Author Archives: Lorraine Reep

May20

Your Life is a Crock

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Untitled design (1)My daughter has a big family by some standards. There are six children. Three of them are in diapers and are considered “special needs”. In addition there is a sassy five year old girl, a sensitive eight year old boy and an almost twelve year old boy who is introducing his parents to the joys of living with a tween.

They are a foster and adoptive family; they have opened their hearts and home and doubled their family in the past three years. As with any acquisition and development endeavor there have been hurdles and a few obstacles but they’ve managed this like they are the boss of it. And yet, they have repeatedly insisted that they are the boss of nothing (well, maybe that sassy five year old!).

Fostering fosters uncertainty. I’m an observer, albeit a much invested observer. I love every one of these children; I’m their grandma, after all. Even from my perspective, it is very difficult to know that our future with some of them is literally in the hands of case workers and ultimately a judge. We pray and wait for adoptions, holding our breath at times because nothing is certain. I can only imagine the reality of that to my daughter and son-in-law. However, they would be quick to tell you that they signed up for this.

When my husband and I get together with friends, everyone pulls out their cell phones to share pictures of their latest grandchild. Last weekend, I was excited to share a picture of two children who recently joined my daughter’s family, pushing the count to eight.

One of our friends asked a fair question. “Really?  Isn’t that a lot, maybe too many? How do they manage all of that?

I have to admit that when I got the text that they were adding to the headcount short term, I thought about how much work they were adding to their load. I considered logistics.  I wondered how these children would fit into the daily ebb and flow of life for this family.

Then I tried putting myself in the place of the two children. After living in one foster home for months, they were now moving to yet another strange place, with strange people. Uncertainty was thrust upon them. They, along with garbage bags stuffed with their belongings, were loaded up by a case worker and brought to their new home.

They must have had questions. Where will I sleep? Will they be kind? Are there other kids to play with? Will they understand that I need to sleep with a light on? What if they make me eat broccoli?

The best news is that these children will be reunited with mom soon. When?  The exact date is to be determined.  There are so many factors and dependencies; the only thing that is certain is today. But they are doing well, all things considered. Uncertainty has been their way of life for a while.

For now they will wake up every morning in a comfy bed and be fed and dressed in clean clothes. Whether they are put on a bus or driven to school, they know that they will return to a home that houses a loving family.  They will eat a home-cooked dinner and they will go to bed clean with prayers spoken over them. That is certain.

So, back to the question that begs to be answered: “How?”  I also marvel at how some people seem to have the capacity for so much. I asked the question. How is it that the same person who was once a fully extended new mom of one can now successfully mother eight children?

Her answer was so simple that I have continued to think about it weeks later.  “We always perceive that we are currently ‘at capacity’. The truth is that when we live with open arms, we not only receive more opportunities to serve; our capacity increases.”

There was a widow whose husband left her with a mountain of debt and two sons. She had no means; she lacked the capacity to repay the creditors who would soon seize her sons as slaves. Her only asset was a small bottle of olive oil.

This widow was a realist. She knew her limited capacity and certainly her circumstances. She cried out to the prophet Elisha and he gave her instructions to begin pouring oil into every container she could get her hands on. “Ask your neighbors and don’t ask for just a few.” (2 Kings 4:1-7)

Once she and her sons gathered the containers, she began to pour into each of the containers, one by one, from her small jar. Miraculously, the tiny crock of oil didn’t run dry until there were no more containers to pour into.

Limited Supply

My heart quickens as the Holy Spirit reveals to my heart what my ears have been hearing from the mouth of my petite but oh so wise daughter.  My life is a tiny crock of oil.

If I hoard it, I will never have any more than what that petite bottle will hold. It is when I open my arms, when I begin to find people to pour into, that I see the true capacity of my life. As it is poured into others, the capacity increases.

To be sure, there are some difficult choices to be made.  People who live with open arms have their arms full.  They have often had to let go of something in order to have the freedom to turn toward a call to serve and fully embrace it.

That tiny jar of oil had amazing, even miraculous supply. The resource was there all along, but it was only when she began to pour from it that she could truly know its capacity.

Where is God calling us to trust Him to reveal and release His capacity in our lives?

