“Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassion, kindness, lowliness, meekness, and patience, forbearing one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.” Colossians 3:12-13

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been practicing Lectio Divina with my good friend Macrina Wiederkehr. Not in person, but with her new book, Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God.

It’s a beautiful book—a reflection of Macrina’s spirit. I wake up every morning anticipating this prayer time with someone I’ve met just once, but, because of her books, has come to feel like an old friend.

This morning’s chapter is entitled “Clothing Yourself with Virtues,” and the Scripture for Lectio is Colossians 3:1-17. Paul is urging the Colossian church to take off, or shed the earthly things—fornication, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness—and to put on instead compassion, kindness, lowliness, meekness, patience, and above all, love.

Macrina suggests we find a way to embody, or ritualize these words in our own lives. She shares an old monastic tradition called “dressing prayer,” where the sisters recited a prayer while dressing each morning; a reminder that they were putting on Christ each day. She goes on to suggest that we practice dressing in one virtue when we get up in the morning—to visualize ourselves putting on patience, gratitude, compassion, or love. “Invite it to breakfast,” she writes. “Keep company with it throughout the day.”

I slip into quiet, centering my spirit with the words “and above all these put on love.” What does love look like, I ask myself? If I were to clothe myself in love, what would I put on? A dress of flowers? A robe as blue as the morning sky? A batik shawl, steeped in the colors of the sunset?

Suddenly, my inner eye is illuminated as sunlight streams through the eastern window, and I know. In my mind’s eye, in the presence of this shimmering golden light, I watch myself getting out of bed, taking off my nightgown, and lifting my hands. Like David, I stand naked before my God.

“Dress me,” I whisper.

And while I worship and wait, the Bright Morning Star slips a gown of light over my head.

“I can teach you how to fly.”

These words were spoken to me in a dream last year, by a wise woman I call “Macrina/Judi.” Macrina is Macrina Weiderkehr, an author whose books have accompanied me on my spiritual journey for the past ten years. And Judi is Judi Dench, the British actress. In this particular dream, I knew the person speaking to me was Macrina, but she had the face and voice of Judi Dench.

God does have a sense of humor!

This morning, I am practicing Lectio Divina, sacred reading of the Scriptures, with Macrina’s new book, Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God. The scripture for today is Philippians 3:7-16. The verse that catches my attention just happens to be the same verse that Macrina chooses to highlight.

“Christ Jesus has made me his own” (v. 3b).

As I sit in the silence with this verse, a recent dream rises to mind.

I approach a wounded bird. It is a sandhill crane, with a huge wingspan. The bird is on the ground, and someone else (my husband?) is attempting to care for it. I want to tend to this beautiful, wounded bird, so I continue my approach, my hand held out in a gesture of peace. The terrified bird flails around, its great wings beating a tattoo on the ground. I am afraid she will be hurt in her frightened fury. I stop, and whisper, “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here to help. Stop struggling. I’m here.”

The crane eventually abandons her struggle, and I stroke her graceful, feathered neck.

As I sit with this dream, I wonder if I am the wounded bird or the person tending to her. As the mother of a son with autism, my wounds are deep. Many of these wounds have healed over the years as I’ve come to a place where I can, most days, accept my son just as he is. But some of these wounds have re-opened in the past 18 months, since we moved Joel from our home to Safe Haven Farms. Safe Haven is a farm for adults with autism, thankfully just 30 minutes from our home. I find myself unable to surrender Joel to God for safe-keeping. My mind spins with worries and fears and concerns for his safety, for his happiness, for his overall well-being. After all, who can care for my son as well as his father and I?

But am I also the person tending the bird? My son is wounded. This move has been difficult for him, and I am trying so hard to comfort him. To let him know he will be okay. That I am still here. I will always be his mother. I will never abandon him.

I get up from my meditation chair to google “crane,” to see what this dream symbol might mean. I find that birds themselves symbolize our aspirations, hopes and dreams. Cranes, in particular, symbolize happiness, maternal love, and gestures of good will. They are a symbol of looking out for those we love. Cranes can also symbolize a person’s strength, uniqueness, or individuality. They represent persistence through challenges. They may be telling us that we have too much of one of these qualities, or could benefit by being less this way.

