"No Dad... The Other Fries!!"

I'm raising a very challenging 15-year old. I know that's not unusual, since all 15-year olds throughout the history of the world (with the rare exception of this author) have been a challenge. But mine is a bit different than most, because we're raising a child with autism who doesn't speak and gets frustrated very easily. Again, the polar opposite of his father.

Anyway, I was driving him home after school today and we were having our usual one-sided conversation. "How was school today, Zachary? Did you learn anything? Did you go for a walk? Were you good for your teachers? Did you make any friends?" Silence.

"You know what? Daddy loves you very much." At this, he made the "please" sign by rubbing his hand on his chest. I'm not exactly sure what the sign for "please" is, but that's what he's learned. For him, it's come to symbolize not only "please," but also "yes" and "will you give me what I want?" Of course, I took it to heart. He was saying "I love you back" in the only way he knows how. That did it. I decided to take him out for french fries.

He and I hadn't been out together for a fast food break in ages. He loves fries. So I pulled into a fast food restaurant, but he was eying his favorite restaurant across the street. "Is this okay?" I asked him. He didn't seem happy. "Do you want to go to (insert name of restaurant which must not be mentioned)?" He took my hand and placed it gently on the gearshift. I took the hint, and we went across the street. I pulled in his favorite place and asked, "Is this okay?" I got the "please" sign again.

Okay, it's a little thing. I had my chicken wraps and Coca-Cola, while he had his usual two milks and large fries which he spread out all over the table. The fries that is, not the milk. He managed not to slop any moo juice. We had a good time together, and came home.

It's not often we make a connection like that. In fact, it's pretty darn rare. But I'll take them when I can get them, and treasure each one.

Maybe next time he'll let me pick the fast food joint.

Here Comes the Pillow Monster!!!!

I'm kind of selfish when it comes to my kid.

For years, I've struggled to come to terms with what I've "lost" because of his disability. I could go on forever about not being able to fully communicate with him, to tell him how much I love him, to play ball, tell jokes, or help him with homework. At different times I've felt lost, robbed, deprived and angry. But then I consider what I've gained. I've made a whole group of friends I never would have met otherwise. I've been given incredible opportunities to study leadership, influence lawmakers and lend a helping hand to other parents with similar experiences. And most of all, my son was the defining influence in my decision to press closer to God. I am where I am today due in large part to this thing we call autism.

Last night I preached about servanthood from Philippians 1:3-8, and what it is that a church can and should expect from their Pastor. I love to serve others. My joy comes from seeing others succeed, and knowing I played a small part in their success. I want to serve God wholeheartedly and help my church family in their faith walk. So I've come to realize that I need to apply that same servant attitude to my son. It's not about what I can get from him, but what he can get from me.

Tomorrow he has the day off from school. I found myself wondering what I can do to keep him occupied. So I made a mental list of the few things I know he enjoys... breakfast, car rides, Burger King, KMart and playing "Pillow Monster." (Don't ask). I'm slowly learning that my joy will come not from what he returns to me, but from what little I can give to him.

As long as my asthma inhaler is close by during Pillow Monster, I think I'll be okay.

You Wanna Have a Catch?

Come on guys... admit it. You choked up at the end of "Field of Dreams."

It's okay, me too. But then I'm an exceptional case. I do the same thing at the end of "Sleepless in Seattle." But man... when Ray gets to ask the young, starry-eyed ghostly apparition of his Dad if he wants to play catch with him, what guy doesn't think of his own Father? There are two schools of thought here. The first: "Gosh, I wish I could play catch with Dad again like we did when I was a kid," or "My Dad never played catch with me! I only wish..."

I fall into the second category. Mr. Townsend next door was the one who taught me to play ball. He was a surrogate Dad in a lot of ways, even though he could be terribly brash with me. But I'm thankful he was in my life. I have mixed feelings on Father's Day, mostly because my memories of Dad are clouded with a lot of pain, and also because it's a bittersweet reminder of all that I'm missing with my kid. Zachary and I have never played ball. Because of his autism and other disabilities, his idea of a good time is spreading a blanket on the ground and running around on it by himself... over and over and over again. Dad isn't invited to the party. When he was 4, he had a grand mal seizure on Father's Day. I still remember the nurse saying, "This isn't much of a Father's Day for you, is it?"

But you know what? My Dad loved Jesus. He loved his country. In his own funky way, he loved his family. I know that even at my age, I still have a lot to learn about being a good father, husband, and Christian man. Can I hold my Dad responsible today for mistakes he made when he was 15 years younger than I am now? The bigger question, "should I?" The answer: Of course not.

