When I told people what one of my jobs was, the reactions usually included the following responses.
"Wow. You're a Saint."
"Wow. That sounds hard."
"Wow. I could never do that."
"Wow. You should get paid more for that."
But I can't imagine NOT being a Behavior Therapist, working with kiddos who have Autism. Yes, it was hard. But the lessons I learned were invaluable. I learned more from my kids than I ever taught them.
I walked through a lot of life with those kids in two years. We had conversations about bullying, marriage, divorce, new siblings, and the unfairness of life.
There is something beautiful about children who have no filters. At all. Most of my clients would regularly speak their mind. And I loved it.
One of the last conversations I had with one of my clients before I left my position at the autism center was about how he wanted to create a place where kids could train dragons and fly on them as a part of their therapy (think How to Train Your Dragon). And I desperately wanted to help him make those dreams a reality. Maybe in heaven someday. I desperately tried in all these conversations about things that this world says are impossible to encourage the dreamer within. Life is hard enough for these kids. Who am I to tell them that their dreams can't be a reality?
Nothing was impossible to them. The world was open to anything. But it was also fraught with frustration.
Never have I met people in my life more committed to persevering through hard days. And for those kids, every day is a hard day.
There were many times where my clients and I would have much rather taken naps on big fluffy pillows or in our ball pit than worked for the millionth time to conquer the great task of using a fork, or correctly saying vocabulary words. But we never gave up.
Every day is a fight for children with autism. A fight to exist in a world that feels very harsh to them, a world that they do not fit in to or understand. Normal tasks seem impossible, and harsh looks to tantrums and protests in the grocery store are reminders that people judge before they understand.
One day my clients would tell me they thought I was pretty and that I was awesome. And the next day they would cuss me out. I had to learn how to forgive and forget. Every. Single. Day.
I learned to put up and take down a shield of protection in a matter of seconds. I learned how to encourage, and how to confront.
I learned how to live my life better because of these kids. And now I understand a whole different world.
People with special needs, and those who support them are heroes. Nobody talks about it enough, but literally every day is a battle from sun up to sun down to exist in a world that feels extremely harsh and unfair.
I learned about a mission field I didn't even know existed. Do you dare to enter it? Do you dare to enter a world of punches, kicks, bites, scratches and screams mixed with the best hugs you'll ever receive, amazing acts of kindness and loyalty, and moments of immense triumph to love someone who is fighting a disorder that they didn't ask for and certainly don't want, but one that can run their life?
Do you dare to seek to see the soul within the next screaming child you hear in the grocery store, and hope for that child and their parents that the real child underneath thrives above their disease?
These children are not autistic. I refuse to label them as such. They were born into this world with a disease that they battle every day, but it does not define who the ARE.
They are fighters. And the world would be a better place if we could learn to fight half as hard as they do every single day.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Grief Felt So Like......
"No one ever told me grief felt so like fear." ~C.S. Lewis
I love this quote by Lewis. But I've discovered since then what no one told me. If I could change this quote, I would have it say "No one ever told me grief felt so lonely."
And no one ever did. Grief is lonely.
Because everyone grieves differently, grief is lonely.
I feel like I've been in a sort of war that no one else has heard of or been in. And no one knows I've been in it. But the impact of it, the wounds, scars, and hurt....it's all still there.
How do I interact with people? I feel like everything has changed. My heart is not what it was. And I don't know how to engage it in my relationships with people.
Lewis, I understand what you felt. Grief does feel like fear. And loneliness.
I love this quote by Lewis. But I've discovered since then what no one told me. If I could change this quote, I would have it say "No one ever told me grief felt so lonely."
And no one ever did. Grief is lonely.
Because everyone grieves differently, grief is lonely.
I feel like I've been in a sort of war that no one else has heard of or been in. And no one knows I've been in it. But the impact of it, the wounds, scars, and hurt....it's all still there.
How do I interact with people? I feel like everything has changed. My heart is not what it was. And I don't know how to engage it in my relationships with people.
Lewis, I understand what you felt. Grief does feel like fear. And loneliness.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Running From the Dark: Miss Potter and Loss
There's a scene in the movie, Miss Potter about the life of Beatrix Potter, during a grieving process she travels through, and I think it's my favorite.
To process her loss, she shuts herself in her room and paints and paints until the floor and her desk are covered with drawings. And as she finishes a drawing she seems happy with, something dark begins swimming in the water. As she flips through the other pictures, that dark object continues to chase her characters away.