I go back into the quiet, asking God to reveal what He is saying to me through this dream. This is what I hear with the ears of my heart:

“Yes, Kathy, you are the injured crane, flailing around with worry and anxiety about your son. You have been so strong all these years—always the caregiver—you have persisted through many challenges. But now is the time to stop struggling. Simply “be” in my presence. I am here. You’re okay. Joel is okay. Lean into my presence. Again I say, stop struggling. You will injure those beautiful wings. Those wings represent your aspirations, hopes, and dreams for the future. I have much in store for you, and for Joel. You were meant to fly. Remember when Macrina/Judi told you she could teach you to fly? I am the author of your dreams. I sent Macrina/Judi to you with that message.

“This is the way to learn how to fly: Spend more time in the Word and in my presence. Be with me, Kathy. I have made you my own. I created those mighty wings. It’s time to surrender.

Fly, Kathy. Fly!”

Growing up, Christmas was all about the presents piled under the tree. My favorite childhood Christmas was the year I unwrapped a brand-new pair of ice skates, a record player for my collection of 45’s, and “The Complete Sherlock Holmes.” Heaven!

I still enjoy prettily wrapped presents under the tree. But these days my favorite part of Christmas is the Christmas Eve service at church, which, of course, has nothing to do with presents.

Or, so I thought.

I can count on two hands the times over the past 26 years that my son Joel, who has autism, has been celebrated within the Church for who he is. Don’t get me wrong—plenty of people have smiled at Joel on Sunday morning. Many have said hello, shook his hand, or offered a hug. A high school student spent a year as Joel’s best buddy in Sunday school. A husband and wife team spent two years of Sunday mornings teaching Joel the basics of our faith. He was asked, once, to be a part of the Nativity play at an Advent breakfast. But treated, on a regular basis, as a fully contributing member of the Body of Christ? Not really.

People often ask me to speak to ways that churches can be more welcoming to families that live with disability. I’m considered an “expert” in the field because I’ve written three books, one of which is a handbook for churches on ways to be more inclusive (A Place Called Acceptance: Ministry with Families of Children with Disabilities). The other two books (Autism & Alleluias; His Name is Joel: Searching for God in a Son’s Disability) are written from the personal perspective of raising a son with autism.

It’s much easier to be the expert when the children and families I’m talking about are not my own—when the churches I’m speaking to are full of strangers. As Joel’s mom, feelings often run too deep for comfort. Like most moms of children with autism, I’ve often watched people at church reject, ostracize, or simply ignore my son. It’s hard to play the expert when you’re crying.

We knew God had big plans for us when he led us last year from Cincinnati to Oxford, Ohio and the Oxford Vineyard. But we didn’t realize how deeply those plans would impact Joel, who had moved out of our home the year before. A week before Christmas, my husband Wally and I had plans to go out of town for the weekend. We were worried about the impact of changing Joel’s routine. Joel spends Saturday nights with us, and loves going to church with us on Sunday mornings. Disrupting Joel’s schedule can throw his behavior out of whack for several days, and we didn’t want that to happen. Christmas itself is enough of a routine-buster. And because Christmas was just around the corner, we hesitated to ask any of our new friends to step in and help.

But when Wally asked Amy and Dirk if they’d be able to pick up Joel and take him to The Oxford Vineyard that Sunday, they responded with enthusiasm. Joel’s new home, Safe Haven Farms, is a 30 minute drive from church, so this meant Amy and Dirk were not only committing to an hour church service with a young man who has a hard time sitting still, but to over an hour in the car as well. Wow.

Amy called me from their car that Sunday morning, with Joel on speaker-phone, to let us know they were having a blast singing Christmas carols on the drive to church, and that they’d been thrilled, the night before at the Safe Haven Christmas Party (we didn’t even know they were going to go!), to discover that Joel’s a great singer.

“He knows the words to all the Christmas carols! You should have seen him up front with the microphone! He sang his heart out!”

I didn’t think anything could top this—no one besides paid staff had ever offered to take Joel to church before, much less had such a good time with him—but once again I’d underestimated God.

On Christmas Eve, the Oxford Vineyard holds a very informal church service.

“Who would like to lead us in some Christmas carols?” John, the pastor, stood up front with the microphone, trying to marshall everyone’s attention.

“Joel’s a really good singer,” Amy called out.

Joel grinned and walked toward the front of the church.

“You want to lead us, Joel?” John asked.

Joel’s grin widened as he grabbed the microphone.

