The "Chicken Exit"

Because faith is the very thing I hope for even though I can't hold it in my hands.  How often it tries to sift through my fingers like dry sand.  It feels elusive, and when I'm looking for the chicken exit, I find my hands empty grasping for anything solid to steady my rising panic.

How often I’ve wanted to take the “Chicken Exit.”  I wanted that exit, so bad a few Friday nights ago. I'm pretty sure I may have even looked around for it.  As autism crawled it’s ugly gnarly claws into my son’s brain; I just couldn't watch it one more time as it ate away his hope.

That first time I saw the sign for the “chicken exit,” I was at Disneyland with my sister.  We had met up to take our elementary age children to experience the magical world.  I’m afraid of heights, and as we waited to ride a roller coaster, I seriously didn’t think I could do it.
When you get to the top, on the left-hand side, there’s a sign for those experiencing second thoughts.  This way to the “Chicken Exit.”  I spun around, and my sister grabbed me.  “Oh no, you don’t!  No chickens in this group!”

This week has been challenging.  Britton struggling to maintain control as more and more OCD behaviors pull him under.  He would be doing well for an hour, and then he would need to touch my face at least once every few seconds.  He needed to kiss me every two seconds.  I'm not dramatic, I counted.  I kiss him on the cheek, assure him I’m not going anywhere.  (Pandas I HATE you!)  It wears on my nerves, and sometimes I begin to tremble with the anxiety.  Then I remember he’s far past his ability to endure the panic that's rising in his overexcited brain.

I don’t know, but last night when it all came to a boiling point… him seriously so out of control.   I began to wonder if we can handle it for all the years that life requires.  My overworked, overwrought mind, for some reason, thought of the “Chicken Exit.”  I know, what a crazy, random thought?  Seriously, if you’ve ever been around when a grown man, already rattled with autism, seizures, and then pandas tortures him til he's hallucinating and terrified, you may wish for a chicken exit of your own.
The autism life is full of rollercoaster ups and downs but you add pandas and your runaway mine train has gone completely off the rails!  I was wishing we were on the seven dwarfs mine train instead of barreling through the darkness of pandas on space mountain.
We use to have a life.  Back when there was "only autism."  But pandas is a sick twisted kind of hell that can't be described, just survived.   I keep wondering if  “adulting” with autism can ever overshadow the twisting, the rise and fall that the roller coaster of pandas adds.   The torture as pandas smothers the adult Britton prays so hard to be.  Britton, he's 27.  Independence is a dream, a far-off dream.   He types about it and cries about it, and dreams of freedom.   But this… this raving, screaming young man who was once the tiny baby boy I prayed for; writhing and willing to bang holes in the sheetrock with his head.  The chicken exit is looking pretty good about now.

What makes you look for the exit?  A cheating spouse, financial collapse, a mistake that you can’t take back?  All those things can make every one of us wish we could run away and assume a new identity.  Maybe worse, pull that 38 out of the safe and leave a really big mess behind.

My next thought... “My hypocrisy knows no bounds!”  Makes me laugh, and then I cry.  Old Doc Holiday laying on his death bed, just given his last rites by a priest.  I mean if you know who he was, it appears that death had brought even the likes of him to the feet of Jesus.  He knows it makes a mockery of the immoral life he had lived.  I could judge him, and yet;  I stand at church and bellow out the song, “You make me brave” wondering the whole time if it’s possible.  I mean seriously, WHO can make me brave?  I don’t like to fly; I don’t like to stand at the top of tall buildings.  I rather spend my life in “safety.”  Okay, I know it’s an illusion of safety, but I’ll take it.  Stand me at the top of a cliff and ask me to jump, I’ll barrel over you to get to the chicken exit.

Oh but autism, autism has beaten, carved, and demanded bravery from me.  Watching someone stick needles in your child, bury central lines to his heart, decide what drugs will be pumped in him, which therapies are best, and even what surgeries he should have.  Brave, well obviously someone had better make me brave.  Tell me I can jump from the highest cliff, or take a ride on an F16 with a test pilot?  If I can have those choices INSTEAD?  I'll TAKE THEM.  I choose all the other things I thought I was afraid of.   None of those 'scary heights" are scary at all when I put them in the light of autism or pandas.  From 11 months all the way into 27 years now, watching my son's suffering.  It’s bad enough that it’s the physical suffering, but the truth is, it seems the emotional suffering is the worst.
Last night after the grabbing, the biting, the pinching; the shaking, and the terror of a “street fight” with his parents, Britton hangs his head with the weight of it all.  He’s barely looked up, as the shame of it hangs on him like a wet sweater.  He knows, we understand and we don't resent him for it.  We tell him we know it’s not possible to control, we love him.   The problem is, he also knows that time is ticking.  That if he doesn’t heal, if he doesn’t get better ENOUGH, what will become of him when we are no longer able to care for him?  Who will buffer his behaviors from the rest of the world?  All I can think of is, where is his chicken exit?

This month, being autism awareness month often makes our life much harder.  People watch Rain man, or now the new television series with the autistic doctor.  It creates expectations of what autism “should” be.  (I just laughed at that because I remember a therapist telling me "you should all over yourself.")  As if we can place those expectations on the abilities of someone who has experienced Neurotoxic insult to his brain?

When I wish for that "Chicken Exit" I'm pretty sure that what I really wish for, is a time machine.  

I go back and stand in that pediatrician's office, and I take a different exit.  This time, after I stand up to explain that I have concerns about injecting all those vaccines into my baby; that he’s had a fever ever since the last one... I STAND MY GROUND.  I don’t let her bully me, NO, not this time!  I don’t go in the waiting room to think over “my decision.”  I walk out and leave.  I change my life, more importantly, I change my son’s life.  But that option does not exist.  All I can do is take the “Brave” exit every single day.  I bravely watch him deal with the possibility that he will have no future.  I bravely watch him writhe in pain from swollen intestines and stomach ulcers.  I swallow down the razors and the guilt in a giant lump as he asks me if Dad can live forever.  I cry a thousand tears when he types “can I have a wife someday?”  You tell me, please WHERE IS THE CHICKEN EXIT?

