The Way I See You

“People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.”― Alice Walker, The Color Purple

My Benjifriend is down sick today, so I had to stay home with him and miss out on church. As Michael can tell you, I took this news rather...immaturely because I didn’t want to miss service. I like going to church. It is a happy place for me, full of good things and good people. People that do not want to have themselves or their families exposed to my wee babby’s biological warfare. So, I will sequester myself this Sunday feeding him the medicines of my youth--7-up, reruns of Price is Right, and saltines--and bring him back when he is safe to be around other people, and I will use this quiet opportunity to listen to my Ludovico Einaudi and write in peace. (If you want to hear it as I wrote it, listen to "I Giorni"--https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uffjii1hXzU.)

I am an optimist by nature. I want and choose to see the beauty and goodness in the world; it feeds the hope that lives inside me, the whisper that says, “Wait. The best is yet to come.”

When I was younger and my faith was the sum total of all my parts (a place that has slipped through my fingers to make room for life; a place I have been trying to get back to), my heart’s desire was to see as He sees, to view the world not through the distorted vision of opinion but in truth and reality because it was as He made it. As many that have gone before me, I found the most pure, tangible connection through nature. I lay in the grass, feeling the heat the sun had lent the ground seep into my cold body. I imagined it was healing me, dragging doubts and fears and darkness down and dispersing it far below where I didn’t have to feel it anymore. At just the right time, when my skin was glowing golden from the warmth of the day, a breeze would stir and carry me away, away with the leaves and the caterpillars on their silken strings and the motes of dust that made the air sparkle like glitter.

God intended so much more than this for us. We know that; we can feel it, read it, experience the separation that sin caused. It is easy to forget that He meant more for nature, too.

He made this world to walk in with us. He made it and named it good because it pleased Him. It was a paradise He wanted to share. I can envision how eagerly He would anticipate the delight on our face when we saw for the first time the snow falling on the mountains, a hummingbird sipping from honeysuckle, the ocean washing up on the shore. In His garden, I could have bear friends named Otso and Mischa that I could hug and feed sweet potatoes and nap with in the sun.

I would have really liked that.

The Bible says that Adam and Eve disobeyed and ate the fruit, setting off the chain of events that has somehow arrived in a place where Andie does not get her potato-eating pet bears in the sun. Lady days suck and we have to toil and work and things are hard and they suck and what could there possibly be to be hopeful for?

To me, salvation is a not a story that is finished yet. Our brains hate things unfinished, which is why it wakes you up in the middle of the night repeating “This is the Song that Doesn’t End” because why doesn’t it end?! Brain likes to be able to close the box and say, “this is complete”--this story is done, the task is finished, the song is over. It bothers us endlessly to leave things open because it is still waiting, waiting to be attended to. It would be so much more comfortable for us if the Bible was self-contained, starting with “in the beginning…” and ended with “Amen”. Close the book and put it on the shelf; it is done. It relieves us of the burden of becoming.

It is so exhausting to be unfinished.

If that was all there was, the stories related to us of God working in the men and women of the Old Testament to culminate in the birth, life, and death of Jesus Christ, everything since is just an reverberation of that defining moment. We are living in the aftershocks of God’s dramatic crescendo, and thus relieved of being or becoming anything more than what we are. Why bother; Jesus said himself, “it is finished” (John 19:30). Show’s over, time to go home. Everything since is inconsequential, our lives and our actions amount to nothing, and nothing matters.

Nature shows us that it’s not over. He still cares; He’s still trying—He is still making something out of nothing, propelling us toward something more. The story didn’t end at the cross, but started there and continues on through today and into infinite tomorrows. If Jesus was sent to bring us back, then we still matter enough to try for.

So many of our opinions of ourselves can be so brutal. How is it so instinctual to tear ourselves down? When the voice in our head is dogged and determinedly repeating how we are not good enough, not strong enough, not smart enough, not brave enough. We just aren’t enough.

The part born inside is there to remind us that we weren’t meant to walk alone. God always meant to be right there beside us. He meant friends and family to love and surround us, to encourage and support one another. Our souls remember and remind us—

We weren’t meant to walk alone.

How joyous it is that partnership! How wonderful it is that He has never left us, will never leave us! I have taken great comfort in that.

