Dear Jack,

It’s been seven months since the world stopped. You were so sad in the beginning. You didn’t want to get out of bed, and you didn’t want to play. But the most shocking this was this: you didn’t want to watch movies. Do you remember that? It was the first time this has ever happened. The sweetest thing in your world seemed sticky and irritating. It was confusing for you, and for all of us. Miss Janell would probably call it “topsy-turvy.”

This kind of thing happened to a lot of us this year. Our worlds became topsy-turvy. We stopped loving our favorite things, and we grew obsessed with things that never did us any good. Some of us decided the best way to be friends was through a computer screen. Some just wanted to be entertained by shows all day and all night. Others just wanted to be left alone.

Well, it’s been seven months, and those choices haven’t made us happy. Instead, we all became more anxious. Stressed. I know you know what that word means, because you push it on your device when you need a break.

And now, everyone is stressed. They are stressed because of the sickness, and because we’re about to pick a president. And they’re worried about real things like health and jobs and liberties and families and the future. But you know what they do to fix it? They try to distract themselves with more pleasures. For you , that would look like this: more screen time, more news, and more peanut butter cookie balls. More, more, more.

The problem is that more doesn’t really solve anything. We can’t run away from the things that make us sad. We can’t bury them with more. Because too much screen time makes our minds foggy, and too many cookie balls makes our stomaches ache. Then, when we stop feeling sick, we still have to figure out what to do about sadness.

They need to learn from you, son, because you found your smile again. Do you know how? I think I do.

The first thing you did was to admit when you were sad. You started coming up to us in the kitchen, opening your arms, and saying one word: “sad.” Pretty easy, huh? Well, it worked.

This happens every day now. You say you’re sad, and we say, “oh you’re sad? Well let me give you a hug.” And you lean in (or with mom, you lean DOWN), and we wrap our arms around one another. You might cry a little, or at least pretend to. (Sometimes you’re faking because you just want a hug. We’re on to you, man!) But it works. We pat each other on the back, and then we back up, a little cheerier.

Son, I cannot stress this enough: we adore this. We love it so much. We love that you can admit your feelings. And we love that you let us comfort you.

There’s a fancy word for this that grown-us use: vulnerability. It means being honest about the things you’re feeling, and then letting others help you. I wish more people knew how to do this, because I think it would work for them, too. See, we’re not supposed to be sad by ourselves. We’re supposed to be sad together. That’s what helps us be happy again.

You didn’t stop there, however. There’s one other thing you did during this seven months that helped you find your smile. Do you remember when the masks started? Well, Miss Beth knew how much you loved beards, so she got you a big long one—like a Santa beard—and trimmed it down for you. For a few weeks, it became your costume and your mask. You stared at your reflection, lowered your voice like Will Arnett in Lego Batman, and said the word, “Beard. Beard.” Then you laughed and laughed.

Instead of getting upset about the masks, you found something to be happy about. You were thankful. There’s a fancy word for this kind of thing, too: gratitude. That’s the thing that makes us happy in the end. It’s not more stuff; it’s a grateful heart. Remember what Junior Asparagus sang with his dad in Madame Blueberry? “A thankful heart is a happy heart.” Because even when we’re afraid and stressed and the world is topsy-turvy, there are still hugs in the kitchen, and funny beards in the hall, and a dog to kiss in the living room. Joy is real, son. It is a gift from the same God who gave you to us, and who gave us to you.

Vulnerability and Gratitude.

You don’t have to remember those two fancy words. But I hope you never forget how they work. Because those were the things that helped you find your smile again.

Thank you for teaching us, son. We’re listening.

Dad

This is Jack. He’s fourteen years old, and loves watching movies and playing on devices. He has autism, anxiety, and obsessive compulsive disorder. Jack is functionally non-verbal. The words he does have are mostly clumped in memorized phrases, which he deploys at predictable times. His current phrase—and the most troublesome—is, “cover your ears.”

 

“Cover your ears” almost always comes in an urgent, high-pitched squeal. It often begins around four o’you-gotta-be-kidding-me in the morning. Practically speaking, he’s not talking about our ears, but about his own. The phrase means, “please for the love of everything good and holy, somebody plug some twisted up toilet paper in my ears, STAT!” (I know what you’re thinking… What a time to develop a T.P. habit! Pray for us…) We try to accommodate him as much as possible. We bought him washable earplugs, and we try to steer him toward his on-ear headphones, but neither satisfy him. His doctor can’t figure it out, and neither can we. Is this a sensory issue? A pressure thing? Or is he afraid of his ears popping? What’s going on?

