school system provides a lot of services for free though, thankfully. But none of these are worth as much as patience, prayer and calm loving parents and siblings. 

These are the questions about autism that I call "routine". They are the typical conversation starters and I'm pretty cool with them. I'm dying to tell you the outrageous comments and questions that I've gotten. Still debating if I should or not. 

The thing I feared most--

   is giggling in the other room with her brother. Yes, I feared my daughter more than anything. Hang on. I will tell you all about it.

I've had a few fears over the years. When I was younger it was that my father would die. It might have seemed irrational at the time, but since he had lost his father young and unexpectedly and because he was my stability and source of love, it was what I feared. Then I got older and started dating and entered into the really scary territory of stuff that can really screw up your life, I feared picking someone who could one day, just decide to take off, or become a complete jerk or, again, die on me. But God and I managed a deal where I promised to let Him pick the guy (or be happy single) and He would be with me no matter what. And, of course, wound up with a guy better than I could have dreamed. Then came the new world of worries--children. Somebody once said, "having a child is like letting your heart walk around outside you." Yes, yes it is. But I hadn't gotten there yet and I just feared just one thing: autism.

This fear came about because of several things. First, a lack of understanding about autism. I assumed they were little human beings completely devoid of emotions that spent a lot of time doing weird stuff, making weird noises and generally ruining their parents lives. Not that they weren't worthwhile creatures, it was just that I didn't want one. For one reason, I was afraid I wouldn't love them. I was afraid that a child who didn't show love for me would be difficult, if not impossible, to love back. Now, I believed in unconditional love. I just didn't know I was capable of it. Mostly because I hadn't been a parent. Not yet anyway.

So all the other fears of impending parenthood paled in comparison to that one. And as I had two boys who immediately burrowed their way deep into my heart, each before they were born, the fear started to fade. Now I knew that I would love them no matter what. Anyone who has had a toddler knows about unconditional love because they can truly be nasty little creatures. They will pick the day you are at your wits end and take you for a ride on the crazy train. And you will still feed them, love them, change their unbelievably smelly toddler diapers, wipe their noses, and read them a story. Because it is what you do. So the unconditional love thing was no longer a fear.

But I feared disruption. Yes. I feared things being hard. I fear things being really hard. And I'd seen those kids and their patiently exhausted mothers in waiting rooms as I waited for my child to get his slight speech delay fixed. And while I really admired them, I really had no desire to join them.

And then I did. I did join them. I didn't know it all at once. Some mothers do. Some get a diagnosis like a slap in the face. And some of us, especially parents of girls, learn it more slowly. Somewhere between the missed milestones, and the repetitive behaviors; between the sleepless nights and the constant unanswered questions, we begin to know. I think it was the second time she had crawled into a fire ant nest and wordlessly, calmly, began to pick them off herself without a single cry (over 40 stings--and just one will make a grown woman scream and want to tear off her clothes in public to find the ant--true story) I began to know. I think it was the time she had painted her room windows, walls and floor, again, with the unmentionable and I was so tired that I just put her in the tub and locked the door to her room until my husband could come home and help me, I began to know. I think it was the gentle sympathetic look on my pediatricians face as she made yet another referral for therapy and a specialist, that I began to know. I think it was the time that for the 100th time, (it seemed) she insisted on the moment I opened the front door (for the light to stream in the storm door) that she must have the phone book, the the pizza cutter and the basting brush, lined up before her as she gazed out, I then knew. 

(And let me just lovingly and firmly stop any of you who might be saying "my kid does this too." Don't just don't. My boys did all kinds of stuff that made me want to cry or run away. But they do not have autism. The intensity and and frequency of these behaviors, the constancy of meltdowns and stress is what divides the high demands of regular kids from the relentlessly exhausting and bewildering world that parents of autistic kids are suddenly overwhelmed with. The perfect watchfulness we must maintain to keep them safe and in the house. The multiple sensory problems, the impossibility of meaningful communication and the utter inability to know what the heck is wrong with your child is something I will never be able to describe. So please, don't invalidate me or any other parent of a special needs child with that phrase.) 