As my relationship with God grew, it stretched to encompass humanity in my desire to see as He sees. We are separate and apart from creation, made special by His design, but we are also part of it. We are exhibits of His glory, too. It is difficult to see His face reflected in the actions of man, but I had to remember—in the Bible, we saw God’s chosen people turn away again and again. It was in the individual stories where we saw the most change, God working directly on hearts to better the situation for the group. It was through David, through Rahab, through Moses and Elijah and Deborah and Esther, that God led and delivered His people, and it is through those stories that we see His intent for our lives.

God loves us so much it hurts. I truly believe that. He’s so proud of us. I feel like if He had a wallet, He’d have our picture in it and show it to everybody at the grocery store. “See that Andie? She’s got FOUR kids now, can you believe it?” He isn’t sitting up there grouching about how little we visit or fuming that we messed up again. He’s hoping I got the sunshine He sent today, that it made me think of Him and brought a little smile to my face because He loves my smile.

God’s reality is that He made all of these people and He loves them, so He wants us to love them, too. I mean, He may have mentioned once or twice. That attitude  is what I strive hard for every day.

It’s hard though. Sometimes my emotional, opinionated side flares up and clouds my view of a person, leading to arguments with the Voice in my head I call God that go like this:

I don’t like them.

I made them.

Well, you did a bad job. I hate them.

I love them.

...okay, fine. I don’t hate them. But they need to be smacked.

About as much as you need to be smacked?

….that was uncalled for -generic grumbling-

Since first joining social media, I have wanted to make a post encouraging us all to share our genuine opinions of one another. In the idealized, romanticized version in my head, it would a platform for people to share how much they admired other people, how they wanted to know them better or had little crushes on them; fun things that show you how others viewed you.

My hesitancy was born in that more realistic voice in the back of my head, the one that has seen all the “Roast Me” posts on Reddit.

Do not ask for honesty if you are not ready and willing to hear the ugly, untarnished truth. My hope would be that people recognize that we all have so many negative thoughts about ourselves that we don’t need anyone to add to that. As I cannot control the direction the post will take (likely it will die on arrival; most posts that require interaction are bypassed all together), let’s not take any unnecessary chances, shall we? All I have power over is my own opinions.

Through this screen that I have carefully constructed, using what I believe of God based on my personal relationship with Him, I see you.

To me, you are the most interesting person. I love to hear stories an out your life, your family, what you wanted to be when you grew up and what your favorite things are and why you think and feel the way you do. I want to see who you are, the things that drive you, inspire you. I could listen to you all day.

I’ve seen you struggle, and my heart ached for you—I see how hard you are trying. I’m so impressed with the strength and dignity you have displayed, handling what life has thrown at you. You are so tough, so strong, so brave. I don’t have to worry about you because I know that you can overcome any obstacle, but I am going to be here to help you in any way that I can because we are stronger together.

I have prayed for you, through sickness and hard times, but in the good times, too. I pray that you feel safe and loved and happy, that you see God working in your life and it brings a smile to your face. I pray that you have everything you need, and some things you want as well. My heart is so filled with hope for you, because I know:

The best is yet to come.

—Andie

Resolutions

I have three New Year’s resolutions for 2018.

For the last several years, I have had the same resolution: to read more than I did the previous year. Reading is such a joyful thing for me, is and has been a lifelong passion, but when life gets too busy and things start falling to the wayside, the first to be culled is often recreational fun. It shouldn’t be. What is life if it is not meant to be enjoyed? If there are no moments of spiritual fulfillment, things that satiate your soul, you are not living the best life that God intended for you.

Reading though. Man. It takes a lot of brainpower to sit and commit your focus and attention to a book.

I cannot speak for the father’s perspective because I myself have never been a father. As a mother though, I can give you some insight. The rocky hormonal teetertotter that your body goes through being pregnant and then not being pregnant and nursing and then not nursing, coupled with the sleeplessness from having a baby that seems to sleep exactly ten seconds every other week...every time you feel like you adjust, things go sideways again. It is a lot like having a headcold--that cottony feeling inside your head where your brains are supposed to be. I imagine it kind of like the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz where you have a noggin stuffed full of shredded newspaper because thinking is like rifling through random words and phrases to figure out what you want to say.