Every day I wake up and see my Dad in the mirror. I look like him, and there's nothing I can do about it. I just don't want to repeat his mistakes. So whatever was in my Dad that was good, noble, trustworthy, and of good character, I hope to emulate. And a tip of the hat today to Mr. Townsend. Here's hoping I can be just as good a surrogate to my Godchildren.

And here's hoping there are baseball mitts in heaven. I'm holding out for a catch with my Dad.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

A Pastor speaking to hundreds of teens at Youth Camp, proclaiming the message of Jesus Christ, smiled and said, "I did something slightly retarded the other day." The kids laughed heartily. I cringed, and then I nearly cried. I felt as if someone had stuck a knife in my chest.

I'm curious. What if he had replaced the "r" word with the "n" word? He would have been fired on the spot, and rightly so. It's an ugly, offensive, and demeaning word. It devalues real people, and causes many to feel like they're less than everything God created them to be. It's an unfair, outdated and mean-spirited slur. Yet how many of you... yes, you reading right now throw around the "r" word like it's some sort of joke? Let me assure you, it's not.

I'm guessing I lost just about half of today's readers right there. For the rest of you, I'm not condemning you. You don't owe me or my friends with intellectual disabilities an apology. But when you understand the truth, that the "r" word is hurtful, demeaning, and cruel, you have a responsibility. Please... stop using it. Just stop. It's not funny. It never has been.

The fact is, the disability community is the one community any of us can join at any time. Ask Christopher Reeve's family. Ask Joni Eareckson Tada. Ask anyone in a nursing home who sits in a wheelchair all day, unable to get around on their own. One wrong turn in your car today, and you could be a part of an exclusive club you never planned to join. How funny are the short bus and Special Olympics jokes now that you're the one using leg braces or a wheelchair?

My son has a disability. He doesn't need anyone's pity. He deserves our respect. He has autism, but he is certainly not "autistic" any more than a person who has cancer is "cancerous." His disability doesn't define him. His smile and infectious laugh are his gifts to us. And certainly, his differences are not a cause for ridicule and mean-spirited comments.

To anyone reading today who will pledge to stop using the "r" word, I thank you. I applaud you. To those who maintain that it's just another word, and that's what "those" people are and they shouldn't be offended, I'll say this. People with intellectual disabilities, particularly those with Down's Syndrome are among the happiest, luckiest, most content, and non-judgmental people I've ever known. So if you want to label them ret-----, that's your choice. I can only hope that you'll learn to be just as wise, happy, and content with your world, so that you can be labeled ret----- as well. But I'm not holding my breath. Prejudice comes in many forms.

Please. Help spread the word to end the word.

The Symphony of Autism

This morning I'm reminded of a favorite line spoken by Richard Dreyfuss in Mr. Holland's Opus. As his wife massaged his back following a long day at work he said, "This is definitely not my gig, Iris." After only his first day on the job as a music teacher he was exhausted, discouraged, and beyond hope that he could ever teach a classroom of High School kids anything worthwhile. In short, it was not what he had signed up for.

I hear ya, Mr. Holland. Loud and clear. I hear you every morning that my 14-year old son wakes us up in the middle of the night because he can't sleep more than a few hours at a time. I hear you when my wife and I pass each other in the hallway with barely a mumble because we're too tired to communicate. I hear you when my son is stomping and screaming because he wants a car ride, it's 5 minutes before the school bus is going to arrive, and he has no other way to communicate his frustration. I hear you when I'm changing his pants because my teenager isn't potty trained, and may never be. In the movie, the Hollands raised a son with a hearing disability. And every time I watch the scene where Mrs. Holland screams, "I don't care what it costs, I don't care what some dumb doctor says, I want to talk to my son!" I cry in frustration. I get it.

Raising a child with autism isn't what I signed up for. An hour ago, I was sound asleep... but Zachary wanted breakfast. This just happened to be my day to get out of bed. As exhausted as I am from the weekend, my wife is just as tired. We had a good weekend; a healthy weekend both personally and professionally. But there's no time to celebrate; we have a job to do. We have a son that demands our attention 24/7.

It's funny the things that pop into your head this early in the morning (or late at night, take your pick). Call it God-inspired, or just my head working overtime, but I never made the connection before between Mr. Holland and the poem that has brought me through this incredible journey with autism so many times. It was written by Emily Perl Kingsley and it's called, interestingly enough, "Welcome to Holland." Emily, you nailed it.

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."

But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.

Happy Valentine's Day, Zachary. I love you, kiddo.