The Year that Didn't Matter

I've the opportunity to do a little (and I do mean a little) teaching every day for a few weeks.  Although I do not like the circumstances one little bit, I did happily accept the invitation.  Just one hour a day for a few weeks, pretty open-ended.  No big deal.

Well, that's what WE think.  Imagine my surprise when my husband comes home with a substitute teacher application.  Okay, so I'm happy that they're background checking even a band wife who happens to be an inactive certified teacher, because they're doing everything they can to keep the kids of the district safe.  As a mom of an autistic little boy, that counts volumes and I really can't complain.

But I have to list my work.  The last job I did was for the last town where we lived, and it was a contract-labor type thing.  I wasn't paid monthly, just a teeny-tiny stipend at the beginning of the year.  It was good work, and it was fun, and I did it because I loved those girls and they needed help.  I definitely wouldn't call myself a colorguard instructor, but there it sits atop the year before, which was even less who I am.  Registrar at a private school... yeah, I was the guard lady there too, but there were four of them.  Good, sweet girls.  And I worked with three precious ladies in the office, all named Michelle.  So that's a weird entry in the ol' job history.

Then comes the ones I'm proud of.  The actual, baton in hand, in-the-trenches band director work that I savored.  Those four precious years that actually say "band director" on them hang like perfect pearls on the string of my application.

Then there's the teaching certificate. I was one year short of lifetime certificates, so I have to recertify every five years.  But the thing is, there's no reason.  I have my hands full with three beautiful kids and the special needs of the one.

I was curious, so I looked it up on the website.  Under my maiden name, which looks so foreign.  There it sits... "inactive".

Sorry, folks.  It just looks rude.

Of the four years I worked, only three are recognized.  The first year wasn't recognized as teaching because I was technically an intern.  Yeah, right.  I was half of a two-man staff, other than his dear wife teaching our guard girls and the private lesson teachers that hung around.  That place was roughly the same size as this place, and I worked my tail off and loved every minute of it.  Sometimes I feel like I'm from there more than I'm from my hometown.

But that whole first of two years to the Texas Education Agency?  It didn't happen.

Call one of the kids I had then and ask if it happened.  Call me... I'll invite you over, and we'll go through the two boxes of stuff I have from there.  Pictures drawn from kids who have now graduated from college.  Photos of band trips with kids who are now band directors playing on the beach.  Thank you notes from kids and their parents.  Marching contest shots from the first year... the smiles of pride in their hard work that turned so quickly into wet faces with those two words over the stadium loudspeaker... "Whitesboro... Two."

Ask the piccolo player and the clarinet players and the baritone player who are probably still mad at me for making them stand and play through the show, marking time as usual, tears streaming down their sweet faces, because the most important audience wasn't the judges... it was the home crowd.  I'm still not sure they ever believed me.  I stand behind what I said, though.  I also stand behind being madder than a wet hen because they worked so hard and wanted it so much.  And they were good.

Ask the guy who took a chance on an eager girl just out of college.  Did that year matter?  I still thank him for that decision.  I know it was made with much prayer and deliberation, and I'm still thankful.

It did matter.  It mattered to me, and it was wonderful... but just like the kids had to keep performing to the home crowd with their whole hearts, I have to realize that's where the importance lies for me right now.  It's not even to my kids... it's internal.  It's the vertical relationship that makes it all right, all possible, all good.

As much as I loved it, as much as I still love it, and as much fun as I'll have in about two hours when I'm chasing my kids around the band stands in my band-boosting shirt instead of my band director golf shirt, what I do does not define me.  There are many things that have been added to my identity in the last ten or twelve years, but the thing that has mattered the most isn't achievements, it's about what God has taught me about living.  Breathing. Loving.  Tasting the moments.  Savoring the truths and the funs and the bests; studying, feeling, learning, and living through the whys.

Thanks be to God for the year that didn't matter and every day since.

Importance of a Number

This week has been a doozy.  It's been such a doozy, in fact, that it has taken this long to sort out the things that rock our little corner.  If you missed that and would like to catch up, click here. In the middle of all that, Ryan went back to school.

