Life lessons well-learned (while running long distance)

My eighth grader is thrilled. I can see it shining in his eyes from 50 yards as he rounds the bend toward the finish line.

I see he has 15 seconds to meet his goal time this week from the digital time-keeper at the finish line and can't help jumping up and down. "GO NIC! RUN IT IN!"

He's grinning, he's gasping, but he digs in deep and sprints for the finish line--and makes it over just one second shy of his goal for this week.  He falls into my arms gasping, grinning and immensely pleased with himself.

After all, he just ran 4K on one of the toughest cross country courses in the country. He know this, and this pleases him, also.

He will not win any speed records, mind you. He stands to come in last for every race. "And doesn't that bother him?" people whisper to me. "Doesn't that bother you?"

No. And no.

Because for us, it was never about winning. For us, it's about finding out what we can do,

And Nic is tickled pink about being able to run a 4K. And he's motivated to run it faster every week.

When he toed the starting line last week, he admitted to being nervous. "I don't know if I can do this," he said in a moment of candor. Despite that, when the starter pistol went off, so did he with the rest of runners.

And he ran it in his first race, too, his eyes bright with pride. Because he proved to himself that he could finish. And every week, he will compete against himself and challenge himself to do better than he did the week before.

Isn't that what life is all about?  Constantly improving our personal best?

It's never about us versus anyone else--but I think we forget that in the bustle of living.

Down Another Rabbit Hole

I had another meeting last night; I need to learn how to say no. It matters not how I got there, only that I'm there, waiting for the meeting to start.  As I stand in line for dinner, I see some familiar faces and exchange pleasantries and small talk.

I remark on the heat, and one mom says “I know and tomorrow will be hotter, I feel bad for my son running cross country…..”

This gives me pause. I am coaching a team, a team that consists only of my two kids. Then I freeze, realizing that she’s talking about another school’s team. I  blurt out “Really? We have a cross country team here at (our parish).”

“Well, you have to start somewhere!” she said breezily, and moved on.  Leaving me to wonder, start where?  What’s she talking about? I have a team, but my team isn’t good enough for her?  In any case, it feels like a slap in the face. And gets me to wondering, what else have I kept other people from engaging in, simply because my name is attached? Should I quit?  Drop out of teaching because people don’t want me teaching their kids? Drop out of other things because I don’t know what I’m doing?

It’s a rabbit hole, and I’m deep into it quickly.

She’s sitting at the table and trying to catch my eye. I’m looking past her  because I am trying not to cry. The demons don’t waste time when you’re down. I stare into my lap, and will myself to sit tight. The door is behind me, and escape would be easy……

Too easy.   In turn, hurt, anger, wounded pride have their way with me. And I sit. Face cast down. Knowing everything can be seen and willing myself to be still.

In the end, she makes eye contact and beams at me. I have no idea what it—or she—means by it.

So my meditation for the day is :

 How will anyone know that You are pleased with me and with Your people unless You go with us? What else will distinguish me and Your people from all the other people on the face of the earth? (Exodus 33:16)

I need to pray on this question. And listen well for the answer.

In the moment

In two weeks, we'll be readying for the start of school. Actually, the kids are doing their reading and math packets now, so you can argue that readiness is an ongoing process. We're cleaning out, assessing what supplies we need to get, seeing what we have ready to go.

The materials portion of readiness is always the easy part. It's the intangibles--the soft skills, the social stuff--that always gives me pause.

My older son is psyched and ready for 8th grade. His summer program with the township finished, and he liked it so much he told me he'd rather do that than ESY next year. He had more get-togethers and sleep overs with friends this summer than he's ever had up until now.  One can argue that it hasn't been much; on the other hand, it's been nonexistent til this year.  Progress has been made.

My younger guy, as closed and internal as ever, remains my mystery.  He's had an easier time in his programming, but his social interactions come bundled with big brother's. and why not--everything they do comes bundled, because they are de facto best friends. Hubby worries that their childhoods suffer for their lack of friends; I argue they at the very least have each other. And us.

