Clothed in White

Photo Note: The innocence of youth - pictured here in my four children, dressed in their "dress-whites" - gives me pause when I start to grumble about my lot in life. I am truly blessed by these children who both cause and inspire me to persevere in my faith to the end, so that I too may be clothed in white, unashamed of the life of service I have maintained toward those I love.




This marks the end of my thematically colored blogs, and I will simply ask you to imagine this seventh blog to be written in white (on a dark background, of course!). It serves as the summation and perfection of all the other colors, combined. In future postings I will revert to a simpler method of thematic organization... :o)

White. I am almost hesitant to begin, as the awe-infused nature of this full spectrum "color" is one which causes me to stop in my tracks, and wonder if I am worthy of its analysis. Of course the auspicious symbolism which accompanies all things white is inarguable, and its meanings are replete with life and healing.

Purity, cleanliness, truth, Divinity, knowledge, illumination, and sanctifcation all come to mind instantly as apt descriptors of this color. Our sins are washed away by our Savior's blood, and we are as white as snow. Our Redeemer comes, in majestic splendor, on a white horse in the book of Revelation. We are all familiar with these Biblical themes which ignite in us a reverence for our Maker, in whose awesome love we have been called "worthy" of receiving such lavish grace. But there is yet another side to the acquisition of this state of sanctified wholeness.

Consider that, as Scripture teaches, those who persevere to the end will be clothed in white. We like to think about the clothing, the robe we will don, but we don't like to focus our thoughts quite so studiously on the first half of the verse. Perseverance. And the previous words "those who" link the need for action, on our part, to the promise we shall inherit through faithfulness. To a less spiritually relevant extent, I find that it is perseverance to which I am called in my daily battle with autism, as well.

So what does this mean in the practical application of living and loving our cherished autistic friends and family? I am thinking of my colorful analogies as I reflect on this, and am reminded that loving someone who is often difficult to love is not a choice of varying reactions or techniques I can employ, but a choice to love - no matter what. A simple, conscious decision to extend favor, whether merited or not, in good situations as well as bad.

Perseverance, ironically, is a term used within the world of autism (and pronounced differently when used as such) for behaviors of which the autistic person is often either unaware, or unable to cease doing - behaviors which are repetetive in nature, and comforting to him or her. Michael has many such "perseverative" behaviors, and these can try one's patience to the outer limits of sanity on occasion. Many of them fall under the category of attention seeking behaviors. Let me describe just a few, here:

• Poking at someone's eyes when they're dozing off - to see if they're really sleeping



• Slamming doors repeatedly - or just opening and closing them, if we're lucky



• Needing to pull something when it is fluffy. Think: cat's tails. We have two of them in our house. Tails, that is.



• Needing to grab the phone from us when we answer it, or make a call - just long enough to say "hi," find out who is speaking on the other end, and then say, "bye." This can be quite awkward when you get a call from a doctor, teacher, salesperson, pesticide-sprayer-guy (yes, that's what he's called around here, anyway!) or anyone else who does not intimately know my son!



• Needing to rip or shred things. I think I have touched on this one before, and it's definitely a lot better these days. But we've had a lot of documents, report cards, bills, and other mail "gone missing" over the years, and presumably having ended up in the trash in a pile of small clippings.



• Eating every time anyone eats anything. Now this is truly a problem sometimes. I might have just finished feeding the family supper 30 minutes ago, but if I happen to fix something separate for myself after the fact, Michael will want some too. Of course he uses a separate, clean plate for each "course..."



• Having lights on - all night long. We went through a season of about 6 months in which Michael was so fixated on his room being well-lit, that he would "freak out" if we tried to turn off his light at bedtime. If we were lucky enough to remain awake after he had fallen asleep, we would often sneak into his room to turn off his light, but he would invariably "catch" us and would wake up screaming and yelling for quite a while about the "awful" thing we were imposing on him.



