Sadness - Part Two

When our kids were little (they're still little in my opinion), it seemed that we would have the most sweet, simple Christmas celebrations at home; just the five of us. A Christmas Eve service, a special dinner together, then we would each open our three carefully chosen gifts. In the morning, special surprises waited in stockings, not a truckload, but again, thoughtfully chosen and appropriate. Pajama clad children would scatter about the house, thoroughly enjoying their new treasures. Perfect!

This sweet Hallmark Christmas scene was then interrupted by hurriedly dressing children, scooping them up and dashing out the door. We would go over the river and through the woods, sometimes making as many as three stops on Christmas Day. No small feat with three children, whether they are babies, toddlers, preschoolers, or tweens.

One year, as we pulled in the driveway at the first stop, Ronnie and I looked at each other and sighed. The sweet, perfect, calm Christmas was behind us. Here we were, in our Christmas sweaters, knowing that by the end of the day, we would be exhausted. We would haul home more stuff than our mini-van would hold, and be battling a serious case of the "gimme's" from our sleep-deprived, sugar-stoked children. The very same children who were happy and satisfied with what they had, just a few hours before.

He said, "You know, one day we will wish that we could come here on Christmas Day and we won't be able to." I knew that he was right. A day would come when there wouldn't be so many places to go, and we would long for them.

We've arrived at that day. We don't make a stop at my grandmother's house anymore. We will still make two stops, at my in-law's house and my mother's, but it will never be the same.

My heart aches for the way it used to be. Hug everybody you love this Christmas.

'Tis the Season

I can remember a few years ago being really frustrated because I had been hit with several arguments on how to celebrate Christmas if you were a good "Christian." Some thought you had to love Christmas, decorate with lots of angels and nativities, and hate Santa. While others thought believers should not participate at all. The opinions are many, with varying degrees in between. One theme was prevalent; there was a right way to celebrate like a good Christian should. You were responsible for showing the world how it should be done.

In the Old Testament, there were specific festivals and feast days that God told His people to observe and for specific reasons.

I was so relieved when I finally realized that celebrating Christmas is not something that God told me to do. This fact encourages me because it means I have the freedom to observe it however I want. I can have lots of trees or no trees. I can have lights on my house or no lights. I can give gifts or not, etc., etc., etc. I'm free!

In recent years, I have heard the origins of our Christmas activities discussed more often. A lot of our traditions are secular, and even pagan in origin.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not against Christmas. Those that know me will confirm that I participate with gusto, snowman sweater and all. It's my heart and attitude that have been adjusted. I no longer feel pressure to do it "right." I trust my God to let me know if I do something displeasing to Him; otherwise, I party.

I can see a bigger picture. Yes, there's lots of commercialism; but there is also a lot of giving to those in need and charities. Sure, we need to do it year 'round; but it's better than not doing it at all.

I love that the songs that are played everywhere proclaim His Glory, His Majesty; the Christ. Ssshh! Don't tell the secular airwaves that they are proclaiming what we already know; that He is King of Kings and Lord of Lords! You know, one day, every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. They're just getting a head start at Christmas.

Sadness - Part One

One phone call, that's all it takes.

My Daddy is gone. Just like that, everything changes forever.

How could something leave such a gaping hole? And, yet it does.

Trauma, on top of grief, on top of sadness.

I hear his voice in my head.

I was proud to be his daughter standing in the line as nearly a thousand people came through with their stories and kind words.

I had just said to somebody recently, "I am my father's daughter."

Yeah, I am.

Love in Action

Several months ago I witnessed what was, to me, a remarkable display of grace and mercy. It seems those two words are finding their way into my life more and more.

A dear pastor in our community passed away. Even though I am no longer in that denomination, I still was able to witness the clear calling this man had as a shepherd; a true pastor's heart. He was sweet and kind. He loved the Lord and the people that he believed God called him to shepherd.

Having been a part of the church "scene" in my hometown for most of my life, I am aware that this man had pastored several churches in which he was pressured to leave. As a pastor's wife myself for a time, I understand what it's like to stand before people every week in church that are "done" with you.

