Kindergarten Graduation

Jackson and his teacher

Super big smiles. Bebopping his little head through the songs. Of course he knew all the words, he LOVES music and has an uncanny ability to memorize things quickly. He was so proud and so happy to finally be a first grader. So proud he was still talking about it when he went to bed tonight.

My autistic son just graduated from Kindergarten, and loved every minute of the ceremony and reception. So why am I so overtaken with fear and sadness? Why am I sitting here hoping that typing this out and sending it into the void of cyberspace will bring some comfort? Should it hurt like this? Maybe it's the struggles we went through this year. Maybe it's the fear of the unknown, facing another school, another schedule, another transition. Or maybe it is yet another sign that I'm not as well adjusted to his diagnosis and all these changes as I have made myself believe I am.

As I look to others further along on this journey, I see no sign that this burden gets easier to bear as our children grow. Why do I expect it to get lighter with every milestone? Why do I get disappointed when a goal met often gives way to two more we didn't see. Am I still holding on to hope that autism is curable, that I can fight this fight and win, that I can somehow put this diagnosis in the grave and leave it behind? That would explain feeling like a failure when faced with the fact that he isn't cured, that we haven't left autism behind. That would explain the desperation and anger that wells up when I look back at how much we have fought with so little to show for the struggle. It would explain the disappointment when I'm forced to accept that victory for us isn't measured in hearing something like "you are now autism free" but in slow irregular progress. Progress toward what exactly? What is the end goal? For him to be typical? Dare I say normal? Is that really what I want? To be able to stand on the other side of this and say to myself and all those around me, see I did conquer this. To feign humble acceptance of God's plan only to harbor a desire to prove I won't be defeated by this nameless faceless enemy, that I will overcome it and free my son from its grasp, that I'm strong and capable and self sufficient, the perfect mother, chosen for this trial because I am up for the challenge. Is that what I want, to prove I'm not a crumbling mess afraid of first grade? Is it all about me, and this guilt I can't shake, that somehow there is more I could do, more I could try, more I could be?

Maybe I shouldn't hit the publish button on this one. I don't have any answers tonight, only questions. God, help me. I can't seem to accept my own humanness much less the diagnosis given to my son four years ago. Four years, so long but so short. Oh to learn to accept my failures and shortcomings and rest in my Savior's success and perfect provision. Oh to have nothing to fear and nothing to prove. God, help me.

Counting Blessings and Wrinkles

That's me with the Strawberry Shortcake doll. I was three. I think it was my birthday, and I think the doll was my birthday present. I'm sitting in my Granny's lap (my dad's grandmother), and next to us my older brother is sitting in my Memaw's lap (my dad's mother).

Today is my '29th' birthday. I say 29th because that's when I stopped counting. Let's just say a considerable amount of time has passed since the above photo was taken. :)

I've always loved to sing. My mother talks about it like it was such a blessing to her listening to me sing almost since before I could talk. She says I sound just like her grandmother. My brothers, however, probably considered my love to sing as more of a curse. :) Anyway, one of the songs I used to sing often was Count Your Blessings. You know the one...."Count your blessings name them one by one. Count your blessings see what God has done...."

Well, I have gained many blessings in the time that has passed, my husband, my three children, my in-law family (both my husband's family and my brothers' wives), and many wonderful friends. I've also been blessed with so many amazing life experiences and material possessions that if I were to try to detail it all in a list, to 'count my blessings,' I would be typing well into the night and would still not even begin to cover it all. My God has been SO good to me. There are many days I get overwhelmed at His goodness, and sadly many more days that I take each and every one of those blessings for granted. Today, I am thankful that I'm here, celebrating another birthday with my beautiful family.

Even a child can count their blessings. There is something, however, only living can teach you, and that is to count the wrinkles with the blessings. Along with all the people and things I've gained in my life, there have been some losses, too. One being that wonderful woman holding me in that picture, my Granny. My very first memory, the FIRST thing I can remember in my life is her holding me. I was still in diapers. Her voice was mesmerizing. I remember listening to her read books and tell stories. She had the best stories. Just sitting in her living room playing with tinker toys while she watched the Braves game (something she rarely missed) is a fond memory. She died my freshman year of college after living a long, full life. There are still days I ache to talk to her, but there is such hope and peace knowing I'll see her again. I'm very thankful that I had an entire childhood with her in my life, and heaven seems sweeter knowing she's there.