• Getting you to look at him. Unlike a typical child who simply grimaces with kid-glee, in random intervals, "Looook, Mom/Dad!!" - Michael will simply pull your head or face toward him, sometimes with no warning! And once is never enough. We respond each time, "Yes, Michael" to whatever it is he is requesting of us or commenting on. These range from indicating that he thinks we should shop for more french fries, to commenting that so-and-so is going to come visit soon. He will do it repeatedly, to the point that you want to shout at him one final "YESSSSSS, MICHAEL!!!!!" in the hopes that he will finally stop turning your head toward him.



• Needing a "yes" answer to most if not all questions or comments, instead of a "no" response - which enfuriates him! Believe me, this is not giving in. And this has absolutely no bearing on the way most people should act when a child demands something (ie, don't give in!). If you lived just two weeks in my house you would do exactly the same thing as I! However, I have learned to be slightly deceptive in my "yesses..." by not finishing the sentence sometimes, so that technically it could be interpreted as a "no" or a "maybe" as a result.



• Putting things where they belong. This is cute to a point. But it gets interesting when you're trying to leave something in a "new" position - you should see the battle which ensues from that one! Rearranging your living room takes on new meaning when Michael is present to witness it. It turns the whole family into a bunch of "sneaks!" We all try to do things quickly or when Michael is not around, just to keep the peace!



• This list could actually go on for about 7 more blogs' worth. But I will spare you having to persevere to the end of my thoughts on this topic. :o)

In the final analysis, I find that I am unworthy of "white." I am so glad that the Rider who is called Faithful and True has already spiritually clothed me in white, as I have trusted in Him. And so I trudge on through one perseverative behavior after another - in the hopes that by persevering in faithfulness through them all, I may earn the right to be clothed in white in that great and final hour, and for eternity!

Looking toward my white garment,

Elise

Colors Exploding

Photo Note: Not my typical "brown outfit," but this is me - and my sweet daughter, whom I will refer to as Chrissy in this blog. She has learned by default and necessity to do many things which even adults have found difficult to do, the greatest of which has been her beautifully forgiving heart toward her brother.

Brown is such a dull color. What's amusing is that I wear it all the time! I have brown pants, brown patterned shirts, and brown "shells" - all to layer over each other in a stunning array of earthiness! I even prefer browns of varying shades for eyeshadow, layering them for a "natural" look - why on earth do I like this color??

One thing which comes to mind fits in with some thoughts I was having last night during the last portion of a Pilates/Yoga class at my fitness club. Brown is safe. It is not frightening. It is not usually bold or "out there" in any way. It blends in with its environment, and is not common for it to cause attention, or stand out from the crowd. Brown just - IS.

The first time I took a yoga class, many weeks ago and more toward the beginning of my current weight-loss journey, I remember it having a strange and wonderful effect on me during the quietest and most relaxing moments. It was as if all the tension of life, wound up inside of me, finally had a place to deposit itself. (Yet I wasn't exactly sure where it went!)

In the emotionally tumultuous moments we have often traversed, there usually seems to be conflict, self-confrontation, and a feeling of straining toward personal control - anything which allows me to feel like things are on the right track, and manageable. A perfectionist personality strives to attain full "correctness" of situations and relationships, and often it feels like there is total failure in the absence of such correctness. And the soul remains tightly wound on a daily basis, seeking for reprieve.

So in those moments when I am lucky enough to have time for reflection, as in my yoga class, I typically try to reassure myself that I in fact am in control of things, and "on course." On that particular evening, though, something snapped in that wonderfully deceiving scenario, and I knew profoundly in that moment that I was not in control - I never had been, and never would be. I remember that knowledge as feeling both awful and terrifically liberating all in one sweeping moment, and I felt a tear or two slide down my cheek.

Everything in the world of autism as I know it is about control. The autistic person wants control, and needs it in order to be "right" in his world. Yet he is not truly self-controlled because he cannot relinquish that power to allow others to assert theirs, in his presence, in a give-and-take fashion. Rather, he lives wholly self-centered in the knowledge that his needs are paramount in every situation and moment.