As we stood in line for hours at his visitation, because half the town was there to pay their respects to this dear man, I saw standing in this same line some of the very people that had mistreated him. I wondered how they could stand there and look this new widow in the eye, hug her neck, tell her how sorry they were? Maybe it was the least they could do, to show respect at this time of loss. But the thing that captured me the most was the absolute peaceful grace that this beautiful lady displayed as she received each one. She loved them all and took time speaking to every individual. She was the one doing the comforting. I knew without a doubt that she had treated each person in that line the same way, because she had loved them; she had forgiven them. She had been a part of those ugly church happenings and yet she still loved them. I knew that he had loved them, too.

I wept as we left, for the loss of a friend and dear saint, but also in humility, knowing that the example that had just been put before me was one that I would never forget. Love and forgiveness; grace and mercy. Whew. It's taken me this long to really get it.

More than one way to look at things

We live with, deal with, autism on a daily basis. In the last few weeks, it has been in my face sort of "front and center" quite a bit. I usually have to back up from it at times because it becomes overwhelming. I can talk about it for hours if I have to, especially if someone needs me, but I'd rather not.

There are several schools of thought; several different ways of thinking about autism these days. I'm glad that some of the discussion is being led by auties themselves. Shouldn't they have a say in how they want to be perceived?

I read a blog yesterday from a mom that went on and on, at length, about whether her daughter "had autism," was "autistic," or was "living with autism." The terminology was very important to her, but I got lost in her definitions. I really don't want the people in my life struggling to find the politically correct phrase in order to not offend me. Their heart and their intent are more important to me. If something is said that is incorrect or reveals a misconception, I may speak to educate, but I don't want others walking on tiptoes around us.

One way of thinking is the cure/recovery. Many dollars are being spent in research to find a cure. The thinking is that we have to find a way for this horrible thing to go away. The new buzzword in these circles is recovery. Even more money is spent to find the cause. Not to be overly political, but if a genetic marker was found (and some have been) would it be possible to choose to abort a child if you knew they were going to have autism? Is this money well spent?

Another way of thinking is that people with autism are different. Neurologically different, to be sure, but just different. Some adults living with autism (there I go, choosing a politically correct term) feel that there is nothing "wrong" with the way they are. They are not freaks or mistakes, they are just different. Their brains process information differently. They may need help to navigate the world they are in, but they shouldn't be wiped off the face of the planet.

Some people will say that autism isn't who their child is, but rather it is an outside force that came in, attacked their child, and tortures their child on a daily basis. Others will say that autism is a part of their child; it is part and parcel of who they are. I can see validity in both opinions. I have felt both ways at different times.

When it comes down to it, which side of this debate I am on doesn't really matter. What do Mark and Jonathan think? It is their life; it is their future. How do they want to be perceived, received, etc?

I asked them and they told me, in their own inimitable fashion.

They want to be accepted for who they are, warts and all. Don't you? They need help to make it in the world, just like everybody else. How many of us can truly make it alone? When they look in the mirror, they see themselves, not a label.

I really hope the link to this video works. You don't have to agree or disagree, but I think it's worth watching to start the dialogue. It is one way to view things; through the eyes of autistics themselves. By the way, Mark thought it was cool.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWOwNP9vC6k

mid-life crisis

I think I finally understand the term "mid-life crisis." I've heard that phrase tossed around for years and always associated it with old men suddenly buying convertible sports cars, trying to wear hip, young clothes, chasing their secretaries and such. It seemed like something you would joke about and it really didn't make much sense to me. What were they trying to prove?

I get it now. I mean, I really, totally get it.

When you're younger, it seems that every possibility is open to you. There really isn't much that you can't do if you pursue it. Then you wake up one day and realize, some of those doors of opportunity are closing. Life is far, far from over, but it begins to become obvious that the things you could've done aren't going to happen now.

I've never given much thought to a bucket list. (You know, the things you want to do before you die.) I'm not sure what I would put on it. But I still have this feeling like there's so much more that I want to do, even if I don't know what it is yet.

I think I would like to travel some; I want a camper. I want to drive across the country. (Actually, I want to ride across the country while Ronnie drives. :) I'd like to hone my skills to be really, really good at something. I don't know what, but something. I want to be healthier. I want to see my kids grown and taken care of. I'd like to act in a play and make everybody cry with my spot-on dramatic performance. I want to star in the lead role of a musical. (now, everybody don't say "Mame" at once!)