After Benjamin, it took me about four years or so to feel like I had gotten a handle on it. Then I got pregnant with Tula and reset the clock.

Trying to focus on the words of a story while you can hear the kids in the other room (or more suspiciously, can’t) and your short-circuted mind is garbling out random snippets like a bad radio signal (would you like me to list every show Tom Sellack has ever been in, or can I offer you a single line selection of Selena’s “Bidi Bidi Bamba” on repeat for hours?) becomes onerous.

It is important to me, though, so I continue to try and power through. Even as little as a Verse of the Day app on my phone or a single news article, anything that connects me back to that little piece of Andie that says “hey, that’s right! I like reading!”

Young Adult books are easier to wade your way through because you don’t have to pay the strictest attention to follow every single word. Comic books are also a great medium because they have the image paired with fewer words and a managable length; $10 a month gets you unlimited access to digital copies of sixty years of Marvel comic books on your phone or tablet.

Over the years, I have found it easiest to combine my reading with interacting with the kids. My favorite author is Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Columbian Nobel prize winning author from the 40’s-70’s or so. He writes in this beautiful magical realism style that I find so enchanting; the first time I read “One Hundred Years of Solitude”, it made such a profound impact on me. That is a hefty book though in terms of language, not exactly a summer beach read. I found if I read it out loud to my little kids while they are playing, it is easier for me to focus and follow along, and I get to share my story with them.




For a long time, I thought that it was mostly for my benefit; I couldn’t imagine they were getting a ton out of it because it would be too mature and over their head. While sitting one day, tiny toddling baby Gabriel brought the book I had been reading aloud and dropped it in my lap. His motions got more sedate, his vocalizations quieted, and he hovered expectantly in the vacinity. Maybe it was my wishful thinking, but it felt so deliberate that he was trying to engage me. I made it a point to read more often, for him and for Emerald and for me.

So my first resolution is to read more. Vague and obtainable because it is quantifiable without having a clear goal.

My second was to make progress toward eventually moving out of this house.

We moved here in the June 2014. We had made the decision less than six months before that we were going to relocate; I had come down at Spring Break with all three of the kids to look for a place for us to live. We stayed at Jarrod’s house for the week. Amber came to get us and drive us around to see what was available.

In the back seat, baby Benjamin was drooping off to sleep rather comically. It was like he could not keep his eyes open. We took that as a sign that we had been out too much and needed to head back to Jarrod’s for naptime. I took him to the guest room we were staying in to lay him down and found the recently emptied bottle of Gabriel’s nighttime medicine.

For those of you keeping count at home, this was the second time Benjamin had done this.

This is a medicine that was dissolved in a sugar syrup, so it tasted like yum. I don’t know who thought that was a good idea--when I was growing up, medicine tasted like black licorice and hate. But it was supposed to encourage Gabriel to more willingly take it because without it, he was not going to sleep at all.

The first time Ben drank it, he had climbed up on my kitchen counter and nabbed the bottle, knocking it back before I could stop him. The lid of the bottle after a few days didn’t fit on as securely as it did in the beginning because the syrup would crystalize around the rim, rendering the child safety cap less effective. I didn’t even consider that it was a possibility because there was no reason for him to seek it out, and I thought it was safe on top of the fridge and thus “out of his reach”.

After that first time, we took to locking the medicines in a lockbox with a key.

Once again, my arrogance that said that Benjamin would surely not be able to get into it AGAIN was foiled by a tiny sir’s determination for self-destruction.



So this was March 2014. I took Benny to the Emergency Room where they said he would have to be admitted into pediatric ICU. Michael won that day with one of those amazing husband moments--I called him and he asked if I wanted him to take off of work and drive up to help. Back then, he still worked for the car dealership so any time off was less selling time and less money we would have in the next paycheck. I told him yes, I very much needed him there...and right that moment, the door swung open and Michael was there, still on the phone with me. He had left three hours before because he had anticipated that I would need him.

That night, I stayed at Jarrod’s with Emerald and Gabriel because Gabe wouldn’t sleep without me there, and Michael stayed at the hospital with Benjamin. The next day, I had an appointment with the landlord of ACU’s rental properties to go look at some houses.