I've had to let go of some dreams and plans for my life, too. Every now and then I get sad at the thought of having given them up, but when thinking about what I gave them up for, I'm usually reminded that God's plan for my life is more generous than my own. I gave up my dream for full time mission work to marry a man who is both my knight in shining armor and the stone that keeps me sharp. We've struggled and hurt and come through together. I can say with all honesty that I wouldn't trade any of the storm for clear skies because so much of that struggle made me who I am today. Looking back at myself before I married him, I often cringe at how ridiculously immature and ill equipped for any kind of service I really was. One of my favorite C.S. Lewis quotes is repeated by Ravi Zacharias like this: "In loves service, the wounded soul serves best." Oh, how true those words are to me now.

Jackson's diagnosis would be one of those 'wrinkles', too. It is definitely not something I would have chosen for my son or our family, and when I heard the doctor say those words, autism spectrum disorder, I would never have thought I could consider it a blessing. However, I've learned so much about myself and the provision and nurture of my God because of that diagnosis that while I will continue to work to ensure Jackson has the best chance at a life on his own, I wouldn't trade this journey or the awesome people we've met along the way for anything.

Every stretch mark and scar, every gray hair and wrinkle (yes, they are there already!) serve as reminders of the life I've lived. Every birthday is another chance to reflect and remember those moments and choose to live this life well. So, here's to many more laugh lines and age spots. May I learn to wear them well and never forget the blessings and struggles they stand for.

Building Bridges and Crossing Over

 There is no way to measure the impact a kind, accepting smile can have on the lonely desperate heart. That's a lesson I learned 4 years ago when I walked into the church that has had the biggest impact on my adult life. That first service I visited Johnson Ferry Baptist Church, I was facing obstacles like I had never faced before. Separated from my husband, divorce papers filed, questions looming over Jackson's developmental delays and physical problems, plus struggling to accept a pregnancy that threatened to derail what little security I had left. Friends I had loved and trusted for years, spiritual leaders I respected and looked up to, even my family kept their distance. This post isn't meant to lay blame or make accusations. Knowing how to love the hurting is something we all struggle with, especially when we've never experienced what they're going through. I can look back now and see what a daunting task it must have been to have a conversation with me then. I've often wondered how I would have handled the situation, and I'm sure it wouldn't have been much better. Do I ask her how she is? What if she tells me the truth? Which problem do I address first? I don't know what to say. Do I tell her what I really think? Now that I'm on the other side of those obstacles, or at least making progress overcoming them, I want to share how God used His people to keep me from giving up on it all.

[And just for your information the answers to the above questions: "Do I ask her how she is?" If you love her, yes! "What if she tells me the truth?" Listen. "Which problem do I address first?" Her desperate need for love and fellowship. "I don't know what to say." Pray for her and with her. Those whose words had the biggest impact on my life then, were the ones who knelt and wept with me allowing the Holy Spirit to speak the words I needed to hear the most. "Do I tell her what I really think?" If you have scriptural or experiencial truth you feel the Lord leading you to share, then share it in love. If not, keep your mouth shut and pray.]

