Like A Sojourner

3 He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power. After making purification for sins, he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high,  Hebrews 1:3

The morning after our nine month old barely escaped stitches from a fall on my watch, I clung to the covers gripped between guilt and fear. It was all I could do to stay in bed and replay my worries like a bad vacation slide on repeat. Guilt, because like I said, he was under my care when he fell. A million doubts and comparisons filled my mind. Do I give my kids too much freedom? Would this have happened to So&So who is much more cautious than me? Fear, because I taught myself to memorize the creeping doom of the realization that what seemed like nothing, was actually something serious. When our firstborn, Lyric, was three weeks old he had unexpected surgery to correct a condition called Pyloric Stenosis. A surgery that he probably needed earlier than he got, all because I kept insisting that he wasn't spitting up as much as it seemed like. I was so determined not to be the mom who freaks out, so determined to keep my composure. Granted, he still got the treatment he needed and he was totally fine. But any time one of my kids is sick or hurt, I’ve never escaped that little voice in the back of my mind that whispers "But remember that one time?" 

Under the sheets that morning I begged like a sojourner at a stranger’s door. I pleaded for Him to shelter me and protect me from my fear. Like a blizzard blowing in cold and quick, it was chasing me and closing in on me. I begged that He would let me in to warm myself by the glow of His radiance. I was nurtured by the very moment the door began to crack open. Overwhelmed by the senses of Home, the sounds of laughter and life, the taste of hot biscuits and honey, I knew I would weather the storm. I was affectionately taken in and had forgotten about the threats of the cold lies that blew violently against the windows.  The panes could rattle and shake all they wanted, but I was safe now. I was out of harm's way and could take off my mittens and all my layers, and sit, welcomed by a fire that had a place for me.

The wasteland of guilt and fear will always be ready for me. It will always be beckoning me to come out and dwell there; to let my comparisons and my doubts run wild. I’d never be alone in the wasteland, because some of you are there. Some of you got lost in the storm and it took everything from your heart. It took the joy of motherhood and replaced it with a measuring stick. It took the affection of a home filled with love and replaced it with rigidity and routine. It took the thrill of life and traded it with safety and comfort. I’ll miss you, but I won’t join you there. Come join me here, take a blanket and cover yourself with grace. There’s a spot here at the fire for you too.

A Word That Hurts

So here’s the thing. As a blanket statement, I would have told you that I vowed never to write one of those blog posts that is an “open letter,” or “here’s what you need to know about [fill in the blank], or generally angry posts. As a generality I get the vibe that some of those authors just need to go have a real conversation with a few real people and not air their junk for the world. I thought about that exact thing as I felt compelled to write this particular post. And when I questioned myself about who I needed to have this particular conversation with I was able to come up with a short list….of people who I knew I did not have to have this conversation with. Which shows me that this is really a wide ranged cultural issue, not the personal offense of a few in my own personal  life.

I don’t even know how to start this. My instinct on this subject is to go guns blazing. I’ll start by explaining what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the r-word. Using the word retard or retarded to refer to something or someone as “less than.” And while we are at, throw in all jokes about special needs, short buses, and special olympics.

So now you know what on earth I’m speaking about. Let’s jump in.

Using the r-word to convey that you think something is stupid or dumb is the worst possible choice. What is the most upsetting is that it’s socially acceptable. I’ve heard the kindest people, the closest friends, the smartest people, and people who say they love the people Jesus loves…all use this word. I’ve seen people use this word so much and so often, and that it is so engrained in their vocabulary, that they will even say it in front of a person with special needs. If you don’t see the problem, then let me ask you this…Have you EVER heard that term used in reference to a compliment? Picture the times you have said it or heard it said. What was the context?

Now here is where we will take a little time out. A little pause for clarification. There are two groups/contexts that this word is commonly being used.

Context #1: Using the word retard to describe a person who has some type of disability or apparent difference

Context #2: Using the word retard or retarded as a synonym for “stupid, dumb, or ridiculous”

To the people of context #1: Please change your language. You may be honestly naïve, in that case I would encourage you to educate yourself. This website is a great place to start.

To the people of context #2: You should feel ashamed of yourself and your actions.