 

 

 

 

May13

Don’t Tell Me to Put My Big Girl Panties On!

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We stopped to chat after small group. She started with a few words of encouragement for me, but tears began to fall. She said, “I’m sorry; it’s just so hard: working and being a wife and a mom. It’s a lot.” In that moment, this beautiful young mom dropped the forced smile and the pretense of having it all together. It was a risk and even as she heard herself speaking the words she was immediately apologizing. I knew it was a sacred moment; she was allowing me a glimpse into her heart.

I don’t take such trust lightly. Honesty and vulnerability can be relational suicide in Christian circles. There is an expectation that because of our faith and confidence in God we will forever see and proclaim the silver lining in every cloud; that we will have a solid expectation for the blessings that are sure to come to us, his followers.

In some circles, you can clear a room with an honest confession.

Have you met Naomi? Her story is one of God’s grace and provision, but she faced some very hard years. In the midst of famine, she and her husband moved away from all that was familiar and dear to a land occupied by pagans. In fact, both sons married pagan women. As if that wasn’t enough, her husband died, leaving her a widow in a foreign land. Ten years later, both sons died.

Broken, old and without a provider, she decided to return to the land of her people, her tribe – back to Bethlehem. When she arrived with her daughter in law in tow she was barely recognized. “Is it really Naomi?” the women asked.

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Imagine this bitter and broken woman returning to your tribe. She was grumpy. The whole town was buzzing because of her arrival, but the welcoming committee must have taken a step back when she spewed:

“Don’t call me Naomi! Instead call me Mara (Bitter) for the Almighty has made my life bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty…the Lord has afflicted me; the Almighty has brought misfortune upon me.”

Note the holy canon of Scripture does not record one person disputing her decree. They barely recognized the broken woman in front of them. They could not and would not refute her sad but honest proclamation. She was a different woman than the one who left all those years ago.

Have you ever opened your mouth with an honest report about your life and immediately regretted it?

I have. I’ve learned that there are people who prefer to avoid my raw and unfinished places. Perhaps they are finally in a good place themselves, or maybe they just “don’t need that kind of negativity” in their life. They cut and run, as if in danger of being infected when exposed to honest emotion.

The truth is hard to hear; when He has dealt a hard blow there is no way to make it pretty. Your spouse lost his job, or worse, you lost your spouse. Naomi didn’t hold back but no one dared challenge, or worse, correct her.

Naomi didn’t sugar coat her broken heart, but she also never stopped expecting God. When she realized that Ruth was gleaning from the field of a relative, she remembered her Provider.

Those women, the ones who stood slack-jawed at her name change announcement?  They were there as Naomi took her grandson in her lap and cared for him. Jehovah-Jireh truly had turned her mourning to joy. These friends, the ones who were silent but present when she declared her bitterness, now spoke.

“Praise be to the Lord, who this day has not left you without a guardian-redeemer. May he become famous throughout Israel! He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age. For your daughter-in-law, who loves you and who is better to you than seven sons, has given him birth!”

When she could not see past her bitter circumstances, her tribe allowed her the grace and space to speak honestly. Naomi never knew that the larger purpose of her suffering was preparation for the birth of David and ultimately Jesus.

Even so, God’s word paints a beautiful picture of God’s grace extended to woman bitter in spirit. Perhaps it’s time for us to do the same.

Words in italics are from the book of Ruth, Holy Bible, New International Version

lorraine

Does your Tribe

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May5

Momma Told Me Not to Lie

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I told a white lie. I was on a mission and no one would suffer harm. I claimed grace.

She had been admitted earlier in the day and it was after visiting hours. It was the only way to get past the guarded receptionist in the emergency room. So without any hesitation, I lied through my teeth. “I’m her daughter.”

Up the elevators we went, my hubby and I. Her actual daughter, my friend, was three thousand miles away and this was a reconnaissance operation. We were going to be her eyes and ears on the ground, in the zone. Her momma was in the hospital and I was gathering information in order to give my report.

Knowing that sweet Agnes suffered memory loss, we were a little apprehensive as we quietly approached her room. I was also a little anxious because, you know, I lied. Someone was bound to be on to my little charade, and I was sure that the truth would be exposed and someone would stop us at any moment and proclaim “You are NOT the daughter!”

