Easter

" . . . the Savior makes all things right. No injustice in mortality is permanent, even death, for He restores life again. No injury, disability, betrayal, or abuse goes uncompensated in the end because of His ultimate justice and mercy."

(D. Todd Christofferson, April 2014, "The Resurrection of Jesus Christ.")

Happy Easter

Accused of Hating My Son

        “. . . Open your eyes! Not everyone is a bigot like you. I now just feel sorry for your son. I suggest you find another group with other mothers who are as hateful towards autism and their own children as you are. There are plenty of people like you, the world is full of hateful people.
        . . . It is blogs like yours that encourage negativity towards autism and autistics.
        . . . If you stopped hating your child that would change your reality.
        . . . You simply do not accept your son for who he is. I think it hurts because you feel sorry for yourself. . . I feel sorry for him, and I feel sorry that he has a mother with your attitude. If you don’t like being called a bigot and someone who hates their son, stop being that person.
        . . . Try caring a little more about your son, and a little less about your own feelings.
        . . . I can't stop you hating autism and your son. It is like trying to convince a member of the KKK to love black people."

        These comments were made in response to my blog post, I Hurt for Him. In this post I expressed the grief I feel for my son's losses. 
        Quickly this became my most popular blog post yet. I received many heart-warming expressions of love and empathy. Yet amidst all of this support I also received the hurtful comments above. 
        They were made by a mental health counselor and father of an autistic child who is the founder of a closed online support group for parents of autistic children. A site that promises to provide a safe environment for its members and aims to make the world of autism more positive by helping its members "sail" towards acceptance.
        The reason for this man's attack was that my expression of grief (I Hurt for Him) is perpetuating negativity towards autism.
        To be concerned about negativity is one thing, but to accuse a grieving mother of hating her child?
        That's too extreme. 
        Not just extreme, it's cruel and unfair. And does not make the world more positive.
        It's also NOT TRUE.
        Grief and hatred are not the same emotion. 
        I grieve for my son's losses because I LOVE him and want the best possible life for him. I'm still trying to figure out how that became an expression of hatred.
        Yes, grief may be a negative emotion, but the truth is we are all going to have negative feelings. Raising a disabled child is not a one-dimensional emotional experience. My relationship with my son spans the full emotional spectrum from my greatest joy to my deepest sorrow. There are times when I feel both joy and sadness at the same time.   

        Sometimes we have to go through the negative feelings in order to get to the more positive ones. Acceptance is achieved by first grieving for that which was lost—a journey we all take at different speeds.
        But even when we've arrived at acceptance I'm not convinced the pain of loss is ever fully resolved. Because there are still unexpected triggers that can take us back to feeling sad. Somewhere deep within our hearts we carry the memory of our loss. 
        You don't help grieving parents move towards increased positivity and acceptance by condemning their grief or calling it hateful.
        There is a better way.

        I know this because I’ve experienced it.

        Kindness and empathy have always been the hallmark of my interactions with fellow parents of the autistic community. I’ve received unexpected gestures of love and support from total strangers who’ve embraced me as one of the family.

        Kindness is what makes us strong as a community. And it is through kindness that we help lift each other towards increased positivity.
        When we choose to be vulnerable and share our pain with others we open ourselves up to receive the gifts of love, empathy and support as we connect with others.

        But we also take a risk when we share. Because not everyone will be respectful of our pain or even have the capacity to understand it.

        All the same I still believe it's a risk worth taking.

        Because I believe in the goodness and kindness of others.

"Why do we hesitate to share our pain? Do we build walls to protect our images rather than building bridges to reach out to one another?" 

(Bergin, M. "It Takes More Than Love," Ensign, Aug. 1990)

Speaking the Same Language Without Speaking At All

         Dave came home from his respite activity crying. I heard him from all the way down the driveway. It was such a sad, distressed cry. The kind of cry that made my gut churn to see the one I love so heart-broken.

         Apparently he'd been crying like that for the past half hour. His respite worker reported he'd had a good, happy day apart from the last half hour. She wasn't able to identify any particular event that had brought on the tears.
         With no words to tell us why he felt so sad all I could do was guess. Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Or he was tired. Or hungry. Or one of his sensory sensitivities had been triggered.
        Not knowing the cause of the upset makes it so much harder to help him.

        After speaking to David's worker, I quickly shepherded him into the bathroom. Anxious to keep to the rigid potty-training schedule and avoid an accident.

        I sat on the edge of the bath tub just in front of the toilet ready to help him get into position. He entered the bathroom a few steps behind me.
        Still crying.
        When he saw me he reached out his arms and said, "Ma, ma" (his version of mama). Then he lunged into my open arms and pressed his head into my shoulder.
        I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed his back as his little body shook with loud sobs.
        My insides turned gooey. Not only did he say my name, but he initiated a hug—at the same time. 

        A rare treasure.
        One that instantly warmed me up. Filling me with love and joy.

        Time stood still as I felt David take comfort from my embrace. Nothing else mattered. The toilet and everything else could wait.
        Crowned by the title of "ma" I was giving my little boy the solace he needed. I didn't feel the fears of inadequacy or the nagging voice of guilt—that somehow I wasn't enough or wasn't capable of comforting my child. At that moment I didn't need to be anything else or anything more. 

        I was enough. All that my son needed me to be. 

        I felt so connected to him. There was no distance or frustration. No guessing or trying to anticipate his needs. We were on the same page.
        Finally speaking the same language.
        Without speaking at all.

Our Capacity to Love

"Our joy now and forever is inextricably tied to our capacity to love."

