On Grief, Gratitude, and Whether to Take Your Suit to the Hospital
Today, I am honored to share a story I wrote about friendship, mourning, and thanksgiving over at a wonderful blog called Confessions of a Funeral Director. Read more
The Shirt and His Boy
This is my son Jack. He has autism, as some of you know. But chances are, you have never met his favorite shirt, Tiger.
Tiger got his name from a character in Kung Fu Panda. Technically, it was TigRESS, but that’s unimportant. What matters is that Jack looked down at his striped sleeves one day while watching the movie, said the word “tiger,” and fell in love. He refused to take it off. Read more
The Greatest Trick the Devil Ever Pulled
It’s been three weeks since Newtown, and I think we’ve pretty much talked about everything. Guns, mental health, medication, school security, and especially God. God-talk is always trending at times like this. People “turn to God,” and “lean on God,” and “find God” in the midst of suffering. Others ask “where was God?” or “why, God?” or “how could a good God do this?” In almost every case, the speaker rightly assumes that God is at least supposed to be the good guy. What I don’t understand is this: why is there so little talk of the bad guy?
The fictional villain Keyser Soze rightly said, “the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” It’s true. Read more
“It’s Your Job to Make Me Believe”
Happy 2013, friends. A new year also means a fresh start in Bible Reading plans. I’m going with the Life Journal plan, developed by Dr. Wayne Cordeiro. It will take me through the Old Testament once and the New Testament twice, plus a healthy dose of Psalms and Proverbs. I’m planning to blog at least once a week about what I’m reading, in addition to my other topics of autism, stories, etc. Read more
Life Through Wide Angle Lenses
Whenever tragedy strikes, we make statements like “That really puts it in perspective.” And it’s true. Jarring events impose themselves on us, forcing us to remember the treasures we have neglected. Treasures wearing our rings, or wrapped in footy pajamas. And then, when the sadness fades, we revert again to our old patterns, glorifying the trivial over the truly precious.
Do we need bad news to keep us grateful? Do we need death and sickness to remind us of the beauty of life? Are we that pathetic?
In a word, yes. As a society, I’m afraid we are. But we don’t have to be. Read more
Parenting and the Problem of Proverbs
Sara and I are fortunate to have a community that seems to “get” the autism thing. That is to say, most people don’t assume we are bad parents when Jack goes limp on the sidewalk, or screeches for Puffins at Safeway. It probably helps that his words are so slurred and his stims so obvious. They can tell something is different. Not all parents are so lucky. Some get the “you-suck-as-a-parent” stink eye, even from family members. Read more
Good News: You’re Not Job!
First, know this: I am not making light of your experiences. You have lost friends and family members. You have experienced devastating relational fractures. You have suffered in body and spirit. We all have.
But you are not Job.
At first glance, I see why you think you might be him. Job was the most unfortunate of Old Testament figures. He is a man who lost everything and everyone he loved. He feels intense pain, and he knows he doesn’t deserve it. He is not afraid to ask why. Neither are you. His sorrows have multiplied onto more sorrows. You’ve felt that before. Maybe not now, but before. And you wonder why God is putting you through this.
But I tell you, you are not Job. And that is good news. Read more
Do Bad Worship Lyrics Keep Us Wretchy?
I recently read a beautiful post by Addie Zierman over at her blog “How To Talk Evangelical” about hyperbole in worship. In it, Addie talks about our tendency to go over the top in the songs we sing, as if we really have had nothing but joy, joy, joy, joy, down in our hearts all the time and every day, since we gave our lives to Jesus. As if the Christian life is all unicorns and grassy hills full of strawberries. Her main point: Let’s be real, friends. We need authenticity in our worship.
Addie is right about all of this, but I want to take one more step. Our lyric problems do not end when we embrace authenticity. In fact, if we stop there, we might end up in spiritual defeatism. It happens accidentally, but it happens often. Read more
“Invisible” Autism Families; How the Church can Help
My family doesn’t get out much. You might see two or three of us at the grocery store, the school parking lot, or even at the movies. But you would never know that we have five children, because we almost never go out as a family. Restaurants are not worth it, and don’t even get me started on theme parks and state fairs.
