"You Do Not Have To Be Good"

"Mama, can I ask you something?”

“Yes… what?” I answered my oldest son. His question begged for a spot in my mind that was unraveling the complex schedule of the day as I drove down the winding country road to school, late again.

 “Why did that orchid have to break on my birthday? Why did it have to happen and make me feel so sad…on my birthday?” repeated my now nine-year-old boy.

The question felt like a valuable nugget, just tossed to me, about how my child perceives life. Little things that break, like orchids—they matter a lot. ‘And how is it that he cares so much?’ I wondered.

On his birthday, he cried quietly, but hard, sinking down into a little ball in his room because a tiny piece of his orchid broke off. He said it was his fault. He said he had been careless.

If he feels this bad, all on his own, over the fracture of an orchid stem, then imagine how he feels when an adult tells him that he IS careless. ‘Must remember this, and must remember to share this with husband,’ I thought.

So often it seems like it doesn’t bother him one bit that he leaves messes everywhere he goes.  Breaks, loses, or forgets things. Spills food in the car, crushes books, homework, video cases under his feet. Leaves paths of chaos and dirt in every room he travels across. We remind him to be more careful over and over and over again. The messes keep coming. It dawns on me that he really is trying hard and that he knows he is careless. He doesn’t want to be that way.

After all, he was crying over an orchid breaking.

“I don’t know why the orchid had to break.” I answered.

“But Mama, God is in charge of everything, right? So then he wanted it to break?” He stretched his voice for a truth, an answer.

“I don’t know for sure if God wanted it to break, but I know everything good comes from God.” I replied, thinking it through myself…” maybe he wants you to learn something,” I wondered out loud.

“He wants me to learn that things I love die? It is awful that things have to hurt and then die,” he sighs.

We are traveling over a bridge now and I see a golden glow over the water on the pond with two elegant swans cuddling in their wings. Life appears to be overflowing at this moment.

“Maybe God wants you to think about life, just the way you are doing. He wants you to care…” I pause.

I recall the first line of a Mary Oliver poem called Dream Work that I am writing about for my class…
”You do not have to be good,” I say out loud. I feel relief.

Then I finished the idea for him and for me, and maybe Mary would agree with me…

“You (and that orchid and every living thing) have all that you need inside of you. You have God. Even when you break, you have Him. You do not have to be good...God is good for you.”

I pulled in to the school parking lot and turned around to catch his smile, to love him even more than ever, as he ran off, backpack crooked, hair rumpled, ready for another day of life.

May Our Stories Bear Fruit

Copyright Amy Aves Challenger 2012

Silence. I have left my three kids at school, and for the first time (I'm actually on day 10) in almost nine years they are without me for seven hours a day. Air…it strikes me as a great gift that I have been missing, as it eases into my chest. I slow down my pace enough to smile and chat with another mom. I’ve got nowhere important to be, and no one hollering for my attention. No one is asking for help, for a hug or showing me a new kind of acorn. I feel an eerie draft from imaginary doors swinging closed behind me, as though an extremely long chapter of my story just ended.  Am I mourning or celebrating?  And this next chapter is the beginning of—what?

If I peek back through that door slowly swinging shut, I heavily admit to myself that I cannot go back a chapter. But I can still catch a picture of the miracles... babies held up high in delivery rooms while I wept, and later their warm little bodies folded across mine as I slept. I can make out images of the doctors consulted, the special diets prepared, the hours of therapy, the millions of techniques tried, the miles of tears, the stacks of parenting books, the diapers changed, the sleepless nights, the tantrums soothed, the loneliness endured, the teacher meetings, the accomplishments celebrated, the amazing people who helped plow the path to where my family is today. I see the guilt accepted, the mistakes admitted, I see the hearts embraced, and the love that grew to enormous watermelon-sized fruit… huge love, delicious, but often pressing me down flat beneath it. With every tear and kiss and kind word the fruit grew. Oh, how bountiful this life, this earth.

So now back to what?