Someone in my life asked innocently why in the world the characters were running away from something, and what they were running away from. "From the darkness of her grief. It scared them, so they ran," I said. And I dare say I would know.
In the grief and loss books I've buried myself in over the past few months, something has surface that has scared me. Sometimes, grief drives people away. I often feel like Beatrix Potter, with something dark in my heart and eyes that makes people run away from me. Run away from my heartache. From my tears. From my grief. It scares people. It's not a fun or easy thing to walk through with someone. In fact, it's quite difficult and terrifying. It's unknown. Grief and Loss are not math equations that are predictable or follow a set pattern or rules every time. They are dark and stormy seas. And in these seas swim dark and terrible creatures; and they all have names. Sadness. Depression. Anxiety. Hurt. Anger. It's impossible at times to see to the other side, and you don't know when these creatures will come up and bite you.
But one thing can be known: it is much easier to cross this stormy sea with friends alongside. No matter how long the journey may take.
To process her loss, she shuts herself in her room and paints and paints until the floor and her desk are covered with drawings. And as she finishes a drawing she seems happy with, something dark begins swimming in the water. As she flips through the other pictures, that dark object continues to chase her characters away.
Someone in my life asked innocently why in the world the characters were running away from something, and what they were running away from. "From the darkness of her grief. It scared them, so they ran," I said. And I dare say I would know.
In the grief and loss books I've buried myself in over the past few months, something has surface that has scared me. Sometimes, grief drives people away. I often feel like Beatrix Potter, with something dark in my heart and eyes that makes people run away from me. Run away from my heartache. From my tears. From my grief. It scares people. It's not a fun or easy thing to walk through with someone. In fact, it's quite difficult and terrifying. It's unknown. Grief and Loss are not math equations that are predictable or follow a set pattern or rules every time. They are dark and stormy seas. And in these seas swim dark and terrible creatures; and they all have names. Sadness. Depression. Anxiety. Hurt. Anger. It's impossible at times to see to the other side, and you don't know when these creatures will come up and bite you.
But one thing can be known: it is much easier to cross this stormy sea with friends alongside. No matter how long the journey may take.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Those You Are Closest To Can Hurt You The Most
It hurts my heart that I will never be able to share with some people close to me about the most important things in my life, because we see life differently.
There is such beauty in relationships that span generations, but oh, there can be so much hurt too. One person sees their way as right, and so does the other. But really, what's important is that both of those ways are right for those two people in their own way.
The last year has been hell for me. There have been bright spots, but they are so hard to see amidst the darkness. Sometimes I forget they were there at all. I am so thankful for those who have stuck by me when I couldn't see any light, but supported me in my brokenness and in my reality. You saved me.
And there were those who weren't able to support me and in fact criticized me for my new way of looking at life through a glass, darkly. To them, it was better that I put on a happy face instead of persisting in wading through the pain.
I think the most important thing I have learned in the past year is that wading through your pain, no matter how dark it may be and no matter how long, and sharing it with your community, is so much better than holding it all in, letting it build up in bitterness year after year, eating away at your heart.
So thank you to those who shouldered my burdens with me, and trudged through the muck and the mire, no matter how deep it was or for how long it continued. To those who cried with me, who listened to me sob, who prayed for me, and who persisted to pursue me when I wasn't much of a friend. I am so thankful for you.
And to those with whom my relationships are broken: I pray for you. I pray that someday, we will be able to talk again and accept our ways of looking at life, and that neither of them is "right" but that they are right for each of us.
There is such beauty in relationships that span generations, but oh, there can be so much hurt too. One person sees their way as right, and so does the other. But really, what's important is that both of those ways are right for those two people in their own way.
The last year has been hell for me. There have been bright spots, but they are so hard to see amidst the darkness. Sometimes I forget they were there at all. I am so thankful for those who have stuck by me when I couldn't see any light, but supported me in my brokenness and in my reality. You saved me.
And there were those who weren't able to support me and in fact criticized me for my new way of looking at life through a glass, darkly. To them, it was better that I put on a happy face instead of persisting in wading through the pain.
I think the most important thing I have learned in the past year is that wading through your pain, no matter how dark it may be and no matter how long, and sharing it with your community, is so much better than holding it all in, letting it build up in bitterness year after year, eating away at your heart.