We are like many invisible families with autistic children. We stay home. Read more
50 First Dates with My Autistic Son
Note: This article originally appeared in Prodigal Magazine online in August of 2012.
Last week, I put on my strict daddy face and stared down my daughter from across the table. “You’re nine years old today. This has gone on far enough. You must STOP growing!”
She grinned back at me and repeated the word “nine” at least seventy-four times. I slumped into a puddle of self pity and shut my ears.
It is a game we have played for years. When Jenna turned two, she traded her onesies for princess dresses, and I missed the good ole days. Not long after, the dresses were nixed for cowgirl jeans. Before I knew it, the whole thing spiraled out of control, and now I hardly recognize my little girl. She’s putting feathers in her hair, drinking mochas, writing grown up sounding stories and obsessing over Phil Mickelson (Yes, the golfer. I’m as puzzled by this as you are.)
So I tell her I want her to stop growing up. But I am lying.
Because as hard as it is to watch your kids grow older, it is infinitely harder to watch them stay the same age.
I should know. I have a six year old with Autism.
Jackson was diagnosed when he was three, but we knew something was wrong for a year before hand. He had been a normal boy, laughing and interacting with his sisters, learning new vocabulary and throwing it in whenever he had the chance.
Then he hit a wall. I cannot remember exactly when he regressed, but I remember that he stopped exploring. Stopped playing. Stopped looking us in the eyes. Everything he had learned about his world was gone.
Specialists have worked with him for the past three years. We enrolled him in a school with autism experts. We put him on a special gluten-free, casien-free diet. We bought him an iPad for the special education apps. And we have loved the cheese out of him every day.
In some ways he has improved. Unlike many autistic children, Jackson is very affectionate and good natured. He actually enjoys being with us–something we could not have said three years ago.
But in other ways he is still three.
He does not speak to us, except to ask to go outside, get a snack, or to play with our phones. These are usually two or three word sentences. Some days he remembers his words, but most days, he just pulls our hand to the thing he wants, and we have to remind him what to say.
“I… want… chips… please…”
How many times have we taught him that sentence? Hundreds. No exaggeration. He will learn it, and the next day, we have to teach it all over again. I feel like Adam Sandler with Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates!
The most frustrating aspect of this is that my wife and I are both skilled teachers. We thrive on boiling down difficult concepts into concrete ideas that are easy to absorb. Our son, for whatever reason, simply cannot absorb language. We’ve thrown everything we have at him, and very little seems to stick. The experts are just as baffled as we are, and there is no answer in sight.
Early on, the cycle of hope and disappointment nearly sidelined me as a dad. I had to let go of all my visions for the future, to clean the slate and start engaging my son with real love–the kind that is full of patience and empty of any performance requirements.
In short, I had to learn to love like my Father.
G.K. Chesterton wrote about God’s child-like ability to exalt in the monotonous. God makes the sun rise, and then, like a little boy being tossed into the air by his father, He says “do it again!” It seems the Creator does not get bored as easily as I do.
I get tired of the duplicate lessons that teach the same words over and over again. But in moments of more relaxed clarity, I smile to myself. Is it really so bad to have to teach my son to say “I want chips please”? After all, it is short and simple, and unlike more complex petitions with multiple subordinate clauses, it always earns a salty, delicious reward.
“I want chips please” is a perfectly good sentence, and I look forward to teaching it to my son again tomorrow.
Can I Love my Son AND Pray for Change?
Jackson woke up this morning at 6 with a drum solo. It was pretty awesome. He started by beating his hands on the sliding glass door, waking his sisters from their living room slumber party. I smiled. He really does have great rhythm. Then he turned the microwave into a bass drum. I got up.
I took his hand and led him to the conga drum next to the TV and said “Dude, this is a drum. Play this.”
He scrunched up his nose and smiled. Then, he played a masterful hand-drum concerto. It lasted for five seconds. (The glass door is so much more interesting…) Read more
Fighting Autism with Lame Theology
I just finished reading a great post entitled “THE AUTISM DADDY RELIGOUS MANIFESTO.” The anonymous blogger has a nine year old boy with severe autism–worse than my son’s, whose is formidable enough–and was put off by trite religious platitudes that were supposed to make things better. He is not a believer, but he is honest, and I want to stand next to him in addressing this “comforting” statement to autism parents:
“God never gives you anything you can’t handle.”