This sameness which he needs, this peace and order, is part of the psychology of autism in which the afflicted person (and I am saying there is affliction, in spite of the way in which our second group from a previous blog - those who don't see the need to change autism at all - would interpret things) manipulates both the things and people around him, in order to bring all things into alignment in his own world. At least that's the way I interpret it. How I would love to ask my son if this is his perception of the reasons for his behaviors.

In a typical Bible-based response, there is no room for such manipulation of a child toward others, nor of such willful self-assertion, if it negates the needs of others or damages either relationships or things. Such behavior would normally be corrected, modified, re-directed, or at very least discouraged by a parent, in particular. Herein lies the obvious response of well-meaning onlookers who chide the parents of autistic or otherwise challenged children with statements such as, "if he were my child I would do such-and-such..." or "well, he just needs more discipline (training, privileges taken away)..." or "less attention (reward for bad behavior, coddling)..."

There is the therapeutic response in which a firm and experienced ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapist tells you that you need to do things the same way each and every time, that your response must not vary, and that all your other children must come on board, too, and practice the same response to be used no matter what the circumstances. Never over-react, always speak firmly, kindly, and without agitation, almost without personal intonation. Never give in to wants, or certainly not to tantrums (haven't we heard that before - even with typical kids?!) Never acknowledge the improper behaviors, but only affirm the positive.

That sounds good in theory. Really, it does. The ABA therapists, though, do not have to stay at my home all day, and through the night, and deal with any manner of psychotic oddities and other naturally occurring family distractions which provide a nauseating array of constant flux and change in my world. They can go home, get a cappuccino en route, and push "reset" to come back and do some more "therapy" tomorrow. I'm a huge fan of ABA therapy, in case that wasn't obvious through this discourse, used in a myriad of situations, with kind and caring professionals doing the work. But just don't expect me to become a therapist myself, on top of all the other "hats" I wear. Yet my children often find this role a bit easier to take on, and come by it somewhat naturally.

You should see my 9-year-old angel of a daughter when Michael has just whacked her in the head or pulled a clump of her hair, hesitate in reacting at all, only to return the "kindness" moments later with a beautiful and gripping love response at the tiniest thing Michael does "right" afterward. "Good job, Michael! Nice job following directions!" she will say with a sing-song therapeutic voice, patting him on the forearm with approval. And the true miracle in it all is that she truly means it. Somewhere in the innocence of her pure, young soul she is more fully capable of seeing the "right" response, as she is more freshly borne of the heart of God, as yet unjaded by the vast and deep sorrows of life.

So my thoughts as I lay stretched out in relief (that I had survived another contortionist feat by showing up to that yoga class at all!) turned to a question, "Why is it that I have such an aversion to confrontation?" And I realized in a moment of full clarity that it was because I have fought to find, get, and enjoy control in those areas of my life in which there is none, and have failed repeatedly to encounter it. It eludes me as surely as every nerve in my body coils up with questioning struggle, seeking release, and does not ever fully un-kink itself.

Confrontation. Something from which I shirk in cowardice. There is the saying, "let go - let God." And from it, too, I retreat with shame. But I find a glimpse of the peace which could be mine when I fully "let God" be in control - and it is hard to accept, knowing that when I get up from my meditation, and the soothing music is gone, the confrontation, the fight, and the strained living are there all over again. But in the age-old dichotomy of a "fight or flight" response, I find direction and hope. Perhaps they are both faces of the same coin, and we really don't need to choose one over the other.

If I decide not to flee from the fight, nor enter into it in a way which will destroy my own peace, but rather find ways to express and even live out the fight emotionally, and physically (boxing, anyone?!) - then I can perhaps diminish the tendency to remain trapped in the battle daily. Through writing, music, exercise, diet, prayer - and anything which brings well-being to my thoughts while at the same time providing them a creative and exhaustive outlet - I can push through the daily "fight." And in doing so, I transport myself to a higher perspective, perhaps approaching the mind of God in each transcendent moment. And maybe it won't feel like such a fight anymore. I can live "outside" the battle since I have faithfully struggled, as did Jacob with the angel, and come to know myself in the process.