So, they don't go and hang out at other people's houses. I can't worry about that anymore. We do as much as we can, continue to create as many opportunities as we can for them, and outside of that, we can't make anyone like either of them.

We'll keep on doing what we can. Looking ahead, Big guy makes communion and confirmation together this fall; little man moves into Webelos scouts and starts trombone lessons. We'll see how these things go.

All we can do is keep moving forward. We've come so far, yet have so far to go.

The Least of my Brothers (and Sisters)

It all starts and stops here.

Whether or not exactly true,  details matter not. The crux of this story is how people who call themselves Christians treat the very ones that Christ himself had no problem hanging and breaking bread with.

For me, this is personal.

I've been thinking lately of a family; the older son I taught in Sunday school a number of years ago. His mom, I was told at the time, had volunteered to teach, but was turned away because a number of families threatened to withdraw from the religious program if she did.

I remember thinking at the time how appalling it was that some one willing and able to volunteer to teach (especially given the dearth of volunteers and none of these people threatening were willing to step into the gap) would be turned down because of her differences. I won't lie; she marches to a different drummer. So do I, so I can certainly appreciate what that looks like.

I didn't say anything, though; I just nodded, the conversation continued, and that was the end of it.

But the family was always kind of there on my radar, since ours is a small community. And I watched the kids grow up at a distance.  I was told at the end of that year teaching that my student had an IEP. I hadn't realized it until it was pointed out to me.  I had treated him as I treated all the rest of my students, and he did a great job of learning what he needed to learn.

I saw him again about a month ago at a community function while I was manning a food stand. He approached me, and I remember, inwardly, my jaw dropping. Food on his face, ketchup smeared on his shirt, he asked me for something. I smiled at him, answered, gave it to him. And inwardly I wondered what happened to the small, bright-eyed boy who had been my student years ago.

And of course I couldn't help comparing him to my older boy, who is nearly the same age.

Which leads me to wonder what happened in the intervening years, and led me to appreciate how my family looks, and how we are treated in the same context.

After all, it wasn't lost on me that some people opted for their child to skip PREP K when they found out I taught it. I never really cared, frankly. My students always had a good time.

But, getting back to my original thought. I've spent a lot of time thinking and praying on the least of my brothers and sisters, and what I can do to help.

The answer is always "Look in the mirror."

Before you change the world, you need to change your heart.

Forget Christian. Be Christ-like.

That's what He wants.

For the least of your brothers.

On the Verge of Summer

So as I dropped the kids off at summer holiday camp this am, I was amazed at how 'normal' we look.  Mom, dropping off kids for the day, heads off to work.

Normal.

Or, at any rate, just like anyone else. And by hubby's reckoning, we are as crazed as everyone else, and something needs to give.

It's been an eventful year. Nic wrestled, played basketball, ran track (not very well or cooperatively, but there's always next year) and Gabriel played piano and violin and sold more popcorn than any other scout in his den.  And we've gotten both of them extra help in the form of social skills groups and even found friends for them both to hang out with.

But the ends are fraying. It's been a tough but triumphant year. And we are all ready to hit re-set.

I'm struggling with what's next. I gave a keynote speech at a luncheon last month, and the president of the school asked me "so what's next for you? You should be lobbying in DC." I sent him a follow up email inquiring what that looked like and have yet to get an answer. Sweet talker.

I don't know. For the first time in a long time, I can't see what's next, only what's now. And what's now is that I need a break, to unwire, to disconnect for a little while to see what I really want.

But as near as I can tell, what I want is what I have. It's crazy, it's busy, it's maddening, but it's all mine.

I just want some quiet to hear myself think. I wonder what I have to say.

Blink. Breathe.

Yesterday, I returned as the keynote speaker for the annual supervisor appreciation luncheon at a local school. Last year, I was called in as a last-minute replacement. This year, first string.