First of all… really? Are we still using that line? I had hoped it would go out of fashion with TestaMints. Because nobody in the history of pain has ever been healed by religious denial. Ever. Read more
The Cruelty of Fairy Godmothers (A Short Story)
The old woman frowned at the moping beauties in the king’s garden. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for them. On any other night, they would have had a fighting chance. The Duchess’ daughter was lovely enough to incite a riot with her scandalous gown made of red rose pedals. And the Vizier’s girl—the one wrapped in thin layers of golden lace—she might have had a dozen knights preparing to quest on her behalf. Even the poor merchant’s daughter in the deep purple dress was alluring enough to win for her father a dowry as tall as the castle walls.
Poor girls. They must have been so confident earlier in the evening.
But now she was there.
At first they called the girl arrogant because of her dress. Then they called her fake for pretending to look so innocent. But at last, they settled on stupid, because she appeared to have no idea who she was dancing with.
The old woman doubted that. The topic must have come up. The Prince had greeted her like an excited hunting dog the moment she arrived, and the two had not stopped dancing since.
The discarded maidens complained that it was the dress and not the girl who had seduced him. The thing was made of shining white silk, covered with hundreds of sparkling, transparent stones; stones just like the ones hanging from the queen’s own ears. No one dared whisper the word “diamonds,” for they all knew it would cost the wealth of two whole kingdoms to mine that many stones.
Yes, they all decided after another full hour of spiteful whispers: It had to be the dress. There was no chance the girl’s figure could actually be so perfect. The dress merely pushed and pulled in the right places. Her eyes only looked like glowing emeralds because of how the dress sparkled. And those loose strands of deep blonde hair only bounced so gaily because… well it had to be the dress’s fault somehow, or maybe it was those loathsome glass slippers!
“I do good work,” the old woman said to herself, swaying gently as the waltz came to an end. The prince was bowing, and the girl was giving an awkward curtsy–the most adorable awkward curtsy that ever was. But when she looked up, something was wrong. Her eyes were puffy, and she turned away from him.
The gaggle of maidens held their breath.
“I think she’s angry,” the Vizier’s daughter squeaked. “Let’s go!” The maidens stampeded down the steps and around the fountain. In a moment, the special girl was missing in a see of colored lace.
The old woman did not move. “I shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, pulling her brown hood tightly over her head.
The Prince was growing desperate as the mob of girls surrounded him. “Miss! Miss, where did you go?” He called for his guards to give him space, but it was too late. The merchant’s daughter had him now, and she was lifting him off his feet. The old woman felt her stomach tighten. Where had the girl gone to?
“Godmother?”
The old woman jumped at the small voice, which came from behind her. It was too late to hide now.
She put on a motherly smile and turned around. “Yes dearie? Oh, you found me. I was just enjoying the —”
“Godmother,” the beauty repeated, “It’s… it’s not enough time.”
The godmother looked up to the glowing yellow clock on the spire. It was almost twelve already.
She sighed. “I’m sorry, dearie. It must be midnight.”
“It’s not fair,” the girl blurted out.
“Every night must end. How else will you find your happily ever after?”
“Happily ever after? I don’t even know happiness now?” Tears began to gush from her perfect eyes. The pale skin of her cheeks turned pink. “How can you do this to me?” the girl balled. “You are too cruel.”
“Come now,” the godmother whispered, “How can you say that?”
“I can say it easily, because it is the truth. And a princess must speak the truth, even if she is only allowed to be a princess for a few lousy minutes on a hot evening.”
The godmother raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
The girl fell to her knees. “Godmother, just a couple of hours.”
The godmother reached down and to raise the girl’s chin and said, “And when would it be enough? When would you be satisfied if not now?”
The girl pulled away. “If I had your powers, I would use magic without limits. The only true gift is a gift that does not end.”
“Dearie, you do not know what you are saying. The limit is part of the gift.”
The girl ignored her. “I would use magic every moment. Just for the sheer joy of it. Or maybe it is not a joy to you, but it is to me.” At that, she began prying the shining stones from her shining white dress, one after another, and tossing them on the ground.
