All posts by bearfamily4

Unknown's avatar

About bearfamily4

"Goldi" is my autistic daughter. She gets her nickname from the story Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Not only does she have golden hair but with it her autism begs for things to be just right. This is her way.

Drawing Jesus

Uncategorized, , , ,

“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.

Uncategorized, , , , ,

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

Uncategorized, , , ,

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

Uncategorized, ,

“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!

Knitted

Uncategorized, ,

Lately, during night time talks with Goldie, I have been knitting. Conversations make the rows increase faster. One night, all that was heard for a long time, was the clickity clack of the needles.

“What are you thinking about?” I finally asked as I switched from knitted row to a purl.

“Oh, just stuff.” Goldie says looking at my needles bob.

“What stuff?” I asked.

“Like you know, how I have autism.” Goldie had just said what she never said before. She had been asked “What is autism?” and she had answered “I have no idea.” But this time, she knew autism meant HER.

“YOU have autism?” I stopped purling and raised by eyebrows. My mouth opened wide to say the word again:”AUTISM? ” I knew that if I continued I would forget I had to purl and not knit. I wasn’t going to drop a stitch or lose my stitch pattern, and spoil the whole “work of art”. Here we go, for the first time, after 15 years of Goldie silently accepting she has autism, hearing the word, thinking over why’s, and analyzing the probably nots, she says the one word that she’s not said and we were waiting for her to say.

“Mom! You know I have autism! ” Goldie stretched out a grin. It’s fine I guess.” Goldie shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, I think you are more than fine.” I purposely made my needles click loudly.

“True.” Goldie has been saying that lately when she agrees. Then she stares in puzzled wonder this time. Then she says, “Why?”

I begin to knit again. Knitting the garter stitch energizes me into eloquence.

“Because you were knit!”

Goldie didn’t say “what?” She didn’t say, “No I wasn’t!” She didn’t even say, “That doesn’t make any sense!” That is what I suspected her to say. But all she did was watch me make take stitches off one needle and make new ones. The garment was getting longer and wider.

“Let’s see, I’ve done 15 rows of garter stitch, then I purl two, and then 15 rows more,” as I say this out loud, my needle touches the tiny little V’s on what I’ve finished so far

“What are you making anyway?” Goldie brushed her fingers over the garment’s edge.

“Well, it’s just a burp cloth. It’s not a sweater or a dress or hat or mittens or socks.” I shrugged. I can’t knit like your great grandmother. But still, it takes time and I have to be careful so that it can be a burp cloth for a baby to rest their head on something soft, burp, and feel fine, maybe even more than fine. “

Goldie had that same puzzling wondering look in her eyes.

“True, ” she said, “That is true.”

Social in a Story

Uncategorized,

I don’t mean to discredit Carol Gray by any means. She has invented the story of stories to help autistic kids navigate the how and why of the world. The social story helps. It gives kids a spine to stand strong in so many situations that make up life. From the dentist, the fire drill, getting a haircut, to a pet that dies. You name it, there is probably a social story on it. Ms. Gray thought about kids. She thought about not just autistic kids but about what kids needed to know , understand, and do. She thought about how many kids have questions and are confused about the new things that come about their journey. They have been absolute miracle workers with kids!

But here is a confession, we didn’t use and still don’t Social Stories much with Goldie. We had a plan, we explained, we taught, we practiced, and we celebrated. But I never had a library of genuine social stories to pull out to “save the day” in a moment of challenge. Perhaps, I should have.

Instead, I read her lots of stories. We read her Pete’s a Pizza And so… one rainy day when Goldie was three, Goldie said: “It’s raining Pete!” So we tossed her up in the air and landed her on the couch. We did it many times until the couch lost its bounce. When she was two, she cried every time we left the room at night when she was supposed to go to sleep. So we read, Peek a Who? and practiced covering our faces with our hands, a blanket, or hiding behind the door. It helped….some. On a winter day, that I made chocolate chips cookies , I firmly told Goldie “only two ” and with chocolate all over her face and fingertips, I wiped her clean and read Frog and Toad’s Cookies and from that day forward, she decided two was enough and we could feed the rest to the birds. Once when I told her she had chores to do, ( including mopping the kitchen floor), she said “Are you my stepmother?” “No, I am your mother.” I said. Then, where in the world is my fairy godmother?” Goldie accepted life’s work even though her fairy godmother didn’t appear.