My life started to get hard. And then I toughened up. A little. I gave up a lot of stuff. I gave up a lot of me. I gave up thinking that my life would be easy. I even gave up the expectation that I would be happy. And I wasn't for awhile. It wasn't that I was bitter or had any philosophical unhappiness, it was just the grind of exhaustion, frustration and lack of answers and help. It was hard. Really hard. But that little deal I struck with God really paid off. I had a great parenting partner who never once complained when I bolted out the door for an hour of peace at the library even after his hard day at work. I had wonderful boys who loved their little sister and actually helped, even at their young age. I had a friend (Dixie), who was scared of nothing, step in and love my little girl like her own and give me breaks when I desperately needed them. Then I moved to a state with a good public school system for kids of special needs and really got help. Teachers and psychologists who not only understood, but gave me hugs and told me I was doing an amazing job. Who came up with behavioral plans for me to make school easier and at school to make home easier. I met mothers of other children with autism who can read my mind and heart without a single word and we can just sit together and laugh. 

And, though it took me years to see it--to feel it--I found the thing I had feared most to be the greatest blessing in my life. I found out that children with autism do love, very very much. They just express it differently. I found freedom in just not caring what some huffing person at the store might think of my daughter's fit. I just judged them. Kidding. But there is some truth to it. How someone treats me is a reflection of them, not me. Took me nearly 40 years to figure that out. I quit worrying about stupid stuff, like how I looked or if I was left out of some social circle. Stupid, stupid stuff. I quit worrying about me and started worrying about her. But that got too hard so I just learned to trust that it would all work out somehow and today had enough trouble and God knows the end from the beginning and nothing, absolutely nothing comes as a surprise to Him. 

I learned that He didn't do this to me. He didn't make anything bad for me. He gave me a sweet daughter who I love very much and who, yes, loves me very much. (I know, because just last week she crawled into bed and told me twice, for the first time ever, that she loved me "very, very much." Yep. I cried.) I learned that He uses the bad stuff that happens (and yes autism is bad stuff--for her--she got a raw deal and I hate that) for good.  Because the thing I feared most, happened to me, and I fear no more. 

Keep Calm and Carry On

I dropped my daughter off at school this morning.  It is in a large school and unusual as pre-schools go.  The local high school contains a pre-school inside it.  Two classrooms of 12 children each, plus teachers, aides, and young high school students learning about child care.  There are a few interns from the local university.  It has a mix of children, some with speech delays, motor skill issues, physical disabilities, autism and down's syndrome.  There are also children who are typical children, but considered at-risk due to economic challenges. It is a wonderful room.  And they are all so very beautiful.

Today though, the door was locked.  I had to knock.  You know why.

And I had to take a deep breath as I walked away and remind myself of what I had told my children on Friday: "millions of children went to school today and came home safely.  Those who didn't are part of a horrible tragedy that happens in this sinful world.  Jesus is always with us.  He will make the world perfect someday.  For now, we must love each other and pray for those who are sad."

I tried not to listen to the coverage.  Certainly not around the children.  But it leaks in here and there and the horror has a near mesmerizing effect.  It is hard to look away.  It is hard not to place yourself in the role of the parent who stood there, waiting for their child to be brought to the fire station and then be told, "there are no more children coming."  We can place ourselves there for a moment, imagine their sorrow and pray for their comfort.  But we can't stay there.  We cannot be prisoners of fear.

Oh there will be arguments on policy on how to prevent this from happening again.  Some will want to arm the schools, others to disarm the criminals, and talks of preventing crime altogether.  Changes will be made. Some good, some not good. We've yet to have another plane flown into a sky scraper.  Prevention often works.  But it is like trying to hold back the tide--somewhere else something bad will happen, someone else will suffer tragedy, sometime again there will be grieving parents.  We can't prevent everything.  We can't stop sin.

So I returned to school, picked up my little girl from that huge brick building full of bright young people and dedicated teachers and with a sigh of relief.  The sun broke through the clouds on the rain-wet world.  It was still there, behind those dark low clouds.  It was always there.