“Daughter, what are you–?”
“Don’t object, godmother. You would only care if you actually took delight in working your miracles. But you don’t, so stop pretending!”
The godmother wanted to hold her. Wanted to fall down next to her and fold her hands over the girl’s shaking fingers, but it would not do. The girl needed to be answered.
“Daughter, I do delight in magic. I delight in every gift I have given you. Can you look into my eyes and say the same?”
The girl did not look into her eyes, but she answered, “Of course I do!”
“You are lying to yourself, daughter. This whole night is a gift. If you really thought so highly of magic, you would not haggle like one who has never experienced it.”
The girl stood up and took her hands from her face. It looked as if her tears had been running up her forehead and her nose. Her eyes were puffed and red, and her plump, red lips convulsed.
“Then I will pay you back for all you have done for me !” she shouted, reaching down to remove a glass slipper. She did not even pause to take aim, but hurled it straightaway at her fairy godmother. It glanced off her and fell to the ground, shattering into thousands of tiny shards.
“You are not real to me! I do not even believe in fairies!” she wailed, then crumbled into a puddle and sobbed so loudly that her prince called out to her.
“Miss? Miss, where are you?”
The godmother disappeared into the wind before the young man came into view around the hedges. The girl was already on her feet, fleeing down the great stone steps. “I’m sorry,” she cried over her shoulder. “I must go. I have to go now!”
“Wait,” he called after her. “Don’t go! I don’t even know your name!” He chased her down the steps and onto the road, but he was too late. The girl was already climbing inside her porcelain white carriage. The clydesdales wasted no time pulling their passenger away at lightning speed.
The godmother reappeared behind the hedges and watched the prince drag himself back up the steps. His face was full of defeat and confusion.
The old woman sighed as she looked away from the prince to the broken shards that lay at her feet. Was it worth it? Would it do any good at all? She forced a smile and reached in her boot where she kept her magic wand. It would be a risk. But then, it was always a risk.
GK Chesterton proposed this scenario in “The Ethics of Elfland,” the greatest chapter of his classic “Orthodoxy.”
Special thanks to my brother-in-law, the crazy-talented Chris Audet, for the original illustration.
Finding the Mountain Pass to Narnia
(…With apologies to C.S. Lewis)
I have journeyed many times with the boy called Shasta. His heart was full when he left for Narnia, but things have not turn out like he hoped. Not by a long shot. I especially feel for him after he delivers an urgent message to a foreign king. The king promptly forgets about him, leaving him alone at midnight on a cold mountain road. Shasta moves tepidly in the blackness. Disappointed. Exhausted. Numb.
Read more
Why No, My Son is Not Rain Man
I suppose it all started with Rain Man. Dustin Hoffman was just too awesome. America had never heard much about autism before he demonstrated his uber-genius to moviegoers, and we haven’t been able to forget it since. We learned that autism had an exciting side. It might be a sort mutation that grants mental superpowers. Sure, it comes with some baggage, but did you see what he did at the Black Jack table?
That was before the autism epidemic. Before the blue ribbons, the World Autism Day, the vaccination debate. We have “awareness” now. Among other things, we have learned that while many savants are autistic, most people with autism are not savants at all.
But the savant possibility still intrigues us, doesn’t it? The fact that a brain might be hyper-wired for math, music or science at the expense of social skills… that’s pretty cool. So cool, in fact, that we start to look for it even when it is clearly not there. Read more
An Archangel’s Confession (A Monologue)
Oh, come now. Is this really necessary? All of you? Did Michael really need so many guards? I won’t try anything rash, you can put down your swords. No? Fine, have it your way. But you have no idea what it’s like down there. You who get to shut yourselves up in the throne room. You have no ide– What’s that noise? Someone’s crying. It’s Him, isn’t it? It’s the King.
