Whatever is good Goldi,

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Sometimes it rains. Rain doesn’t come in just water drops. It comes in thinking about all the what ifs, the anticipation of what is going to happen, the unknown, and unplanned events of life. It’s the kind of rain that touches every corner of life and seems to zap every brain circuit. When it does, Goldi’s heart beats fast. She squeezes a large round, pillowy squish mallow. Her eyes wander aimlessly, and she shuts herself up in her room.

“Oooh!” I hear her say behind her closed door.

She is breathing short and quick.

Knock Knock my fist tries to tap and not pound. I don’t bother to wait for an answer, I let myself in.

“My stomach feels funny.” she says. “Do you think the chamomile tea will help?”

“It always worked for Peter Rabbit.” I said. ( at least after he ate all of Mr. McGregror’s garden)

Goldi knows how to make tea herself. Even the loose leaf kind. But instead, she stretches out a small little smile, hugs her stomach, and looks up into the ceiling.

Dr. Google has much to say about anxiety. There’s this well known 333 strategy.

“What are three things you see?” I ask

Goldi stops for a long time. The answers are never immediate. There is a forever silence that makes me even forget what question I asked.

“I see a chair, a window, and a rug. “

“I see a book, a light, and a flower.”

“I don’t have a flower in my room!” Goldi lets go of her squishmallow.

“Yes, you do,” I point to a very small impatient bud on the plant near her window. Goldi’s room gets all the sun in the winter. So, I thought I would keep the pretty pink impatient plant growing all winter long and then it will be GIANT in the spring and summer. ( God willing)

“Oh” Goldi says.

Now, what are 3 things you hear?

Right away, our toilet sings. Yes, it really does sing. After every flush, it reaches an operatic high note. We have all grown used to it and rather like it.

“The TOI-LET singing!” Goldi says, “and dad is talking to someone on the phone. ”

“Hear anything else?

“I hear a siren.” Goldi says curling herself up tight.

“Well, I hear the clanging dishes in the kitchen. I hear BJ the bird ringing the bell. I hear someone is taking a shower. “

“You mean BJ can ring the bell now?” Goldi let go of her pillow.

“Of course, He has been practicing all day! That bird wouldn’t give up. ”

“Nice job BJ!” Goldi calls out.

“What are three things you feel with your fingers? ” I wiggle the fingers on both my hands.

Goldi wiggles both of them back at me.

“My squshmallow.” She says right away. “My blanket, and …. ” She touches things all around her. In between her mattress and her trundle bed frame, she finds a crunched up piece of paper. “What’s this? ” She smoothes out the paper as best she can.

“My picture!” Goldi cries. “I thought I’d lost it.”

Even though buried in wrinkles, there is a nicely drawn girl with long lashes, wearing a princess dress, and a warm smile. “What’s her name?”

“Charlotte Jane” she says smiling at Charlotte and not at me.”

“Would you like some tea now?” I ask.

“Yes, ” Goldi says “Can you bring it in to me? I need to color Charlotte Jane’s dress.”

“Okay,” I closed the door and filled up the tea kettle.

Finally, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Whatever you have learned and received and heard and seen in me- practice these things and the God of peace will be with you. Philippians 4:8

Who is here!

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At the near end of Goldi’s high school year, I feel there should be an exclamation at the end of that sentence. Sentences beginning with the word who are expected to end in a question mark. But on the back of a souvenir Musical t- shirt it says “Who is here. Who is here period. As in who is here is a statement a real declaration. That declaration belongs on the back of Gold’s T- shirt.

Goldi was a WHO in the Dr. Seuss musical. Remember WHO”s. These Whos lived in Whoville. They know the real meaning of Christmas and taught that lesson to the Grinch. The Whos lived on a speck of dust and were saved by a caring Elephant named Horton. Goldi was cast as one of those Whos. She was a Who- So small, friendly, lively, and living simple life. She liked al the Whos knew that a person is a person no matter how small.