I know that seems harsh, and it is. But using cheap and derogatory language to target a person or group is far more harsh. Using hurtful language about a group of people who (as a group) are not capable to defend much less retaliate…is shameful. For most of us, there are two prevalent reasons for avoiding minority slurs. The first and hopefully foremost reason for not using slurs is because it is hurtful and wrong. The second reason is that we know that in most cases, we won’t get away with it (and shouldn’t) because that group or individuals from that group will make sure that our bad behavior is corrected. But who is coming after those who degrade citizens with special needs? Who makes sure that when you make a joke about a short bus, you regret it? No one is afraid that people with special needs will lash out with the full force of their time, people, and resources…Why? Because some people in this group are dependent on caretakers and some people in this group aren’t capable of taking on that fight on their own. It kind of dissolves that “fear of retaliation” thing. So it’s time for us to get offended. It’s time for those of us who stand beside those who live with special needs to get offended.  My biggest regret is that I never said the words “That’s wrong,” and “you can’t spend time in my home if that word will be a part of your vocabulary,” and “that word is hurtful,” and “I don’t care if you meant it like that.” I wish I had let the offense sink in more than the awkwardness of confrontation. So from now on, I’m just gonna get awkward and do the right thing.

I wanted to write a blog that was so smart, that had the strongest reasoning and debate. I wanted you to see past my personal motives and hear the call to live rightly. I wanted this to circulate and raise awareness. But the truth is, this word has hurt my family and me and it’s insulted my sister and so many others. If you need some big in depth explanation for why the r-word isn’t “PC,” then you should really think about what that says about you as person. If the simple fact that this word hurts others isn’t enough for you…then I’m not even mad. I pity you. I’m disappointed over your lack of care for your fellow man. And I’m sad in the life you miss out on by not caring for others outside yourself.

So let's change our language. Let's love all our fellow men and women. Let's call ourselves and our friends to a higher standard.

Stories: My Life Altering Wings Run

One of the most important moments of my life happened in a car.

I was starting my sophomore year of college and it was kickoff week. I'd been asked to go get wings with a group that I didn't typically run with. I knew David, but that was pretty much it. Austin volunteered to drive me, and since I had made it my life's work to be the one girl who wasn't impressed by him, I reluctantly agreed and rode with him. I had a point to prove. (I know this move totally has an Anne of Green Gables and Gilbert Blith vibe all over it.) But because I'm inwardly a dork and I'm not one of those "yea I mainly hang out with guys, girls just don't like me" types, I grabbed my roommate and asked her to come (what I did not know until about ten minutes later, was that she clearly had a crush on him). Just to give you an accurate picture of just how powerful the events of this car ride were I'll give you a little insight to the way I viewed Austin. Upon entering his Volkswagen GT I thought he was arrogant, self absorbed, a little shady, a lot sketchy, and very cute.  On the way there, even though he asked me to ride with him, I got booted to the backseat by my enthusiastic *ahem* roomie. They started talking about who knows what, most likely it was music because she was so cool and legit with music stuff. Then I got a mass text from an acquaintance with a joke about special needs people. I basically erupted in the back seat. I don't remember exactly what I said but it was something along the lines of "Oh my gosh. I can't believe this." But with very high volume and personal outrage and completely interrupting their music chat. I completely expected this guy, who I thought was probably like an inch deep, to tell me I was making a big deal out of nothing. At the least I expected him to do what everyone does and use the good ole “They didn’t really mean it like that,” or at least the half hearted “Well I’m sure she didn’t know you had a special needs sister.” (You should FULLY anticipate a blog post unleashing my full personal outrage and call to action on this subject.)

Do you know what this guy said? This guy who was popular and cute and had no reason to go against the norm and believe/do/care what was right? He said, “I can’t believe some people. That’s so wrong.”

Crrrrreeeekkkk. That was the sound of my heart door cracking open. This guy, this cute and popular guy, he was different. And his difference, made all the difference.

Stories: The Tale of The Many Mini Candy Bars

 **This is a funny story. If you find yourself in a deep in reflective place, you’ve gone too far and missed the turn.

We used to do this ministry thing in the apartment complex where we lived in our early days. Basically, we planned and carried out events for our complex with the intention of building relationships. I was pregnant with our first, Lyric. But for the sake of this story you should know that I was almost equally pregnant with a very large….sweet tooth. A sweet tooth like no other sweet tooth, this sweet tooth could send me into tears at a moments notice until I was driven to the nearest self-serve frozen yogurt establishment. Cushioned atop billowing swirls of delightful vanilla and chocolate yogurt with an occasional strawberry ribbon, were carefully selected peanut m&ms and chocolate sprinkles. Ah the delight! Oh the satisfaction! The initial sweet crunch of victory followed by the cool embrace of delicate dairy.  Uhh..err…pardon me. Back to the story.