That first service, we were late. I was stressed and struggling. I remember the smiles on every face as we walked in, like little rays of sunshine sent to brighten the darkness that seemed to surround me. Jackson (only 2 and nearly nonverbal) didn't do well, and I had to come back to get him in the middle of the service. When I came back to get him, a parent volunteer explained that they couldn't get him to stop crying and wanted to call me to find out what to do. That's when I met Melissa. She overheard my conversation with the volunteer about him possibly having autism. I was nearly in tears feeling things like embarrassment and disappointment. I remember wondering if I would ever be able to worship in a service again. It's almost like she could read my mind. She introduced herself to me and to Jackson. She got on his level and made a connection with him I cannot explain. She told me how much she hoped we would come back, and that if we did, to look for her. I tried other churches, but something kept pulling me back. The next service we attended, Melissa saw us coming and came to welcome us. How she recognized us in a church of thousands with hundreds of kids coming through the preschool doors every week, I'll never know, but I'm glad she did. Once again, she got down on Jackson's level and asked him to come with her. He took her hand without hesitation. I'll never forget what she said to me. With a kind, accepting, real smile, she said, "He'll be fine. You go ahead." Walking toward the sanctuary, I started to feel lighter with every step. It is very hard to explain to those who have never felt it, but the burden and worry over Jackson's attachment to me and only me, feeling the need for worship but never being able to participate was like being a wild bird locked in a glass cage. I can't remember what the sermon was about that day, but I can remember the peace and the overwhelming feeling like I had found somewhere that wanted me AND Jackson there. Melissa stayed with him in his class the whole service. When I returned for him, he was calm and happy. I nearly burst into tears right there. She smiled again, hugged me, told me he seemed to have a great time, and said she would look for us the next service. And, she did. She was there for Jackson every service until he got acclimated to the regular class.

Things began to change rapidly in our lives. Over the next few months, the divorce was halted. My husband and I were now living in the same state, but were struggling with the challenge of rebuilding a completely broken marriage. More evaluations for Jackson, more questions about his care. More problems with his diet. I was now happy about the surprise pregnancy, but terrified that we would be facing autism and food allergies for that baby, too. More struggle, more progress, more pain, more peace. The one thing that stayed the same for us was Johnson Ferry. We were attending church as a whole family at this point, something that hadn't happened since before Jackson was even conceived. Jackson (and my older son) LOVED going to church, and I loved being able to worship freely without worrying about leaving him in someone else's care. Every Sunday, my heart was touched by Melissa and others that served our family with such compassion and understanding. Every Sunday, the welcome I felt, the smiles sent my way, it was like little messages from God sent through His people, "I'm still here, and I still love you."

We are now settled, together, in a new home 45 minutes away from the church. We know God lead us to this home and this area, but have struggled for nearly a year over what to do about church. Leaving Johnson Ferry seemed so terribly frightening, I didn't even want to consider it. Every Sunday, I would fuss over the drive on the way there, but on the way back, I would tear up at the thought of ever leaving this church.

Over the past few months, however, it has felt like God was pushing us out. Our kids, including Jackson, were asking why we weren't able to do all the kid stuff. Staying involved from so far away didn't seem possible, and I felt like we had fallen into that dreaded rut of attending but not contributing. When we first started going there, we were in such desperate need, that was all we had in us. Now, there is a call to more.

Looking back over the past four years, I feel like God used our time at Johnson Ferry to build a bridge over the tumultuous waters of our failing marriage and Jackson's diagnosis. I feel like every member He used to touch our lives laid a brick or two for us. It's a beautiful bridge, strong and sturdy, paved with those golden smiles and surrounded with vines of friendship and growth. It's finished, though. Spending any more time on it would be wasteful. It is now time to cross over. What is waiting on the other side? I'm not completely sure yet, but I do know that it's time for us to help build someone else's bridge. I know the bridge God built for us at Johnson Ferry will stand for years to come and serve as a monument of God's faithfulness in our lives.

Even when those we love the most leave us to hurt alone, even when the obstacles we face seem insurmountable, even when we've lost all hope for a better future in this life, God is still there. He will never leave us. He wants to use His people to show His love, building bridges and crossing over, moving ever forward until we cross over that last bridge into forever with Him.

Let Me Hold Your Hand

Pulling in to the sensory gym to pick Jackson up from his OT appointment today, I saw a mom (assuming she's a mother, could have been an aunt, foster parent, caretaker) I've not seen at therapy before. She was sitting on the concrete steps in the sun with her head bent, resting in her hands. By the time I got my kids ready to go inside, she had already gone in. Upon exiting my car, I could hear her son (again assuming her son) screaming from inside the gym. Then I understood. Everything inside me wanted to go hold her hand and tell her what I desperately want to hear in my moments like that. Since she and her son's therapist were handling the situation, I didn't know if it would help or hurt. I had to get Jackson and get us home for lunch and the rest of our school day. So, I didn't. But, I thought I would share this for those of you who know what this woman was facing today, who know that feeling all too well, desperation and exhaustion mixed with a little shame, suffering through a melt down at the playground, the bounce house, the grocery store, school activity, birthday party etc.