Before the last musical performance, Goldi, Who wrote a speech. As she stood before the cast, she shook and even cried a little, then she said:

Who is here!

I am a Who.

A Who is happy and is friendly to other Whos.

One important thing about the Whos is that they speak.

They say: We are here!

So I am here too. I have been here doing things.

I have autism and I am here.

I am glad to be here.

Who is here!

This who is happy to be here!

Goldi said those words and meant it.

Her audience heard them too and cried.

“I was crying and so many people cry, ” Goldi said to me.

People who heard the speech came to me and said “There was not a dry eye in the audience. Best speech I ever heard. “

“I know they are all emotional,” Goldi said, “But why did they cry?”

I stopped to think. Yes, they were all emotional. It was the last performance, But deep down there was another reason. I knew it but had to say the right words to explain.

“Because you spoke to a whole audience of Whos.” I said, “And they felt like happy somebodies. You reminded them that each WHO is here- each person no matter how small, in this big world of Whos. Whos are here! That makes God happy! “

“Then Who is here!” Goldi said, “This who is really happy to be here,”

Rain Storm

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At first there was a hush, then a pitter patter, and finally a loud applause of raindrops. I laid one hand on my journal. In the other hand, a rolled a pen in my fingers. It seemed like the clouds were sighing a heavy relief. I didn’t write one word on the smooth empty page. I just watched and wondered.

“How long is it supposed to rain?” Goldi stood glued against the kitchen wall squeezing a pillow.

I looked out. To her, I am sure it looked like buckets of water were being poured out from the heavens. I had to offer something hopeful, “Probably won’t be for a long time. ” I had no idea how long the rain would last or even if the loud smacking drops against the window would change to any kind of pitter patter.

I knew Goldie was anxious and scared. I knew because her eye balls nearly popped out of her sockets. She was watching from a distance the world grow blurry. She couldn’t see the trees in the backyard. She couldn’t see the street. She couldn’t see the mailbox. The noise of the overly excited raindrops smacked the house. Soon they sounded angry. “We aren’t just little drops of water. We’ll show you what can do!” they screamed.

I looked away from the water washed world. Goldie had scrunched down into a corner and lay her head on her knee caps. I let out a heavy sigh.

Goldie used to loved to dance in the puddles even when the rain poured down in buckets. I remember she practically dove into them and relished in the biggest, clearest, roundest, puddle. One splash and she was drenched. Back then, she even saw rainbows even in a sunless gray sky.

But now she is ” too old “to splash in puddles. She would rather stay in with a blanket over her head up or in a corner all scrunched up. She knows too much of all the worrisome possibilities and gets lost in them. She’s now old enough to think about consequences, hardship, challenge, and real life.

I sigh heavy and I am sure Goldi hears it even over the loudness of the rain. I sigh three times. I hear a breathy echo in the distance. Goldi was sighing too.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“A little,” she has lifted her head up slightly.

“I am glad.” I smiled big at her. She offers me a small little grin.

I don’t say anything more. I just watch the rain. The rain that makes the grass greener. The sun seems to shine brighter afterward. The flowers smile. The sky seems to show off a new shade of blue and under its roof there is silence sprinkled with giggles, because the kids can then come out and play. If it didn’t’ rain, none of that would happen. Next time, I will tell Goldi.

Phillipians 4:8

Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

The impossible shoreline.

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The sky hid its blue with a foggy gray wash. The air fooled us into thinking it was fall not summer. The wind seemed to laugh at us as we stepped out of the car onto the sandy shoreline of the lake. The lake showed its greatness that day. To Goldie was, it was big enough to make her eyebrows stretch up to her forehead and her eyeballs show nearly all of their blue color and shape.

Twenty steps onto the cold, clumpy sand, I stopped. “Why are were here again?” I crossed my arms because I was not only disgusted but because it helped warm the shiver a little.