I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, depressed, worried. It was just a bad day. I had just come from visiting Ben in the hospital where they told us that Child Protective Services had been called to investigate us, find out if we were negligent or hurting him. We were going from house to house and I was trying to watch Emerald and Gabriel. It was a really hot day, so Gabe kept finding toilets in these rent houses to stick his head in, a fact that was disgusting and embarrassing. I knew that I had to pick a house that day because Michael’s job at the university was starting soon and we had to have a place to live.

In the end, we picked one literally for no other reason that the house number stood out to us--666. It was like a conversation piece. Few months later, we moved into this beautiful house on a quiet street that costs much more than we are comfortable paying for a rent house.

Granted, part of it is the city and the location. It is a college neighborhood in a college town; we knew this coming into it. And the proximity to campus was a big sell, not only because Michael would be able to walk back and forth to work if needs be, but because of the highly praised elementary our kids would go to.

It is my goal to get out of this too-small house and in to something more sustainable. I talked about that at length in a recent post. My resolution is to make some sort of progress. To that end, I have started carefully going through each room and donating things that we have outgrown or that has fallen into disuse. When we moved from Lubbock, we condensed our belongings by a third so we wouldn’t have quite so much to relocate, but stuff tends to accumulate over time. I am also trying to repair or replace what I can, and steadily clean and condense from room to room. I have so very little hope of finding something more affordable, but I can to be ready to move in God’s time.

Those are my first two resolutions. My final one?

To write more.

--Andie

Sure

Men are so much more sure about things.

At least that’s the way it seems to me. They know precisely what they think in any given situation, and it irks them that women often don’t.

The age-old example is: What do you want to do for dinner. If I ask Michael that, BAM! He immediately produces an answer. Statistically speaking, he has a 70% chance of saying “Tacos” or something taco related (Taco Bell, Taco bowls, etc), and 30% of saying “you know what sounds good? A big ol’ cheeseburger”. Word for word.

He isn’t going to be devastated if he doesn’t get that specific thing because he isn’t genuinely suggesting it most of the time. He would be happy if he got it, but he has a resigned knowledge that we are probably going to end up getting what sounds good to me. As the more picky eater with fewer options, it makes sense—Michael can eat just about anything and just about anywhere, so I have to figure out what I want.

This annoys him to no end, but I won’t know what I want until he says something I don’t.

You know how the conversation goes.
Andie: what do you want for dinner?
Michael: know what sounds good? A big ol cheeseburger.
Andie: ehhhhhh, I was thinking more like pasta.
Michael: then why didn’t you SAY THAT?!

I don’t know how I came to be broken this way. If I know what the other player’s lines are, why wouldn’t I just play the conversation out in my head, figure out what appeals to me, and then lead with that? “Michael, I was thinking pasta for dinner.” Cool.

I can’t explain it, but I just don’t work that way. I have to hear the conversation play out because even I don’t know where it will end.

This surety is not limited to meal times though. My brother Jarrod would state things so matter-of-factly when we were growing up that it compelled you to believe him whether he was right or just inventing an answer on the spot. Rhonda says Michael was the same way when he was a kid. They are so confident that you instinctively believe that they somehow just know.

It was like that when I asked Michael what we should name the babies, too. Like divine inspiration, an angel had told him “and you shall name him after the Scarlet Spider, and it wilt be righteous.”

I’m not saying they are always right. Jarrod was incorrect when we were kids—Mom had not lost her job, and we would not have to start eating dog food. Many other names could have suited Benjamin just as well (though I’m glad he is our little Ben). Maybe they feel pressure to always have the right answers that they couldn’t accept saying “honestly, I don’t know.” Or maybe they really do feel that amount of certainty about every declaration. I don’t know. Either way, it seems like they always know exactly what they mean to say.

That is how confident Michael was about me.

The first night in that coffee shop, he knew. Or at least he claimed he did. He saw in me a future, a connection, commitment, love. With me, he could picture forever.

We saw different things.

I saw a very cute guy, somebody I could see having fun with, going on some dates, maybe doing some smooching. Growing old together would have not even remotely have crossed my mind—it was about here and now, living the life that I had planned for myself.

It’s so interesting to me how complimentary our brains work together, and how they adapt overtime to keep in sync. When Michael is living moment-to-moment, I help him think ahead and spur him into action so we are moving toward that. When I am too impulsive, Michael helps ground me, redraw the parameters to make room for possibility. It is a ongoing push-and-pull so that we never stop moving forward. Someone is perpetually causing progress.