I’m pretty sure that we are NOT supposed to take the "chicken exits" in this life.  I pray it is never a viable option for me.
Oh, I could find one if I chose to.  I could decide to leave my spouse, let him handle the nightmares of autism alone.  About 96% of autism spouses do that very thing.    I could drop my son at some state facility where he would get minimal care, let's be honest, probably no care.  I could ignore him and instead meet my own needs.  The list of "Chicken Exits" is long.
I don’t want you to misunderstand me.  I’m not judging anyone.  If you’ve met one family with autism, you’ve met ONE FAMILY WITH AUTISM.   What’s right for one, is not right for another.  I just know what my heart, my choices are, the ones that are right, the ones my conscience will let me live with.

It was only last week when all over my facebook feed was a story of a family where the Dad killed his five-year-old son with autism.  FIVE?  Seriously, he was five?  Just so you know, there are families all over this world who will adopt your five-year-old son with autism.  It's not a chicken exit to admit you're done, say you can't do this life anymore and run.  RUN for help, let someone else step in, a few hours, a few days, a month...forever.  

One thing for sure,  if you go and strangle, shoot, KILL  your son or your daughter (with or without autism) you have taken the exit of no return. 

I was reading Hebrews 11, that's the faith chapter...some call it the roll call of faith.  I decided to change some of the wording, to be what a lot of us live within our lives with autism.  Artistic license, I don't believe God will mind.

Through acts of faith, they toppled judgments, made justice work, took the promises for themselves. They were protected from evil governments, judgemental family members, and abusive therapy centers, these families turned disadvantage to advantage, won battles, routed greedy senators. Moms received their children back from autism hell. There were those who, under torture, even from Pandas refused to give in, give up and go free, preferring something better: a new life.  Others braved abuse and whips, and, yes, locked doors and solitary confinement. We have stories of those who were punched, pinched, beaten, murdered in cold blood; stories of those with autism wandering the earth naked, homeless, friendless, powerless—the world didn’t deserve them!—making their way as best they could on the cruel edges of life.

Not one of these families, even though their lives of faith were exemplary, got their hands on what was promised. God had a better plan for them: that their faith and our faith would come together to make one completed whole, their lives of faith not complete apart from ours.

I read it over and over, letting it all sink in.

Because faith is the very thing I hope for even though I can't hold it in my hands.  How often it tries to sift through my fingers like dry sand.  It feels elusive, and when I'm looking for the chicken exit, I find my hands empty grasping for anything solid to steady my rising panic.

I saw a woman with a blue autism awareness shirt on at the Costco yesterday.  All proud of what she supports, and she nods as she walks past Britton and I.  It's been my experience that those who support the "blue lights" and blue sprinkle cookies give their dollars to a cause they fear but have no understanding of.   I suspect that it is a sort of "guilt" offering.  A trade for safety?  Please take my money but keep autism far away from my family.

Young mothers with their sweet babies in tow are terrified of autism.  They all know a "friend" whose child has it.  They hear conflicting information about HOW the child became autistic and they hopefully are frightened enough to do some research.  If they make the mistake of asking their pediatrician they will be reassured that vaccines have never caused autism. (In spite of it's listing as a side effect in the package insert!)  That's the myth that the CDC has paid the medical community well to parrot.  The false dream is repeated by these mothers, til bam, their child is the one in 36.

I want to scream, "STOP TAKING THE CHICKEN EXIT!"  Trust me, it will be one of the best choices you ever make!

It is only fitting that I add that when I read the story of the temptation of Jesus, I am rocked by the reality of all those powerful"Chicken Exits." I imagine Satan standing, watching Jesus be beaten, hand outstretched offering him "the exits."  Again, He must've stood at the foot of the cross and reached up and said just say the word and this ends!  You know those "exits" were kept on the table till he took his last breath.  What would we do if he had folded, given in and said okay?  I can't imagine Jesus ever taking a Chicken Exit.  All of our futures depended on him standing strong.  Though that's an extreme comparison, so much does depend on whether we do the same thing.  Our children, our grandchildren, the people in our tribe who watch, who pray.  There are those wondering if the next blow will be the thing that makes you take the chicken exit... or will you reach through the heavens and clasp the hands of Jesus, knowing He can be trusted to get you through?

I intended to post this Monday, but Britton had a long grand mal seizure from a stand, hit the floor hard and I held my breath waiting to see if the shoulder was still intact.  The six hours while he was unconscious, praying every prayer.  Repeating every scripture.  Those are the moments that the Chicken Exits can look so enticing, aren't they?  As I imagined Jesus on the cross and Satan at the foot of it, making offers no one could refuse... it strengthened me to stand strong. "Because He lives I can face tomorrow."  So today, I turn my back on all those exits.  I look up into the face of Jesus and I'm grateful for his strength.  Today I can sing, "YOU make me brave," and I swallow the hope and feel it wash courage over my whole body.  JESUS, YOU make even me brave.     


Amazing places you can donate to that make a difference.  Take the money you would've spent on blue light bulbs, blue t-shirts, and sugar cookies sprinkled blue frosting... These places REALLY HELP local families survive, and even thrive.  It could be the difference whether one of them takes the "Chicken Exit."  

CAMP BLESSING
A FANTASTIC Christian Camp that Britton attends every year.  They treat him with love and respect.  They try hard to make him feel loved, welcomed, appreciated.  He is so happy when he goes.  Nervous, but excited.  He loves being with young adults close to his age.  He likes to feel like he can hang with the counselors.  It's almost five days that Randy and I can be together.  Eat dinner, see a movie, get a massage.  It feels like the best week of the year.  We KNOW they will call us if there are any problems.  They will watch over him ever so carefully.  This year they had a respite weekend TOO.  What an incredible gift that was.
www.campblessing.org

Autism Rescue Angels is an organization that helps local families pay for situations, needs, difficulties.  Like extra care for a single mom when she is injured and needs more caregivers for six weeks while she heals.  Providing registration fees for others for conferences and training that they couldn't afford otherwise.  They do so many things for LOCAL families; the list is long.  But they HELP.
www.autismrescueangels.org

Happy Someday provides vacations for special needs families who never get one.  RESPITE!  Sometimes families dream to vacation WITH their autistic child and sometimes a vacation for the parents to escape autism.  They are local and exist on the donations of people who really want to help.  
www.happysomeday.com

Plan B

Today I had a difficult discussion about suffering.  About how suffering is a matter of perception.  About how we all suffer.  Life can throw us some serious curve balls.  ALL OF US.  I suppose a few escape, although when you talk to someone long enough you will find out they too have suffered.