 

This is our world. We are quarantined with mystery. It’s been that way for twelve years. Once in a while, Jack casually drops a piece of the puzzle onto the table for us, and it all makes sense. Those are days of great rejoicing. But those are also rare exceptions. And so far, he hasn’t been able to tell us why he so desperately needs to cover his ears, sometimes with multiple layers of protection. Those mysteries create separation.

 

Some weeks back, before the world started to stand on its head, we had some dear friends over for dinner. After we ate, kids and grown-ups gathered around guitars, pianos, and hand-drums to make memories. We’re not professional musicians, but we love to play, and to invite our kids to join in on the revelry. Of course, we never force Jack into evening hangouts, because he doesn’t want to come. He’s an introvert with covered ears. Besides, that’s his movie time. Sacred ground.

 

But something different happened that night that. My friend Corey started to play an original song on his acoustic, and Jack bolted in to the room wearing an expression I’ve only seen on him a handful other times. To call it a smile doesn’t quite cover it. This was a mega-wat wonder-gape; a wide-eyed rush of exhilarated joy. Imagine St. Peter’s expression on the day of transfiguration, and you’ll begin to see it. Jack’s entrance was so thunderous, we all turned to welcome him, but he only cared about Corey and his song. My boy took that beaming face of his and leaned in close to my friend, locking eyes with him. When they were twelve inches apart, Jack reached out and touched Corey’s beard affectionately.

 

I can’t explain it. Maybe he just liked the sound of the song. Or maybe he just liked the singer. Maybe he could sense that Corey’s gentleness—he’s a counselor after all, and who works every day with people on the spectrum.

 

Just throw it on the mystery pile, I guess. But here’s the best part: Jack didn’t merely like the song; no, he decided to join it. There was a conga drum sitting open, and he put it to good use. (That was when I grabbed my phone. The video is below. I was about ten seconds too late to catch the expression and the moment, but you can see him pounding away in earnest.) To our astonishment, he played with all of us the rest of the evening. We were  elated.

 

The memory of that night makes me stop and consider the nature of inclusion—one of the highest values our community seeks to uphold. If inclusion means everyone has to play together, I think we miss it. I think we end up forcing people together who might prefer to watch their five-o’clock special alone in their favorite room.

“You Lord are tender. You’re beautiful and kind. Slow to anger rich in love

Look into my eyes, show me Your kindness again. I need Your strength to go on

 

For I’m Your child, I’m the creation of Your hands.

There’s no one who can save me but You

I am crying out to You only for I know that You always hear me

You’re the one I can count on morning to night,

And night back to morning.”

Special thanks to Corey Jackson, for the moment and for the lyrics to Morning to Night.

Close your eyes and you’ll picture him—a rail-thin boy running from his puppy, shrieking with laughter and fear. He’s still learning to work his stretched out limbs, and his voice has not yet settled on a tone after its pubescent free fall. Everything about him is in transition. Our boy is covered from head to toe with uncertainty.

The dog, in contrast, is small and much more at ease with herself. Sure, she looks like a shaggy plush toy—a walking blond carpet with little dark eyes—but there is a strange intentionality about her that I didn’t expect. When the smaller boys chase her, she chases back; when they play rough, she bares her teeth and takes aim. But she responds differently to the uncertain boy. She doesn’t bite him. And when he starts to scream, her movements slow, and she grows calm.

This bodes well for Jack, our boy with autism and fierce anxiety, because this dog is to be more than a pet. She’s a three-month old Labradoodle, and in two weeks, she will begin training to become his service dog.

When he sees her walking around the house by herself, he gets nervous. When the laughing shrieks begin, we have to remind him, “Jack, she’s not running after you. She’s being nice. You should pet her!” That’s been a tough sell for him. When the anxious switch is flipped on, all he can see is the uncertainty of the situation: when no one is holding the dog’s leash, there is much to fear.

Eleven months ago, I sat on a bench in my favorite town—Cannon Beach, Oregon—and watched the birds patrol the dawn. To say it was a perfect morning wouldn’t do justice to the way my heart felt. The truth is, I was full to bursting surrounded by that art—the purple skies behind Haystack Rock, and the seagulls playing tag with the unhurried waves.

It was an off-brand experience for me. I’m the guy who talks about the mingling of gladness and sorrow, after all. But that day there was no shadow, just light. There were no tears, just beauty. There was no sadness, just hope that there might be more days like it–that life might be more than aching joy.

The possibility brought me to tears. I felt like Lucy, discovering the magic of a wardrobe to another world.

Then, two weeks later, Janae got cancer, and the spell was broken.