Yes, he was cute and it was fun.  We were tickled pink about who his teacher would be.  As a matter of fact, she had him for three years already.

Then there are the great pictures of all our friends' kids with the cute little signs depicting their kids' grade levels.  Did I mention they're cute?  Super idea.  Love it.  Only it won't work for us.

At one point, after about an hour long ARD (or IEP meeting, for you non-Texans), we grew curious.  After acknowledging the elephant of Ryan's inability to process anything or learn well in a regular classroom, we hashed through where he'd be and what he'd be doing all day.  It's seriously cool, y'all.  We picked and chose... and by "we" I mean the ARD committee, not Eric and I... the things Ryan would do throughout the day for his next year of school.  And the meeting only took place after I panicked and practically knocked over Ryan's dear CE aid at church, spilling over with "is this right for him?"

So what were we curious about?   We had received and shared more about our son's education in an hour than most parents get in a year.  What was the big question?  It loomed on my mind, but I felt it might be selfish or insensitive to ask.  I didn't want to care.  I just wanted to be wholly grateful for the people not just accommodating, not just tolerating, but boosting our child in ways that will cause him to thrive.  They spent hours if not days preparing for this meeting, talking, studying, comparing... and we want this one thing... just this one more thing.

During a conversational lull, my dear husband finally asked.

"So, when people ask what grade he's in, what do we say?"

They all looked at each other.  Twenty eyes, darting to and fro, looking to each other for answers.

"Well, he's going to be at the intermediate school, and they're all 3rd through 6th graders."

"Can't call him second grade, because he's not in a second grade classroom."

"If we call him third grade, he has to take the state testing..."  To that one, I must add, we all quickly agreed that we don't want that.

Then it got quiet.  Being who I am, knowing my husband wanted an answer and so did I, but we weren't going to get a clear one because there simply wasn't one, I had to say something.

"I've got it.  His grade level is pi."

And we laughed and laughed, masking our slightly stunned, moderately confused minds and kept pedaling with the important stuff.

But when people ask, it becomes the important stuff.  It's a little number, but it's huge when you're thinking about what to write on that adorable little sign.

In my mind, I know we did the right thing letting him go to Life Skills.  It's been great so far, and he's still getting the academics he needs, but in an environment where he can thrive.  He's also learning stuff like how to do laundry, wash dishes, and seemingly endless other tasks he could have to perform at any given time.  All these things are great.  Really. He's working on motor skills, planning, all kinds of things he needs to function in the world.

But the lack of that number still hurts a little.  Why?  

No matter how long we do this special needs parenting thing, no matter how long we live in the club we didn't intend to join, no matter how many posts about how great Ryan is and how amazing his mind is and how I wouldn't trade him I write... no matter how far down I think I've crammed my preconceived expectations about what our children would do, be, and how they'd do them and be them,     every now and again we're surprised by their presence.

Every time I wish I had a grade level to tell people... every time I remember all the great things about typical classroom settings that are different for him... every time I think about band coming up, and that he might not be able to handle it... I panic a little.  Then I remember what an amazing child he is, and immediately I'm so disappointed in myself.

I'm realizing, slowly, that there will always be disappointment in this world, and this is no exception.  But the important thing to remember is that it doesn't mean I don't love him, and it doesn't make me a bad mom.  It just means that I'm a mom.  I had dreams and goals for my kids, and still do.  I'm grateful for all my kids and who they are, but the truth is that Ryan's normal still flies in the face of my normal, and that's... well... it's normal.

So I've enjoyed all your pictures with the cute grade-level markers in them.  Adorable!  And I'm going to do that with Richie and Maelynn.  But for Ryan?

I'm just super excited that he's learning and happy.  There's no number that's more important than that.

Thanks be to God for the cultures in which we live, and for the contrast that grows our worldviews... sometimes within our own homes.

Directions

Yesterday, after I snapped this pic of Mr. Cheese, we hopped in the van and headed to his first year in the intermediate school.  

The morning was easy, he was great, and super excited to get to school.  No arguments about brushing teeth, getting dressed, not a thing.  So proud of him.  He even had a great first day in a completely new place!  It's the first year he and his daddy have been in the same building during the day. 