It is curious to me how our lives would look different if we did not have the foil we have provided one another.

When we were dating, Michael lived in apartment with his buddy AJ. They had an espresso machine and a milkshake machine, and it seemed like they were constantly running one or the other; that and triple cheeseburgers from Wendy’s were pretty much all he existed on. It’s a wonder he didn’t buzz into an alternate dimension from all the caffeine and sugar he consumed.

He also accepted that people just got sick after eating shrimp or eating dairy. To him, that was just how things went; he never questioned that maybe, perhaps, he was allergic and should perhaps avoid these foods. It was just the toll you paid.

Without me, I imagine Michael would be a lot more unhealthy as clean eating is not a high priority to him. He would almost certainly still be in Lubbock—he doesn’t relocate unless given little alternative. Overall I think he’d be alright. I’d like to imagine he’d be a little lonelier, but he wouldn’t have had trouble finding a nice girl and settling down. He’s undeniably a catch.

It’s harder to turn that critical eye to myself. If there was no Michael, what would my life be like?

I probably would have starved to death alone in my apartment, trying to decide what to have for dinner.

—Andie

Clarence

I was 25 when I first got my license.

When I turned 16, I had little motivation to drive. Growing up in a small town and with two older brothers, I felt I could safely and easily get to wherever I needed to go. Jarrod and Royce left to pursue higher education and still I resisted. The only real answer I could probably give is that I don’t care for being told what to do, but even less so doing something for the sole purpose of expectation. Just because getting their permit to drive was what teenagers did was no reason for me to feel obligated to join in. So I dug in my heels and obstinately refused to be dragged to the water OR to be made to drink.

In college, I largely relied on friends for rides or I simply walked. Even after I had kids, I got a long double stroller and I’d strap them in and hoof it wherever we needed to be. Within walking distance was the kids’ daycare, a church, a grocery store, my college, the library, and a park. What more could I possibly need that couldn’t wait until Michael was off?

I was content with my lack of ability, even as I was a considerable burr in everyone’s collective backside.

The catalyst for change was Benjafetus. While still comfortably contained within my womb, I could feasibly waddle my way around. Once he was out….man, I was gonna have to get a longer stroller.

Gabriel would soon be enrolled in the preschool program for children with disabilities across town, when little Ben was only five months old. Emerald would be starting pre-kindergarten. What was I going to do then?

For a long time, I decided to mull it over and continue walking.

Michael thought bribery would best suit the situation. At the time, he worked at Scoggin Dickey Chevy dealership. Someone had traded in a gold (my favorite color!!) Buick Century that wasn’t worth the gas in the tank. It was in fairly decent condition for its age, but had seen a lot of miles in that time. The general manager told Michael to drive it around for a bit, see how it suited us, so we never signed papers. It was a well-loved, plodding donkey of a car that made a loud pttttttthhhhbbbtt! whenever you came to a complete stop.

I loved her and christened her Krissy Bug.

In that car, Michael began to patiently teach his aged wife how to operate a motor vehicle. Using calming, gentle tones—as one would talk to a skittish horse or bomb-bedecked lunatic—he would coach me along back roads and around quiet suburbs.

“You’re going to want to use your blinker here...okay, that’s okay, you’ll get it next time.”

“So, that was good, you did good, but when we turn, all four wheels should stay touching the ground.”

“Alright, so you’re in the wrong lane, when you get a chance you’ll want to get over, just so we don’t get hit head on from a car coming the other direction.”

It was messy and inglorious and a painstakingly slow process, but gradually I began to improve. Krissy Bug was a sweet car, but we were not going to be able to fit three car seats in the back. On one of our after-church drives around the Scoggin Dickey parking lot, we spot it.

The color of a Christmas tree and sparkling clean, a 2002 Chevrolet Astro. He’s got grey interior, room for eight. You can tell someone had been taking good care of him. There’s no way he’s in our price range.

Michael asks around about him the next day. The Astro is not nearly as costly as we were anticipating! He is actually within our means. Our grungy little family was moving up in the world—with Michael’s temperamental Jeep, we would officially be a two car family!