If I’m in an optimistic mood, I think God is opening the doors for me-- again. In this chapter, I might get to take all the dirty, painful, beautiful stuff of parenthood (so far) and put it to work. I might get to write a book, create new products, paint, illustrate— serve the homeless…but who knows? One thing I’ve learned from parenthood is that I do not get to write the next chapter! If I lean in, God gently nudges me to where I need to go. If I turn away, then God just picks me up and tosses me there. My family and I end up where we're supposed to be, anyway, despite our strong wills.

I know three parents who have passed on in the past two months from cancer. They all left behind fairly young children… When did they realize that their chapter in this world was coming to a close? What was their final chapter like? During their last moments here, did they get a glimpse of their whole story from beginning to end? Did it all make sense and could they taste the fruit of their stories? I keep thinking of them. And probably because of them, I am stretching a little farther to hear God, squinting a bit harder to see Him, asking him more often, more firmly than ever…What now, God?

Today I’m praying for the open heart and quiet mind to allow the uncertain chapters of my days to be shaped and transformed by the will of my creator, to bear fruit sweet enough to share with millions, and strong enough to endure all the challenges that I know still lie ahead.

The Joy Found in "Combat"

Today I am sitting in a bunker, piling up the bags, putting on my protective gear. My oldest son’s class was cancelled, the other kids are home (we were planning on having a relaxed summer “normal” day) and he is in a very, very bad and sensitive mood. Screeching, angry words, pushing, more angry words, demands, yelling. And so I prepare:  Strenuous sensory activities planned? Check.  Soft music playing? Check. Low expectations? Check.  Video games (educational non-adversarial ones so I can sit down to write this and get my head together)? Check. Warned other kids of the possibility of warfare? Check. Thrown away all plans for the day? Check. Prepared to feel like a failure? Check.

Combat. Recently another mom of a special needs child shared something she read (http://www.disabilityscoop.com/2009/11/10/autism-moms-stress/6121/) about research demonstrating how moms of children with autism have similar stress levels and health effects of stress to those who are fighting in combat. It was weird—her words felt like they were embracing me with a big hug. “So this is the way I’m supposed to feel!” I thought with relief, as I tried to recall the fog, the persistent heightened anxiety that I felt often made me look like I was on speed…the lack of sleep, weight loss, the fear—the sadness. Thank God it is supposed to be this way!

But the part of combat that the research didn’t mention or measure is the deep, God strong joy that roots itself in those who are struggling. It comes from suffering, pain, exclusion, and yes, even from fighting. This joy blossoms only after the pain. Because when you are in “combat”, you seek winning moments to sustain you, you see the substance and the growth-- you recognize the new life in every single day or moment your child and family have where things go right.

To clarify, my oldest son has not been diagnosed with autism, although specialists who treat him think that he has many autistic characteristics (along with many other labels that are scary and not worth writing here)…he is still somewhat of a challenging case to diagnose.  Sometimes, almost shamefully, I wish for the diagnosis that would help him and me find more commonality with other families. He has the mood swings, the obsessive nature, the tantrums, the high intelligence, the hyper-sensitivity, the unpredictability, and most difficult of all- the unsafe behavior. Each day I wake up with very little idea of how the day will go. So little control. So much of my family’s peace and stability hinges on his state of mind.

Though I’m prepared for combat today, I am also aiming and praying for a clear vision-- a glimpse of new life. Tiny growth is enough to sustain me (I just concluded). Maybe one of my kids will help the other learn something new. Perhaps I’ll have a conversation with one of my children that will touch them enough so they will remember it after I’m long gone. Possibly I’ll spend enough time honestly listening to my son’s obsessive talk about reptiles that I will ease some of his anxiety and he will feel a little better.

At the end of the day, no matter how “combat-like” it was, I’ll find that God joy that is rooted so deeply and strongly in love that it will never bend, never be buried, never break…I’ll let you know what it looks like when I find it (because the beauty and magic of this kind of joy is-- it looks different every day!)

Living Like I Am Dying

Moments ago, the life we lived in Marin County changed into an elegant pattern on the horizon, eventually a dreamy spec, disappearing into a silent, white mist filled with light. Marin is a rich memory now, living in my soul. A memory that has transformed me, like the horizon, and filled me with light.