The evening was great, too.  No big deal, no major meltdowns.  Not here, not at school.  

Since he's in a new school, and we had to drive by the old one to get there, he did say "You will turn!" when we passed the place we've turned for the last five years to take him to school.  

He didn't complain when we had to stop and talk to the nice sheriff's deputy who had to stop me to let me know I couldn't turn down the place I thought I would.  Meh, okay, so I have to back up to start in the mile-long line.  Cool. 

Fast forward to the afternoon, and I'm in the place he described.  Turns out he was wrong.  I waited for close to thirty minutes to get to where I needed to be to get Ryan after school, and it just wasn't getting better.  Finally, I just parked and got out, walking to where my boy stood with his faithful (and very patient with clueless mothers) teacher.  

Turns out all I had to do was go another way.  It's not hard.  It's quite easy!  Today I was able to both drop off and pick Ryan up with such ease.  

With the right information, things are a lot easier. 

There's been a lot of talk about an unfortunate choice in performance by a certain young woman lately.  Along the way, somewhere, she got some bad information.  She bought into it, and now there she is.  

I've done the same thing.  

Okay, so on a much less world-rocking stage, yes.  My own pains are here, in my own house, and before, in my own apartment.  My own mistakes are just as bad, they're just not advertised.  Yes, you can argue that she's under a far greater scrutiny and therefore has a greater responsibility to be, well... perfect.  But there's just one problem... she can't.

I also can't.  I can't brag that my daughter or sons will never do anything wrong, either.  They do not wear halos, nor do I.  I've done a lot worse and embarrassing than take the wrong route, causing me to swim upstream through hundreds of cars.  

So, while I'm shocked at the behavior that, thankfully, I've only seen still photos of, I'm more saddened than shocked that this is such big news.  As a believer in the need for and the power of the gospel of Christ, I hope I'll take this and all the surrounding talk and not only concentrate on teaching my daughter and sons respect for themselves and others, but also keep teaching them that they will never do anything that will make me stop loving them, and that it is never their place to point fingers and talk about how much better they are than someone else.  

I hope our kids will grow up not seeing that they can be oh-so-much better than others, but that we all are on the lowly, level playing field of depravity and only by the grace and mercy of Christ are we made acceptable.  

Thanks be to God for the right directions, and for grace and mercy for the ways I ignore them every day.

A Clumsy Reach

It happens to all of us.  We're driving along, then there's a slow down.  You wait and wait, only to find that your waiting wasn't a problem at all.  The real problems lay in those flying away from twisted metal and glass shards. 

We are, for a moment, horrified.  But by the time we reach our destination, we've pretty much forgotten what we saw.  

There is a family of four tonight who is happy to be alive.  

This time, forgetting isn't happening.  This time, our hearts are broken with them for the months of recuperating and long days and nights in the hospital, waiting to go home.  

This time, we're rejoicing with them for the Lord's protection.  

This time, we're standing in the hospital room scrambling for words while at the same time praying that we won't say anything stupid.  

All the kids love their girls.  Richie and Maelynn and I were able to talk about getting to see their friend today as they went to bed.  Richie didn't have as much to say, or any real questions other than when they can go to her house.  Maelynn chattered on at length about this and that about the girls and their parents, all four part of their lives as close family friends.  Fellow band directors and their kids are family around here.  

Ryan?  He simply said, "You want B and L?"  

He wants them.  That's his way of saying that he wants to see them too, and to make sure they're okay by laying his own eyes on his friends.  As the rest of us scramble for words and try to time visits to not be too obnoxious and keep up without being too pushy or nosy... he states so simply, so eloquently that he wants them.  He wants his friends to be as they were.  

He doesn't clamber to the door when they get here, and he doesn't cry when they leave.  While they're here to play or hang out while their parents are out, he doesn't really seek to interact with them that much.  They try to interact with him, they have learned a lot about him over the last few years and work to help integrate him and keep him safe while being their kid-selves when we're together, wherever.  

The other two love the girls to pieces.  They are the ones who cry when the girls have to head home in the times they're here.  And I know they hurt for them too.  