I also want to enjoy the things that growing older has done for me. I have a much truer sense of who I am and what matters; and what never will. I'm much more peaceful, settled, and okay with myself. Teenagers and twenty-somethings can keep their angst, I'm done with it!

One thing on the list would be to grow old gracefully; only, I don't think I could ever do it quietly. I don't do anything quietly.

Flowers

I love flowers; all kinds. I wish I was a better gardener. I like a manicured landscape. Ours is still a work in progress.

I live in what used to be my grandmother's house. She died in 2001 at age 91. Most of the flowers and other landscaping I have were planted by her. Come spring, the blooming begins. By mid February, the daffodils start coming up. I've counted at least 6 different varieties. By the first of May, the irises begin blooming and continue until after Mother's Day.

The dogwood trees bloom around Easter and the kids are always photographed in front of the white one in the front yard, chronicling their growth through the years.

We've had to lose a couple of bushes; an azalea and a giant, oak leaf hydrangea. That was sad, but I still have one of the hydrangeas in the front yard. It is huge and beautiful and continues to thrive even with amateur gardeners whacking on it.

Then there are the forsythia bushes and the ivy (which I am currently trying to transplant), and other shrubs that I don't know the names of.

By summer, day lilies and tiger lilies (I guess that's what they are) are blooming. Orange is not my favorite color, but I've come to enjoy them, mostly because she planted them. The day lilies were all but gone when I discovered them and moved them. (Ronnie had mowed them down with the weedeater for about five years.)

I have dug up bulbs and moved them all around the yard. It is very gratifying to see the flowers still thriving after all these years. It seems that moving them gives them a boost or something. They seem to like new surroundings. Of course, it is economical to use the same bulbs instead of buying new ones, but there is also an element of keeping her memory alive by keeping her flowers. It is impossible to look out the kitchen window at the blooms without thinking of her.

It seems a bit metaphorical to me. Ma Carroll lived through times that people had to be tough just to survive. The Great Depression, 9 kids, losing her husband too soon; to name just a few. We've also had our character building time. The hardest few years of my life ended with my 2 boys being diagnosed with autism, my own diagnosis of fibromyalgia, and my husband losing his job at his first pastorate. It was hard and it was bad; really, really bad. When I look back on it, I'm still amazed that we survived. Two words - grace and mercy.

It was during that very difficult time that we moved into Ma's house. It was small, but it was a safe haven. We've since added on a master suite, painted, pulled up old carpet to reveal hardwood floors, etc. I'm happy with my house, my yard, and my flowers. It feels like home.

Me, Ma, the flowers; we're from tough stock. We persevere.

I think Ma would be happy that I'm here. And while I know she would want me to be at home and do whatever I wanted, I think she would be pleased to see me enjoying and preserving her flowers.

Camp Canezy

We just wrapped up the 7th annual Camp Canezy. Canezy is a combination of Cathy + Jeanne + Suzy - me and my sisters.

It began as Cathy's idea. As the camping veteran, she had a camper and had taken her kids when they were younger. I came up with the name. It has continually evolved and grown every year. So much so, that we now have visitors who want to come to camp if only to participate for a day or an evening.

Each year has its own theme and we decorate t-shirts, have a talent show, go on nature hikes, do crafts, go to the pool, play "campo" (a form of bingo) with prizes, and have s'mores. Since our acquisition of a dvd projector several years ago, we have added nightly movies with popcorn.

(This year's theme was "Camp Rock" which provided much inspiration to campers and counselors, alike.)

We started out in a pop-up camper, but quickly outgrew that. We tried tents, but that wasn't very fun. (no fun for me, anyway) We now rent cabins. I've been told that it isn't really camping. Maybe not, but we never said it was camping; it's Camp Canezy. It's not about the camping; it's about the memories, the laughter, and the time together. Sometimes, I think it's as much about the three sisters as it is about the kids. Although, the kids have a large time and come home with all sorts of goodies.