Janae’s death has loomed large over our lives this year. I won’t bother you with the mundane details of mourning, because many of you mourned with us. It is pretty run-of-the-mill stuff anyway. We’ve cried until we thought we were done. Then, a new holiday comes, and we feel it all over again. Who knew grief would cycle with the seasonal sales at Walmart?

No, I won’t bother describing it all, but I will say this: her death felt to me like a Divine bait-and-switch. And maybe I was just too sentimental in the first place. Maybe I read too much into the magic of that morning. Maybe it’s on me. But for a handful of days, I took the experience as a promise that I might be able to switch joy off and on like a light switch. I thought it meant I had some control over my own inner world. But tragedy doesn’t work like that. When a storm comes, you don’t choose for the power to go out. It just goes out.

There’s a funny thing we’ve seen with Jack and his dog. All he has to do to relax is to pick up Leeli’s leash. He takes it in his hand, turns around, and starts to smile. And I think to myself, “You know she could still get you, right? You’re not any safer than you were three seconds ago.”

When I first saw this, I thought about how even the illusion of control can calm our fears. If we can convince ourselves that we’re the boss of something—anything, really—life can become suddenly manageable. The idea made me laugh.

I was wrong, though. This isn’t about Jack’s control over Leeli; it’s about his control over Jack. When he picks up the leash, he might not be any safer, but without question, he is braver. When he pulls the dog closer to him, he pulls his uncertainty closer, come what may. It is a posture both of surrender and of power: he is vulnerable, yes, but at least he is choosing his vulnerability. He is scrunching up his nose and letting his fears lick him in the face.

And I wonder if there isn’t something in this picture for me. For all of us. Because choosing joy will never be like flipping a switch. Not in a world where even good dogs turn on you. Not where cancer grows in secret, and doesn’t show its face until it’s too late. Some days, mourning overtakes us again, and the light switch will not work no matter how many times we flip it.

But even if we have little control over our circumstances, God has not left us powerless. Indeed, he has given us a choice: we can pick up the leash. We can choose to engage the uncertain days, even when our hearts are stuffed full of fear. If we do, we will cry sometimes, yes. But we will also find mornings of pure, unfiltered joy.

The perfect sky over Cannon Beach was not a promise that all will be well forever and always, or that I could henceforth amputate pain from laughter. Rather, it was a singular gift: a “sacred moment of delight,” as a friend called it. And I’ll be honest: I need more of such moments in this new decade. I need more sunrises; more rolling waves and dancing birds. I was not made to hide from such gifts; I was made to glory in them.

You were, too.

Dear Friends,

I wonder if you recall the great “unreached people group” boom of the 80’s and 90’s. I was growing up in a missional community back then, and we were always talking about completing the Great Commission. We would lay giant world maps over the floor, praying for the tribes and nations who had little to no exposure to the good news of Jesus Christ. We wanted to go to them, to show them that God loved them. And we did.

It was a fruitful push, but I fear we were somewhat farsighted. With such a broad, global focus, we often missed the unreached people living in our own neighborhoods. One group is especially dear to my heart: special needs families. It’s not that they’ve never heard the gospel; it’s that they often have little to no access to church life. Their situations often present significant obstacles to joining a faith community. But they need you. They need the love of your communion. And you need them, too.

I could tell you my own story as a pastor and special needs dad, but if you follow this blog, you probably know it already. So instead, I want to tell you about Kyle.

Kyle’s Story

When Kyle came to us, his parents were barely hanging on. In truth, they were in survival mode. Having adopted six kids from some incredibly difficult situations, they were grappling with a variety of significant disabilities and mental health issues. Kyle, their ten year old, was probably most affected. He dealt with autism and considerable learning disabilities, as well as with behavioral issues like anger management. He was a flight risk too; a big kid with violent outbursts and an urge to slip away through the window!

Kyle’s parents needed a break from the world. They needed ninety minutes free on a Sunday morning in order to worship God and remember His love for them. Kyle needed a break from the world, too. He needed a breather from danger, from outside judgment, from an impatient culture, and from peers who made no effort to understand or include him.