We really go from one life event to the next.  We suffer, life gets better or changes.  Then we have some weeks of smooth sailing if we are lucky and then the next season of suffering comes.  It's funny how we humans are, how we compare suffering.  I'd like to believe I don't do that but I'd be lying to myself.  No sleep is a huge source of suffering in my life.  We will have been awake for more nights than either of us can remember and still doing all the things required of us.  Me caring for a severely autistic adult, (my son, Britton) and my husband going to work taking care of people who suffer in other ways.

I feel sorry for him when he comes home dark purple circles, looking like someone strapped a giant sand bag on his back.  He'll drag in pulling that sand bag with him and drop into a chair.  I'll ask, "rough day?"  He'll mumble, "oh it was alright."  It'll take me a few minutes to get him to unpack those emotions.  Eventually, I get the story of the woman who cried because her husband was unfaithful.  The man who is losing everything to bankruptcy, again.  Then the one that really gets him, the family that is taking care of grandma with Alzheimer's and trying to raise a child with autism.  He just sits and stares for about 15 minutes.  Exhausted by the suffering of mankind and buried underneath his own suffering and fatigue.

But that won't last because Britton will hear him and rush into the kitchen cause Dad is home!  He loves Dad.  Dad's his favorite. Dad will use superhero strength and prop himself up and tell Britton he has to change clothes.  They will head off towards the bedroom Dad dragging the sand bag and Britton skipping behind.  Won't matter that he was up all night.  Won't matter that a seizure kept us sitting on his bed till 3 or 4am. Us both hovering, praying Britton can get enough air in his lungs to ease the blue of his lips. Face the color of dark clouds, and eyes rolled back.

That stress of the countless times has wrapped itself around our throats, choking the life out of us like an African anaconda...we barely breathe.  None of that matters to Britton.  He's severely autistic and so it does not seem that he considers the difficulties of life outside his own world.  A few minutes will race by and they will come out of the bedroom, dad changed into shorts and t-shirt, and Britton holding Dad's shoes.  He'll slowly take the shoes and start putting them on.  His second job has already begun and he's not even blinked more than a time or two.  Britton will hop up and down and squeal his dolphin squeal in anticipation of time with Dad. It may seem like only small suffering.  Just fatigue, the sacrifice of anything my husband or I would've wanted...but again small.  Our flesh cries for rest, for time with each other but we have long ago learned to silence that voice.

Then there are the days when the seizures last through the night.  We end up in the emergency room to stop them.  Britton is pumped up with drugs that will stop the seizure now but cause more later.  He gasps and moans.  We hover closer, ever protecting him from a medical world that we no longer trust.  A world that we believe created this suffering.  Most of the medical staff are good and kind people, who mean us no harm.  As a matter of fact, they hover over Britton because they believe his parents might harm him with their opinions of what caused his illnesses.  Some of them try to sneak in vaccines, or drugs they believe will be helpful.  We stand guard like soldiers on the front lines.
On rare occasions, we even attempt some education of vaccine facts, statistics.  But that world is heavily fortified against, "our kind."  We are the brain washed antivaxxers.  Blaming an industry that "only cares for our children," whom we apparently are too stupid to protect on our own.

Britton has not been that happy young man I described in a long while.  Having had seizures dislocate his shoulder 30+ times and two surgeries over the past year, he has withdrawn back into the "safety" of autism.  In that world, he knows how to act.  In that world, he knows what's expected of him.  Before, when he began to peek out into the "normal world."  It was all a mystery, all a world of hope and possibilities.  Once when he first began to communicate with us through typing he typed, "I eat hope like candy.  I eat up the possibilities."  Now I'm afraid it seems like he eats up fear and suspicion.  He doesn't seem to trust ME anymore.  He will take no risks with me.  He rarely types.  I know the arm must heal, but he will type some with dad, with others.  I am the main caregiver.  I am the one who allowed the darkness to descend and I did not save him from it.  It feels like I'm the enemy.  My heart just cracks and shatters as I say that.  It's like a mirror of his pain and his dismissal which is constant now cracks my heart into shards that cut through the rest of me.

I was discussing his suffering this morning.  I was saying that our suffering matters too.  That although I know that there are those who suffer far more, that all suffering matters to God.  We should all care, we should all attempt to stop suffering or at least help if we can. Everyone believes that.  We send money to help abandoned animals.  We support children's hospitals. Hand five dollars to the homeless.  No one likes to think of or even look at suffering.  Have you ever wondered why you don't want to go to that funeral?  Why you avoid visiting the friend in the hospital?  Could it be the suffering you're avoiding?  No one wants to deal with it.  I keep asking myself why.  What is it that makes us avoid those who are in pain?  Cause come on, we will avoid it at all costs.  We even occasionally get angry at those who do suffer.  We panic when they need us, we even accuse those who suffer of trying to "drag us down."  Cause whatever it takes to stay away from it, money, unanswered phone calls...that's what we're going to do.  I've come to the conclusion that watching others suffer, puts out mortality right in our face.  That it screams at us, "THIS COULD BE YOU."   But since no amount of avoidance or pretense will keep us safe from suffering, we rail against it.  Most of us don't manage it well, AND the big thing is, we rather not do it in silence. It's almost as if suffering makes us also feel shame? But we know...all humans suffer, so suffering appears to be part of the plan.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the original plan.  It was definitely plan B.  Originally we were going to have only happiness, contentment, and full stomachs.  Originally we were going to live in a beautiful garden and love one another unconditionally and commune with the King of the World.  But we failed miserably, after discussing the plan with a slick talking, fork-tongued garden politician. He talked us out of believing it was a good plan.  So here we are, living out plan B the only option left to us managing an "unfair" amount of suffering. We'd run from it if we could, while we stare at the backs of those who "love us." Running from us like their hair was on fire. That's a sobering reality.

Please understand this is not me blaming, not me calling people out.  I am guilty too.  I have ran when I should've stayed.  I have ran when what was needed was hand holding and a hug of reassurance.  Calm words, a listening ear and just saying that I cared.  One of the hardest things is to suffer in silence.  As if suffering isn't enough, our actions say, "YOU, go suffer over there, so we don't have to look at you while it happens. My life is in a pleasant season right now, so I'd rather not be reminded that other people are hurting."  Yikks definitely not plan A.

This past year I have lost contact with so many people in my life.   I believe that many and frustrated that my tragedy just won't end.  Boy, I sure understand that.  I'm beyond tired of it myself.  As if I have control over how long it will last.  I mean, I always thought all of Britton's illnesses would get better.  I thought when he became an adult that we would've figured out. Yep, that's what I thought years ago...but there really is no prognosis for autism...no one has gone this way before.