These past weeks as I packed our lives away to move our family to Fairfield County, Connecticut, the layers of loss have been whispering to me-- loss of a quiet, light-filled home surrounded by open space, of curvy, mountainous backdrops, a perfect climate, laid-back clothing, healthy fresh food, a lush vegetable garden, bobcats, hawks and quail, slow-moving cars, dramatic beaches, and endless trails for me to run, bike and hike on.

But thank you God for showing me that saying goodbye to the people I love is deeper, richer, and much much more painful than the loss of the rest of it. Those Marin people have forever transformed me. 

In the past few weeks, I felt surprisingly free. I started living more passionately, less guarded. Leaving felt a little like part of me was dying, and so I craved one last chance to hike with a friend, hug the person I had been too afraid to hug, have that big party I never made time to organize, and lunch with the moms whom I admired. I needed to tell the truth-- Tell people why I loved them. And what a miraculous experience this telling became! I lightened. And the deep pain of leaving had a surprising joy in it. I could see how blessed I have been, and how much goodness, how much God there is in people. 

There is God in the nanny who lovingly helped me bathe my children, brainstormed with me weekly about their challenges, patiently followed my insane schedule, courageously endured the echoing noise, the fights, messes, moods, tantrums, my forgetfulness; and still she responded with kindness every single time I needed her. 

There is God in the homeschool teacher who came to my house for three years to teach my boy just exactly the way that worked for him. The woman who created lessons to meet his needs, stepped over cats and dogs to get to her "classroom," who cut apples, endured bugs and reptiles, hugged me and reassured me on the days when his challenges were eroding me.

There is God in the friends, particularly in my diverse faith group, who shared their doubts and fears, who trusted me enough to ask for help, who offered me theirs, who encouraged me to grow, who accepted me despite all of my inadequacies.

There is God in many more teachers who loved my children, supported me, drove across bridges, went beyond the extra mile. God in the naturalist who nurtured an awesome love and understanding of nature in my children. God in the grocery store check-out clerk who aways grinned though her hands shook from disease, in our therapists, and in the moms at the soup kitchen who graciously shared their lives, teaching me about suffering.

I pray that the Marin in my soul helps me to continue to aim to live as though I am dying-- that every day I can see and share how God flows through the special people He places in my life. And I pray for a free heart for you and me, a heart that sees the God in people, glorifies all that is good, shining the light for all to see.

I Miss The Oohs And Ahhs

I feel fruitless today. My head aches with boxes unchecked. My appetite is gone. I am a spindly tree that is blowing around in the storm of circumstances I have no control over, branches about to crack. (My sisters will probably call me after I write this, concerned that I'm either a nervous wreck or that I am over-sharing, but here I go anyway...)

Motherhood does not always feel like it is this healthy, growing upward fruit-bearing experience. Particularly not to an "I-should-feel-so-blessed-to-be-able-to-stay-home-with-my-kids" mother like me. And I have a feeling that God wants me to share the low-down, rotten, moldy days just as much as he wants me to share the fruitful ones. The pale-faced pictures where I don't have my crap together are much more interesting (don't you think?) that the ones where I try to make you think I'm a supermodel mom who doesn't miss a single blessing. 

Truth: I am not smiling all the time, not a picture of a beautiful tree-like mother praying peacefully throughout the day, using gentle words at all times with my children. I do not look like I'm in my early 30s. I do not post many pictures of myself on Facebook because they would horrify most audiences.

Last month when I told a hard-working friend that I couldn't remember what day it was, she replied, "Oh, you probably don't need to know the days because you don't work!" Stammering, I tried to bumble out that I do, in fact, need to know the day of the week in order to deliver my shining stars to school with homework complete, bags packed appropriately, have the home-schooled one ready for the right class that day, have the other one off to dance class, the other to swim practice, get those valentines completed by that day, purchase the groceries, respond to those ten emails about various volunteer commitments, feed myself something in the middle of it all, run like hell (because I feel like I am not able to breath so I better get some exercise,) and then get that one picked up from here on time, being sure not to forget the other one over there. 

I do need to know what day it is. Damn it.