Our Sunday morning accommodation was simple enough. (I wrote an article about it back in 2012, but we have learned and adapted much since then). We had a room set aside for kids like Kyle–kids who couldn’t abide the main service, and who were too stressed out to stay in the kids’ service. The “Open Heavens Room,” as we called it, was furnished with simple tools designed to help children dealing with sensory issues. We hired a local expert who knew how to help these children relax and make sense of the world. Lori was skilled, patient, and kind. And she trained other adults to take walks with our Kyles, get to know them, and help them bravely enter the kids’ service when they felt up to it. (My wife Sara, our children’s pastor, led the charge on this effort. She talks about it briefly in the video below:)

For families like Kyle’s, the Open Heavens Room proved to be more than a respite; it became a front door to our congregation. Our family. And isn’t this what church is supposed to be? Isn’t this why some of us still call one another “brother” and “sister?” It sounds almost cheesy–a relic of a bygone era built of crusty rules and religiosity. But words matter, and relational tags can serve to remind us of a deep truth:

Church is not a exclusive club, or a brick building, or a solemn event on Sunday mornings. Rather, the church is people — siblings of different blood, but of the same Father. Church is family.

When we make accommodations for people like Kyle and his parents, then, we are giving them an opportunity to take their shoes off and walk into our living rooms. We are telling them they have a place at our dinner tables. We are telling them, “you belong.” If we overlook the the special needs community, however, most of them will remain outside the family. They will continue on, unreached.

Our church embraced Kyle’s family more than seven years ago. Sunday morning was only one part of it. There were plenty of other parts: meals and moving teams, consistent prayer and counsel, gifts and enduring friendship. The journey hasn’t always been easy for him, or for his parents. But they pressed on, and he pressed on, and we pressed on with them. All of us grew together.

After years of therapies, prayers, and support, Kyle was doing much better. On Sundays, he no longer needed the Open Heavens Room, and was spending church with his peers. That was our goal in the first place: we want our people to be together. But he was still having significant challenges with schoolwork. His mom was homeschooling him, but she was still running up against his learning disabilities. That’s when she asked my wife if Kyle could spend a few hours every week helping out at the church offices. Such an arrangement would give his mom a breather, and it could help Kyle learn some important job skills for down the road. We were happy to give it a shot.

At first, Sara was giving him busy work, like preparing kids crafts and shredding paper. But soon, his confidence started to grow, and everything changed. Our administrative pastor, Janell, started entrusting him with harder projects, like changing ballasts on fluorescent lights. He learned to do research online, watching Youtube videos, asking good questions, and going to work. And he just kept learning…

Today, Kyle is sixteen years old, and he is a paid member of our church staff. He worked himself into a job. He has grown into a kind, hard-working young man, and is a true asset to our team. The guy just gets stuff done, and we love having him around.

Not only that, but his parents–those brave souls who took on so much–are not living in survival mode any longer. Their life is still full of challenges, but they are able to stand, steadfast and overflowing with compassion and wisdom for other parents in our congregation. They are an integral part of our family.

My Challenge

When Jesus bid us to “let the little children come,” it wasn’t just for the their own sake. We benefit from their presence as much as they do from ours. Children facing challenges like Kyle, or like my own Jack, possess rare qualities that enrich all of us. They are overcomers, and carriers of hard-fought joy. This is the nature of God’s interdependent kingdom: we need each other.

And yet, there are countless families who are left out of this circle. They might live across the street from a church, yet they remain unreached. Many of them have made an effort before, but it grew too difficult. Too confusing. Maybe their child was too noisy during a service. Maybe someone made a rude comment about a lack of discipline. Maybe someone told them to find another church. I’ve heard all of these stories more times than I can count. These families deserve better. These children certainly deserve better.

Truly, our churches can become safe havens for these weary souls; oases where they can drink deeply from God’s spirit and God’s people; communities where they can breath and thrive.

You don’t have to replicate what our church did. Every situation is different, after all. But if you will open your doors to these families–if you will seek them out, listen to their stories, and find even small ways to accommodate them–you will not only be helping people in need; you will be giving a beautiful gift to your entire congregation.

So, fellow laborer, I urge you: let them come.

For more information on how to start a special needs ministry in your church, check out KeyMinistry.org. This is a wonderful network of creative parents, experts, and ministers who are actively exploring this need in exciting and creative ways.

And if you are in the Eugene area on March 7th, 2019, join us for A Child To Love, as we explore this issue in more detail. Here is the promo video:

You can register here.

My thanks to Kyle and his family for letting me tell their story.

Last month, I had one of those ugly self-revelations that was so obvious, I couldn’t believe I had never seen it before. It happened when I helping my wife with her duties as children’s pastor. I was running around playing keep-away with a gaggle of grade school boys and a nerf football (because I didn’t own a real one). There were fumbles and recoveries and overthrows and tackles that weren’t quite tackles (because I told them not to tackle, but they are boys, you see, and they can’t always help it). And there was so much laughter, it was clear they they were enjoying our game almost as much as I was.