Autism by its very nature is isolating.  There is so little understanding of it, and parents are so protective.  People outside the autism world can't possibly understand it, no matter how hard they try.  Thank goodness so many do try.  God bless you for trying.  God bless each of us when we try to understand each other's pain.

At Christmas, I was walking through my neighborhood and looking at an entire block of houses that are still vacant.  Hurricane Harvey ravaged our subdivision with water, mud, and vengeance I had never experienced.  If they aren't vacant the people are living without interior walls, floors, ceilings, appliances.  Blocks and blocks of this in my subdivision.  Then come to the next block and there were Christmas lights on houses.  I just couldn't do it.  I couldn't put up Christmas lights this year.  Not that I had time, but it felt like a mockery to the families that didn't have their houses back.  I'm not saying it is, I'm saying it's how I felt.  Instead, we made Christmas goodies and I and my granddaughter knocked on doors and handed them out.  I just wanted to acknowledge they still suffered.  No, it's not Lybia and human trafficking, which should definitely be acknowledged.  But their suffering still matters.  Your suffering matters.  Whatever is happening in your world.  If your spouse is not well.  If your marriage is not well.  If your physical body is failing you.  Perhaps Hurricane Harvey has brought you to bankruptcy.  Your suffering matters.  I just want to acknowledge that.  I want to say that humans suffer.  That we should stop and listen to each other.  If not with our ears then with our hearts.  That we all must realize that we are humans, we are mortal and fallible.  That we should help each other when we can.  We need to show we care. Let's not let the business of life keep us from reaching out to each other.  Because humanity is our business.  We must come to understand that the degree of suffering is relative to the individual experiencing it.  Deciding the suffering isn't enough to warrant our concern is not part of plan A or B.  I pray that suffering has taught me that at least.  I know that no matter what someone is suffering I want to console them.  If God places them in my path, I want to notice and be His hand to that person every time I can be.  I want to listen when that person needs to talk.  I want to hug them when their soul bleeds.  I want to be Jesus to them because it's the least I can do.  Suffering is Plan B.  Suffering appears as a cruel taskmaster.  Taking away our hopes, lashing our flesh into submission.

I love Helen Keller's quote, "Although the world is full of suffering.  It is also full of overcoming it."  Yes, and she would know.

You're Not Alone

2017... oh I know I should have something good to say about you, but seriously you don't deserve much more than rolled eyes and a shaking head. You began with seizures, more than we had ever had. 30+ trips to the ER, 31+ shoulder dislocations. 8 shoulder surgeons, 78 phone calls to the insurance company, tears that can't be counted, and stress that no human can endure alone. After 200 units of botox injected, Two shoulder surgeries, 17 shoulder slings, two HEAVY metal braces, and one 32lb cast. I will give you that a great many lessons have been learned. 2017 has shown us who our friends are, and it has sanded us to our bones.

Yep, 2017 is not a year to look back on with much fondness.  

I know that I should and am grateful for the lessons learned, however right now I'm still licking my wounds. I've at least earned the right to be a tad bit sarcastic with 2017.  

In all that chaos and sadness, through the darkness so many kindnesses, so many people have stepped forward to try to ease our pain. Friends have called and begged me to let them help me somehow. A very dear friend paid for and donated the over $2000 in botox that the procedure required. When my friend Michelle texted me from her VACATION... I was so humbled by her concern. Her rare trip, her NEVER get to be away from autism, and she still worried about us. Michelle and her husband are hiking, and it reminded me of a trip we took to Kauai about 15 years ago. It was before autism beat us into submission and taught us that the "breaks away from autism" were to be extremely rare. Yet she thought of us and texted a quick word of encouragement. Thinking of other autism families even when it was her moment to forget about living in the war zone.  

That's what got me thinking about Kauai. About people who care about others when they hardly know them. In the autism world, we all experience so much suffering with so little understanding. So few people even accept WHY our kids are autistic. About that same number are willing to really LOOK at how much suffering and sadness go with it.  The everyday struggle, the exhaustion, the never knowing what is really the right thing to do. It wears on a family. It's the reason so many of us spend so much time on our knees. Only God has any answers for us.

I believe it was 2005, we had been given a trip to Kauai by one of my former personal training clients. She became a good friend, and offered us a trip at minimal cost. Ecstatic who could say NO to that? Hiking is what we love, and so it was one of the first things we wanted to do. We had only been once before and we didn't know much about hiking there or how early the sun went down. But some friends of ours had gone a few months before and told us of being caught up on the volcano in the dark, and encouraged us to never repeat their mistake. So, we started our hike around noon, it was suppose to be a three hour hike. Hour and a half up and an hour and half down. We encouraged the couple we were with to keep a steady pace. Unbeknownst to us they were NOT hikers. (Their white shorts should've been a clue that hiking was not something they did very often.). There is so much to see and lots of awe inspiring views. But we pressed them, trying to drive home the truth of how fast darkness can fall. We had been warned a few years before from a story told to us by some friends who were caught in that darkness. The blackness of the volcanoes when the sun dives into the Pacific is inky and unsettling. Our urgency didn't really seem so important, so we "lollygagged" up to the top, and we were left with one hour to make an hour and a half hike back down.

As the lackadaisical hiking proceeded, Randy and I began to pick up the pace. It had rained some, and so the rocks were snot slick. One of our friends did not have on proper shoes and did a lot of "dancing on the rocks" trying to keep from messing up those white shorts. An impossible feat. She was wearing red mud within minutes. Broke lots of finger nails, bled all over the place. The darkness chased us, like a pup after a fox and we were to unaware to see the danger. Why oh why didn't we pack flash lights? A mistake we have never repeated since. Lesson learned. *There weren't flashlights on cellphones back in the day.

At about 45 minutes into our descent the sun was barely peaking over the horizon and we were already in shadow. We all swallowed the fear that reality served up. We would not be getting down before the darkness enveloped us. The ledge was about two feet wide, and it's a good 900 feet plummet off the edge to get to the ocean.  
I swallow hard now, just remembering it. We eventually put our backs to the wall of rock and clasped hands as we side stepped down the volcano. Shuffling down takes a really long time, and as we scooted down we came along other inexperienced hikers who had also miscalculated their hiking time. Nearly three hours of nail biting, slipping, near death experiences and we still had hours to go. When we got about 10 minutes from the bottom, Randy and I ran the rest of the way. We had hiked it before and we ran to our car and pulled it up to the bottom to shine the headlights up as far as they would go. By the time the last hiker slid to the bottom it was 7pm. You could not see your hand in front of your face.