We all lead hectic, busy lives. We send quick emails and even shorter text messages. We get together at holidays, but that sometimes becomes about getting everybody fed. Camp provides a unique opportunity to spend extended time together. (with lots of blackmail picture possibilities)

I hope it will continue to grow and be a part of our family for a long time. My kids talk about it to others as if everybody's family does this and people ought to know exactly what they are talking about. Maybe people will learn what it's about and consider a family camp of their own. If they do, I've got lots of ideas. :)

Addendum

Yes, in our music history discussion yesterday, we did talk about Michael Jackson.

It is an overstatement, even a cliche' to call him an icon, influencing American culture through music spanning 4 decades. I owned copies of his music, watched his videos, and watched his slow fade into something that many of us could not relate to or recognize.

The term "troubled genius" was tossed around today along with the question, "Which came first, the trouble or the genius?" I would say that the genius definitely came first, breathed into his spirit when he was fearfully and wonderfully made, like us all.

Trouble can either destroy the genius or refine it. In his case, it did both.

I read a posting today from the ElijahList site (elijahlist.com) in which believers were encouraged to pray for the protection and redemption of these "stars." People who indeed have been gifted by their Creator with remarkable abilities. We set them up on pedestals and wait for them to fall. Not me or you personally, but a collective, American culture "we."

Lest I be misunderstood - I don't feel responsible for what happens to celebrities. Sometimes they make really bad choices and reap worse consequences. What I'm feeling is a responsibility to lift up my fellow man.

Is this a sign that I'm becoming an old lady? Maybe, but I don't care. I just don't take any pleasure in watching anybody's life fall apart.

Several weeks ago, we had singer/songwriter/worship leader David Baroni at our church. He sang a song about "Humpty Dumpty." He said the religious people would say to Humpty, "Well, you shouldn't have been up on that wall in the first place!"

Oh, God. Don't let me be one of those people.

soothing the savage beasties

I gave my oldest son a lesson in pop music history yesterday. He was a captive audience. We were in the car on the way to Franklin for his drum lesson. His ipod battery was dead, so we had to use my mp3 player and my ecclectic collection; exposing him to classic songs that have stood the test of time. Music History then shifts into a discussion of music's impact on American culture.

Carole King and the album "Tapestry",

Crosby, Stills, & Nash vs. Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young. (Along with the discussion that Neil Young most likely has Asperger's, :)

Woodstock vs. Bonnaroo . . .

Since we have to start 9th grade in just a few short weeks, I'm thinking of a music history course. A course that would include The Beatles, Elvis, Aretha, Diana, . . . .

Jerry Jeff Walker, The Band, Bob Dylan, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Eagles, Jackson Browne, Little Feat, . . . .

. . . gosh, would the list ever end?

Jimmy Buffett, Linda Ronstadt, Heart, . . .

Then there's Journey, Foreigner, Styxx, Van Halen. . .

On the Christian music side, Larry Norman, Randy Stonehill, Evie, Honeytree, Petra, Stryper, Daniel Amos, Amy & Sandi . .

Maybe it's just me, (most likely, it IS just me) but I think they need to know who these people are.

Music has always been a big part our lives. Hubby majored in music (undergrad), I majored in music business. We think of ourselves as singers and musicians, although, I'm not planning to quit my day job. {which is sad, since my day job right now doesn't pay anything}

I am so very thankful that I have musical children. They are singers and musicians, as well. Their tastes run the gamut of musical expression. Nobody has ever told them that they are NOT supposed to like a particular kind of music, so they like it all. I feel very blessed because some autie kids can't tolerate music or people singing.

They like Christian rock and pop, Broadway show tunes, orchestral movie scores; anything I throw at them. They also like country and southern gospel. {Gaither videos - blecch, although I have to admit they can be fun to watch even if they are cheesy 'cause those folks always seem so happy, and Vestal could sing her face off!}

And now, they shall be introduced to all they have missed in American music for the last hundred years . . .

Do you have any suggestions for my list?

Remembering "Kath"

I lost a good friend this weekend. She had battled lung cancer ferociously for two years. Saturday night, her body gave out.

Kathy was full of life. Fun, talented, thoughtful, caring - all adjectives I would use to describe her. I learned a lot about being a good friend from her.

I met her 20+ years ago when we were co-workers at a christian music record company. I was a copyright administrator, she was in marketing & advertising.