So thank you to those who shouldered my burdens with me, and trudged through the muck and the mire, no matter how deep it was or for how long it continued. To those who cried with me, who listened to me sob, who prayed for me, and who persisted to pursue me when I wasn't much of a friend. I am so thankful for you.
And to those with whom my relationships are broken: I pray for you. I pray that someday, we will be able to talk again and accept our ways of looking at life, and that neither of them is "right" but that they are right for each of us.
Friday, December 5, 2014
When Life Has Cut Too Deep
When life has cut too deep and left you hurting
And the future you had hoped for is now burning
And the dreams you held so tight lost their meaning
And you don't know if you'll ever find the healing
~Britt Nicole, The Sun is Rising
It has. Life has cut too deep and left me hurting, and the future I had planned went up in flames. All the good God-given longings have been left unfulfilled, and as a result, I find myself fighting every moment of every day to find some part of me, no matter how small, that still believes that God delights in giving me good gifts.
You know how you tend to remember the bad things easier and more than the bad? I find myself looking at the past four years of my life and seeing darkness. Although I know there were parts that were filled with good times and lots of light, I have a hard time focusing on them and even remembering what they were.
Even when you're drowning in your doubt
Drowning in my doubt. I couldn't have said it better. I struggle, oh how I struggle, to see through the doubt. I feel like I'm drowning under a wave of darkness, trying desperately to grab hold of something good and tangible. Something real that I can cling to. But every day is an exhausting fight against the tide and the waves. And it feels like they're winning. My arms hurt from treading water. I've tried to let Jesus carry me. But every time I do, I feel like my lungs fill with the saltwater of my own tears. Would he let me drown?
Dreams they come
Plans they change
Yeah, we're gonna break....
Let's go back to the summer, summer when
We dreamed in love, let's go back again
Let's go back again, yeah back again my friend
To the summer when....
Yes, let's go back. I'd go back in a heartbeat. To the days of being a child in the summer, when my biggest worries included being bored, my popsicles falling off their sticks into the sand, and being ignored by the cute lifeguard. I was ignorant. And then my eyes were opened to the suffering all around me. And my heart was set on fire for the lost, the lonely, the defenseless and the weak.
You were young, you were free
And you dared to believe you could be the girl
Who could change the world
Then your life took a turn
And you fell and it hurt
And then I went to go and train myself in what seemed the best way at the time. But it didn't live up to my expectations. And it was hard. And God stripped away the very thing he had given me: a passion for the oppressed. Because it had become an idol. And I had ignored the sound of his voice. I fell, and it hurt. Every day feels like a struggle to stand up. And just when I think I've stood up far enough out of the dirt to let the scars and scabs heal, I fall again, and my wounds are rubbed with dirt and salt.. And they never heal. I've spent a year trying to stand up. And every time I look around for Jesus to pick me up, it seems he's walked away and given up. I clean my wounds daily with my salty tears, hoping the sting of the salt will bring me back to the present. So that I can feel again. But it doesn't.
I feel like Eustace from the Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis. Four years ago I became an ugly, greedy dragon. And God's been at work ever since, tearing off the scales. It's the process of sanctification. But it hurts. And the scars never have enough of a chance to heal before another one is ripped off. Sometimes I wish he'd never started ripping off the scales. Because then I could have what I want, have my old friends and significant other back. Sometimes I wish I was still living with all the scales on.
And the future you had hoped for is now burning
And the dreams you held so tight lost their meaning
And you don't know if you'll ever find the healing
~Britt Nicole, The Sun is Rising
It has. Life has cut too deep and left me hurting, and the future I had planned went up in flames. All the good God-given longings have been left unfulfilled, and as a result, I find myself fighting every moment of every day to find some part of me, no matter how small, that still believes that God delights in giving me good gifts.
You know how you tend to remember the bad things easier and more than the bad? I find myself looking at the past four years of my life and seeing darkness. Although I know there were parts that were filled with good times and lots of light, I have a hard time focusing on them and even remembering what they were.
Even when you're drowning in your doubt
Drowning in my doubt. I couldn't have said it better. I struggle, oh how I struggle, to see through the doubt. I feel like I'm drowning under a wave of darkness, trying desperately to grab hold of something good and tangible. Something real that I can cling to. But every day is an exhausting fight against the tide and the waves. And it feels like they're winning. My arms hurt from treading water. I've tried to let Jesus carry me. But every time I do, I feel like my lungs fill with the saltwater of my own tears. Would he let me drown?