So brown, to me, has been a comforting retreat from the struggle. But perhaps it is just a bit too "safe" and allows me to flee to a simpler life of sameness and emotional stagnation. Time for some chartreuse, magenta, royal blue, or lime green! Time to step out of the comfort zone, and find some true release! It's ok to lose a little control, as if painting with wild abandon, and in doing so, find true control - in victorious peace!

Colors exploding,

Peace imploding,

Elise

Weird and Wonderful Purple

Photo Note: This is a peaceful place found in the summers of my hope - with a little bit of purple, to refresh the spirit...

Let's face it. I've been wanting to use "purple" as my theme color for awhile now! I bet you're thinking I'm going to start right in on the topic of royalty and the privilege of being a child of the King of Kings. Not so fast. Really, the only thing I was thinking of when purple came to mind was wacky, weird, and wonderful!

Be honest. Don't you think the color purple is one which makes you sit up and really know you're alive? I recently wore a luminously vivid silk purple shirt to school, and a student commented cheerfully and with obvious approval, "I think that's the brightest shade of purple I've ever seen!" This particular student had worn a purple shirt himself on a dress-up "away game" day, and so I instantly recognized him to be "friend"and not "foe."

Wacky, weird, and wonderful. Yes, that about sums up Michael. On a day which is singed and not burnt by autism's flame, I can look all feats and failures squarely head-on, and know that my son is purple, and that it's OK to be purple. Insert thought: I must go find and re-read the book, Harold and the Purple Crayon to see if there is a special message just for me in its classic pages...

Michael is purple. Michael does purple things. I see screaming shades of purple when he does them. I feel uncontrollably purple when he does them. I become overwhelmed with purple angst when I live them. And I see purple, all shades, in others more clearly. I do not scorn the woman whose child is screaming his head off in the grocery store. I don't join in with unfeeling and chiding conversation about critiqued parents who "need to get hold of their child" or "set some limits!" After all, there is the chance that these children - are purple, too.

There are different streams of thought within the autism community, and anyone who purports to know about or care for such individuals must certainly know of the dichotomy. Of course as in all things there are varying degrees of opinions, as numerous as the talk-show hosts and guests who placate audiences with tireless discussions of all sides. But as one who lives and breathes with autism, I see two sides to this inequality, where A is not equal to B, and B is not equal to A. I perhaps belong to a third group, somewhere in the middle and struggling to see if the most lucid path veers to the left or right.

One group of people seems bent on healing, fixing, supplementing, bypassing, denying, justifying, excusing, correcting, fleeing, or ignoring autism. They are all really the same in their intent: Autism is not normal. And so we must fix it - or give up. There are nutritional deficiencies and metabolic imbalances which must be corrected. There is brain chemistry which must be optimized. There is toxic overload which must be purged and cleansed from the hypersensitive immunology of the child. There is sensory touch which is lacking due to autistic aversions to tactile stimuli. There are social skills fully undeveloped, and in need of one-on-one prompting. And there is behavior - lots of it - which must be managed through repetetive and structured training. This has been just a minute portion of the exhausting ritual we've endured in the past 16 years.

With this first group, there are the ever-increasing "miracles" one always hears about. One therapy "cures" autism, another allows a child to speak for the first time, and a third treatment spurs books to be written, and lectures given, all in an effort to arrive at a color less "weird" than purple. Articles are clipped, website links forwarded, and talk shows recorded and perused for "answers." Support groups are formed, guest speakers are commodities to be had, and conferences abound, world-wide. Doctors come alongside, modulating their preconceptions, and implementing constantly new treatments and tests. And all are trying to fix the dreaded autism before it is too late and has ravaged the world, one parent at a time.