It was determined that as the main transporter of the kids, I would get the more reliable and spacious van. The Jeep (named Icey) was a cantankerous old man better suited to Michael. He screamed in protest whenever the air conditioner was turned on, refused to pick up any radio station that was not NPR, and rattled with an abandon as though every ride were his last. Comparatively, the decade-old Astro was a gentleman of a car.

I named him Clarence after “It’s a Wonderful Life”. It was in him that I finally got my driver’s license, after failing the first time for running a stop sign. (I refuse to live in shame any longer! Well, some shame. Fair amount of shame.) Driving through to get coffee, I scraped his side, leaving a hot pink streak of paint. On the back windshield, we posted a Star Wars themed family—Michael represented by Darth Vader, me and Emerald as big and little Princess Leias, Gabriel as Luke Skywalker, and baby Benjamin as Yoda. (Tula would later be added as Ashoka.)

Clarence ran beautifully for a number of years, all the way up to us moving to Abilene. We had been here just three days when the big hailstorm of June 2014. That storm left visible damage all over the city—it had busted out a couple of the windows to our house and had left little divots all over Clarence’s body. We were lucky; others had their vehicles wrecked by the hail. The insurance company cut the dealership a check for the damage that paid off the last remaining balance, and we finally owned him free and clear.

He had some really weird habits, like frantically locking and unlocking the doors while I was driving. We would often have arguments about how much fuel he currently held, which he would grudgingly concede that I was generally right. One of his back doors didn’t feel like opening. Overall he was still a very good van.

Then he got what we called gremlins. Little problems that were inconsistent. He’d have trouble starting, so we’d call someone to take a look at it, where he’d roar to life like he didn’t have a care in the world. The gauges would act funky. His antifreeze was going somewhere because we were having to replace it more often than you’d think one would reasonably have to, but there were never puddles.

One day he breaks down. We can’t afford to fix him, so we leave him parked. For three months. Dad comes out to take a look, and we can’t find the stinkin key. So we have to buy a new ignition and Dad has to pull off the dash to change it out so we have a key that can turn on the car….

...and it turns out the freakin battery is just dead.

We get a new battery and it runs dead way quicker than a new battery ought, so we get him in to see a mechanic. An after-market burglar alarm that the original owner had installed was acting up, causing all the angst and gremlins. They rip it out, and Clarence is running better than ever.

The original key was located in Emerald’s desk months later because she is a lunatic kleptomaniac, and for a little while we have no trouble from Mr Clarence.

Many long and boring mechanical stories later, we have arrived at a crossroads:

Do we continue to sink money and repairs into our old and faithful friend, or do we take him to the farm upstate where he can chase chickens and we get a newer, more reliable mode of transportation?

Maybe I have already come to my decision, judging by this long Ode to Clarence.

—Andie

Daydreams

It is my dream to own a home one day.

When I am laying awake at night trying to relax enough to sleep, I think about what it will look like. What colors I will paint the walls, how I will decorate. What it would be like to have holidays there, and that feeling of “coming home” the kids will have when they’re grown and visit.

I joke with Michael that my decorating style is “teddy bears wearing dresses”, but I could better describe it as Parsonage, that mid-century time capsule, intangible and universal grandparent home.

It is always warm and there is so much sunlight streaming through the curtains. You can see the little floating particles in the air and it’s kind of magical, like everything has slowed down around you. There is a sitting room near the front door with that couch that looks like it has never been sat on, and every item looks like it has a story to tell. The furniture and decor is a mishmash from all decades, but all of it is so lovingly cared for--they were bought not for a season, but for a lifetime. This is a place where prayer happens, where faith is practiced. It has a feel of Sanctuary, a place of calm and quiet and rest, light and life and love.

To me, that is what home is supposed to be. A peaceful place.

I think it has a lot to do with my particular view of God. Since I was a little girl, I have been inexplicably drawn to the idea of The Fountain. I remember when I was about seven or eight, we were singing the song “There’s a Fountain Free” as the invitation at my hometown church. It was in the old auditorium because we hadn’t built the new one yet, so it was all that red on red on red--red bench-style pews, thin red carpet, like you had been swallowed whole by some Lovecraftian beast. That was my favorite color. We were singing this song and it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me:

There’s a fountain free

Tis for you and me

Let us haste oh haste to its brink.