“Because, it is there! ” said Papa Bear ( Goldie’s dad) . “Even on a day like this. And no one else knows what it looks like today.”

“Well, I’m cold.” I whinned. My ears expected to hear Goldie whine too. But the wind continued to laugh over any whining. No one likes a whiner.

Goldie had flipped off her shoes, peeled off her socks, and was tip toeing towards the place where the water tapped the sand over and over again. Goldie’s dad and brother began to throw sticks and any rock that would make a big plunk in the wild waves. I was the only one wishing the sky were blue, the water was calm and sparkling, and the sand was bright and warm. I stood, stared, and began wondering and squeezing my eyes to try to see something absolutely amazingly wonderful in that moment. But it was impossible.

A suitable matching color for the word impossible is gray or black. I was looking at both of those colors in full view. The water was gray and in some places black. The sky was too. The sand a dark brown. If I stooped down to write impossible in the sand, it would stay there forever. The lake waves would not wash the word away.

“Hey you! I am here! Look!” a voice shouted louder than the laughing of the wind and the roar of the waves.

Goldie stood with her arms stretched out on either side. Her hair blew back. She closed her eyes and smiled. She wiggled her toes in the cold wet water drenched sand.

“Hey! It’s me! Do you see?” she cried.

The waves splashed against her legs. Her rolled up pants were getting soaked. Her hair starting to curl and drip drops from her forehead.

“Impossible!” I thought.

My shiver disappeared. The sky started to turn a pale blue. The lake’s waves looked a sparkling green even without the sun.

“WOW! You!” Goldie exclaimed and raised her arms up to shake hands with the pale blue sky.

“How do you like the lake?” asked Papa Bear.

“It it absolutely impossible!” I said smiling.

Eyes that meet

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If you draw two circles, and a smaller circle inside each circle, you have the kind of eyes that Goldi draws on all of her people characters. You color in the larger circle but leave the smaller circle white. Then you add eye lashes. Beneath those eyes, you have a smile. Not too big of a smile. Not too small of a smile. A just right smile. A smile that says “It’s nice to meet you or “You look like someone important.”

Goldie has blue eyes . They sparkle when she smiles. They nearly pop out of her face when she laughs, and they glare into the far away world, when she is thinking about an answer to the never ending why question.

Many don’t know this about Goldi’s eyes. Because they don’t know Goldie. A new face with a new set of eyes Goldie does not know either. So to her, to look at a new face, a new pair of eyes, is looking at a mystery.

Once, Goldie met someone I have known for a long, long time. She met Mr. Wilson. Everybody in their brother knows Mr. Wilson. Everybody except Goldie.

“I heard you met Mr. Wilson today.” I said to Goldie when she returned from school.

“I did,” Goldi whispers looking down “I fist bumped him.”

“Oh” I imagined her blushing and showing a glimpse of her sparkling blue eyes as she quickly tapped Mr. Wilson’s fist. Nothing wrong with a little fist bump. But Goldie told me otherwise.

“Was I using good social skills?” she asked.

“Sure. Lot’s of people fist bump.” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Well, a certain teacher asked me if I made EYE CONTACT.” Goldi emphasized the last two words and her eyes popped out of her face.

Eye contact. What do our eyes look at right now. Faces? I think not. Screens take the number one spot. Mirrors are number two. But a conversation between two people looking at each other is a rarity. If Goldie gave Mr. Wilson a fist bump, in this age, that sounds like Goldi did in fact use her social skills. And maybe she really did meet Mr. Wilson’s eyes with hers.

“I haven’t seen Mr. Wilson in a long time. Does he have a mustache?”
“No.” Goldie said. “But he has glasses.”

“Well, he is older now than when I saw him last. So it doesn’t surprise me. What color are his eyes?” I allow myself to wait. Goldi was sure to say, “I don’t know.”