The second group is one to which I give the highest praise and affirmation, and yet as an outsider to it, cannot fully understand. This is the growing network of high-functioning, expressive, insightful adults who have either at one time, or currently, been labeled "autistic." I came across members from this group somewhat by accident a few years ago, as I entered a chat in which the merits of certain treatments and autism therapies were being debated.

I vividly remember being referred from that page to a beautifully written website, whose pages I was not yet ready to unveil in my own heart, and whose truths pierced me such that I could not read them for very long. It was written by a mature and sensitive autistic adult, and gave a glimpse into his daily struggle for acceptance in a loveless and critical world. As I found it both stimulating and intimidating, I also found it depressing, imagining such a life continuing on, and on - for my son. I never did bookmark that website, and took the easier path of never searching for it again.

In its pages the voice of one who could just as easily be that of my very own son, should he ever be able to fully communicate his thoughts, drew shades of purple which I had never before witnessed. They told of a world I couldn't fully see or relate to, and of the reasons behind the autistic - and, in his mind, necessary - behaviors which I could merely experience as unwelcome, and base. And in these musings, written by a scholarly and insightful autistic writer, there was anger and bewilderment at the relentless quest of others outside of their community - to "fix" or "heal" autism. He was intent on espousing the relative normalcy of his "illness" - preferring to think of it not as an illness, at all. He argued simply that his behavior, wants, needs, and oddities were "his" normal. And with that, he had gracefully learned to cope.

Those who responded on this message board concurred with its host, eloquently asserting that their value as human beings was masterful and complete as they were now, with no need of change or repair. They were all offended by the world at large, being a group misunderstood, and undervalued, every step of the way as they had matured and successfully entered the communities in which they lived. Most held jobs, many had advanced degrees, all - were purple, and discussed it openly. Why wouldn't the world just let them be that wonderful creation?

So where is my position in light of these two competing attitudes? Of course I would want to hope if I could choose complete "healing" or recovery. Of course I would want to believe, because in the absence of believing there is doubt and fear. And each new "thing" that comes around the block is fodder for despair, as none of them are "our miracle" - but rather that of someone else's child. Each time we stand up, and lift our heads high with victorious expectation, we are humbled again by the stark reality of sameness, and of tireless continuance.

And so I am left as if by default with a third responsive choice, and that is the quickly deadening hope which engulfs and causes me to shiver. It has indelibly left its stain in my psyche, and I feel that I am changed forever, never to emerge fully victorious, fully free. Yet we stand because we must, or we have at very least developed the habit of standing. It may seem a stalwart demeanor to some, a reticence to move forward or to seek healing of heart at least in my own life, but the very act of standing firm has caused the blood of living hope to pool in my awkward and uncertain limbs, and I am somehow made fragile through the process.

What should be my apt response? Destroy, fix, or ignore what is purple? Or as the second group testifies, should we instead accept and live with autism without trying to change it - simply wondering why everyone else is seeing us as so purple? Or, as a reaction to which I seem to have fallen prey, do we allow the purple to fade, as a much-worn garment whose lustre and life yearn to be reborn, and yet are cast aside as to a second-hand clothes shop? When you put it that way, the choice seems ridiculous. Acceptance is the pride and splendor of the second group, the autistic individuals themselves. And if they accept their purple plight, why shouldn't we?

I lament that I cannot seem to grasp that idyllic perspective. It is just outside of my clumsy reach. I find instead that the fading garment is daily tossed aside, and then reclaimed with dignity and hesitant anticipation when I look into the heart of God, with a deeper love. Can I dare to hope that I may edge closer to a truly Divine love for my son? I believe that I have found a life journey and calling in acquiring such a depth of acceptance, and it is one for which there will be no human or material approbation or reward. But I am filled with hope.

Purple! Wow. Weird.

Wonderful.

Painting with purpose,

Elise