We had never even SEEN the 8 strangers who ended up clasping hands and helping each other down. 12 strangers. 6 couples who had been caught in the same scary situation, held hands for hours, drawing hope, peace and encouragement from each other. Two couples on their honeymoon, two couples on anniversary trips and our friends and us.

Total strangers who with sweaty death grips had encouraged each other. Kept each other from slipping. Saved total strangers from plummeting to certain death. We had laughed and cried for hours. It was strange as they came down to the bottom and the light put faces with voices and the supporting hands that had given us courage. It's an experience I've thought on a lot this year.

As the majority of the hands that have held me are not people I've ever met before. They are autism moms, from families that struggle with the same scary life I struggle with every day. They clasp my hands and encourage me. They send me messages on facebook from as far away as Australia. They offer peace, hope and encouragement. Someday I hope to "shine the headlights" on their faces, and actually hug them for getting me through.

Britton has had 3 good days in December. THREE, that's it. It has been the last month to end a year that I will NEVER forget and pray to never repeat. There have been more difficulties than I care to recount. On top of how much pain and sickness Britton has suffered. Randy and I have had so little sleep that we both have had days that we just sit down and cry. We've argued, we've yelled at each other. *We don't argue and we don't yell, we never have. It's been a solid year where we averaged less than 4 hours of sleep nightly. Because we are operating on less than optum ability to think or function... we've made lots of mistakes, forgotten to pay bills, waited to the last second to do important things. Taken care of the urgent while the important was left simmering on the back burn er. We've made family and friends, people we love mad. Hurt peoples feelings without meaning to... Never more than this year has it been driven home to me that "normal" lives cannot possibly mix well in the "war zone" of autism.

Not all autism is as complicated or severe as others. 50% don't have seizures, (thank goodness) 50% are verbal. (sounds like a dream to me.). I don't know how many are as medically fragile as my son, but health is indeed a gift. Autism families learn how to manage every single day, what would be a tragic occurrence to any other families life. Autism families stand together, pray for each other, help each other. Arm in arm they encourage, they suggest help, they lend a listening ear. They even offer each other money, and they mean it. This year more than any other I've experienced the concern, the love the strength of those other families. I cry out and they clasp my hands and promise to hold me in the darkness.  

This morning when I woke up there was a song playing in my mind. I don't remember hearing it before so I googled it and up came -Oh My Soul. I've cried off an on most of the day since reading the words. They have been medicine for my soul. I'll share the chorus and my favorite verse.

Oh, my soul

You are not alone

There's a place where fear has to face the God you know

One more day, He will make a way

Let Him show you how, you can lay this down

'Cause you're not alone

Here and now

You can be honest

I won't try to promise that someday it all works out

'Cause this is the valley

And even now, He is breathing on your dry bones

And there will be dancing

There will be beauty where beauty was ash and stone

This much I know
https://youtu.be/DjNZf878ISQ

We've had some really amazing years in the past. Years of health, and progress. Two years ago Britton began to type, and it was the best year we ever had since autism had tried to drown us. Typing changed everything. Knowing who he is, and what he knows made autism seem like an even crueler punishment. But we had reached him in his silent prison and the world began to hear him.  

25 years of silence and on April 15, 2016 he typed his first sentence. It has seemed like a battleground for his health almost from that day forward. It is not lost on me that it is his left shoulder, his dominant shoulder has been nearly destroyed. He has spent months without being able to type. Between the pain and the inability to move the arm, typing has been almost lost. 

Once again, autism has silenced my son. As I look forward to 2018 I believe for much better things for all of us. That the arm will heal, that seizures will be a thing of the past, that typing will again flow. That Britton will blossom and step into the destiny that God so graciously placed in his path. That we will remember what happiness feels like, that we will be so changed by the sanding of 2017's trials, that compassion will pour out from us onto others who suffer. That we will be able to comfort others with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. I pray that God uses this. This is the place where FEAR has to face the God I know. That is a big thing for me, and it is an agreement God and I have. That He promises NEVER to waste any suffering. He promises that I can trust Him with the fear and pain. He promises me, and He also makes the same promises to you if you choose to believe Him.  

So in the darkness, as I reach for the invisible hand of God. I clasp the hands of strangers in His stead. Strangers from all over the world. Strangers who suffer the same grief, the same difficulties. Each having to watch their own child drown under the ailments which have been categorized as autism. It's good to know that we understand each other. It's good to know that when I reach for help I will always find it. Because in holding hands, and seeking healing for our children, the love of God flows through each hand to the other. Bringing God's peace, God's love, and God's healing for our souls.

Was Christmas Ever Easy?

Autism is hard. (massive understatement) Autism is always hard, but it's hardest on holidays or special occasions. In the beginning of autism, I had thought that it wasn't going to last a lifetime.  But instead here we are 27 years later and it's been a lonnnnng lifetime already.
Most of this Christmas week, I've been thinking about Mary and Joseph. As the past year has been an intense journey from one blaring fiery trial to the next. I've been thinking how Joseph and Mary must've felt their fiery trial would never end.

Really think about their situations. Mary agrees to do the unthinkable. Agrees to yield her body to the most high to be the conduit for God himself to bring his son into the world. That sounds nothing short of amazing until you realize no one, NOT ONE PERSON was ever going believe her story. That her entire future hung in the balance, and the love of her life, her betrothel, all of it in jeopardy. Would the man of her dreams still accept her, or would he walk away? She gambled, she trusted, God showed her a cliff that looked into a deep chasm and said jump. Mary said, "I am the Lord's servant. Let what you say happen to me. If only I/we could be so obedient.

“Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!” 