“I think they are probably brown. ”

It has been over 30 years since I have seen Mr. Wilson and I cannot remember his eye color. I don’t know if I made eye contact with him long enough to know. Goldie made a pretty good guess I suspect.

Goldie met Mr. Wilson. The man I could tell a ton of stories about and those stories would erase some mystery. Then maybe Goldie would have shown her bright blue sparkling eyes to Mr. Wilson and said “Nice to meet you. “But maybe she did say it. She said it with a fist bump. And possibly more.

” What did Mr. Wilson do after he gave you a fist bump?” I asked

“He said oh my! It’s nice to meet you!” Goldie looked up and made eye contact with me. She showed her thinking eyes that were caught in one of those wonderings and smiling at the same time.

“I am sure he thought it was nice meeting you.” I smiled.

Goldi Greetings

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Early in the mornings, mid day on a Saturday, or in the evenings, Goldi’s light is on in her room and all is quiet. It used to be that I heard voices coming from the closed door. Some had a southern cowboy like accent. Some were “Pride and Prejudice proper”. Sometimes I heard a common sense sweet princess breathy voice calming the conversation with “Well, it’s all going to turn out fine.” At times, I had to convince myself that no one was with her. I heard voices so different that I could have easily believed there was a room full of people of all walks of life talking to her . Now, behind the closed door, sometimes with a room light on, and sometimes with the sun peeking in, it is quiet. I can’t even hear breathing.

One day when Goldi was still at school, I decided to find out what happens in the quiet. Underneath a wide desk, is a shelf of sketchbooks. I picked one up and began to turn the pages. I met so many characters. Too many to count. There were boys, girls, animals, and even foods dressed to look like people. Now, I will admit that SOME of the drawings were made while watching a drawing video. But Goldie always added HER touch. She put an extra eyelash, flower cheeked tattoo, or some big wide open arms ready to hug.

I wanted to meet every character. I wanted to hear their voice and for them to voice their take on life. But only Goldi knows them. Even without a word from either of them she knew them. She knew how to make them so that one day perhaps they would be seen by someone else. Yet not just seen but live in the heart of someone else.

So, to give these loved ones a little help. We added more life. We gave them a scene and we gave them a story.

And then we shared them with others. And people can use them to tell their own story or simply do what these characters did upon first sight. They smiled and said: “Hello.”

Drawing Jesus

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“Awhile ago, I asked Goldi to draw Jesus.

“This is what I want,” I felt a little like I was commissioning her for job, “I want a girl holding Jesus’s hand and they are looking out into a thunderstorm . The storm is changing into a beautiful sunny day. “

“Mom! “Goldi used her annoyed voice. The one that was toned with “No way! Not going to do that! Not going to happen!”

“Please, it would be such a great picture.” I whined . I begged. I put a cherry on top of her ice cream. ( not really, but when I was her age, it is what we used to say when we really wanted something)

“Oh all right.” Goldi stomped into her room and closed the door.

It was silent for a long while. I was encouraged. This meant she was serious about what I had “commissioned” her to do. After several hours, she came out. But she came out empty handed.

“Where is the picture?” I held by hands out ready to receive a masterpiece.

“I didn’t draw it yet. I will, But I was drawing something else. “

“Oh. But will you draw it?” I leaned my head in closer in order for her to see my big eyes and by arched eyebrows. This was the eyes ready to “pop out of my face” look to show I mean business. ( just like in my teacher days)

“Yes, mother!” Goldi sighed and wandered off to something else.

I snooped through her tower of sketchbooks to see if maybe she had at least started a picture. Maybe she was just keeping it a secret.

All I found was a collection of girls, boys, animals, a winter scene.. and a pineapple with sunglasses. So a pineapple with sunglasses was far more important than a precious picture of Jesus!

I remember Goldi telling me about a time when she and a friend were doodling together during a break at school.

“Hey, look. I drew myself. ” the friend said, ” Don’t you think I look like Jesus?”