None of us know what to say or do, other than offer our love and help and show our faces every now and again.  We trip over our tongues and fumbling hands as we reach in a desperate attempt to help carry even a shard of the burden.  

And we pray that our clumsy attempts to hug them with our hearts will be felt, even for a moment. 

At the same time, we thank our God for holding them tight and protecting them from the worst, blessing us with them still.  We pray for their healing in every way they'll need it. 

C, K, B, and L, we love you and we're praying for all of you.  

Thanks be to God for protecting that sweet mom and dad, and those precious girls.  

What it's Really About

 Yesterday I shared with you a "Letter to the Starer."

This is not the first time we've encountered this kind of judgement.  It's so far beyond the first time that I hate to admit how many times it's happened.  I've cried all the way home before.  I've kept my head down and just tried to get him outta there without hurting himself or anyone else inadvertently.

The part that hurt this time is that it was his normal that was so out of place.

As they get older, they get bigger.  As they get bigger, the gap between their behavior and typical, age appropriate behavior widens.  With that, I would argue, the anxiety grows.

The microscope zooms in.

Every time I feel I'm publicly shamed in a way for my son's behavior, my first instinct is to throw out his diagnosis.

"You don't understand... he's autistic."  

That is a true statement.  An honest defense, if you will, of my sweet yet loud and bounding young man.  

But there are enough things out there screaming about autism.  

WHAT?!?!  

Okay, so I'm not going to stop writing about it, because there are still people who don't understand.  But here's the thing.  

There aren't enough people out there understanding that we are all human.  

That man may very well be the same kind of sinner saved by irresistible grace that I am thankful to be.  He may be someone who has not yet heard about that grace, but either way, he is likely a perfectly nice guy.  Yes, he hurt my feelings.  Yes, I felt like his actions were a bit much.  

But he's human.  

He should receive the same grace I receive every day.  From the guy who cuts you off in traffic to the sacker at the store who broke your eggs to the husband who can't seem to hear you when you're talking, we're all human.  All fallible.  Imperfect.  Unreasonable.  Selfish.  Tired.  Frustrated.  

We are all in need of grace and mercy.  

So through all this, whether you ever see an autistic child or not, I hope you will walk away with a little more mercy for the guy who put pickles and mustard on a burger you CLEARLY ordered cheese and catsup ONLY (can you guess what happened to me yesterday after the doctor's office?), or the hairdresser whose idea of an inch is WAY different than yours.   

Because it's not just about autism.  It's not about any other specific difference between you and I and the guy on the corner.  It's about uncommon grace and mercy and trust that we're all plugging along the best we can.  

It's time to zoom out, and maybe even do our best to put away the microscope. 

Thanks be to God for forgiveness, grace, and mercy.

Letter to the Starer

Dear Older Man behind me in line,

I get it.

He's loud, he's all over the place.  He's too big to be acting like that.

I get it.

And I get that when I smiled and tried to help things by explaining that he's real excited, you couldn't understand why (although I'm still not sure why a snarky "about what?" needed to be added to your disapproving glare).

I get what you couldn't see.  That his sister and brother were in the play part of the waiting room, and I wanted to get back to them, but needed to pay attention to the lady at the desk.  He was loud and hummy and stimmy, but he was happy.  I spend so much time with him when he's not happy that it's hard to remember that his happy is still unacceptable to the outside world.

Oh, if you saw his unhappy... I shudder to imagine your reaction.

I also get that I don't know where you were today and what you've done and what you face when you leave.  Your wife, friend, or family member in the wheelchair in front of you likely takes a lot of care.  So in a way, it's a possibility that we have more in common than you'd think.

It looked like maybe you wanted to protect her from Ryan.  So I joined you, although there was plenty of space for you to back up, in making sure Ryan didn't inadvertently sit in her lap.  When you moved closer, both of you still glaring, it was pretty obvious.  Still, I kept him between my arms at the counter so that he couldn't ping around the room.

When his sister was being weighed, I saw you get up when you figured out who it was behind you, turning to stare more at the sideshow.

I thought I'd managed to ignore the things that happened.  To let them roll of my back, if you will.  But then we made it to the room and about halfway through waiting for the doctor, I caught myself shushing the kids more than usual.