And Joseph, can you imagine? The love of his life is pregnant, and HE KNOWS it's not his. If he marries her everyone will believe he had no self restraint. That he had dishonored his own wife. The ridicule, the jokes, the humiliation he must've faced. That's not so bad, I guess, humiliation is really a small thing to many of us. Especially in the world of autism. We hardly notice it anymore. Apparently both these young people, this young man, and very young woman accepted it as part of the cost of obedience. I always wonder if Mary went to see Elizabeth because she had to get away from all of the gossip. Out of sight out of mind? Maybe it was easier for Joseph to make a decision if he didn't have to look at her growing belly every single day? Who can say, but there is no way it was an easy situation. Do you ever wonder how many people Mary told? Who could she entrust with such an unlikely tale? And Joseph? Did he explain to the rabbis at the synagogue what an angel had told him? Chances are, this was one of the best kept secrets of all time. They marry, Mary continues to grow the baby. Do Mary and Joseph discuss this miracle between them in the late hours of the night? Then, Caesar Augustus declares a census! What else could make a man gather up his tiny young wife, big with child and place her on a donkey to take a last minute trip? I imagine his prayers, "But God, I married her anyways. I have trusted you with everything in this situation. Now, how am I to take her on such an arduous journey? Couldn't you spare us one difficulty?" The worry, the fears that must have accompanied them all along the journey. But God is silent. I keep thinking about that. God is silent! This is the biggest moment on planet earth, and God has entrusted it to two fallible, young people. HE TRUSTED them, to do what He told them to do. Incredible. The trip goes from bad to worse because the unthinkable happens and Mary goes into labor. It's a few weeks earlier than the midwife predicted. They had hoped that she might even be a few days late, but here they are, not quite arrived in Bethlehem, and the pains bear down on Mary. It's too soon! Maybe brought on by the long ride on the donkey? Have you ever wondered what Mary may have said on the way? "Joseph, I am so sorry. I don't even know why you married me. I'm so sorry for the humiliation and now this? Where will the baby be born? Who will help me bring this baby into the world?" Did they speak of Jesus father? Did she ask God, "How can you let your son be born on the side of the road? God you must do something!" She was human, even if she was better than most of us. They get to Bethlehem and guess what? All the hotels are full. Not one, not even the Motel 6 has a room. They are forced to accept the barn behind the motel 6. Now I expect both their prayers might've gone something like this. "God where are you? Mary has gone into labor and there's not even a bed for her to lay down on. Are you expecting ME to deliver a baby? Your BABY? And God, has anyone ever been more obedient than I have in this? I just can't believe this can be your answer to my prayers." Then Mary might've added her own panicked words to the mix. "Father God, your son is about to be born in a barn. You must know this is happening. Please assure me that this is your will, that our going on this trip at the last minute didn't mess up your plans." (I had to throw that in because we actually believe we can mess up God's plans.). There are so many possible ways to panic. So much that was unknown. Two of the most incredibly obedient servants, wondering with all that's in them what God is doing. IF God is IN any part of the nightmare they are now living. What has Obedience actually done for them? We don't know if Joseph delivered baby Jesus. We don't know if it was a long labor or a difficult delivery. But if precedence has anything to do with it, none of it was easy.

“Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmastime.” 

I have thought about their lives a lot because of Christmas. Because of how hard the past year has been for my family. How many times I feel like I have laid down all that I am at the foot of the cross, only to be stepped on by a world that looks the other way and pretends my pain is my fault. Before I can even lift my head from praying, there is usually someone who will crush my heart with words of condemnation, or maybe just misuderstanding. The hardest part for me has been the loneliness. People don't know what to do so they do nothing. I don't know what to tell them to do so I don't ask for help. Alone is not a good place to be in the dark. When the only sound you hear is your son's moaning and your own desperate prayers.
I confess I have spent far too much of this past year wondering how, wondering why, wondering IF I am doing the right thing each day. I was thinking how God never promised to explain anything to any of us. It seems that most of His admonishments are more like, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding." Yep most all of them translate into something like, "I got this! No need for you to worry about it. Just do what I tell you to do. Of course you can and should trust me because I am trustworthy. Besides it will make your life more peaceful and happy." That's the jest of it. I suppose I could feel picked on but were you listening to the story of Jesus birth? It's not like they received a lot of special treatment.  

I know that God is good. If I didn't believe that, faith would be impossible. Reaching out to take the hand of an invisible God can feel like a foolhardy grasp into the darkness. Stumbling in that dark more days than not, I keep wondering, wishing for someone to flip the switch and a glorious light to illuminate why all these difficulties have come. One of the most important to me is how living through them has even mattered or made any sense.  
This has been one of the darkest moments in my life. At a particularly low moment recently, I asked God if he would recognize my voice in the darkness. 'Cause it seems that I'm at the bottom of a pit, and it's so deep, so far down that no light penetrates the suffering. Then I laugh out loud and cry because I know that God must recognize my voice. I've left Him no choice. He hears it almost nonstop every single day. One thing for sure, I have prayed til my throat is raw while sobbing out a mountain of frustrations! I'm a tad embarrassed to say it has happened enough days that there's not one chance that God won't know exactly who it is calling out his name. It can't matter how deep or dark this trial. It does not matter how deeply I'm buried in this pain and confusion. God will still hear my voice.

So on Christmas morning, probably sometime in the wee hours. Jesus took his first breath on earth. Inhaled the very air of a celestial world he himself had created. So vulnerable, so fragile, the son of God was born to two humans. He drank human breast milk. He wore cloth diapers. He was watched over by a human Father who truly believed this tiny baby was indeed the son of God.

I am so grateful that God guided the wise men with that amazing star. I love that the angels brought the shepherds by singing the birth announcement. It was wonderful love and kindness to do so. God could've left them there alone, with the greatest secret ever given to the world. But even God was a proud father. He set a giant star in the sky. He sent angels to sing of the miracle birth and He brought Kings of earth to see what a real king looks like.

“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful. ”

I can see Joseph take Mary's hand when the kings bow their jeweled crowns before the peasant baby. I can see their faith solidified by God's acknowledgment of His son. It was like the Father himself put a glowing light of love all around them and hugged that tiny new family with His presence.

The realization of those things, helps me keep going. Helps me push forward when I see no way that things can ever change. Helps me hold on to God's hand long after the warmth of His presence has diminished. Helps me believe there is light no matter how much darkness fills my heart and mind. So I reach for the invisible God I know is there. I pray in the depth of the darkness, and although only my voice echoes back at me... I trust that He hears and recognizes my voice. Christmas proves that God does act in the affairs of man. It is the GREAT plan for Him to do so. We are not left here to fend for ourselves and hope that God might notice us. He always notices, He always hears, and on Christmas morning He leaned down and kissed the earth with His love.

“And when we give each other Christmas gifts in His name, let us remember that He has given us the sun and the moon and the stars, and the earth with its forests and mountains and oceans--and all that lives and move upon them. He has given us all green things and everything that blossoms and bears fruit and all that we quarrel about and all that we have misused--and to save us from our foolishness, from all our sins, He came down to earth and gave us Himself.”  