Goldie frequents the library. She reads books that she would rather not read but is required to read. “Ugh!” she cried reading The Outsiders, “It is so sad that he has had so much trouble. When will he ever be happy again?” Goldie said after reading The Outsiders. Compassion brewed inside and she began to wear her heart on her sleeve. She reads and insist that a happy ending is the only kind of ending. So when the princess from the story Fairest is poisoned, it stops her in her tracks. She may throw up her hands because she knows this world has too much trouble. But she has leaned to fold her hands in prayer because of all the trouble. She puzzles over all the “looks” and secrets and do’s and don’ts of life of real ladies and gentlemen of Pride and Prejudice who prance around doing practically nothing all day. “Just dance with her!” she cries because Mr. Darcy is too rich to dance with lowly Elizabeth. Or maybe Elizabeth is out to prove she’s too good for Mr. Darcy. Goldie combs her hair, brushes her teeth, and dresses in “comfy” to take on her day wherever it leads.

Thank you Carol Gray for your stories. They are still out there and still need to be used. They bring understanding to the confusing and the new. They always will. But also, thank you William Steig, Arnold Nobel, the Brothers Grim, Jane Austen, SE Hinton, and other authors who tell a good story.. So good, Goldie has learned for life from them. She still does. Lots she’s learned from those stories. It’s not how Carol imagines the story should be for life learning. But these stories open up a new understanding. They still do.

Once upon a time, there was a doll

Uncategorized,

A long time ago, there was a doll. For some time, it was Goldie’s only doll. It was dressed in night clothes. Her eyes were closed. Her arms were spread out ready for a hug. She was covered in pink from head to toe. She had a slight smile to her which made her eyes grow dimples.

One day, Goldie was rocking her doll. As she swayed her back and forth, she dropped her. Her ceramic head cracked. “She’s hurt!” Goldie cried.

“Oh Goldie, you have to be more careful!” I scolded. There was a line right at the side of her forehead going down toward her ear. Goldie instantly found the box of band aides. The crack was covered in to time with a little criss cross of band aides.

“It’s okay,” Goldie said stopping up her doll up rocked her again. Goldie’s arms floated high up into the air and the doll lay loosely on her palms of her hands.

“Why don’t you put the doll to sleep?” I suggested. “Maybe she should rest now.” I thought this was the best advice. She shouldn’t rock her anymore, and break another part of her face.

Goldie stopped rocking her. She gave me the doll and went to her closet.

I looked at the doll again. The band aide criss cross hid the crack and a small corner of one of her eyes. If only there were a doll hospital that could make her well again. I knew there was such a place. If I knew where, I would have called the doll doctor right then and there.

That doll was so cute when we first saw it. She was dressed in pink from head to toe. Pink was and still is Goldie’s favorite color. Her eyes had cute dimples. Her mouth showed the beginning of a smile.

“Here is your doll,” I said handing her back to Goldie. She had two doll sized blankets in her hands. I watched Goldie as she lay one on her bed and smooth out the wrinkles. She lay the doll right in the middle. The other blanket she draped over the top of her.

“Goodnight,sleep tight!” Goldie whispered and then kissed her again right where the bands aide were. She straightened the blankest so they were wrinkle free and said “Time to sleep.” she whispered.

Goldie tip toed out of her room. I did too.

Goldie began to twirl a long ribbon on a stick. She made big wide circles in the air. I began to sigh and wonder if Goldie would ever really play with dolls. There were other dollswithout band aides. They spent a lot of time, staring at the world. Some got a change of clothes once in awhile. All of them had plenty of sleep. But only one had a crack with two band aides. Yet, Goldie didn’t mind. To her, she was her doll.

Years later, I found the doll buried in a bunch of stuffed animals that are destined to be given away. She was pink, rosy, and sleeping soundly. The band aides were still in place. I rocked it, and rubbed my fingers over her forehead. “There , there, ” I said. “Time to get some sleep.” I snuggled her into the stuffed animals and tip toed out of the room.

Raining

Uncategorized, , , ,

After it rained, steam rose from the ground, and swirled around. Goldi put on her bathing suit, ran out into the steamy air, and started to jump. The puddles were clean, round, and deep. They were perfect. A gift the rain gave to Goldie.

“There’s another one way down there!” Goldie cried as she skipped through a stream that rippled down the street and swirled around at the end of the culd de sac. The giant perfectly round clear puddle was suddenly lit up with sparkles. The grayish blue sky canvassed a rainbow. The sun lit it up long enough for everyone to look and wonder.

“Come on! It’s great!” Goldie’s hair was combed with fresh water drips. There was not a dry spot on her. Her wide open smile seemed to drink in the refreshment from the sky.

That was the happiest kind of rain.