The organizer tasked me with Social Skills as my topic.

Social skills?  This called to mind an image of a rough hewn box made up of hammered together, sawed down 2 x 4s.  I could even see a streak of red in one of the walls--an imperfection.  And it was completely nailed shut, really no more useful than a yoga block.

I have no idea why this is the visual that came to mind, at least at first. Over the ensuing month, as the day approached, I understood that the nailed-shut box represented what I thought was social skills--the half-hour blocks of time both my boys get a few times a week. Once I understood that, I knew it was time to break open the box.

Social skills, it's often joked, need to be taught to everyone. And that's where I went with my talk. My call to action was to be kinder, gentler to one another, to pay attention to what we sound like when we speak to other people; to speak as we wish to be spoken to.

I recounted my younger son's bullying episode last Friday; it was he against four. He quietly told them to stop, and quietly sought help when they didn't.

And the adults acted swiftly.

And my little man admonished that "Sorry is not good enough!' And he is right--in our moment of pain, we don't want to hear it.

But, it's the beginning of healing. And he graciously accepted the apologies when he was ready.

We are here but a short time. We can take an extra moment for a smile and a kind word.

Because sometimes, there's no time for anything else.

Where are you going? Where have you been?

In all that's happened to us in the last two months, it's necessary for me to take stock of all the wins and losses if I am going to figure out this ongoing maze of raising kids with autism.

It's a testimony to my faith that I've been able to see the wins and victories in the spaces between the heartbreak and losses. Hubby has been the level-headed one lately, and thank God one of us has his head on straight. I've been so busy tailspinning that it's been hard for me to do much between crying and trying not to cry.

Last weekend was as bad as it's been in about 7 years. My immediate response to depression is to completely shut down; last week, with all my responsibilities, that was an impossibility. And that in it of itself was a blessing;  I

•   ran track practice and got to see, once again, the glory and wonder that is my team
•   spent an evening under the stars around a campfire among the best parents I know
•   spent a large part of a fishing afternoon with my den helping the boys with their tackle
•   was tapped by a dad whose boy was in tears 'to lend a mom's touch.' He dried his eyes--and made an awesome fire with my help
• received great feedback for Nic from his group facilitator and last, but far from least
• Nic received a 6th place ribbon for shot put--with no training. We might have found something for him. 

But I can't look at these things without acknowledging

• that his posse never came to pass. I was reminded of that this past week when Nic said he ran into a friend of his. (I use that term loosely) The friend was meeting another friend. And Nic was there alone.
• that he and his brother still don't know how to sustain peer interaction. At all.
• that some of the things I pushed Nic to do failed miserably and will have lasting consequences.
  
  I was up again in the middle of the night pondering my younger son's scout outing last night.  This picture is a pretty frank assessment of his opinion.

And asking the question: do I push too hard?

There's no simple answer. There's no all or nothing. Everything has to be tempered with moderation.  Their conversational tacks, really, are no different than mine at their ages. I consumed books with the same fire and avidity that they consume stories--books, YouTube, videos--and feel the same need to share blow-by-blow details to anyone who will listen. Peers don't. Adults feel sorry for them. I'm doing all I can do outside of school with psych, social skills groups, whatever I can think of to help them out here. I sometimes think the schools can be doing more to help me out here. I've despaired on that score; budget cuts make it a virtual impossibility. 

So hubby and I are exploring other options. And with so much of our lives up in the air, I'm planning in so far as I can plan. But I find myself more and more seeking divine guidance,  because I am finding that the more I seek, the more I am answered. And I don't always like the answer, but I am certain that the answers are what they are for a much larger reason than I can understand in the moment.

The gift of age: understanding that every piece of your life, the good, the bad, the ugly, happens for a very specific reason, for a very specific lesson.

"And I never lost one minute of sleeping 
Worrying 'bout the way things might have been ......"