Dreams they come
Plans they change
Yeah, we're gonna break....
Let's go back to the summer, summer when
We dreamed in love, let's go back again
Let's go back again, yeah back again my friend
To the summer when....
Yes, let's go back. I'd go back in a heartbeat. To the days of being a child in the summer, when my biggest worries included being bored, my popsicles falling off their sticks into the sand, and being ignored by the cute lifeguard. I was ignorant. And then my eyes were opened to the suffering all around me. And my heart was set on fire for the lost, the lonely, the defenseless and the weak.
You were young, you were free
And you dared to believe you could be the girl
Who could change the world
Then your life took a turn
And you fell and it hurt
And then I went to go and train myself in what seemed the best way at the time. But it didn't live up to my expectations. And it was hard. And God stripped away the very thing he had given me: a passion for the oppressed. Because it had become an idol. And I had ignored the sound of his voice. I fell, and it hurt. Every day feels like a struggle to stand up. And just when I think I've stood up far enough out of the dirt to let the scars and scabs heal, I fall again, and my wounds are rubbed with dirt and salt.. And they never heal. I've spent a year trying to stand up. And every time I look around for Jesus to pick me up, it seems he's walked away and given up. I clean my wounds daily with my salty tears, hoping the sting of the salt will bring me back to the present. So that I can feel again. But it doesn't.
I feel like Eustace from the Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis. Four years ago I became an ugly, greedy dragon. And God's been at work ever since, tearing off the scales. It's the process of sanctification. But it hurts. And the scars never have enough of a chance to heal before another one is ripped off. Sometimes I wish he'd never started ripping off the scales. Because then I could have what I want, have my old friends and significant other back. Sometimes I wish I was still living with all the scales on.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Freedom From a Schedule
I help teach the two and three year olds at my church. Every Sunday is always a crazy adventure with lots of laughter, tears, runny noses, separation anxiety.....and joy.
But yesterday, God brought something to my attention. In the midst of the runny noses, the tears, the hurting hearts, and the general craziness, we never really got to the lesson plan. Oops. The type A, oldest child part of me was freaking out and determined that we could make it fit into the schedule. One of the other teachers gently reminded me what time it was, and that we should just sing some songs instead. "Songs?" I was thinking. "These kids need to hear the actual lesson!" But then God nudged my heart, reminding me that showing his love to hurting, nervous, anxious kids is the best lesson in and of itself." Ouch. That was convicting. So instead of leaving church feeling frustrated by the "chaos" of the day. I left with a full heart, grateful that God had reminded me, as he always does, that His way and His plan are always better. And that a 1 Corinthians 13 kind of love is always the most important and best thing. If I am so committed to the lesson plan, but forget about God's love and forget to leave room for His work, then it is all for nothing. I must leave room and time for Him to be at work.
But yesterday, God brought something to my attention. In the midst of the runny noses, the tears, the hurting hearts, and the general craziness, we never really got to the lesson plan. Oops. The type A, oldest child part of me was freaking out and determined that we could make it fit into the schedule. One of the other teachers gently reminded me what time it was, and that we should just sing some songs instead. "Songs?" I was thinking. "These kids need to hear the actual lesson!" But then God nudged my heart, reminding me that showing his love to hurting, nervous, anxious kids is the best lesson in and of itself." Ouch. That was convicting. So instead of leaving church feeling frustrated by the "chaos" of the day. I left with a full heart, grateful that God had reminded me, as he always does, that His way and His plan are always better. And that a 1 Corinthians 13 kind of love is always the most important and best thing. If I am so committed to the lesson plan, but forget about God's love and forget to leave room for His work, then it is all for nothing. I must leave room and time for Him to be at work.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Suffering
It's been almost three weeks since I returned from my trip to Costa Rica and San Blas. I can't believe it. Some days I almost forget, and then other days I'm so homesick for Latin America and my Never The Same family that it hurts.
The transition back to white, middle class, American life has been rough. I feel like a misfit. I always come back from these trips truly Never The Same. But how do I apply that to my everyday life and explain that to the people in my life?