My grandmother has this voice that is legendary within our world. It is clear and strong, unmistakable. When she sang, I imagined angelic choirs in white robes and golden glow, trumpets, the whole nine yards. She was singing this song and it hit a line: Thirsty soul, hear the welcome call--tis a fountain open for all.

I don’t know why it struck me so hard. This was post-cat-exploding on me so I was familiar with the concept of death and heaven, though I had not yet lost anyone close to me. (I come from long-lived stock.) There wasn’t a definitive time that my parents sat down with me and we had the life and death talk like you see in sitcoms; more of an ongoing exposure through church that beyond this life, there was something waiting.

New places and new experiences are not things I actively seek out, so even then, this idea was terrifying. The beautiful language used to describe it, from pearly gates to golden streets. Growing up in a modest home with a modest family, these were not concepts I was actively familiar with. It sounded foreign and massive and intimidating. I pictured dirty and scraggly me not being able to fit into this heaven, too plain, too simple, too ...little.

To hear it described as a fountain, I suppose ostensibly I was supposed to combine it with the other ideals and envisioned a grand water feature a la the Trevi fountain, something awe-inspiring, but I didn’t. To little seven or eight year old Andie, the “living stream with a crystal gleam” was more private, natural, a place where maybe I could fit in, too.

God is often thought in these vast, monumental terms. We think of Him as the creator of the heavens and the cosmos; He who holds the earth in his hands and made the seas and the skies, caused the mountains to rise and can command them to fall again. This big, big God that does big, big things.The perpetual runt of the litter, I didn’t feel like I could fit into that version of God because I am not big big people, capable of big big things. He made the little things too, though.

He crafted bumblebee wings and strands of hair, specks of dust. He made many and much, and little and enough. It is in His power to fashion an infinite heaven of mansions, gilted roads and jewel-encrusted entrance. And if He could do all that, He could make a place for one dirty, scraggly, small Andie.

I am not in any kind of hurry to buy a house. There is no urgency--I watch my house-flipping shows, kind of a little sad as they rip out beautiful floral wallpaper and carpet that looks like it would be so soft under my feet. They make the homes a little colder in my eyes, more impersonal, with granite counter tops and open floor plans, and rob it of all the cozy warmth of it. My tastes are far from fashionable, but I am patient--trends change, and it’ll come back around again, I am sure. Michael and I go on dates to open houses, holding hands and talking about the house we will grow old together in. And at night, I have my daydreams of planting a garden, reading in the sunlight, decorating Christmas trees, making memories.

There is no urgency because I trust that God is making a place for me. Not just a place beyond, the fountain of rest, but somewhere earthly. Every time we have needed a place, God has provided--when we got evicted from our dank and dingy apartment, there was a beautiful yellow house on a quiet street for us; when it was time to say goodbye to Lubbock, we were blessed to find a rental right by Michael’s new work in Abilene. Proximity lead us to our new church home, a building that embodies everything I dream about--the sunlight and the peace, the feeling of belonging--and a church family that has blessed us so greatly, supported and loved us through our crazy lives and crazy family.

So I can wait. Because I know when it happens, it will be better than I could have ever dreamed. --Andie

Perfect

I have this great kid.



He is so cute (though don’t tell him I said that; he hates being called cute). He says the funniest things; I have about a hundred videos of him that we all watch again and again because they warm my heart and make me smile on my bluest days.

His gift is going to be music. Michael found a first-generation iPod that we loaded up with music for him; he loves to sing and play instruments, write songs.

He’s so very kind-hearted. When his sister gets in trouble, he will come in shaking head to foot telling us to leave his sister alone. If she loses out on tablet time, he offers to give her some of his.

My Ben is a constant, overflowing cup of joy, and by far and away, my biggest and most steady source of guilt.

It’s usually this….sort of uncomfortable humming running in the background. Like the sound of the air conditioner unit—every now and then, it’ll kick on and make itself known with a lot of racket. After awhile, I acclimate and stop hearing and feeling it so acutely, and it’ll flip off for a bit to flare up again later.

My Ben is perfect, you see. He’s so good and kind and sweet and funny. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him.

Not autism.

Not diabetes.

...nothing.