“You don’t know what Jesus looks like,” Goldi said. “If you want to know about Jesus though, I can tell you about him.”

That was a “way to be bold” moment for Goldi.

How do you draw someone who was God’s Son? He was strong, kind, loving, and a truth teller. What does a man like that look like? All the pictures of Jesus that Goldi has seen show a guy with long uncombed hair and a beard. He is wearing a tunic, a cloak, and some sandals.

I couldn’t give up the idea of my drawing yet. So I searched more in all of her hundreds of sketchbooks hoping to find something. Page turn after page turn, I found a ballerina, someone on a sled, a koala, a tree, and on the last page…. Jesus. As a baby in a manger.

It was simple drawing. The baby Jesus was wrapped up in a manger of hay. Two small dots for eyes. Starlight shining down on his face. All done in pencil with no shading and no coloring.

What Goldi told her friend about drawing Jesus whispered to me.

“You don’t know what Jesus looks like.”

When I was way younger than Goldie, I tried to see the manger, and the face of baby Jesus. The baby that was that was born for me. What Goldi said was true. We don’t know what really Jesus looked like when He lived on earth. We don’t know what He looks like now in heaven.

Goldi tried to see Jesus. She tried to see Him first as a baby. A baby with eyes. A baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. A baby in a manger of hay. That is all she knew about Jesus. Everything else is a mystery.

“If you want to KNOW about Jesus, I can tell you about Him. ” Goldie told her friend.

So for now, Goldi did draw Jesus. She drew Him knowing what He looks like is a mystery. She also drew towards Him because she knows Him. For now, I have my picture.

The world outside was suddenly transforming so I pressed my nose against the window looking out into a world. I squinted my eyes to see if I could see the details of one snowflake and then I thought of Wilson.

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Wilson. Wilson loved to play outdoors. He loved to catch butterflies in the spring time and see sniff the sweetness of apple blossoms. He loved to leap with the grasshoppers in the summer. In the fall, he loved to jump in the leaves and feel them fluttering around him twirling down. In the winter, he would stretch out his hands and stick out his tongue into the cold crisp air, and feast on icy crystals.

If I blinked I could see through the winter shadows a young girl in a pink snow suit and white puffy hat standing in the middle of white. Goldi has her arms spread out and her nose pointed up. Every now and then she touches her nose to her mitten and sees what has come down from the heavens.

Wilson knew a secret about snowflakes and it seemed like only he knew the secret. He knew that each snowflake was different. He knew that there was no way to count each snowflake that fell. But he did know that every single flake he did see ( and that was many) was different. He knew because as he watched them fall, he wanted to save their beauty for all to see. So he sketched them. But they melted before he could finish.

Then, his mother gave him a camera. It was a camera with a microscope. He could zoom in on the snowflake and capture proof of what he knew was true. He took so many. It wasn’t easy. But he wanted to share his secret so that others would have the same joy in their hearts like he did when the snowfall.

“What do you see?” I was interrupting the precious hush of the snowfall but I wanted to know if Goldi knew the secret too.

“It’s it’s… like like a very cold flower.” she said. “It’s really really nice. It’s …. Prettiest- Goldi whispers the last word. It’s the best word she can think of to say. She is lost in wonder and is speechless.

“It IS the prettiest” I would say back smiling.

Wilson thought that snowflakes were as beautiful as apple blossoms and butterflies. He called them masterpieces. Most people didn’t care at first. But then, after he took hundreds of snowflake pictures, they started to look and wonder too.

One night the snowflakes were coming down so fast. There were millions and millions of them. Wilson was walking right into a winter storm. Wilson got sick and he died. But now, he is famous. There is a monument somewhere in a small town in Vermont. There is a book written about him too. It’s called Snowflake Bentley. If you read the book, you will know more about the snowflake secret.