A Flood of Pain and Grace

I live in Houston, Texas.  Saying that brings about a million thoughts to your mind at this moment in weather history.  The near 50" of rain in my neighborhood came down and down and down and I seriously thought it would never end.  Made me think about the bible character Noah more than once.  I wondered how he endured 40 days and 40 nights listening to the pelting rain?  Then more than a year inside small quarters of stuffy, moldy animal dung along with his entire family?  You gotta admit, not a very fun prospect.  Til you really think it through, really remember what was happening.  All the people, EVERYONE, and everything was drowning all around that boat.  I'm sure they heard crying, screaming, and lots of begging.  People knocking on the door begging to be let in.  I shudder thinking about it.  When things are really bad, it's definitely our family we want to hug every night.  I imagine them holding a candlelit lantern sitting on the rolling ship, arms locked together.  The people who mean the most, we want with us when the chips are down.  Whether that family is blood or the people in our lives that treat us like family.  We need that family during a flood.

As I thought about the word flood, I thought about how it can be used to describe more than "overfilling of too much water, a deluge, a torrent.  It can be a flood of emotions, a deluge of pain, a flood of hope, or a torrent of grace.  This last year has contained so many floods for our family.  We've watched our son in one flood after the next.  As if severe autism isn't enough, he has endured a flood of seizures that we thought might never end.  A deluge of pain as his shoulder dislocated over and over.  (31 times to date)  A torrent of frustration as no one seemed to be able to help us find a way out of this cycle of seizures and dislocations.  

Then all your troubles will fade from your memory, like floods that are past and remembered no more. JOB 11:16

Perspective is really, REALLY a magical thing. My concern for my son's shoulder over rides the flood, whether our business would survive the flood, how would we repair our home... and pretty much everything else at that moment or even now.  When the flood waters rose higher and higher, and we finally accepted the inevitable...we put our furniture up as high as we could and we went to sleep.
I laugh about it a little because, the "old me" the worry wart me would never have gone to sleep.  But I kept thinking of Jesus sleeping in the boat while his disciples flipped out.  Then He had the audacity  to ask them, "why are you so afraid, have you no faith?"  Good questions.  The disciples might've even had some good laughs about that moment years later.  But I guarantee you they were not amused standing in the pouring rain, hair matted to their faces, clothes drenched and the waves pounding them to the deck.

I've struggled and argued and wrestled insurance representatives for over 87 days.  Cried at least four or five times every day for over three months.  Given up, dragged myself off the floor, begged God for a miracle, and repeated the horrible cycle.  Hoped and prayed and tried not to succumb to the stream of emotions as I worry I can't help my son get his shoulder repaired.



In case you don't know our story, Britton's shoulder has dislocated over 30 times now.  It began back in September of 2016, when he had a seizure standing up and fell backwards into the wall.  It's been a constant since then.  Seizure, subsequent shoulder dislocation, lather rinse and repeat every painful time .  Over and over it would happen again, with no end in sight til it finally cracked two bones, and tore up all the ligaments. (In case you are thinking, "what's wrong with these people?  Why don't they get it surgically repaired?  NO ONE would repair it.  Seizures would tear it up before it could heal, far too risky.).  It's no longer just a dislocated shoulder, it's a wicked bad, and serious shoulder injury on his dominate arm.  Now the arm can't go back in place without surgery and it just hangs like a puppet arm whose strings have been cut.

I expect Britton would say it's been a flood of disappointments and pain from where he's sitting.  He never talks about the pain, he only begs for help and lashes out on his iPad asking me why I won't help him.  Recently he typed, "you are mean!"  I was surprised and asked him, "why, why am I mean?"  He typed, "you won't help me with my shoulder. "  My heart still throbs from that indictment.  I think he may be the bravest, strongest person I have ever known.  He's had 8" needles to place lidocaine in that joint 9 times so far. He's endured seizures, and drugs, allergic reactions, ER doctors who try but have never put a shoulder back in.  AND... the drugs, I've lost count of the more than 17 IV's with on average 8 infusions of medications to knock him out long enough to get his shoulder back in.  Trying all kinds of treatments, anything that might help.  He has tried to be brave and stay strong and not give in to depression and hopelessness.  Which is more than I can say for myself.

Each morning Britton and I turn on our church "live stream" and I ask him if he wants to watch Ms. Jessica sing?  (Our praise and worship leader)  He always does and we relive the Sunday before, or the Friday or which ever service we decide to watch.  It brings a flood of relief as we are able to leave this physical world and step out of our flesh for  long enough to forget all our pain and worries.  I squeeze my eyes closed and remember there is nothing like God's embrace.  Standing under a flood of hope and unconditional love we are strengthened for another day.  Undergirded with the truth that God does care, and He is working on our behalf.  As the last prayer is said, I am reminded with a flood of gratefulness that God is good and He is asking me the same questions he asked those first disciples as they were pummeled by their storm.
I can see them in my minds eye as they held tightly to the ropes or the sides of the boat as it rocked.  They watched the waves get taller and the clouds darker.  Drenched from top to bottom and sure this was the end, beyond exasperated that Jesus sleeps undisturbed.  

The Galilean Sea was well known for it's storms and every disciple knew someone who had been lost there.  But in that moment of total fear, Jesus exhausted from teaching, healing, and loving this world slept the peaceful sleep of confidence.  As I pictured that story in my mind, I giggled albeit with a tear rolling down my face.  Jesus snoring, those disciples wet and angry.  I can see them, fists clenched, teeth gritted watching him snore.  We've all been there.  Where is God when the waves are high and the rain won't stop?  If we get the guts to wake Him, we might be more than a little angry ourselves.  Demanding he DO SOMETHING to intervene in our situation.  With our fists still clenched our souls rebel from the sting of the same questions.  "Why are you afraid?  Where is your faith?"

I have been on a downward spiral the last few weeks.  I have cried so many times it seems like if I'm awake I'm crying.  After being told NO, by  the insurance company, the insurance coordinators, the hospital.  Everyone said this surgery would not, could not happen.  They were all out of network, and I was all out of ideas.   As I inhaled to release the next flood of tears,  I heard the question in a far off whisper.  It seemed like I had been ramming my head up against yet one more brick wall made out of denials and new reasons why insurance can't do the right thing.  Red tape, bureaucracy all wrapped around my throat so tight til I couldn't even cry out for help one more time.  So I sat in a crumbled pile of despair and whimpered my prayers.  It is no small feat to get an insurance company to say they will pay for a surgery OUT OF NETWORK!  As a matter of fact I would say unequivocally that it took a miracle.  I saw the number on the caller ID and I sighed, heavy and let the sadness drain out of my heart before I said hello.  She said, "Mrs. Holman, we have received the letter of agreement from United Healthcare."  I couldn't breathe.  I felt so many emotions that I couldn't speak.  She said, "Mrs. Holman are you there, did you hear me?"  I swallowed down that gigantic rock of disbelief and said, "I'm here, I don't know what to say.  Thank God."  I hung up and I danced,  I praised God, I shouted.  I laughed and I sang.  Victory, FINALLY, Jesus was awake!