During World War II the British Ministry of Information designed the poster that has become popular again: Keep Calm and Carry On.  It was all part of a huge effort to keep up public morale and courage. Which wasn't just to keep everyone "happy and sunny."  It was an essential part of winning the war. It took courage and fortitude and the iron will to not only survive, but to prevail.  It was why my grandmother laughed about diving under a dining room table during a bombing raid and joked with her three friends about how silly they must look and while they continued to knit the socks for soldiers the whole time.  It was those brave, brave men who carried on despite exhaustion, privation and fear.

We are called to no less.  We are called to endure.  We live in the one dark planet in the universe, torn by war and marred by sin.  But we have the bright hope of perfect days ahead and joyful times now.  Even when the dark clouds gather.  Even when we stand in shock at the news from Newtown Connecticut. Even when things might grow worse.

We can keep calm and carry on.  Not on our own strength, but in the strength of the promise that He is always with us.  He will come and fix it.  He will hold them in His arms until the times of sorrow is past.  He will hold us in His arms.

Michael Card wrote a beautiful song called "I will bring You home."

Though you are homeless,
Though you're alone,
I will be your home,
Whatever's the matter,
Whatever's been done,
I will be your home . . .
In this fearful fallen place,
I will be your home.
When time reaches fullness
and I move my hand,
I will bring you home,
Home to your own place,
In a beautiful land,
I will bring you home,
I will bring you home.

Unkindness

Oh dear.  Kindness was my last post and I was just unkind.  I'll explain.  Not excuse, mind you, just explain.

We pick up about three times more doggie-do than our dog makes.  The underground fence is a magnet for neighborhood pooches to come, visit, and make a deposit.  Yuck.  But today, one visited the front yard and was attached to a very nonchalant owner while it did the deed.

Oh I have had enough of this.

I'm tired.  The tired parents get when they are in the midst of temporary housing between moves. The tired that comes from the bottom-of-the-barrel patience that I have to dip into daily to deal with my very active, energetic, possibly ADHD, developmentally delayed child who may have other acronyms coming. Prayer slapping off the ceiling tired.  Tired of people trying to take advantage of me.  I want to shout; "Can't you see I'm fresh out of everything?  Money? Sleep? Patience? Help?  House square footage? Working cars?  EVERYTHING!  Stop asking me for stuff unless you have less than me!  Jeepers!" But I don't shout that.  I mumble it to myself in the shower.  I whine it out in my prayers.  I cry it out in my pillow.

So when miss sorority sister lets her German Shepherd squat on my lawn I'm done.  I shout out the open window, "don't let your dog do that again."  So she calls back, "do you have a bag?"  And I graciously reply:

"No, you are supposed to carry one with you."  Slam.

Lovely.

There is still foreign dog poo on the front lawn.  My unhelpful spirit left it there.

I probably startled her.

She probably deserved it.

But I am better than that.  I could have been gracious.  I could have said please.  I could have brought her a bag and watched her clean up the mess.

But I was mad and I just walked away.  I'm not proud of myself.  Oh, I know, it isn't like I murdered anyone.  I feel like I'm running out of nice.  I'm running out of everything, just like the Sidonian widow who sheltered Elijah.  Oh. Yeah.  That's right.  She was on her last meal and a cruddy one at that and she gave to the one who asked.

Great.

I know God directed her to.  He told Elijah that he'd already cleared things with the woman and to go get some food.  What was He thinking?  Send starving Elijah to the poorest of the poor, the least of the least, the woman at the end of her rope.  What must she have thought?  Even though God directed her to, the pangs of hunger were there in her words, Sir I have no bread, just a little flour and oil.  Her last resources.  The last thin barrier between her son and death.  And God shows up and does some interesting math.  The Elijah who drank his last drop from a dying stream and his last meal from a crow.  The woman with no protector or provider who was skinny and tired and out of options. The flour bin that never was full, but never ran out. The oil that kept flowing.

God has strange math.  And I'm so much richer than her.  I have a roof, money for food, a husband to protect and love me, a car that still works, a bank account.  Three beautiful children and two that have no problems at all.  And the one who taxes me the most, is also the most full of love and sweetness and life.

So maybe God wants to bring people to me and for me to give them the last ounce of patience I have.  He restores my soul. He leads me beside still waters.  My cup runs over.

So I don't need to be the cranky old lady who yells get off her lawn.  I need to break out the shovel and be grateful I have a lawn.