Goldie held a blanket and a giant stuffed pink rabbit. She sunk down in a puffy beanbag jammed into the corner of her closet and closed its door.

“Goldie? Goldie are you in there?” My voice accompanied my eager knocking on her bedroom door. “Are you ok?”

Goldie didn’t answer. Even if she did. I would not have heard her. The thunder kept interrupting.

The sky blinked many times in a row. Then there was darkness.

“The power went out!” Goldie burst out of her closet. “Where is the flashlight?”

“Look,” I said placing the giant flashlight in the center of her room.

Goldie looked all around at what looked very familiar but to be sure- she felt each toy, book, and pillow. The darkness had not erased everything dear to her.

“When will the lights come back on?” she asked squeezing her pink bunny again.

“I am not sure. We’ll have our eyes closed most of the time anyway. It’s bedtime. “

“Oh,” Goldi said hurrying herself in blankets and other stuffed animals.

That was the mean and scary kind of rain.

“You are not going to like this question,” Goldie sighed and looked one way and then the other. “I am just wondering , is it supposed to rain tonight?”

Since spring, Goldie had been asking me the same question nearly everyday. Knowing if it would rain, cancelled any inkling to have a friend over, go shopping, or walk to the library. If I asked her, “Would you like to go to the bookstore?” She would say, “Maybe another day, today it is supposed to rain.”

“I will look at the forecast.” I assured her.

The forecast didn’t look very assuring. A nearly 100% chance of rain. Rain that we needed. Rain that would green up the world. Rain that would feed the lakes, rivers, and streams. Rain that would grow her favorite vegetable and make my flowers grow.

“Yes, it is supposed to rain. It says 100% chance”. “

“Is it going to be bad?” Goldi wrinkled up her forehead She squeezed one set of fingers with the other hand and then rubbed her palms together.

“I don’t know. But there is one thing I do know!” I said bouncing eyebrows up and down.

“What?” Goldie’s eyebrows jumped up and stayed up high in her forehead.

“I know who wants it to rain. I know who will show how big and powerful He is when it does.”

“That’s true. ” Goldie said looking out the window. In her long look, the sky was sometimes full of clouds and sometimes full of sun. The trees waved to her and then were still. She could hear the frogs singing.

The windows were soon washed. Then the whole house seemed to be in a bath. It seemed like a bucket of water was being dumped from above. The trees must have waved goodbye. We could not make them out through the window. . All we could see was wet. The sky didn’t blink but the bossy thunder made the window pane rattle.

“I’m scared.” Goldie said softly.

“I know,” I said standing shoulder to shoulder next to her. “and HE knows too”. I pointed up to the sky.

That is the stretching and growing and have to be brave kind of rain.

That is the rain that we have now.

Goldie finds out about Temple

Uncategorized, ,

“Mom, I have something to tell you.” Goldie had come near to my reading and looked at me with wrinkles in her forehead and wide opened eyes.

“What is it?” I looked up from my book and waited in wonder about the story she would tell.

“She got upset. She threw things, tore paper, and banged her fists on the wall, and yelled!”

“Wow! That is what I call upset.” I said with wrinkles in my own forehead and my own eyes big. I looked out the window and saw a flashback. Goldie was stomping around and screaming. I can’t remember her throwing anything or tearing anything up. But the door was closed so that the sound of her “tantrum” was somewhat muffled. Was she throwing a tantrum because we told her we were going to the store instead of going to the post office? Was it because we made her try ONE little piece of broccoli at dinner? I am too old to remember and Goldie’s temper has been coated with sweetness now.

“I don’t think her mom was upset. She was probably just trying to figure out the best way to help her daughter ”

“She said, she wanted to go into the squeezing machine.” Goldie was extremely serious. She didn’t smile. Her eyebrows were still and straight. “Did I have a squeezing machine?”

“No,” I said, “Here is what we had” I opened up my arms and wrapped them around her.

“Ah, mom that’s way too tight.” she said.

“Sorry” I said dropping my hands to my sides.

“The doctors told her mom to send her to a school that was also kind of like a hospital and live there for the rest of her life!” Goldie stomped one foot. Her eyes seemed to pop out of her face.

“But her mother didn’t listen. She got her a lot of help. She didn’t belong locked up in a school all the time. ” I patted her shoulder and smiled.

“Was I supposed to go to a school like that?” Goldie’s face blushed a bit

“Absolutely not! You learned right along with everyone else! Right?”

“Yeah that’s right!” Goldie’s smile was ear to ear.

“But, her friends laughed at her sometimes. That is not good.”