I had a part time job, and Austin had a few part time jobs. This left me with ample time in the apartment. So I planned a Halloween event for our big monthly shin dig. We made food and I got the high school small group I led to help me make like a million black foam bats to hang around the apartment office along with egg crate spiders. (This was pre-pinterest, people. This is craftiness you actually had to work for, no one handed it to me on a silver platter of cuteness.) I put together a myriad of fun games and a costume contest, put the flyers out for the party and hit up Costco. (Oh Costco, how I long for you. You are the superior bulk shopping store.) No…wait…I was distracted by my bias for Costco vs. Sams Club. I did not buy the candy at Costco I bought it at Target. And yes, that detail does matter. You will need to have an idea of the approximate size of the bags of candy I bought…and I have a sweet tooth, but not quite at the Costco level. Anyway. One of the nice things about our apartment manager was that he asked that we only buy name brand products. He didn’t want the events looking janky. (janky: homemade but not in the good way, unprofessional, pieced together, makeshift. Pronounced: jane-key) So I arrived home with four, count them- four variety bags of name brand candy. The afternoon of Halloween we set up our adorable party and waited for the party goers and trick or treaters to come by on their way out for a night of fun. And we waited….and we waited. And then our two couple friends who lived in the complex came by. Then thankfully a really sweet family with a really sweet toddler came by (we could always count on them). And then…the occasional resident paying their rent would notice our party and grab a little candy while they waited. Seven. Seven people and one dog. Seven people, one dog, and four bags of candy. Nine people if you count Austin and me. We waited it out for the painstaking two hours that the party was scheduled for and then packed up and went home.

Maybe it was the pain of event failure. Maybe it was the pregnancy. I’m almost sure it wasn’t my utter lack of self-control. Whatever the reason…that candy haunted me in the days following the party.  One bag of candy had been left in the office, one bag of candy had been prematurely opened in anticipation of a big turn out for the party, and two bags remained unopened. It made perfect sense that we would save that candy and use it at future events. In fact, now that I’m writing it out…I think I might have actually stolen that candy by technicality, since it was for our residents. So in my weakness I started treating myself to a little lunch time mini candy bar or two. Then eventually that became a lunch candy and a mid afternoon candy. Then, before I knew it, I had found the bottom of that bag. I needed more. So I dove into the next bag of variety candy. It was the good stuff people, Kit Kat, Snickers, Butterfinger, M&M’s. I quickly realized that Austin would never approve of the complete and utter gluttony I was entertaining. So I did what any good wife would do when she is faced with the decision between her man and her sugar. I hid the sugar. This kept my man in blissful ignorance and my sweet tooth satisfied. I would give this marriage advice to anyone. We had a ridic-U-lous kitchen with the best storage EVER. It was so easy to hide that candy. All wadded up in the back corner of the lower cabinet beside the pantry, I can still see it. When I started eating more than two four six candies a day…I began to hide the wrappers between different trashcans or bury the wrappers under at least three other larger pieces of trash. As you can see…it was a problem. And that problem came to (some) light one fateful prenatal appointment. Like any good dad with a weird hodge podge of jobs, Austin came with me to every appointment but one. At this appointment I was supposed to gain between one and two pounds. I gained at least six. And that’s when my wonderful, Christian, cowboy, fatherly, doctor told me blunty in front of my still newly wedded husband, that two pounds of my weight gain was for my baby and the rest was just me.

That’ll get ya.

So I finished up that bag of candy and then decided that I wouldn’t buy more. Wow, I can just bask in the light of that discipline and wisdom. I mean really, that took guts.

And so was the tale of the many mini candy bars. A couple of YEARS later, I confessed to Austin. And it went something like this “Remember how I mysteriously got so huge with Lyric and with the other kids I haven’t had that happen? Well…..” And to this day I have to take extreme measures to keep my addiction under control. If you follow me on instagram, you are almost guaranteed to see a picture of my three self allotted Halloween candies. I’m already excited! I love you, candy.

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