Her eyelids fluttered open as we entered her quiet darkened room. Her beautiful white hair framed her face; her skin was like peaches and cream; she literally glowed with a joy I can’t explain –it was an innocence and sweetness that was childlike. She was lovely even with a hospital blanket tucked under her chin.

In the dim light she recognized us immediately. I’m sure it helped that my hubby “that one that smells good” smelled good as always. She was delighted to see us, and seemed a bit confused as to why she was in that place and not with her precious Tom.

We spoke briefly, assuring her that her beloved would return in the morning; I confessed my lie to her and we giggled. She honored me with the proclamation that she would happily claim me as one of her girls.

With her lovely southern charm, she thanked us for our visit and we were gone. It was August 4th, my daddy’s birthday.  It was a sweet coincidence; and it was the last time I got to love on her.

On August 13th the message I didn’t expect arrived with a jolt. “Mom passed away this morning.”

Suddenly, the August 4th mission, that quick pop-in at the hospital was promoted. Every sight and sound of that evening rushed back and I held them close. It was as if I turned each over in my hand like a gem, examining and memorizing the details. They were precious.

Certainly her story belongs first to her family; her husband, her daughters, her grandchildren and great grandchildren. I am only one of many who loved this beautiful woman. But these memories are mine.

The glorious truth is that almost every day we are handed golden tickets…opportunities to be cast in the stories of life unfolding all around. The casting call is open and we are invited to fill roles in the epic stories written by God himself.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send?
And who will go for us? “And I said, “Here am I. Send me!” Isaiah 6:8 NIV

lorraine

In loving memory of Agnes

I love this picture, head back and laughing. It was taken at my 60th birthday party just before our dear Agnes went to meet Jesus. The handsome man is her dear husband.

 

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Apr29

I Can Dial 9-1-1 Just as Well as They Can

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Emergency_cover style

In the event of an emergency, please feel free to dial 9-1-1 on my behalf. Seriously, if I keel over on the walking trail, I don’t have any quarrel with any person in the vicinity making that call. I will not interrogate you to determine whether you have some elevated status with the local paramedics that will ensure they drive faster, turn up the volume on the sirens or administer first aid more skillfully.

The truth is, you have the ability to communicate the emergency. Your willingness to make the call and even stay at my side while we wait for their response is a gift I would cherish.

So why is it that in Christian circles we idolize certain people as our preferred “dialers” for prayer? You may know someone you consider a prayer warrior, and that’s great. I’ve heard there are some folks who are called to pray, spending hours each day in organized, focused and fervent prayer. I think they are called monks; unless I choose prayer over sleep (and no one wants that on a regular basis, trust me) I don’t have hours each day to devote to focused, on my knees, fervent prayer.

However, I do have a unique relationship with God. He is my Father, he calls me friend. While I often wonder that he doesn’t tire of my repeated pitiful pleas for all manner of intervention, I know he does hear and ultimately answer my prayers.

Yesterday I was telling a friend that I don’t have a prayer journal. In that moment, I think I was hoping she would tell me that was the missing link. I’ve struggled – at times violently – with the right approach to prayer. I want so much to follow a formula for guaranteed success.

I’ve been intimidated by the pious pray-ers who swoop in and take over the “serious” praying. Asking for safe travel or the healing of a broken bone? Any old pray-er will do. But when you need a miracle? Call in the experts. Only they have the right words, the best connection because of their superior skills and apparent hot line to the throne room.

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But when asked how to pray, Jesus made it pretty simple.  And just before he gave the disciples the model prayer, he spoke to the issue of the pious “prayer warriors”:

The world is full of so-called prayer warriors who are prayer-ignorant. They’re full of formulas and programs and advice, peddling techniques for getting what you want from God. Don’t fall for that nonsense. This is your Father you are dealing with, and he knows better than you what you need. With a God like this loving you, you can pray very simply.
Matthew 6:7-9, The Message

Back to my friend, her response was not unlike that of Jesus. When I whined about confessed my struggle she simply said “No one is closer to your God than you.”  #truth

Here is my real struggle, my friend. I want to pray for you. I want you to know that whether you are trying to get into a new preschool or struggling to conceive, I want to pray with and for you.