I can’t stand this. Can you blame me for doing what I did? You would have done the same thing if you had my history. I saw the Prince in all his glory. In all of his magnificent power. You remember when the sea parted with his breath? I was there. I saw him, and he barely breathed on the water. Only a tiny puff to spare his children, and another to destroy the greatest army of men that ever was. Read more
The Diary of the Prodigal’s Father
Monday, May 4
We are still reeling, Grant and I. He hides his hurt by going out back to chop wood or shoot baskets. I stay on the porch staring at my cell phone, waiting for the special ring I programmed. It’s been over a month now since Miles said those things and ran away. I suspect Grant resents me for letting him leave. But keeping him here… what would that have done? Just kept his bones in our house even though his heart was far away.
I took a walk around the property this morning. It was warm and humid. Grant scoffed that his brother was probably “living it up” on the pier. I did not ask him his definition of “living it up,” but his accusing eyes confirmed my fears.
I can’t think about all that. Not yet. I just want my son back.
Thursday, May 7
Today I almost worked up the nerve to go in his bedroom bur the “Keep Out” signs on the door still hold some power over me. Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.
So I did something else instead: pulled out a shoebox of some old Polaroids from when Miles was young. My favorite is this one where he’s about six and I am chasing him up the driveway. He is running home.
Saturday, May 9
It’s 5 am. An hour ago, I woke up from a nightmare. He was gone still, and now Grant was gone, too. Left a note saying the same thing his brother had shouted: that he wished I was dead, and was going to the pier. When I realized it was a dream, I muffled my crying somewhat, but Grant still knocked on the door to make sure I was all right. I told him everything was okay. I wanted to tell him everything. I hoped he would ask what happened. Instead he went back to bed. I think it scared him.
Now I’m sitting out on the porch under a comforter exhausted but my cell phone is fully charged, so I’ll stay awake. Sometimes it rings too quietly… Please call me, son.
Monday, May 11
Minor breakthrough, today. I made it into the bedroom. It was worse than I had imagined. I won’t say all that I found. That would help nobody, least of all Grant, who would resent his brother even more. I boxed up all of that junk and threw it in the dumpster.
Besides those things, the walls disturbed me. Of course, they were darkly decorated in that same “emo” style he dressed in–that much didn’t surprise me. But the walls themselves showed signs of abuse. A couple of holes, a few dents, and some sort of burn next to the bed.
After a lengthy hunt through the walk-in closet, I finally found the thing I was really looking for: Gary, the stuffed Giraffe I gave him for Christmas… how many years ago? 12 or 13? Anyway Gary and I sat down together on the bed and cried about how hard it is to be lost.
Tuesday, May 12
It’s noon, and apparently, I slept on the porch! Don’t remember how I got here. My phone was dead (that gave me an awful fright!), but I just checked the voicemail. He didn’t leave one. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t call, right?
Thursday, May 21
Great news! Or bad news… I haven’t decided yet. Miles is off the pier. One of his old girlfriends from school dropped by just now and told me so. She said he might have gotten kicked out. That’s the bad part. But at least he’s out, and that means (drum roll….) he might have no place to go! Which means he is closer than he’s ever been to coming home! I’m going to get his sheets washed in case he comes tonight.
Monday, May 25
I can’t sleep. It’s been four days and we haven’t heard anything about where he’s living. I hired three private investigators tonight to find him. Oh please, find him…
Sunday, June 28
A lot has happened in a month, and yet we’re no closer to bringing Miles home. Here is the long and short of it: We found out he was living on the southeastern edge of the city. It’s a rough neighborhood. Not in the same way as the pier is rough. Well, actually, it is rough like that, too, but it’s more than that. Far worse, actually.
My PI’s found him sorting through a landfill, picking out the plastic. Working for a sanitation company but not getting paid. I’m guessing he lost some bets with the owner. Anyway, they said he looked scared. “Very thin and very jumpy,” is what they told me. And he did not wish to see me. Warned me not to come, actually.
Grant and I were up half the night talking about what to do. We decided to send him a care package. We put some money in, along with some warm clothes and snacks and a note inviting him to come home. Grant got all their friends to sign it.
Unfortunately, the package was never delivered. He was already gone when it got there. So we’re back to square one. Nobody knows where he is, but he is alone. I see his face when my eyes close. Weak. Frightened. Unwashed. Ashamed.