Let me hold your hand and tell you. It's going to be ok. I know you're a good mom because if you didn't care, you wouldn't be here, and you certainly wouldn't be fighting this battle in public. The sting of the daggers thrown at you from dozens of glaring eyes will only hurt for a little while, but if you give up and give in to that voice in your head that just wants it to be over, that might set your child back and undo the painstaking hours of work you've already put into overcoming this obstacle. There is light at the end of the tunnel, and there are many, many parents who know what you're going through. If one of us sees you out in public in a situation like this, we'll be routing for you. You can make it. You will survive it. And, I want you to know, I'll be praying for you and for that precious child of yours. I can tell you from experience. You will reach a day when progress has been made, obstacles have been overturned, and the road ahead made just a little bit smoother. You will learn more about life, love and humanity caring for your amazing child than you could learn from a dozen typical children. He is yours! You are his! You've been called to walk this road together, and God will never call you to something He won't give you the strength to handle WELL. Hang in there, and when you don't think you can make it, grab a hand and hold on tight. You are not alone. Let me hold your hand and tell you. It's going to be ok.

I'll Stand

Jackson and me at his 6th birthday party

About three years ago, with more questions than answers, I found myself overwhelmed with worry and fear. Jackson's diagnosis was still so confusing. What is autism? Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified, is this English? What is the autism spectrum? What does this mean for him? What does this mean for our family? What does the future hold? Can I handle this? Speech, occupational, social, or ABA therapy; public, private or home school? How do I know what's right for him?

One morning, in an attempt to calm my spirit while I tackled the chaos I knew I could handle, my kitchen, I turned on some music and set to work. My youngest was sleeping. My oldest was at school, and Jackson was playing with his blocks in the next room. The Stand by Hillsong United came on, and I was overcome. In one of those precious moments where the presence of God in my life was tangible, I stood, hands raised, head bowed, tears flowing, unable to sing. The words echoed in my heart.

"You stood before my failures.
Carried the Cross for my shame.
My sin weighed upon Your shoulders.
My soul now to stand.

"What could I say.
What could I do,
But offer this heart, O God, completely to you."

  Then I heard this tiny voice beside me, hands raised, head bowed, singing what I couldn't.

"I'll stand with arms high and heart abandoned
In awe of the One who gave it all.
I'll stand my soul, Lord, to you surrendered.
All I am is Yours."

I immediately crumpled to the floor. I don't think I've ever hugged him tighter. He patted my back and went back to playing, but in that moment, He and God gave me something I couldn't live without, a vision. One I have seen and heard in every set back we've faced. "All I am is Yours."

We found out this week that Jackson cannot continue at the private/home school program he's been attending this year. They say he isn't engaging and participating like he should, and they don't think he will be able to handle first grade at their school. I've been surprised at the level of pain this decision has brought me. I burst into tears at Target. (Yes. I know. Poor stocking person didn't know what to do.) I've lost sleep and struggled to function properly with this constant ache in my gut. Why? There was a point when I surrendered all my dreams for Jackson to the vision God gave me that day. "All I am is Yours." He belongs to God, and his diagnosis is a special calling on his life, a purpose that only he can fill, a work of God. I think this set back has brought more pain than it should because, little by little, I had begun to take back those dreams. He's been doing so well for so long, I started thinking the worst was behind us, that everything was going to go according to plan after all. Once again, I'm overwhelmed with questions. Some new, some old, all without answers. And, once again, God has brought to mind that vision.

This morning, I had my iPhone on shuffle while I attempted to tackle the events of the day, The Stand came on again. The image of Jackson's little hands raised and head bowed, the sound of his tiny voice singing the words in 3 year old delayed speech, this vision reminded me who he belongs to and in whose hands his future lies. One more emotional outburst, then peace.