There is such a dearth of available resource in this house—there isn’t enough time in the day, enough space, enough peace, enough quiet. Our lives are bursting at the seams as it is, trying to hold all our wants and our needs and hopes and our dreams inside that there isn’t room to move or breathe, crushing us from all sides. The very rarest and most precious of gems though is parental attention.

When we are particularly tired or drained, Michael and I will half-heartedly snip and snarl at each other, cyclical arguments that go nowhere and mean nothing, saying the exact same thing: Please notice me.

So when confronted when a gaggle of siblings, each with needs so much louder than his own, how does Ben fit in?

At meal time, when we are handling cooking and finger pokes and two separate insulin calculations and making plates with exact portions and it’s too much and too loud, Gabe is stealing fistfuls of food off his his brother’s plate...it is easier in the moment to tell Ben to fussing about it.

When Gabriel knocks all the books off the shelf and tears up packs of diapers and dumps buckets of toys, he retains unlimited access to screen time because it’s his communication device. Ben is sent to bed early without tablet time because his room isn’t clean.

His diet is the same as his sisters to make it easier. He surrenders his candy at holidays, just like they do, and is punished when he is caught sneaking it.

All day long, he is told to go to his room, go play, go on now. He sometimes asks for special time—going out with Daddy or watching Star Trek with Mommy. Usually, he gets a tired and vague noncommittal “sure, someday, buddy.” If I’m feeling particularly harassed, I snap out of guilt. I’ve let him down so many times, he doesn’t ask much anymore.

I have tried researching it. There isn’t much data regarding siblings of special needs kids. Everyone is so busy studying the subject that we are only getting glimpses of the familial ripple effects. Some constants have been observed though:

Anxiety.
Depression.
Acting out.
Feeling like they can’t express their feelings.
Need to be perfect.
Loneliness.

At the bottom of the article, there’s usually a short blurb about possible coping strategies. Enroll them in a support group (though be advised sibling support groups are very few and far between). Set aside time for each of your children every day. Treat all the children the same. Godspeed and good luck.

The lack of attention causes mishaps along the way. It takes so much effort and focus on our part to keep the other three alive and safe that Ben sometimes falls through the cracks, and we end up in ICU because he drank nighttime medicine. Most of the time is a quieter turmoil than that: a knocked over dresser, an upended bottle of dish soap, a busted window.

No one chooses to be born into this life; no one picks the hand they are dealt. This is the path we are on and I can either keep making excuses, or I can find a way to be better. God help me, I don’t know how. I feel like a tube of toothpaste—wound so tight, keep squeezing to get more and more out, but I don’t know how much more I have left to give. Michael, I know from our pissy bickering, is in no better shape than I am.

This has been a hurt my heart has carried for a long time. Ben has never known another way. When he was born, Gabriel had just been diagnosed. He wasn’t even two when Emerald wound up in the hospital. Our particular brand of chaos is how life has always been for him. After all these years, I still don’t know how to fix this hurt he was born into, a hurt I created.

Until now, where we have this beautiful, delightful six-year old that struggles with self-worth, crippling loneliness, and fear and uncertainty. He has trouble making friends or knowing how to play because his siblings don’t engage him. Like sisters do, his calls him annoying and a brat, that he does everything wrong, yells at him to go away. His feelings are displaced because Gabe’s developmental needs are so great that there often isn’t room for anything else. “Gabe doesn’t know any better” is an all purpose band-aid slapped on every situation.

Even his mom doesn’t have time for him.

When I am scraping the very dregs of my reserves and coming up completely empty, we are all walking away hungering for something more. I’m just not it. I’m not enough on my own.

But I’m all we’ve got; I’ve got to be enough. I have to find it in me to be enough. If there wasn’t enough food to go around, I wouldn’t accept that someone would just go without. We have dealt with too little for too long. Now I have to figure out how to be more. If I have to MacGyver this situation using the scraps and trash of what I have left, then that’s what I’ll do.

Mom pushed me to sign Benjamin up for little league. Against my hesitation of adding anything else to our already overflowing plate, I did it. It is a very small something, but it is a start. What is that Helen Keller quote?

“I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something. And because I cannot do everything I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.”

I am only one. But I am still one. For my Ben, I will find a way.

—Andie