Then, my own six year old son grabbed the ball, flashed his trademark grin, and took off running. And when he did, the revelation began, “man, Nathan’s pretty fast for his age.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked at my shaggy nine year old, Sam, and I saw he was fighting and clawing for the ball, hair flying in all directions. And that’s when the ugly truth hit me like a head-hunting free safety: all of this felt way too strange and novel.

That’s because I never play football with my sons. Ever.

I know, I know, who cares, right? Dads do all sorts of things with their sons. But see, this is different for me. Sam and Nathan are the youngest brothers. Their big brother Jack has severe autism, and when he first came along, I had all these giddy dad dreams about what our life together would be like. At the center of those dreams was sports. Football in particular. I grew up playing football every day with my brothers, and watching the Cowboys rise to greatness in the 1990’s. I was okay with the fact that my daughters didn’t care for sports, but I wanted to share that part of our family culture with my son.

Like all dads in my position, however, I had to let go of all that. I had to throw out the blueprints, because autism has ideas all its own. For years, I floundered, trying to adjust my expectations and figure out how to be a dad to my son. I wore sorrow like a cape in that season.

But eventually I came out of my malaise, thanks be to God, and I figured out how to love my boy in his own way. We don’t play football together, but we do go on scooter rides, run movie lines, throw dance parties (sort of), and play tag in the office. We even make movies and put them on the internet. We have a great thing going, Jack and I.

And now you see it, though, don’t you? Jack’s little brothers. What about them?

Here they are, all rough and tumble and hungry for roughhousing time with dad, so… why hadn’t we play sports together? How had I not realized Nathan was fast? How did we not own a football? Could we not be moved to establishing a regular schedule of sports despite all the sports broadcast on live TV we’ve been getting entertained with?

I’ve been circling these questions for the past month, and I still don’t understand them. Maybe I’ve been scared of betraying Jack–as if the bond of sports would inevitably bring the younger boys closer to me than he is. If I can’t share that connection with Jack, is it even fair that I would share it with his little brothers?

Forgive me if I sound a little melodramatic. I honestly don’t know my own heart, here. But this much is clear: my long chapter of sorrow, though it’s mostly closed now, still carries repercussions, especially for my sons. And it’s utterly unfair to them.

Despair is an equal opportunity thief, stealing joy not only from the one who is struggling, but from all those around him as well.

At first, when heartache strikes, there is almost no avoiding the pain. If you try to mute the sadness and pretend it’s not affecting you–if you grit your teeth and paint on a smile–you will end up muting all the good stuff too. It won’t help. You have to be honest about it. You have to deal with it. You have to be sad for a while. I don’t know if you can avoid that.

Indeed, we will always carry some sadness with us. But sorrow makes for a poor destination. It is supposed to be a wayside stop. A hostel, even. I stayed there for far too long. My wife paid the price for that already. Jack and my daughters did, too. Now, I find my younger sons might feel it.

I’ve been working to undo the damage since I recognized it. I’ve been intentional about spending more time with them. More FUN time. We’ve gone swimming and done laser tag, played monopoly and watched movies. And yes, we’ve played football, too. Finally. I bought a nice football. And we’re all loving it. Sam is learning to throw a good spiral, and Nathan does this hilarious thing where he points his left arm out straight before he throws the ball. “I’m aiming!” he said, as if he’s shooting a bee-bee gun. We’ve got some work to do, but boy, he makes us laugh.

Then, one morning, Sam and I went hiking by ourselves up through the foothills of the Cascade mountains. We walked four miles up and down a fantastic ridge (the same one we filmed the Aching Joy promo). We talked and laughed and took pictures and found a cool cave–which boys love above all things–and I kept thinking about all I’ve been missing.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” I told him just before we got back to our car. “I should have been doing this kind of thing with you a long time ago.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “You’re doing that kind of thing right now!”

I laughed, and swallowed back a tear, because my son is wiser than me. He understands the simple requirements of repentance. To repent of wallowing, we simply stop wallowing. We ask forgiveness and start again, this time in the other direction. But if we load ourselves up with unwieldy regrets–if we insist on crawling the steps of shame flight after flight–we will continue to miss all the moments we’ve regretted missing. And what a bitter irony that would be.

Was my season of sorrow inevitable? Probably. Did I stay too long? Absolutely. But even that mistake, however tragic, was not fatal. We live in a world where new forests grow after the fires come. Redemption lives here. That means there are still fly patterns to run and hills to tromp and jackpots waiting for us to land on Free Parking. Fresh joy with every sunrise.

What about you? Are you still sleeping in cheap motels of stale regret? I get it. Believe me, I do. But that place is not your home. The sun is coming up, and “His mercies are new every morning.”

It’s time to move out. It’s time begin again.