As a designer/illustrator I miss having my own business, being creative every day, getting all dolled up, giving presentations, hearing the "Oohs and Ahhs" for making concepts come to life, and then getting paid for them. I loved those Oohs and Ahhs. I miss having somewhere important to go. More important than Whole Foods. I miss looking somewhat cool too. I used to look like an artist, not a gym-clothes-wearing, SUV-driving MOM.

And let me be clear, I wouldn't have been humble enough to leave the "oohs and ahhs" and paychecks (not that they were that high) if I hadn't been given a very sick newborn eight years ago. After his birth and then open heart surgery, he has needed me near him every day. His needs have not lightened over the years-- they have been the calling of a lifetime. And through becoming sensitive to his "high needs" I have learned how much my other two children need me around, too. So I have stayed "at home" with them.

Giving my career and my independence to my kids has been a long, lonely trail for me. I feel isolated, dependent on my husband (I HATE this part), and in all honesty-- valueless on days like today. I can write you an essay about why I am NOT valueless. And why every mom (working or stay-at-home) is not valueless because, of course, taking care of children is one of the most important things we can do in our culture today. Giving and receiving love. But the truth? I FEEL valueless. 

Which brings me back to God. I know, I know, I know...God! Bad Amy. I'm not supposed to value myself according to the empty standards of this world. What God offers me is so much bigger than paychecks, Facebook photos, Oohs and Ahhs, Cool Clothes, Big Important Jobs, and Prestige. 

What is my value? I suppose my value is as tiny as the hearts I helped my 5-year-old cut at the lunch table today. It is as minuscule as the time I spent listening to my 7-year-old tell me how he feels about boys who hurt him at school. Or as significant as the moment I had with my 8-year-old yesterday when we casually chatted in the car about the definition of marriage and how and why some people have babies before they get married.

Value=relationships. Value=having time to listen. Value=love.

But I still feel like dirt.

So God, seriously, please help me and other moms out there to be nourished by your acceptance, your value, your love. Feed us the rich fruit, the tiny slivers of motherhood that are as precious and valuable as diamonds. I pray you keep us strong, especially on the days when we feel worn out and fruitless. Shape us with your values, straighten our way. Help us to be honest with you and with each other that although motherhood is beautiful, It is damned hard.

Amen.

Exploding The Box

"Don't touch me!" he wailed. "Give me space!" his arms flailed around him, grasping and hitting at the air. He appeared to break an invisible box, grasping for his own space. Slowly breathing, I backed away, knowing that though we were late to school, my eight-year-old needed a flexible mom (rather than the type-A me.) He needed to escape the eat-breakfast, brush-teeth, coat-on, out-to-car, on-time box we live in every morning. Over the years, my ADHD boy has taught me that pressure, shame, or reprimand when he has lost "my way" will shove him further into chaos. If I look carefully, I'll see the light of the son God designed, not the eight-year-old Stepford robot son who fits my shallow space.

Beeeeeeeep. A 7-year-old boy I'll call Sam leaped from his grandfather's car last week (ironically a metal box on wheels) ran across a street toward the Lego store, and was hit by an oncoming car. He flew out of his shoes, sliding across the pavement. Three teeth broke, his collar bone snapped, and his body was scraped and burned by the pavement. Though traumatized and suffering, Sam is alive, thanks to God for putting a slow driver behind the wheel of the car that hit him. 

Last year in kindergarten Sam was thriving at my middle son's small school. Though he was disorganized, he made people smile with his giant glittering soft eyes and sweet nature. He appeared to love learning, plus he was super smart. It was clear to me that he wanted to do well and was liked by all. 

But starting early this school year Sam's first grade teacher found him distracting and an obstacle for her plans in the classroom. Rather than creating solutions for Sam, she started sending him to the principal's office regularly. Often his mom would receive complaints and calls asking her to pick him up early. Academic problems? No! He was advanced. Hurting or offending others? No! But he didn't fit into this teacher's classroom box with his disorganized verbose behavior. So in a period of three months, the complaints, criticism, dismissals, and (I think most importantly) the lack of love for Sam and his mother wore him down. He became a child consumed with anxiety and self-hatred, and not surprisingly his symptoms worsened. At Christmastime his single mother who cares for her sick parents was asked to pull him from the school and place him in public school. The pressure unraveled him (and his entire family, which further undid him) to his current state of almost zero impulse control and self-esteem. 

