To Error is Human

I've been thinking a lot the past few days. I know, that can be dangerous, but sometimes I just can't help myself. Like a lot of people's, my Facebook feed looks like a billion bags of Skittles exploded all over the internet. I don't mean that derogatory at all, in fact it's quite happy and cheerful. The colors that is. All of the posts, not so much. It seems everyone has an opinion and wants to share it. 

I'm a naturally curious person. And I've always liked to watch people and ponder human nature. I find the diversity of humanity fascinating. So I've been reading a lot. Posts and opinions and blogs. Some of them have made me chuckle. Some of them have made me think, and rethink. And some of them have made me angry.

I consider myself a "woman of faith", I call myself a Christian. I may not wave the Christian flag in front of everyone, but my faith is very important to me. Important and deeply personal. Most of what I learned about faith came from my Dad. And of course, the church I was raised in. But first and foremost, it was my Dad who taught me about God and Jesus and unconditional love.

One of the first things my Dad taught me was the Golden Rule. You know the one, "Do unto other as you would have them do unto you." Way before he ever brought up the 10 Commandments or any other biblical teachings. You see, he believed that a three year old could understand the simplicity of the Golden Rule, but would have no clue about adultery or coveting or most of the other stuff. But treating others the way you wish they would treat you? With kindness and respect and dignity, even when you don't agree? Even a preschooler could understand that. And he expected us to not only understand it, but live it.

My dad, who went to seminary, who owned more Bibles and books about the Bible than all other kinds of books in our house combined. (Including children's books. And we had a lot of children's books. Reading was a highly loved skill in our household.) This man who loved The Lord, who loved to delve into the scriptures, he knew that the Bible teaches many, many different things. And that these many teachings can, and are, interpreted differently by different people. This is why we have many different denominations, all based on the same ancient book.

God created us with free will. And one of the ways we use that free will is to interpret the teachings in the Bible. Do we make mistakes? We most assuredly do. I'm sure I do, I'm pretty sure you do to. But you know what? God forgives us when we make those mistakes. He sees our hearts, knows that we are trying to do the right thing. Even if its not what he intended. And He loves us anyway. In spite of our short comings or because of them, I'm not really sure. But I know He loves me.

For my Dad, the most important lesson in the entire Bible was to love one another. And to view all other scriptures through this lens of love. I can't tell you how often I heard from my Dad: "All we have to do is love one another. That's it. Just love each other, the rest is up to God." It was his way of telling us that it is not our place to judge. That our place is to be kind, respectful, love each other. All the others. No exceptions. Period.  I agree with my Dad.

So I'm going to love my fellow humans. All fellow humans, whether they are straight, LGBTQ, disabled, Muslim, atheist, or are different in any other manner. I will love them. And I will break bread with them. And I will celebrate with them. Right where they are. 

Am I right? Is my interpretation of the Bible the correct one? I can't say. But what I can say is that in the end, when I'm standing before my Creator I can tell Him that I did what I really thought was the right thing, what I thought His Book was teaching me. If I'm wrong, I believe He will forgive me and welcome me through the pearly gates. And I will know that even though I was wrong, at least my error didn't harm anyone else. Because if I'm going to error, I want to error on the side of not causing anyone else harm. 

"All we have to do is love one another. That's it. Just love each other, the rest is up to God."

R and B

The Boy and I were at the pool the other day (where we are nearly every afternoon during the summer) and a girl runs up to him shouting "R! R! Do you remember me? B from first grade?"

This beautiful young lady was in The Boy's kindergarten and first grade classrooms, but moved out of state part way through first grade. He saw her once in second grade when she came back and visited the school. They haven't seen each other in almost 2 years. But as soon as The Boy walked out the door to the pool, she recognized him and ran up to greet him, like they still see each other every day at school. 

They played together off and on for the 2 hours we were at the pool that afternoon. Reconnecting a friendship that started in kindergarten. A friendship that started because of the kind, thoughtful heart of this young lady. 

The first day of kindergarten Miss "B" watched as I helped The Boy find his name above a hook and then place his backpack on the hook. I could see her out of the corner of my eye with a thoughtful look on her face as she noticed how he needed a little extra help, how he didn't talk much, how he shied away from the other kids and the teacher. I'm not positive, but I'm fairly certain she noticed his death grip on my hand with her keen sense of observation.