I held a missions night in my parent's home this week for all my supporters who faithfully prayed for me and encouraged me. It was so much fun to show them what I had done on my trip, and share the many amazing stories of how God was at work. At one point, I asked if anyone had any questions, and one of my friends had one that hit my heart hard. She said, "How do you deal with all the suffering you saw?" It's a great question. Especially since it's one I'm wrestling with in my day to day life in my new job working with kids with Autism. I said, "I don't really know. It's so hard. I've spent a lot of time crying." And it's true. Although I know God is a good God who loves His children and those who don't know Him as well, and even though I know we live in a fallen world filled with sin and suffering, at least for now, I find myself daily asking God why He would allow suffering. Especially the suffering of children. It breaks my heart.
And, as if that weren't enough suffering to contemplate and wrestle with already, I found myself face-to-face with more suffering. In my own house. After a horrible Monday filled with anxiety about my schedule for work and school in the fall, lots of uncertainty, working my first shift with the most challenging kid at work, missing half of Bible study because of my work schedule, and trying to move files on my computer over to an external hard drive with no luck, my Mom came upstairs to tell me one of our guinea pigs was partially paralyzed in his back legs. I lost it. More suffering, God? Really? As if what I saw in Costa Rica and San Blas was not enough? In my very own house? I cried as I watched my guinea pig walk, dragging his back legs along the ground, struggling to keep his face from dragging. And I thought of a little boy I saw in Costa Rica who probably has polio or some other bone disease, giving him bowed legs, that will probably someday render him unable to walk, because he will most likely not receive the medical care he needs. My heart broke. And I'm still dealing with it, four days later. I want to go back to Costa Rica and fix all the hurt I saw, helping those who have nothing. But I can't right now. I would leave everything and go. But school is calling, training is calling. I do not want to go unequipped. I want to get my master's degree in counseling, so I can help the hurting in other countries with the experience God will give me. And I know I will be able to help more if I wait. But the waiting is so hard. It helps immeasurably to be able to go back to Latin America every so often, so I can be reminded of what I'm working towards. But in the meantime, I wait. With an anxious and broken heart, waiting for God to bring healing and joy in the midst of suffering.
The transition back to white, middle class, American life has been rough. I feel like a misfit. I always come back from these trips truly Never The Same. But how do I apply that to my everyday life and explain that to the people in my life?
I held a missions night in my parent's home this week for all my supporters who faithfully prayed for me and encouraged me. It was so much fun to show them what I had done on my trip, and share the many amazing stories of how God was at work. At one point, I asked if anyone had any questions, and one of my friends had one that hit my heart hard. She said, "How do you deal with all the suffering you saw?" It's a great question. Especially since it's one I'm wrestling with in my day to day life in my new job working with kids with Autism. I said, "I don't really know. It's so hard. I've spent a lot of time crying." And it's true. Although I know God is a good God who loves His children and those who don't know Him as well, and even though I know we live in a fallen world filled with sin and suffering, at least for now, I find myself daily asking God why He would allow suffering. Especially the suffering of children. It breaks my heart.
And, as if that weren't enough suffering to contemplate and wrestle with already, I found myself face-to-face with more suffering. In my own house. After a horrible Monday filled with anxiety about my schedule for work and school in the fall, lots of uncertainty, working my first shift with the most challenging kid at work, missing half of Bible study because of my work schedule, and trying to move files on my computer over to an external hard drive with no luck, my Mom came upstairs to tell me one of our guinea pigs was partially paralyzed in his back legs. I lost it. More suffering, God? Really? As if what I saw in Costa Rica and San Blas was not enough? In my very own house? I cried as I watched my guinea pig walk, dragging his back legs along the ground, struggling to keep his face from dragging. And I thought of a little boy I saw in Costa Rica who probably has polio or some other bone disease, giving him bowed legs, that will probably someday render him unable to walk, because he will most likely not receive the medical care he needs. My heart broke. And I'm still dealing with it, four days later. I want to go back to Costa Rica and fix all the hurt I saw, helping those who have nothing. But I can't right now. I would leave everything and go. But school is calling, training is calling. I do not want to go unequipped. I want to get my master's degree in counseling, so I can help the hurting in other countries with the experience God will give me. And I know I will be able to help more if I wait. But the waiting is so hard. It helps immeasurably to be able to go back to Latin America every so often, so I can be reminded of what I'm working towards. But in the meantime, I wait. With an anxious and broken heart, waiting for God to bring healing and joy in the midst of suffering.
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