There would be lots to do.  We had to get lots of botox in that shoulder.  (Jump off that bridge when we get there). Then spend the next two weeks after surviving his "noodle arm" while we wait for the botox to do it's thing.  Sounds simple, sure unless you're severely autistic.  

I did explain the whole process to Britton, ad nauseam.  I'm sure til he wanted to say, "STOP TELLING ME, I got it!"  But I needed to be sure he understood.  I needed to be sure that when they started using his arm for a pin cushion we would get yet ANOTHER miracle and he would hold still for it. Yeah I know, what was I thinking?  

We showed up for the botox, the entire staff was amazing.  BRITTON was like a different person.  To put a person with severe autism on a gurney and expect them to lay there and get stuck with countless needles, is not even fathomable.  We thought he would be sedated.  Apparently we were mistaken.  But the unreal happened.  He laid there, he cooperated, he communicated by nodding yes and no.  We watched a miracle, we were there in the presence of Jesus as He overshadowed the room and peace permeated all of us.  My son was calm, my son was brave.  The surgeon told him he was far braver than the football players he worked on every day.  God was so mighty to me at that moment.  I absorbed the love, the presence of God like a flower blooming in a desert rain.  The best day EVER.

THEN... Wednesday came.  Britton woke up with a surly look on his face and growling at every request.  I gave him the extra pain medications as instructed.  He got more upset, he was not himself as each minute passed he became more agitated.  A lot happened that I'm not willing to write about... but there were seizures, there was a drug reaction and there was a 911 call.  From the peace of the procedure room to the terror of aggression and pain.  We plummeted down from the mountain top of faith into the Valley of despair like greased lightning.  Fear like something wild reared it's ugly head and came at both us like the highest wave of the Galilean Sea.  It crashed over Britton and the next wave crushed us both to the bottom of despair.  He lay on the bathroom floor in a restaurant with his face spasming and hallucinating and lashing out like he didn't even know where he was.  Foaming at the mouth, my hands wiping away blood.  The enemy had come in like a flood, and he laughed while we bleed.  What an ordeal, and when we finally got home, he climbed in his bed and laid there just staring at the ceiling.   I put my hands over my face and cried inconsolable tears til I vomited.  If you've lived through some unthinkable things, and most of us have you will understand my dark thoughts.  

I was numb, and it seemed that sometimes dying is so much easier than living.  Sometimes letting go and just giving up sounds so restful, almost relief.  Life is hard and even those who seem to be skipping through unscathed usually have a hidden world none of us could imagine.  If I was fighting for myself, I'd probably given up a long time ago.  But my son, he's counting on me.  I am his voice, his advocate, his mom, his guardian.  

For thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all thy billows and thy waves passed over me. Jonah 2:3 

I had been managing just fine.  I really had.  I was dealing with an unreal amount of pressure.  I was standing firm and being solid in my faith.  I was not trying to deal with anything except my son, cause right now nothing else matters?  My son is going to get his arm repaired and I had so much to be grateful for.  But when that last wave hit me and knocked me down to my knees I couldn't breathe, I couldn't believe anymore.  Giving up, giving in and throwing in the towel felt like the only choice.  I was about to wave the white flag and scream,  "You win life!  I give up!  You're right you're the boss of all of us!"  As I took a deep breath to scream my gut wrenching accusations at a savior I was sure had fallen back asleep.  That's when I heard it.

If you believe God whispers to His children, then I'd like to share with you what I heard.  A quiet question, a gentle awakening of truth, he asked, "What will happen now?"  The strangest question, and I sure didn't have an answer for it.  Still don't.  Out loud I said, "Only you know God.  What will happen now?"  I can't even begin to imagine because sitting in a public place on a bathroom floor, mopping up blood and wondering where it will all end.  I admit it, my faith has taken a serious beating.  This flood, this flood of pain, panic, and serious fear have about pushed me under the waves of doubt wanting to scream, " I will never surface and breath in faith again.... I'd rather drown."   I'd like you to hear with me what the "sleeping savior" whispered.  

"We continue to shout our praise even when we're hemmed in with troubles, because we know how troubles can develop passionate patience in us, and how that patience in turn forges the tempered steel of virtue, keeping us alert for whatever God will do next."Romans 5:3-4

My mind kept envisioning a strong sword, bent and dull.  It was in the fire, glowing hot and changing shape.  I'd like to say I enjoyed it.  I'd like to say I embraced it.  But my next vision was the blacksmith hammering that sword on the anvil.  I've been feeling every swing of the hammer, pounding away at my doubts.  Beating my flesh so that it can finally give up and allow my spirit to trust the God I say I believe in.  

Without warning I felt a warm wash of God's spirit fall over me like a shower of warm faith.  I squeezed my eyes and breathed in the presence of a very AWAKE savior.  Feeling the assurance that if I could only, let go... if I could only BELIEVE God and not only what my eyes can see.   Then miracles would continue to happen.  As I held my doubts with a death grip, in my minds eye I stared Jesus in the eyes and swallowed down all my fears.  How grateful I am that God's answers are wiser than my prayers.   

I do not know what is going to happen in the next few months.  How many meltdowns, how much struggle, how much courage will be needed.  I hope that I can say things like, "God intervened in a miraculous way.  He brought healing to our situation and our hearts.  Britton handled the surgery and subsequent pain like the warrior he was during the botox injections.  I hope...

"Faith is, the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."  

I definitely do not see one minute ahead.  I cannot even look very far because if I do, my heart may fail me for what is required.  I trust that the grace I need will meet me the moment I need it.   I definitely do not know how this will turn out .  But until then, I will pray that the newly forged Steele of my heart is battle ready.  That warring against my own flesh will create a faith in me that is stronger than even I can believe for.  Mark Twain said, "forgiveness is the fragrance that the violets sheds on the heel that crushed it."
To me it seems that courage is the essence of the heart squeezed hard by brutal trials, leaving behind the perfume of faith.