(Groberg, John, H. "The Power of God's Love," Ensign, Oct 2004)

Making a Little Boy Smile

 

      Every week Rob (World's Most Amazing Dad) takes David to the downtown mall. Not because David likes to shop. But to let David ride all the elevators and escalators he can stand. 
      Along with elevators and escalators David is crazy about ceiling fans. He is enthralled with watching them spin around at top speed. He quickly memorizes which stores have them.

      Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory is one of these stores. It has a ceiling fan! 
      However, depending on the weather and time of day the fan isn't always turned on. As part of his mall ritual David always runs inside this store and looks up to see if the fan is spinning.

      The staff have picked up on David's affinity for fans and know he will be disappointed if the blades aren't spinning. So when he bolts into their store looking upward they kindly turn the fan on for him.

      Not because doing this will improve business for them. They know David isn't going to buy any of their fudge and sometimes in his enthusiasm he may even bump into one of their customers.  
      They do it because they don't have to.
      They do it because they choose to be kind and make a little boy smile. 

THANK YOU ROCKY MOUNTAIN CHOCOLATE FACTORY

YOUR STAFF ROCK!!!!!!!!!!!!

      

All Minds

"All the minds and spirits that God ever sent into the world are susceptible of enlargement."

(Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith, Salt Lake City:Deseret Book Co., 1938, p.354)

I Hurt For Him

        There are moments when David's eyes find mine. Filled with earnest intention and pleading they hold onto my gaze. His hands move about as he babbles, "Aa, da, da, da." 
        He's trying to tell me something. 
        But like a bud, unopened, his thoughts remain tightly wrapped within. I long to get inside his head. To know what he's thinking. How much he understands. 
        I want to see the world through his eyes. Know of his pain and fears, his hopes and joy.
        If only I could break through that wall of silence and frustration. 
        Then, maybe, I could really help him.
        I provided him with physical, speech, occupational and feeding therapy--sometimes all in the same week. I consulted with the best and most acclaimed therapists in the valley. We even attended a five week behavioral feeding program in New Jersey. 
        One of the many doctors I saw said, "I admire a mother who is prepared to go to the ends of the earth for her child." 
        "We recognize you're a force to be reckoned with," another doctor said.
        Maybe so.
        But I didn't cure David of autism.              
        I can't fix him. I can't make it better. I can't give him a normal life. 

        I get to stand by, knowing of all he'll never do and all he'll never become. 

        Maybe he's unaware of his many losses, but I'm not. 

        So I hurt for him.

        He'll always depend on others, never knowing the satisfaction of caring for himself, or the freedom of independent living. Confined to his own lonely world he'll never know the joy of marriage or the tenderness of holding his own child. 

        As he struggles to reach out and connect with others, I wonder if he'll ever have a friend.      

        I asked a 70-year-old friend of mine who has a disabled child if the pain ever goes away. She smiled wisely and shook her head, recounting how she now feels sad her 40-year-old son will never get married and have a family of his own. 

        "Each life phase brings a new reason for mourning," she explained.

A Mother's Arms

"Many a mother's arms and heart have ached years on end, giving comfort and relieving the suffering of her special child."

 

(James E. Faust, in "The Works of God," Ensign, Nov 1984)

Christmas and the Temple

                 It didn’t seem like there was time for Christmas that year. I was in the middle of moving, with one house to organize and unpack and another to clean and fix up. Weighed down by many responsibilities I felt a little resentful of the holiday season. I wasn’t ready to feel any Christmas cheer.

            A week earlier I’d tried to keep my monthly commitment to attend the temple. After getting up at 5 a.m. on a frozen Saturday morning, I made my way to the Jordan River Temple, only to discover it was closed! I turned my car around and headed for the Salt Lake Temple. But icy roads and a freeway detour brought me home again. 
            Weighed down with frustration and a sense of failure, I promised myself, “Next week.”

            But as Saturday approached, the last one before Christmas, I wondered if I’d make it. There was still so much to do—clean, decorate, bake and wrap. Maybe the temple would just have to wait.

            Fortunately commitment triumphed as I took my seat in the chapel of the Salt Lake Temple. Quietly I waited for an endowment session to begin. In the background I heard the tune of a familiar Christmas carol. 

            Christmas carols in the temple?

            At first this music seemed a little out of place. But as I allowed the words to fill my mind, the Spirit spoke to my heart and opened my mind.

            Sitting in a room filled with waiting people, I imagined what it must have been like to wait for the Savior’s birth. A thrill of joy surged through me. How exciting it must have been for the shepherds in the fields and the choirs of angels to know of His birth. 

            I felt a little of the joy they undoubtedly felt. Then I realized how exciting it is for me today, right now, to know of His birth—a cause for celebration! And that’s what Christmas really is—the excitement, the joy and the thrill of having Christ come to earth.

            At the end of the endowment session I headed out of the celestial room, and then halted. Towering above me in the air on the right was a magnificent painting of the Risen Lord. 

           As I stood there in awe of this beautiful artwork, it felt as if I’d been greeted by my Savior. The Spirit reached down into the depths of my soul and filled me with peace and joy—this was His house and He was there. 

           I thought back on the joy I’d felt earlier while sitting in the chapel, the excited anticipation of those who waited for Christ’s birth. Then I realized the anticipation of waiting for Christ to come had been fulfilled for me that day. Through temple worship, He had come into my heart. 

            As I headed home into the congested traffic, I felt untouched by the frenzy of last-minute shoppers around me. Overcome with love for the Savior, I’d been filled with the true spirit of Christmas. Not to be found in the busy shopping malls or under a perfectly decorated tree, but within the quiet walls of the temple. 

            There I discovered: we celebrate the joy of Christ coming to earth by allowing Him to come into our hearts.