Along with another girl named Kathy (we often referred to them as "the Kathy's" as if they were one person), we were the 3 Amigos. We hung out together all the time and became fast friends. All 3 of us at the same stage in life - single, just out of college, early 20's, on our own. There wasn't a Nashville restaurant that we didn't try, a Christian artist concert we didn't attend, or a movie we didn't see. I still remember one of the funniest moments of my life, falling to my knees in the lobby of the movie theater at Hickory Hollow because I was laughing so hard. Yep, Kathy was there.

We shopped and had clothes and shoes and music, etc. We were young and only responsible for ourselves. Life was mostly good.

Kathy was also there to comfort me in the dark days just before a childhood friend committed suicide. The "Kathy's" apartment was a refuge.

I still have things around my house that were gifts from her. I'm not a person overly attached to things, but those objects have become more precious to me now. Symbols of love and thoughtfulness left behind.

My wedding anniversary is coming up. I pulled out the wedding album to find her face in the crowd. I remember as I started down the aisle that day, Kathy was at the end of a pew to my left and said in her best stage whisper, "Hey, Gorgeous!" I smiled all the way to the altar.

I'm feeling this loss deeply, like things won't ever be the same again. No more opportunities to "catch up."

Her children are the same age as mine. As tired as she was from fighting the disease, how much more did it hurt her to leave her kids behind? I can only imagine.

Or, as she left this world and looked into the eyes of her Savior, was she at peace knowing that the God with whom she had entrusted her own life, could be trusted to provide everything that her children and husband need?

I believe it must be so.

Autism Stinks

There are lots of organizations that promote autism awareness and groups that raise money for research and "cures." They often have cute acronymns.

I need to make one for my new group - Autism Stinks.

I love my children with autism. I love the people that have been brought into my life because of it. I can now appreciate the traits that have been sown deep into my character.

But the disorder itself stinks. It certainly is pervasive because it complicates everything. I cringe when my children suffer on a daily basis. You'd think after 15 years, I would have gotten over it by now. Nope. Not even close.

I'm not a negative person overall. I'm just tired of life with this stuff.

I can't speak for the Autism Community at large, but only for my family. What the people that live at my house need is acceptance. More than awareness, more than talk of a cure. Maybe even more than funding for therapies and programs (although this is desperately needed, we pay most things out of pocket.)

I just want my kids to enjoy life and not be feared, ignored, or kept somewhere out of sight so that other people won't be uncomfortable.

Is that too much to ask?

Is is worth it?

Is it worth it?

Is it worth my time to work hard at something just for the intrinsic reward of having done a good job? Maybe that was enough at one time in my life, but not anymore.

I need to see a result. A result that was worth the time and effort. I feel a sense of urgency - a sense of time's a wastin'. I can ill afford to put forth such intense effort for little or no reward.

I don't necessarily mean personal reward, but results that benefit something or somebody.

I used to be a people pleaser. As I work my way out of that, I can see very clearly how people have used me or my abilities for their own goals and purposes. It seems that whatever group I am a part of, somebody is trying to get me to do something. Yet, when I look at the things that I know I must do, I am alone. No one is there to help. No one can do those things but me.

What does God expect me to do? I ask Him every day. Most of the time, I think I get a pretty clear answer. I find it a little amusing that more often these days, what He tells me to do, and what others expect of me aren't even close to being the same.

Anything that my Abba, Father asks me to do is always worth it. That's because no matter how difficult it is, or how hard I work, He is responsible for the result.

As a former people pleaser, it makes me uncomfortable to let people down, but I'm going to try to get used to it.

Now that it's finally done. . . .

I've threatened to create a blog for a long time. And now that I've finally done it, I'm not sure what to say. Maybe it will come to me.


As far as "Journey Proud," goes, it's a phrase that Dr. Sue Johnson used to say.

She said it was when you can't sleep on the night before a trip because you're too excited.
That's Journey Proud.

Maybe I've been journey proud my whole life, always looking ahead because the present seemed to be not exactly what I was hoping for. I suppose it's better than wallowing in the disappointing past or suffocating in the hectic present.

But, the hope is still there. Looking forward. Waiting.