I felt my head tighten.

I caught myself panicking.

What if he was causing you a problem?  How would I take it if he brought it upon himself to actually verbalize what he thought, like that viral letter?

Then, it dawned on me... the kids are being great.  They're not arguing, they're playing alongside each other.  It's a small room, yes.  It's loud.  But they're being great.

While it hurts to be stared at, studied, and have people assume that since my son has visible issues, he's fair game to be used as entertainment or as a landing pad for others' judgement, I'm doing my best.

Ryan's doing his best.

Richie and Maelynn are doing their best.

We're out there living, exactly like we're supposed to be.  You're out there living too.  All I can do is trust that you're doing the best you can, and hope that someday you'll find that so much goes on below the surface.

And I will continue to work to rest in the fact that Ryan is who he was made to be.  I'm doing what I can... and I can only trust that you are doing what you can, too.  And not let fear of your opinion make me feel shame.

Because that shame is heavy.  The fear that people will think... or worse, share that they think... I'm just a horrible parent is not fair to Ryan or Richie or Maelynn.  Or me.

I hope you had a good day.   I know that once I remembered how little your opinion means in the grand scheme of the day, I did too.

Thanks be to God, for the millionth time, for Ryan. 

The Moving Van

On our way into town the other day, I noticed a large U-Haul truck passing on the overpass above us.  I  had to wonder what they were doing, whether moving to a new city, why, where, and just what the story could be.  It was 9:45 on a Sunday morning, after all.  Were they coming from hours away, exhausted and almost to their destination?

Then there's the truck itself.  What's in there?  It could be household items, yes.  But it could be instruments, the contents of a business, just about anything.  Well, anything smaller than an elephant anyway.

There's little you can tell, really.  The only thing I know for sure is that the truck was the same orange variety we've used umpteen times.  I know which way he, she, or they were headed and at what time.

Now let's say the driver and I ran into each other at a truck stop and struck up a conversation.  Let's say he's headed to someplace I've been, but not for years.  And he's going for a completely different reason I went.

Since I've been the same place he's been, I obviously know everything he's doing.  I take a moment to tell him exactly where to go and how to get there.  All I needed was to hear that he's going to the same city where I've been, in the same type of vehicle, so I can tell him everything he needs to know, right?

But I've not been where he's going.  He may be completely across town from where I've been. And where I was may not even be there anymore.

I know nothing of his vehicle and how it works.  I know that the one I had wouldn't go above 65 miles per hour, and the air conditioner was out.  Maybe his is fine.  Maybe mine was fine, but his AC is out.

And here's the big one.  Don't miss this.

I know nothing about his load.

Unless he raises the back of the moving van, unpacks everything inside, and spends hours if not days explaining it all, I'll never know the load he carries.

Even if he does explain it, I'll never know.  I'll never know the significance or insignificance of the belongings in tow.  I'll never feel the way he felt when he saw the things he saw.  He cannot recreate for me, even if he tries, the experiences, relationships, loves, hates, joys, and hurts that go along with the load's accumulation, packing, and unpacking.

But what if I really want to be of help or encouragement to him?

I offer him an ear.  A friend to share the load.  I offer him a hand to unload the boxes, worrying not what is in them but placing my concern in that whatever it is, it is important to him.  I handle each piece with care.  I certainly don't try to take the boxes or the whole truck... or tell him to abandon it and come with me.

I pray for him.  Maybe with him.

And then, as I go back to my own load, I remember his.  I learn from it, from what I saw, what I felt, what I experienced.

But not once... no, not once... can I tell him how to carry his load.  What to get rid of, what to keep, how to feel about it.  Those judgments are not mine to make.  God made this man; his providence made the load and the incidentals surrounding it.  My unwarranted advice only complicates his journey.  If he asks for advice or opinion, I hope I'd be as loving and truthful as I can... but always pointing to the author and finisher of the story.

We're called to help each other carry, not take away the load entirely.  We can't drive two trucks.  Just the one.  And I don't know about you, but I seldom do a great job of driving my own.

Thanks be to God for all the great "moving partners" I've... and we've... ever had.