Yet, this secret goes beyond the very fact that there are no two snowflakes alike or that they are prettiest. It’s a secret that puts anyone in a state of awe. Perhaps Wilson knew the deepest secret of all. I think Goldi knew then just as she knows now. The only way to know this secret is to be lost in wonder as you stand in the middle of the falling flakes. You have to believe even if you don’t understand. You have to believe that the snowflake comes from the highest Heaven where the one who makes them every winter lives. He makes them and with each one He whispers’ “I love you. You are mine. You are the prettiest.”

“He hurls down his crystals of ice like crumbs. Who can stand before His cold?

Psalm 147:17

The Snowflake Secret of Mr. Winter

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The world outside was suddenly transforming so I pressed my nose against the window looking out into a world. I squinted my eyes to see if I could see the details of one snowflake and then I thought of Wilson.

Wilson. Wilson loved to play outdoors. He loved to catch butterflies in the spring time and see sniff the sweetness of apple blossoms. He loved to leap with the grasshoppers in the summer. In the fall, he loved to jump in the leaves and feel them fluttering around him twirling down. In the winter, he would stretch out his hands and stick out his tongue into the cold crisp air, and feast on icy crystals.

If I blinked I could see through the winter shadows a young girl in a pink snow suit and white puffy hat standing in the middle of white. Goldi has her arms spread out and her nose pointed up. Every now and then she touches her nose to her mitten and sees what has come down from the heavens.

Wilson knew a secret about snowflakes and it seemed like only he knew the secret. He knew that each snowflake was different. He knew that there was no way to count each snowflake that fell. But he did know that every single flake he did see ( and that was many) was different. He knew because as he watched them fall, he wanted to save their beauty for all to see. So he sketched them. But they melted before he could finish.

Then, his mother gave him a camera. It was a camera with a microscope. He could zoom in on the snowflake and capture proof of what he knew was true. He took so many. It wasn’t easy. But he wanted to share his secret so that others would have the same joy in their hearts like he did when the snowfall.

“What do you see?” I was interrupting the precious hush of the snowfall but I wanted to know if Goldi knew the secret too.

“It’s it’s… like like a very cold flower.” she said. “It’s really really nice. It’s …. Prettiest- Goldi whispers the last word. It’s the best word she can think of to say. She is lost in wonder and is speechless.

“It IS the prettiest” I would say back smiling.

Wilson thought that snowflakes were as beautiful as apple blossoms and butterflies. He called them masterpieces. Most people didn’t care at first. But then, after he took hundreds of snowflake pictures, they started to look and wonder too.

One night the snowflakes were coming down so fast. There were millions and millions of them. Wilson was walking right into a winter storm. Wilson got sick and he died. But now, he is famous. There is a monument somewhere in a small town in Vermont. There is a book written about him too. It’s called Snowflake Bentley. If you read the book, you will know more about the snowflake secret.

Yet, this secret goes beyond the very fact that there are no two snowflakes alike or that they are prettiest. It’s a secret that puts anyone in a state of awe. Perhaps Wilson knew the deepest secret of all. I think Goldi knew then just as she knows now. The only way to know this secret is to be lost in wonder as you stand in the middle of the falling flakes. You have to believe even if you don’t understand. You have to believe that the snowflake comes from the highest Heaven where the one who makes them every winter lives. He makes them and with each one He whispers’ “I love you. You are mine. You are the prettiest.”

“He hurls down his crystals of ice like crumbs. Who can stand before His cold?

Psalm 147:17

Grow up Goldie

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“It’s time,” I told Goldie. She was sitting on her bed listening to music. As a teen she certainly knows how to “chill out.”

“Ok, I’m coming. ” she slowly takes off her headphones and begins to slide the satin edge of a blanket on her bed between her fingers. She stares out into the sun splashed room but probably sees nothing because she is thinking.

Her thinking sometimes tries my patience. It’s important for her to think but it is also important for her to not think too much. Especially when it comes to something very grown up. Something like going to a visitation for a family who just lost their father and husband.