I’ll readily admit that there might be someone who prays more often and with more eloquence than I. But I’m walking with you; I’m right here and HE is right there, waiting for my simple ask.

Perhaps we perceive that these pious pray-ers have some sort of unique relationship with the Father such that their prayers are louder and more skilled than ours, thereby ensuring they get faster and better responses.

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To quote Jen Hatmaker, that’s horse-crappery. Given a desperate need, I’m going with the person who is next to me; the person who is walking by my side, who will not only make the call, but wait with me for the response.

So, can I pray for you, my friend? And will you pray for me?

lorraine

Please visit and “like” the Grace and Graffiti Facebook page here. And remember, it’s nice to share.  Thanks!

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If you want to read more on prayer,
I highly recommend my friend Jame Amerine’s recent post:

http://sacredgroundstickyfloors.com/2016/04/28/you-dont-know-jack/

Apr21

But Momma I Dont Want to be Kind

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Phoebe Fish FaceShe was still clutching her lovey. Her long ginger curls were tangled and falling around the shoulders of her nightgown as she quietly entered the room.

Her younger brother, already involved in play, looked up from his cars and loudly exclaimed “Good morning!” She rolled her eyes and kept walking.

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Mom was nearby and in a flash she was there, challenging the five year old to find kindness in her heart and respond appropriately to her brother’s greeting.

An epic stand-off ensued. Allowed some time to sit nearby and choose a change of heart, she was not budging.

But Momma was not backing down either.

After a few tears and a stretch of quiet time in her room, she returned and managed to speak to her brother with respect (if not enthusiasm). Momma hugged her briefly and asked what she’d like for breakfast. It was a lesson and it was done.

The stubborn momma is my daughter.

Honestly, I busied myself nearby as I mentally composed a short list of compelling reasons to justify my granddaughter’s annoyance with her autistic brother. It’s honest to say that he is not always easy to deal with. I was privately tempted to defend her response.

But if not at home, where? Where will she learn compassion if not by example and through practice in the safety of her family? Where will she learn to treat outsiders well if she hasn’t learned at home with the ones she loves?

If not now, when? She is most teachable in these formative years.

If not by the teaching of her mother, who? Her momma loves her fiercely, and is her first and best mentor.

Fix these words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands
and bind them on your foreheads. 19 Teach them to your children, talking about them
when you sit at home and when you walk along the road,
when you lie down and when you get up.
Deuteronomy 11:18-19

It would have been easy in the newness of the day to ignore the roll of those blue eyes. There was breakfast and two babies to feed and her coffee was cold again.

But Momma knows…

  • At age 5 her little girl is old enough to know that kindness is a choice.
  • If her daughter doesn’t exercise extending kindness at home, she will struggle with being kind out in the world. She wants her little girl to be the one to say “Come play with me!” to the lonely or the new child in class.
  • There are even times when love is a choice.

This molding of hearts and pointing tiny faces to Jesus is exhausting and no one would have found fault with the omission of consequences just this once.

But momma knows that the hard work is best done early; early in life and when possible, early in the day.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
Matthew 19:14

lorraine

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Apr15

Confessions of a Fitwitch

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What good is walking if my steps aren't counted_

Way back in the 1960’s when I was in elementary school the Johnson administration established the Presidential Physical Fitness Award. To test for the award, students completed a softball throw, a broad jump, a 50-yard dash and 600 yard walk/run.

Imagine a skinny little girl wearing black eyeglasses pulling back to throw her hardest, only to drop the ball behind her back. That would be me.

I developed a “stitch’ in my side before the end of the 50-yard dash and the 600-yard run/walk was excruciating.  Although I was an active kid, I was more of a sprinter than a distance runner. And by sprint, I mean to the end of the twenty foot sidewalk in our front yard where we played kickball for hours or to the ice cream wagon as it passed down our street.

As an adult, I talk about getting in better shape. In fact, if talking were an aerobic activity I would be in awesome shape. I convinced myself that I would eventually find the time and energy to devote to a more fit physical body, but it never happened.

Then I got a Fitbit. I synced it up with my iPhone and found some friends. I had no idea how much my life would change over the next few weeks.