On the second day, she was waiting at the door when we arrived. She greeted him by name and said "come sit by me in morning circle." This became the morning routine. 

I watched throughout that school year as the relationship developed. I'll admit I was a little concerned that it would be a care taker/dependent relationship.  But what I watched unfold was a real friendship. True, there were times when she was clearly his helper. Like the first time he attempted a fire drill (with noise cancelling headphones of course). When the alarm went off, she was immediately at his side, holding his hand, reassuring him that it would be OK. She guided him out the door to the field where the class gathered. Her genuine concern for him was obvious. (I was there in the wings just in case it all went to crap and he needed to escape.)

But I watched them at recess too. Where they played with each other on the playground, laughing and having fun. I watched on field trips when she asked him to sit with her on the bus and they looked at books together. Always books about heavy equipment or airplanes, his favorites. I'm sure these wouldn't have been her choice, but she was probably one of a few 6 year old girls who could name all the construction vehicles. Yes, she tailored their activities to his interests, but she was clearly enjoying it too.

The last day of school as the class walked to the nearby park, they skipped hand in hand, her singing silly songs as they giggled and laughed, stopping to pick flowers or look at a bug. I walked a few paces behind and realized that my boy had a friend. His first friend. A true friend. A friend who valued him and all his unique quirkiness. Someone to sing with and laugh with and skip down the street hand in hand with. All because of a little girl with a beautiful heart.

To those who say kids with ASD struggle to develop true friendships, I give you "R and B":

P.S. I'd like to say the story ends with her having moved back to our town and their friendship continuing to blossom. But no, she was just here for the day. She no longer lives out of state, but in a town a few hours from us. I'm hoping this means she will be back to visit occasionally. And she's no longer a full head shorter than he is.  :)    

Family Photos

Since I've been posting photos for Wordless Wednesday, I've been going though some of my pictures. And I was reminded of a conversation I had with Mr. Fixit years ago when we were looking at proofs of our kids. Our oldest, 11 years old at the time, had a bright red cast on his right arm from hand to elbow. We were attempting to make our selections from the proofs and we were not agreeing on anything. He held one up and I said no. I held one up and he said no. I asked him why, all three boys looking in the general direction of the camera, 2 of the three smiling (The Boy rarely smiles for the camera). What about this photo didn't he like. His response was that he could see the cast. To which I responded that was one of the reason I liked it. He was shocked. Why would I like a photo that showed the cast; a dirty, grimy, graffiti-ed anomaly. 

Here's my take on it. I want photos of my kids that show them in that moment with all their wonderful, messy, quirky, imperfections. I don't want photos of my kids dressed to the nines all spit and polish sitting perfectly on a rock by a stream. I want the photo that shows the hole in my sons jeans, his bare toes in the water with his shoes discarded aside. I want the photo with the dirt on his cheek and his hands from the rocks he is throwing into the water. I want to see the look of pure joy that radiates from his eyes as he drops a handful of leaves on his brother's head. That is my boys. 

When my boys are grown and gone and I'm 80 years old living in a retirement home I don't want to look at a photo album full of posed pictures that do not represent the life we lived. I want to remember all the imperfect moments of our life. The cast and what it represented. I want to remember the story.

It started out common enough, the story of many a broken arms. He was at baseball camp, dove to catch a pop fly, and landed on his arm. Although in pain, he told his coach he wanted to stay the rest of the day and watch. So he did. That night we were heading out of town to attend a sports festival at the Fun House. He was signed up for the kids Tri. He insisted his wrist would be fine with some Advil and an ace bandage, it was just sprained. He refused to go to the doctor, didn't complain at all. So we loaded up the car and left. 

The next day was the Tri. We put a brace on his wrist, gave him more Advil and off he went to the starting line. We went to the first transition to wait for him to exit the water. When I saw him, I knew. I KNEW. He was in severe pain, ghostly white, holding his arm up gingerly trying to run to his bike. I started yelling at him to get off the course, to stop. Yelling at the top of my lungs; screaming like a maniac. He looked at me and shook his head no. And he kept going. Off on his bike with his arm held up, only one hand on the handlebars. I watched him ride off and then ran to the finish to wait. 