“Come on Goldie, you need to go. She will be so glad you came. “

Goldie knows who SHE is. It’s Mrs. Nelson. She is the one who lost her husband. She is also the one who invited her over to her house to swim. The one who says “hi” to her when Goldie passes by her at church. The one who listens to her when she says “pray for me”. She is the one Goldie must go and see. Even though SHE may have tears in her eyes. Even though she might not smile. Even though Goldie for once would be the one to have to say something first.

“It’s just so sad!” Goldie says, “What should I do? What should I say.”

“You just wait your turn in a line of people. And when you are in front of Mrs. Nelson, you say , “I’m sorry and you give her a hug. That’s all she needs. ” I used the most serious tone I could to say, you are going to do this whether you like it or not.

“I can’t.” She says.

“Well, you will.” I said. I wasn’t going to accept the word “No!” I had dealt with that before. Like the time, she wouldn’t go to the strawberry patch. or the time, she refused to ride a horse. Or the time she wouldn’t say to the waitress “I would like some chicken nuggets please.” I didn’t accept no then. And they were practices for the really hard grown up things such as this one.

“Fine!” Goldie stomps into the car.

The car is quiet. I suppose all of us are wondering what in the world we would say. I have waited in line for an hour sometimes to greet the family at a visitation. An hours is sometimes not enough time to form just the right words. But just two words are necessary anyway.

As soon as we arrive, Goldie needs to be pulled from the car.

“I’m scared,” she admits over and over.

It’s seeing the open casket. It’s seeing Mr. Neslon who used to greet her and smile on his own two feet. Now, he was sleeping in a cozy box.

“You don’t have to see Mr. Nelson. A lot of people will be waiting in line. Just wait in line with us and look away. You don’t have to see him. “

“I can’t. I just can’t.” She has climbed out of the car but stood outside the entrance.

Autism or no autism, I knew exactly what to say to her. And right before I walked into the line of people who were waiting to greet the family, I told her what she should know.

“Goldi, you are now old enough to do this. You are growing up. This is something grown ups do. Even if it is hard. You should and can do it even if you are scared. “

Goldie stood in the corner of the room the entire time. She talked with some people that walked by her. But she never joined us in line. She never greeted her dear friend Mrs. Nelson. She never hugged her. She never said “I am sorry.” She just stood there looking at us do what SHE was supposed to have done.

I said nothing to Goldie until I found her alone in her bedroom. I was “throw in the towel” disappointed. Perhaps I was expecting the impossible. Perhaps seeing someone she knew that had gone from this earth “sleeping in the coffin” was too much for her. Perhaps, because of her autism that excused her from such a hard thing. Perhaps… But perhaps not.

I sat right down on her bed so that my shoulder touched hers.
“Goldie, I believe you could have done a brave thing. You could have hugged Mrs. Nelson and said “I’m sorry.” You could have done it.”

Goldie said nothing. Her tears trickled down her face.

“Just because you have autism doesn’t mean you can’t do hard things. Sometimes, even if you don’t want to do something , you do it anyway, because it is the right thing to do.”

“What should I do now?” she asked.

“You decide”. I walked away and seeing her begin to slide the satin edge of the blanket on her bed through her fingers.

The next morning, there was a card on the counter There was picture of a girl standing in a field of flowers on the front. I opened it up and read the message.

Dear Mrs. Nelson, I am sorry that Mr Nelson has died. I am sorry that I didnt’ give you a hug at the visitation. I promise when I see you, I will give you a hug. I will pray for you. Goldie

“That was a very grown up thing to do Goldie.” I smiled at her holding the card close to my heart.

I mailed the card. Goldie saw Mrs. Nelson a week later and gave her a hug.

Growing up Goldie IS hard. Extra hard because she has autism. Hard, but not impossible. Goldie IS growing up. Impossible!