For the first few days, I was content to get to know my new device, privately counting steps. The American Heart Association recommends ten thousand steps each day. Let’s just say I was significantly south of that.

I decided that I would strive for the recommended number and began looking for ways to “get my steps in”. I had no comprehension of the dark labyrinth of step counting compulsion.

I have a sedentary job so I added a stroll around the building midday and gained several hundred steps. I vowed to walk the five flights of stairs at least once a day.

Still straining toward my goal, I sensed my purple friend mocking me. I spoke the words aloud for effect. “This device is designed to serve me; this routine will bring me joy, not condemnation!” I had increased my activity and I was content.

Or was I?  (For full effect, read that with an evil, echoing voice)

FitbitThe bulky purple band had replaced my lovely rhinestone studded wristwatch. At first, I glanced at the beautiful watch as I dressed each morning and thought, “Later, baby. I’ll take you someplace nice later. It’s just that I need to count my steps. I’m in a different place right now…you understand, right?”

It never happened. What good is walking if my steps aren’t counted?

We began walking every evening as a part of my hubby’s recovery from spinal surgery. Little by little, we increased the distance. Before we knew it, we were walking three miles. The first time that band vibrated at the ten thousand step mark was a milestone and I was hooked.

The challenges seemed innocent at first.  I was walking miles every day and I was confident that most of the people challenging me were not hitting the trail for a (by then) four mile walk every evening. For the first time in my life I felt like a competitor.

But winning has been elusive. As I sync my band to the app throughout the day, I gain a lead from time to time. But at the end of the day, the coveted “Workweek Hustle” virtual trophy slips from my hands. The screen on my phone lights with a mocking message, “Friend A just zoomed past you for the lead”.

I’ve obsessed over steps that “weren’t counted” because I was pushing a stroller or a shopping cart. I pay closer attention to the battery indicator on my Fitbit than on my smartphone. I have secret doubts about the legitimacy of others step counts (seriously, what is wrong with me???) I might have a problem.

It’s as if I developed a stitch in my side just short of the finish line. I am disappointed and frustrated over losing challenges. Apparently, I’m not only competitive but also a sore loser.

So I venture out to walk again, this time alone and with no more agenda that to listen. A quiet whisper reminds me that the greatest steps I will ever take are those that bring me closer to eternity with Jesus.

The only trophy that will last is offered for all who make the finish line.

The feet that bring the Gospel are beautiful.

All good athletes train hard. They do it for a gold medal that tarnishes and fades. You’re after one that’s gold eternally. I don’t know about you, but I’m running hard for the finish line. I’m giving it everything I’ve got. ~ The Apostle Paul, 1 Corinthians 9:25-26

There isn’t a category on the dashboard of my Fitbit app for transformation of my spiritual heart, but it’s as real and impacting as steps counted and calories burned are to my physical heart. He knows; he sees my struggle and my determination to never give up on the daily work of denying my flesh and choosing to walk after him.

Meanwhile, I’ll catch you later. It rained today and we couldn’t walk so I’m going to go run around my house until I get my ten thousand steps.

May all your steps be counted…

lorraine

 

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Apr8

Birthday Greetings from the Future Me

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Hepburn People

Oh, to reach back in time and speak to my fifty year old self…there are some things I wish I could have known. Maybe you are in approaching a big milestone birthday. Go ahead, eavesdrop; I’m good with it.

Welcome to your fifties, girlfriend! You just completed an amazing period of your life. Appreciate it; you were in your peak! In case you need a recap, your forties were eventful.

Perhaps you found your dream job. By now you are beginning to realize that, but hang on because you are going to love it even more!

Or became a grandma and occasionally when you were out alone with the cherub people thought you were the mom. You are rocking the grandma gig.

Your nest may have emptied. You discovered the joy of long walks and occasional suppers on the sofa. Life was less demanding and you had more time to build your marriage and pursue your passions.

Of course there were some hard times, but bless your heart, you grew through them because they revealed the cracks and flaws. It was an awakening; you paid attention. You experienced the sorrow of loss…of people, things, and maybe even a dream or two.

You learned that life is fleeting and precious and you moved forgiveness way up to the top of the list of your first responses. You discovered that the greatest gift you can give yourself is the forgiveness of another. There is so much freedom in letting go!