My heart feels like a wash rag–sullied, pulled terribly tight, then twisted. Grief comes and leaves with no warning. My face will be dry, and suddenly the feeling hits my stomach and wrenches the tears out all at once. It only happens for a moment, but those moments happen often. Ten times in day, at least.
I’m so tired. Sometimes I wish I could just forget. But then I look at a picture of him as a boy. Or I look up at the treehouse we built. Or I hear the phone ring, or see that stupid giraffe… it all starts up again. My shoulders ache from his absence. I used to snatch him up and toss him up there, where he would sit and pull my hair for hours before I surrendered to him.
I cannot surrender now.
Monday, September 4
Grant pretends to give up hope. But I have written a song for when Miles comes home. I play it on the mandolin for my employees in the afternoon. It’s a happy song, but they cry, probably because they miss him, too, even though he was awful to them. I haven’t been very involved in business these months. Concentration is just too difficult.
That’s why I have extra time to write songs.
Friday, October 11
The thunder storm has me very nervous. What if he’s trying to come home? How will he make it? I am sending out three cars to look for him. There are fresh towels and hot chocolate in each one. Fifteen marshmallows in every cup, of course…
Saturday, January 25
The snow stopped enough for me to sleep on the porch again, although my staff insisted on buying me a ridiculously expensive sleeping bag that will supposedly keep me warm on the South Pole. And that’s where I am right now. The porch, not the South Pole. The great thing about snow is that it reflects so much light even at two a.m. I can see clear down the road, almost to town. It’s beautiful. I have my mandolin, but my fingers are a tad too stiff to play. So I’m just going to sing without it tonight. Grant didn’t want to join me (said I was insane), but at least I have Gary. He never gets cold.
Tuesday, April 5
Grant broke down briefly today. “Why didn’t you just make him stay home in the first place,” he screamed. Then he stormed out and slammed the door behind him. I wish he understood. You can NEVER make someone stay home.
Tuesday, May 4
It’s been a year since my first entry. Very soon, my son will change his mind and call me. I’m sure of it. My staff agrees with me.
Wednesday, August 11
It’s a perfect sunny day. I mean perfect. I hope Miles comes back today, because it’s a perfect day for a party. We had a pool put in out back last summer in anticipation of that. But I think today’s the ticket. (Grant is rolling his eyes, telling me to stop watching the road.)
Okay, so if he comes, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to call all of his friends and tell them to come over at 6 pm. I’m going to order about a hundred pizzas, and hire whatever band happens to be in the city.
(A jogger just went by. Thought it might be him. It wasn’t.)
Anyway, the party. When Miles walks up the steps, I’m not going to wait for an apology. People keep asking if I would. Have they ever had children before?! I’m going to tackle him. Hard. I’m going to tell him I love him. And then I’m going to toss him up and throw him on my shoulders. Okay, maybe not that, but you get the idea.
(Another jogger, it looks like. Scratch that. Someone taking a walk. Kind of reminds me of him, but he’s much to thin and slow. And yet… I can’t see his face. His hands are in the way… He just fell do–
It’s Still Wed, Aug 11th. barely…
Dad,
When you jumped off the porch to meet me, this book fell off your lap into the rose bushes. I forgot about it until tonight after you fell asleep on the couch. You were drooling on me, and i was a bit grossed out, so i thought I’d get up to find out where it landed. As you can see, it was open and upside down… pretty dirty.
So anyways, i read it. Sorry, I guess I should have asked first??? But I’d like to finish it for you. Hope that’s ok.
First of all dad, please believe me: I was crying before you tackled me. I’ve had cracked ribs before, Dad (remember my freshman year on the football team?), and I didn’t cry then either. The truth is I had my speech all prepared, but the minute I saw you, I just lost it. fell down. And then… BOOM!
Thank you Dad. For everything. For the welcome. The party. Thanks for smoothing things over with Grant. Thanks even for the song! (still, did you have to play it in front of the guys? really?!)
You’ll be happy to know i’m trying to take your advice. It’s been three hours since I last reamed myself out, “what were you thinking, you moron?” It’s going to take some time, I think, so please be… HA! I was going to write “please be patient,” but really. After reading this, I know I never have to worry about that! Never, ever, ever.
I love you, pop. I’ll be on the porch when you wake up.
-Miles