I knew that some of Goldie’s friends had teased, scolded, bossed her around, excluded her, and done nothing but “not good” things.

“Yes, that is not good. But did she say “I am not good? Did she give up and not even meet anyone and say ‘nice to meet you’. ?

“No mom! She had a friend from school that was really nice to her!” Goldie cried.

“That is a good thing.” I smiled and counted on two hands the many friends Goldie had met and that were nice and did good things.

“Mom, Is she a cowboy?” Goldie wore scrunched up eyebrows.

Every picture of Temple Grandi that I have seen, she is wearing a shirt with a scarf pinned down with a bolo tie.

“I suppose so. She knows a lot about cows. She helped her relatives on a cattle farm.”

“I don’t like cows. I like art. ” Goldie’s nose pointed upward a little and she crossed her arms.

“That is perfect” I told her with a big smile.

“Temple Grandin has autism you know .” Goldie pressed her lips together and looked out the same window I was looking out of. There, we both saw a world that at the moment was green, and sunny, and full of blue sky.

“Yes, I know. ” I said.

“She has autism like me.”

“Yes, she has autism.”

Goldie didn’t say anything more about the Who is Temple Grandin? Book.

We just stared out the window at the summer day knowing what we knew.

Wasted Why

Uncategorized, , , ,

We scratched our heads in silence when two doctors gave us their report. One talked on and on about all the science, the genes, the environment, my pregnancy, and everything else under the sun using all kinds of important words that were in a more sophisticated intellectual book than a medical textbook. The other spoke plain English but did going one way- a child’s brain is a mystery and that way- think of a microwave and a toaster. After all the talk, we wondered: this “Does our child have autism or not?”

“Yes, ” said the pediatric neurologist.

“Now what?” I said with watery eyes.

“You begin your journey,” he said, handing us a list of resources.

I should have looked at those resources right away began to make phone calls, read, interview people, listen to lectures, take notes, make appointments, and prayed.

I didn’t do any of those things. I was stuck on a question I asked as a child and was asking again. I was seeking and pressing and eager for an answer. Why does Goldie have autism?

That kind of why that goes beyond the fun and curious why. Like why is the sky blue? Why do we have a belly button? Why do people say “God bless you” after someone sneezes. Why does the ocean have big waves sometimes and medium sized waves other times? That kind of why can be explored with excitement and make one feel smarter and hopeful. But this kind of why did totally the opposite. I was feeling sad, frustrated, disappointed, and stupid.

Why did Goldie have autism? Did I eat something I shouldn’t have during pregnancy? Was I too old to have a baby? Did I carry a gene that caused her to have autism? Did I commit a sin that was unforgivable? Did Goldie not have a healthy brain? Did she get a vaccine that she shouldn’t have? Was she exposed to some toxicity? Did I fail to teach her something as a baby? I kept asking and thinking the answer was out there.

But I ate nothing but fruit and vegetables during my pregnancy. If Sarah wife of Abraham had a baby then I was certainly NOT too old. I had good genes, some that produced doctors, law makers, philanthropist, teachers, farmers, writers, and even pastors. Doesn’t Jesus forgive us of all our sins? Goldie knew to eat, drink, walk, run, speak in tongues, and kiss her baby brother on the head. Aren’t those signs of a healthy brain? I had all the vaccines that Goldie had as a baby and last time I checked, I didn’t have autism. The only thing toxic I could sense in our environment was the smell of manure in the area. Goldie was spoken to, sung to, read to, comforted when she cried, taught to breathe in the fresh air, and knew the meaning of the word ‘no”. So why does Goldie have autism?

It’s been a journey of therapy, lessons, reading, talking to others, IEPS, goals, more disappointments, lectures, bad news, sadness, and worry. It is enough to sit back in a lazy boy chair and ask again, “Why does Goldie have autism?”

It took almost 20 years to learn the answer. Even though I know the answer, I still have moments of asking- why? Twenty years, of keeping my eyes and ears open to discovering the answer. Every time there was a food she finally ate. There was the time she finally wrote her name and even made it look calligraphic. There was the time she was asked her favorite color and she said “turquoise”. There was a time, when she read her first story out loud. There was the time, she rode a horse. There was a time when she made her first friend. It was those times, I knew. But there were days, when I kept asking “why” and I missed the answer. Sometimes I still do.

Why does Goldie have autism? Because God is showing His great and amazing work in her. Each day, He does. He doesn’t quit answering. He has been answering “why?” all these years.. God is showing Himself great through her. That’s it and should be all that matters.