I would not have believed it, but when he crossed the finish line he was past ghostly white. He had tears in the corners of his eyes. I took him by his good hand straight to the medic tent. The medic took about 30 seconds to tell us to take him into town to the emergency room; he was pretty sure it was broken. So I load him in the car and off we go. It's a 20 minute drive.

During the 20 minute ride, that child of mine informed me that he was sure it was broken. I asked him why he thought so. He then told me that when he fell on it at baseball camp, he heard it snap. You what?!?!? Why in the world would you have not told us? Because I wanted to run the Tri he said. After a stern lecture about how he should have said something, he could have further injured it, or caused permanent damage, blah, blah, blah (all the appropriate parenting jargon) we arrived at the emergency room.

In the end, it was broken. Both bones. My dumb kid ran a Tri with 2 broken bones. Thankfully, no permanent damage was done.  And now, 8 years later, we laugh about this story. Really? What 11 year old runs a tri with broken bones. What parent allows it. We do not dwell on the bad parenting part (I should have taken him to the doctor the day it happened, no options) or the poor judgment of the 11 year old. We talk about the good characteristics he showed: perseverance, commitment, mental toughness. And when I look at the photo of the boys with the oldest in a bright red, grimy cast I smile. That kid was something else. 

That's what I want to remember with the help of photos that document our unique, messy, quirky, glorious lives.

Wordless Wednesday - Special Olympics Golf Regionals

The Gym, A Girl, & Inclusion

The Boy and I were walking through the health club yesterday. I was going to a class, he was going to the playroom. Ah, the playroom. Intended for the youngest of members, those under 8 years old. The Boy, now 9, still goes in the playroom. I don't dare leave him unsupervised, wreaking havoc all over the gym. And they graciously let him continue to come in and play. All of the gym employees know him, have for years. And they understand. It sometimes is a little awkward when I go to pick him up and the other moms are picking up kids who are literally half his size. Not kidding, he's a very tall 9 year old. Sometimes we get some weird looks from the other moms. But whatever, I no longer let these silly little things bother me. My boy loves the playroom and has fun. And the playroom supervisors enjoy having him. In fact, one has become our trusted kid sitter. (I believe in using sitters who know what they are signing up for and are familiar to The Boy)

Anyway, back to my story. As we were walking through the gym to the playroom, a girl who looked to be about his age said "hi (The Boys name)". He turned to her and said "hi (The Boy's name)" right back to her. His focus was getting to the play room where he could play with all the toys. I assumed he was just echoing her greeting without paying much attention. And he went right back to obsessing over the toys in the playroom, his interaction done.

So I struck up a conversation with her. I asked her how she knew The Boy. She goes to his school. I asked her if she was in his (GenEd) class. She said no, she was in second grade. (He's in third.) This puzzled me a little so I asked her how she new The Boy. With a big grin she replied "oh, I see him around school and sometimes we play together at recess." 

And I nearly stopped in my tracks.

Here is a kid who is not in his class, has no "formal" interaction with him, and yet she sometimes plays with him at recess. Presumably unprompted, on her own. I'll be honest here, my heart nearly exploded on the spot. I worry ALL THE TIME about how The Boy integrates into the general population at his school. Do they accept him? Does he socialize with them? Is he comfortable interacting with them? Are they comfortable interacting with him? Is he developing relationships? Does he have friends? And on and on.

I think about these things all the time. Because in the end, our goal for the The Boy is to live a full, productive adult life with a job and social life out in the community. What form this takes, well we don't know yet, but that is the general goal. And how can he reach that goal if we don't start now with interactions with his typical peers. Encouraging social interactions from both sides. Encouraging him to be part of the community now, his community at school as well as the community at large. Developing relationships. Encouraging inclusion, acceptance, understanding on all parts. And more importantly, everyone enjoying those interactions and relationships.

Exchanges like the one I had with that young lady truly encourage me. Seriously, my heart was singing. It was so full of peace and love and hope. I wanted to hug her, but didn't want to scare her. 

I know, I know, its a far cry from an elementary school to the adult community at large (or even the high school). I don't completely live in a Pollyanna world. I know that we have a very long road to travel. But its a start in the right direction. And I'll take my encouragement where ever I can find it.

Oh, and the girl's name? Turns out it is the same as The Boy's. He wasn't echoing, he was really saying hi to her.