Still, I learned, boxes can be even more literal for kids who don't fit the mold, after the head of a special needs school on the East Coast told me just this week about a traumatized student. He came from a school where his teacher repeatedly put him in a cardboard box in the hallway to make him stop moving around in class until another student reported it to a parent. 

Or boxes can be literal prison chambers since, believe-it-or-not, another director of a different school confidentially told me this week about a hyperactive boy she is helping through PTSD after he was repeatedly put in a locked "scream room" (think box with light) with two "guards" outside at a public school.

Needless to say, I have cried more than a couple of times this week over these images. So what is going on here?

Here's what I think-- soon the only thing that will differentiate human minds from technological devices will be in our ability to smash, stomp...EXPLODE the robotic boxes we put around people, particularly our children, around ideas, around our world. 

We need to think like God, like an artist. Stop separating ourselves from one another with manufactured, robotic, code-like expectations. But instead I pray that we can look, listen, empathize, problem-solve, communicate, collaborate, and simply love each other. Override tight schedules, lesson plans, budgets, and stereotypes. Look upon God's living creations, young and old, with eyes wide open, relating to every molecule and shade of humanity. Living, breathing flesh is not box-like. 

I pray that teachers, parents, grandparents, friends, you, and I can break down the tiny enclosures that keep us dark and separated. There is great light to be found when we can see our children, educate them appropriately, and love them for who they are. There is a loving future that (I believe) awaits us if we make the effort to truly take in and respect those whom we are blessed to know. A magnificent world where all little boys and girls can discover their own light, their pattern painted by God, and share it with joy.

A Life Without Blinders

What does thankful that look like? I wish I knew how to live more thankfully. My attempts to BE thankful, to express the idea-- they don’t feel nearly sufficient for what I have been given. I suppose only God has the strength to help me. And I have been told that knowing God is being able to SEE all of the blessings.  I have to peel off the blinders. Accept what he gives me with arms opened, head up.

So this Thanksgiving I am thinking about how to live a more thankful life.

Is thankful writing down a bunch of things that I’m grateful for? The golden sky beckoning me to come out and play. My desire to run, to dance, to sing in my 43-year-old body. My three young kids alive and rosy-cheeked this morning, my husband home from work and ready to celebrate a holiday, the beautiful music in the background, the chatter of family over a game of Sorry. The warm cranberry oatmeal I’m making. The Ipad holding the interest of our overstimulated, challenged child so that there is peace... Peace is so good. Good enough to stop what I am doing and come write about it.

Is thankful saying thank-you to the people who have made my life meaningful? Thank you to my parents for spending challenging days, months, years carefully accompanying me to adulthood. They never forget to tell me how much they love me. And sisters. They are always there, forgiving me and loving me, even when they don’t understand me. Thank-you to my husband for grace... despite my moods, my sadness, my intense focus at times to help our son who struggles. My husband has the courage to hold me and embrace with me when I am at my lowest point. He doesn’t let me fall. I never knew this big of love existed.  Thank-you to my church family for caring for my family-- for openly talking with me about my fears and my ideas relating to faith.  And still loving me. Thank-you to the moms who hug me and share their struggles. Or the moms who pick up the phone and call me. I know I am not alone.

Or is thankful an action? Cooking and sharing a meal. Giving away my money. Embracing someone who is in pain. Loving someone who I think I can’t possibly even like. Finding time to organize other people to give away goodness. Connecting with people-- in real life. Letting someone else go first.

Now that I think of it, thankful living could be found in the silence. Sitting still. Hearing the piano that is now playing with little fingers-- miraculously calming his mind. Thankful living could be holding my tongue, listening to an idea-- one I disagree with. Listening and seeing all that God has given me. Breathing it in. Praying for the blinders to come off.

I pray that my life and yours will be a great thanksgiving-- not just on Thanksgiving day, but every day of our lives.