Here you are, a new decade stretched out before you. You are anxious. You’ve seen hard and scary things happen to women in their fifties.

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In spite of your public declaration that you are middle aged, you privately reckon with the harsh reality that not many live to be one hundred.

All of the over the hill jokes are now in your own backyard and you are not amused. And the truth is – your body might just be showing some signs of age.

One Friday night you will be scrubbing the sink like a boss and you’ll hear a strange pop. The searing pain in your shoulder must be related, but how and why?

You will spend the next six months and way too many of your flexible spending dollars on specialists who will tell you it can’t be fixed. The indentation in your shoulder where a muscle used to fire is the new normal. For the first time, you hear the phrase “When people get to be your age….” Get used to it.

One Sunday morning you’ll be strutting down the preschool hallway, slightly over confident because some sweet young momma just mentioned your grandma hotness…and you’ll turn that cute wedge sandal over and break your foot. Just like that, you go from cute wedges to an orthopedic boot. You’ll think to yourself “Six weeks. I can do six weeks.” No one warned you about delayed bone growth after fifty. For the record, THREE MONTHS.  IN THE BOOT.  But you rocked that boot, sister. Walked all over Disney World, pushing strollers, because MAGIC. And because you are more determined than ever to prove that you can.

One night as you prepare for bed you’ll take a long look into the mirror and realize you are gazing into a face you don’t recognize. She has wrinkles and a few gray hairs are peeking out around her ears. She looks familiar, alright, but more like your mother than you. And you’ll resolve to smile more because you have great teeth. And use sunscreen.

Yes, the next decade is going to introduce some new challenges, but there are so many good reasons to embark on it with joyful hope:

  • Grandchildren. You are going to be smitten, my dear. You are going to rearrange your life for these little ones and you will love every minute.
  • Menopause. You will move from always being cold to fighting the urge to disrobe in public to escape the fiery furnace of your body in a hot flash. Don’t worry, though, by the time you are sixty they’ll be mostly over. And no more monthly visitor; trust me, you won’t miss it!
  • Wisdom. You prayed for it in your twenties. As a young mother you read every related Bible verse and even tried clicking your heels together while reciting said verses, hoping for it to come. Soon you’ll discover that wisdom was not so much a gift to be received all at once; rather a package to unwrap. With each ribbon loosed, bit by bit it is yours.
  • Courage. You will try new things and stretch yourself for no reason other than knowing that you can. Your dreams have a shelf life. This is the time to run after them.
  • Opportunities to invest in others. Volunteer, mentor, and serve. You have more to offer than ever before.

If I may, just a little advice from the wiser side of the decade:

Be kind to yourself. If you judge yourself harshly, you’ll be tempted to mete out the same to others.

Get honest with yourself. Do you really want to run a marathon? If you do, get after it. If not, stop beating yourself up and set some realistic goals.

Celebrate. You won’t regret choices to carve out special moments with the people you love. When a friend wants to have coffee after you’ve changed into your pajamas, for the love, put on some yoga pants and go. When that grandson wants to talk to you about Minecraft or Star Wars, remember that you’ve listened intently to many adults who were far less interesting.

You are alive for a reason. No one knows the sum of our days but God. Go forward with confident hope, my dear, for your Lord has prepared you for the days to come.

“Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained by living a Godly life.
Better to be patient than powerful, better to have self-control than to conquer a city.
We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall.”
Proverbs 16:31-33 NLT

Apr1

From Out Here: A Grandmother’s View of Autism

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I pen this as an observer; I claim no expertise. I’ve never parented a child with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). I don’t go to therapy appointments, I don’t visit the neurologist or the behavioral specialist and I don’t deal with the inevitable daily challenges of raising a child with a neurological disorder.

However, I love a child with ASD. He’s my grandson.

I also don’t have type 1 diabetes. I don’t prick my finger eight or more times each day to test blood sugar. I don’t position a spring loaded device on my belly and push the button to insert a cannula to deliver insulin – to literally keep me alive. I’ve never woken from a diabetic coma, surrounded by paramedics and feeling rotten. I’ve never been hospitalized with Diabetic Ketoacidosis.