I don't know if I can handle what lies ahead, but I know God can. One more time, I'll surrender my heart to Him and let Him lead the way. "All I am is Yours." So, I'll stand.

Making My Own Pancake Mix

I grew up on Bisquick pancakes, and I enjoyed the fast easy prep the mix offered when I became a mommy, too. However, Bisquick isn't safe for my food allergic kiddo. I went through dozens of recipes and alternate versions of those recipes to put together my own pancakes from scratch, but holy cow, it's definitely not fast and easy. I kept thinking there had to be a way to put it all together in a mix form at home. So, I started looking for powdered versions of all the liquid parts to my recipe.

Powdered buttermilk is available at most grocery stores. I ran across it looking for something else and picked it up for my mix experiment.

Powdered butter, however, isn't as easy to find, and it was iffy as to what the actual ingredients were. In my online research, it was called pantry butter, and used as a back up plan for when you ran out of butter. It could be reconstituted as a spread. I wasn't really interested in something like that. I didn't see how the consistency would be right for pancakes. Then I ran across a powdered butter that wasn't meant for reconstitution, Frontier Bulk Butter Powder. This stuff is made for mixes, and is highly concentrated. 1/4 lb powder for every 1lb regular butter. That sounded great since it's about $20 per pound, and I would only need about 1 tbsp for every stack of pancakes I wanted to make.

I've used EnerG egg replacer for years, and it's available in most groceries with decent health food sections. So, there was no doubt in my mind that would be what I used for this recipe, but I wondered if it would work as well mixed in with the flour rather than mixed with warm water before putting in the mixture like the directions on the box recommend.

Actually, out of all the liquid ingredients, the vanilla was the hardest to manage with a corn allergy. They make vanilla powder, but even the super expensive organic kind I found at Whole Foods contained corn products both to sweeten and preserve it. This one was tough for me to figure out, and I eventually decided to try dried vanilla beans (the cheapest in our area is from Trader Joe's). I thought I it would be easy to just cut them, scrape them and crumble them into the mix, however, it was harder to manage than I thought.

The first mix I tried:

1 1/4 C all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp baking powder (homemade)
4 Tbsp buttermilk powder
1 Tbsp butter powder
1 vanilla bean, cut in half and scraped

So, I mixed it all up and measured the powder mixture so I could make a bunch and just scoop out what I needed as I went. It measured exactly 1 3/4 C mix, and that made me happy being an exact measurement and all. Now for the vanilla beans. Cutting and scraping was easy. Getting the 'bean' unclumped and evenly distributed in the mix was not. I made a pile of the scraped vanilla, added a little flour and crumbled it in my finger tips until I got it as evenly distributed as I could. It looked like those little black dots all over the mix would work just fine. I added 1 1/2 C warm water and two eggs, and got cooking. They rose well, cooked evenly, and looked great, but the flavor wasn't like the scratch recipe. Time for revisions.

This time:

1 1/4 C all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp regular salt (I decided I wanted everything super fine and powder like)
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp baking powder (homemade)
1 Tbsp butter powder
3 tsp EnerG egg replacer
1 vanilla bean, cut in half and scraped

This time I decided to nix the buttermilk powder and use the egg replacer. I mixed it all together and added 1 1/4 C buttermilk. The consistency was too thick. So, I added about 3/4 C warm water, enough to make it the consistency I liked for my pancakes, and got cooking. This time, they turned out fluffy and yummy. They came out tasting almost exactly like the scratch kind, and not a single pancake was left when we were done (depending on how big you make your pancakes, it makes about a dozen). I definitely feel like I've found the mix recipe for us, however, I'm thinking when I put up the mix, I might just stick the vanilla beans in whole. I've heard of this technique when flavoring sugar. Maybe it will work with flavoring the mix without my having to cut and scrape the darn things. Or, maybe I'll just try it without them. Let the syrup add the flavoring. We'll see.

To start with, I'm mixing up several individual bags of mix. Next I'll try making a big batch and try just scooping it out and adding the buttermilk and water.