But I love a man who does, who has. He’s my hubby.

It’s been a journey. So here I am, twenty years after his diagnosis, still clumsily discovering how to be an encourager and advocate while maintaining my primary role as wife and lover. I avoid being the “diabetes police” but I’ve said the wrong thing and responded in the worst way when he most needed compassion.

diabetes-528678_1920I cannot express the highs and lows (no pun intended, but it’s so true) of dealing with diabetes. You can do the same things day in and day out and get wildly different results. Just last Saturday, the excitement of finishing a 5k was clouded within minutes when his blood sugar reading was high. There is big potential damage to vital organs from exercising with high blood glucose. But there are so many factors outside of his control, and virtually none within mine. There were many emotions that surged, from aggravation to fear, but the truth is that you just deal with the present. Adjust, course-correct where possible, and keep living life with this person I love with all of my heart. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

ASD makes normally simple things hard for our boy. He struggles with waiting. Changes in routine are upsetting; he doesn’t like to share certain toys and he’s not especially affectionate. Many times he’d rather play alone than with his siblings. Some days are just hard for him to deal with normal stuff.

He’s learning and developing skills to cope through therapy and the efforts of his parents. They are his champions.

 

Watching him run and play outside makes my heart soar. He’s brilliant, this little guy. He loves books – he will sit with anyone who is willing to read. When he is having a good day, he is delightful. His joy is pure and wild and unfiltered.

Since his diagnosis he has made significant progress. I have high hopes for this boy, confident that he will reach his potential because he is surrounded by people committed to building a strong foundation.

So here I am, clumsily discovering how to be an encourager and advocate, while maintaining my role as his grandma and my daughter’s mom. I am not an expert on ASD and I’ve said and done the wrong thing. I’ve responded with impatience when I should have been compassionate. I’ve already made some monumental blunders in dealing with him. Without a doubt, I’ve annoyed his parents by saying the wrong thing or reacting inappropriately to his behavior. I’ve misunderstood and been misunderstood because I didn’t know enough about his symptoms and limitations. We’ve learned to extend grace to him and each other.

I don’t know what our sweet little grandson’s experience will be. I’ve read lots about autism, pretty much everything I can get my hands on; I listen and ask questions of his parents. And what I’ve learned is to expect the unexpected. The things that worked yesterday (or the last time that we were together) don’t always work today. Regression can occur and expectations have to be adjusted. But at the end of every day, the little boy who lies down (possibly after jumping in his bed for a bit) and sings himself to sleep is a gift from God, fearfully and wonderfully created.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful,
I know that full well. – Psalm 139:14 NIV

May we ever grow in compassion and joy for every life.

April is Autism Awareness month. The Autism Society has issued a challenge of sorts. Awareness has been mostly achieved, so they encourage friends to become partners in the movement toward acceptance and appreciation. During April I’ll share some ways that you can take that next step.

Autism

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Mar27

Are You Ready for Easter?

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Sunrise_SetHoly Saturday – that’s what it’s called. I had to do some research because I’m a Protestant and we don’t formally observe lent. Although I grew up Catholic, it has been a few decades since I observed holy days. And yet I woke on the Saturday before Easter thinking of the disciples and all of the followers of Christ. I pondered their state of mind and heart, realizing that they didn’t know that Sunday morning was coming, as we Christians proclaim. And then I got on with my day.

Hubby and I walked a 5k on Holy Saturday. It was kind of a big deal, since he was 56 days post-op from a spinal fusion with laminectomy. He walked 3.1 miles pushing a walker and stuffing his pride; we were dead last. He hasn’t recovered his speed, but his determination is fully intact. In our small town, we saw a lot of people we know early Saturday morning and the question “Are you ready for Easter?” was part of the conversation.

Later we joined our small group, young couples with a gaggle of children the perfect age for an egg hunt, and as we sat in a circle under a massive oak, the question was asked again… “Are you ready for Easter?”

By midafternoon I realized that Publix would be closed on Easter Sunday. We needed a few things so I left my recovering mate on the sofa watching college hoops and headed out. The store was busy. Without fail, every person I spoke with asked “Are you ready for Easter?”