Final product: 1 1/2 C mix, 1 1/4 C buttermilk, 1/2 - 3/4 C warm water

So much easier than scratch and a nice change of pace from cereal, oatmeal squares or cereal bars.

The Good Mom

A sweet friend from college suggested a book on her facebook page a while back, and I decided to put it on my list of books to read this year. It's called Grace for the Good Girl by Emily P. Freeman, and it's about letting go of the try-hard life. I was finally able to read a couple of chapters this morning and just HAD to share an excerpt. It's like she read my mind.

The Good Mom

The life of a young mother can be a very dark place to live. People don't really talk about that at baby showers. Those early days are filled with doubt, fear, worry and lots of epic failures. Pregnancy brought with it all kinds of crazy. I felt sick all the time and quickly began to resent the loss of appetite, energy, and perceived control. From the first twinge of guilty resentment I felt during month three of that twin pregnancy, I just knew that I would never be Good Mom, no matter how much I thought I should be.

 Good Mom makes breakfast and smiles a lot. Good Mom always remembers to notice, compliment, and encourage. She is fun and funny. She plays dolls with pleasure and even makes suggestions for pretend scenarios to make the play go longer. Her patience is limitless and she never raises her voice. She wakes up early every morning and spends time with Jesus. She is consistent and kind. She makes cookies from scratch. She plays outside even when it's really hot. She builds forts with blankets in the living room. Her house is always clean, her produce is always fresh, and she has a garden with flowers and vegetables. She can sing. She makes puppets out of socks. Her kids never watch TV because they are totally satisfied to listen to the riveting, captivating stories that their Good Mom makes up. Every night.

 And then there is me. I haven't worn matching socks in three years. I pulled out nine individual socks from my drawer the other day. Nine. All different. My kids fight. A lot. They call each other the biggest insult in their kindergarten-level arsenal: baby. And they all hate to be called babies, so of course that is their first line of defense when provoked. And it makes me crazy. I have had the same butter knife in my dishwasher for two weeks. Some unidentifiable food is stuck to one side. It's just too much to wash it by hand. And? My car has ants.

With each small discouragement, be it the messy state of my house or the messy state of my heart, I feel a little more less-than, a little further from Good Mom, a little more shamed by her. She stands in my kitchen with a ladle in her hand and her Williams-Sonoma apron on, with just enough flour on her nose to prove she's been cooking but not enough to make her look foolish. And her clean, good kids cling to those apron strings while she looks at me with pity in her eyes and shakes that ladle in my general direction, telling me what a failure I've become. I feel like there is a mom I'm supposed to be but I will never, ever measure up.

....

As good girls, we subconsciously label ourselves as the strong ones, the responsible ones, the sweet ones, or the right ones. We try to stand tall and capable as the good Christian, the good wife, the good mom, and the good one. But Jesus is calling us to a deeper, truer, freer identity. All he wants is simply you - minus your good works, minus your perfect attendance, minus your politeness. When you really believe that, you may discover that all you want is Jesus, simply Jesus. Not just to get to heaven or to help you be a good person or do the right thing, but to simply love and be loved by him.

(Emphasis mine.) My favorite part is the fact that her car has ants, and you know why? Because I immediately thought to myself, "as bad as my car has been, I've never had ants." Randy Alcorn says when it comes to other human beings, "comparison is poison." There are days I think that I'm doing pretty good compared to some others I know. There are days I think all the moms I know have got it all figured out and I'm the only one struggling. And, oh the fear of being found out! That fear drives me and pushes me to try harder, do better, paint a beautiful picture of myself to show the world, but it's all an illusion. The comparison I should be making is to Jesus, the standard God has set. To see myself as I really am, broken and evil with no ability of my own. To then rest in the redemption God provided in his Son, knowing that he will finish the work he started in me not because I'm worthy but because HE is worthy, because he loves me and desires the best for me.

"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear." 1 John 4:18

Oh, to be free of that image of The Good Mom, and just be me, a sinner saved by grace choosing to allow God to redeem motherhood in me.