Hours later I lay my head on my pillow. I thought about the day and ran through my list of things to worry, err, I mean pray about. My heart went back to the plight of those early Christians and I thought of how much power was present – they just hadn’t experienced it and were unaware of the miracle they were about to experience. And the question nagged at me: Are you ready for Easter?

I had answered it awkwardly all day. “We don’t have any little ones around – there isn’t much to prepare.” “I haven’t dyed eggs in years, but I so miss that…” “I’m not preparing a big meal, so not much to do.”

It wasn’t difficult to find sleep, though. According to my Fit Bit I logged well over ten thousand steps and I was tired. But this morning, I woke before dawn and the question popped into my mind immediately.

Are you ready for Easter?

Well, are you?

Mary approached the tomb before dawn. Thinking Jesus’ body had been taken, she was devastated. It wasn’t until he spoke her name and she looked into his face that she recognized her living Lord. The disciples, still overcome by fear of the Jews, were locked in a room when Jesus came seeking them, revealing his hands and his side. This was the first Easter Sunday.

As I write this, first light is dawning and the question begs an answer. Am I ready for Easter?

I can relate to the disciples. I experience defeat – things often don’t turn out the way that I was sure God would want them to. I’ve been known to lock my heart up in fear, so I can surely understand their seclusion when Jesus went looking for them. I even miss the obvious good news – just as Mary saw the empty tomb and her first thought was a stolen corpse, I often miss the miracles.

But Easter. Because of the resurrection, I have hope. Because of the resurrection, I will celebrate hope. He is risen!

I am ready for Easter. I suspect I’m not the only soul who woke this morning in need of a fresh wind of the power of the resurrection. Whether you are sharing family traditions with a crowd, are working at your job or working through challenging circumstances, I pray that you will encounter Jesus. He is calling us to exchange our doubt and fear for the hope and power of his resurrection.

Happy Easter, my friends. He is risen; He is risen indeed!

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and look at my hands. Put your hand into the wound in my side. Don’t be faithless any longer. Believe!”
John 11:27 NLT

EasterBibleEgg

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Mar24

Jalapenos Take My Breath Away

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Jalapeno Banner 2I had looked forward to it all week. Family members, my women, would be together in our home for a meal. The simple menu met dietary restrictions and individual preferences while allowing time for me to visit with the girls. It had been a full, busy week and I didn’t want to be bogged down in the kitchen.

I was relieved when my sister Martha arrived early enough to prepare the jalapenos for the poppers since I am hypersensitive to them – even handling them in the store leaves me with burning skin but my daughter loves jalapeno poppers and they were perfect for our casual supper. Once the seeds and ribs are removed I can handle them without much distress and I love the flavor they add to so many of my favorites. As she was removing the ribs and seeds we both began gasping and coughing. It was good to finish that task and have the air clear by the time the girls returned from a shopping trip.

It was pure joy to see these women I love around my table, to hear them laugh and catch up. In fact, I was so caught up in the fun I didn’t notice that the pot of shrimp was foaming up and boiling over. I quickly reacted to the spewing mess and decided it was time to serve.

Surveying the choices of serving dishes and appetizer plates in the cupboard, I recognized a familiar discontent building. Nothing there was nice enough and barely adequate; a quick glance back at the table and I realized that I hadn’t really planned the table setting or meal presentation. Why hadn’t I given more thought to this? Anxiety rose up as I internally chastised myself.

I looked over my shoulder at the girls. They were seated around my bare table, sipping drinks and chatting happily.

I was on the verge of missing it. Even as joy was filling the room, the nagging notion that this simple supper wasn’t enough was on the verge of choking it right out of my heart. Thankfully, I turned again to the faces of the women around the table, women I love, and I remembered that this exact scene would never again happen. There will be other times, I’m sure; other meals around other tables, in other places. But this present moment was too precious to miss.

As I took down a few perfectly adequate plates and began setting them on the table in front of these people I love, I recalled this verse:

Better a small serving of vegetables with love than a fattened calf with hatred.
Proverbs 11:25 NIV

I’m almost certain no one gave a second thought to the serving dishes as they peeled St. Augustine shrimp and ate jalapeno poppers. In the midst of the laughter and love and talk of family trees I doubt they even noticed.

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