Wally strode forward and stood beside Joel. “How ’bout “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,”?” he asked, knowing this is one of Joel’s favorites,

Joel smiled his agreement. Wally started the song and Joel joined in, softly singing the words into the microphone, a bit off tune, but sweetly and clearly.

When he finished, everyone burst into applause. Someone in the back cried out, “Encore! ‘Silent Night!’”

This time, Joel led the congregation with confidence, his voice cracking a bit at the high parts.

I sat, glued to my chair, my head filled not only with the sound of Joel’s amplified voice, but with a chorus of angels singing “Alleluia!”

As Paul so eloquently wrote to the church in Corinth:

“21 The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” And the head cannot say to the feet, “I don’t need you!” 22 On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, 23 and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, 24 while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has put the body together, giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it, 25 so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. 26 If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.”

This year I received the very best Christmas gift of all on Christmas Eve. It was a gift that trumped, by far, those presents my twelve-year-old self believed so heavenly. This present didn’t come gift-wrapped in foil under a shining tree, but in a poorly lit store-front church. The Body of Christ, where so many parts of the Body are so often are missing, had just been re-membered.

And heaven itself was rejoicing.

Last night a wind blew in from the north, leaving frost on the fields across the road and a nip in the air. I have the day to myself, and plan to sit inside with a cup of tea. This autumn afternoon invites a time of prayer, a good novel, and maybe even a nap.

But the glorious golden maple trees surrounding the house beckon, waving in the wind. It’s sunny on the side porch, so I join the cat, sound asleep on one of two wicker chairs. Cuddled in my fleece jacket, I plunk down in the chair next to the cat, thinking to meditate on the sight of leaves spiraling from the trees.

My ever-present cell phone rings. I answer. A friend in need. I spend 30 minutes helping as best I can, which entails several trips in and out of the house, looking for phone numbers, paper, pen, etc. That business finished, I sit down again. I sigh. Just looking at these trees could be a burning bush experience, I think, if I’d only let myself relax and enjoy.

The phone rings again. I answer. My mother, in need. We talk a few minutes. I try to reassure her that she’s living in the right place. That it’s okay to be 80. That life is still good. I say “I love you,” and hang up. The golden leaves shudder and shake in the wind, whispering a secret language all their own.

An hour has passed by now, and I am still as wound up as when I sat down. The cat, on the other hand, has not moved a muscle. Soaking up the sun, he breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. I take a deep breath, intent upon soaking up this beauty like a sponge, and bottling it up in a jar for the cold, dark days of winter.

How can I offer Cloudland as a place of rest and refreshment if I can’t slow down to enjoy it myself—if I continue playing the role of Martha—cooking and cleaning and making sure everything is “just so”? I am so aware that I have not been choosing the better portion that Mary chose, sitting at Jesus’ knee.

This place is perfectly situated to watch the seasons unfold—to watch as seed is planted in the ground; to witness it grow, day by day, from tender shoot to hundreds upon hundreds of acres of corn and soy; to partake in the harvest in the fall at the farmer’s market uptown.

Cloudland sits on the highest point of Butler County, where the observant can watch the weather unfurl, great clouds roiling and black on the horizon, or the sun rising, a red rubber ball trailing ribbons of pink across the horizon. And on days like today, cloud shadows play tag across the fields.

The cat’s chest expands, contracts. Expands, contracts. My breathing finally slows down to match. Shadow falls upon the trees and barn in front of me, the sun racing ahead of the clouds to shine bright on the maple-covered ridge across the way. My spirit expands at the sight.

Last night a wind blew in from the north, leaving frost on the fields across the road and a nip in the air. The brisk temperatures promise winter is close behind. Part of me grieves, knowing that all will be brown and bare in just a few weeks. But another part of me deep-down-knows that the coming season holds its own richness. That winter wheat planted today in the fields around us will be unfurling, unfolding in the dark days ahead. That God will be at work even in His hiddenness.

For this kind of deep-down-knowing, I need to leave my cell phone behind; slow down, like this cat asleep in the chair next to me; inhale, exhale; measured breaths seeped in prayer that join in the great hymn of praise going up all around me, at all times, in all seasons, in this place called Cloudland.

I love lectio divina! For nearly ten years, every Wednesday morning, my contemplative prayer group has used this discipline to center our prayer time. Three times, we read through a short Scripture. We read aloud, slowly, meditatively. After the first reading, each person speaks one line or one word in the Scripture that speaks to her heart. The passage is read again. We sit in silence for a moment, and then each person shares, again, what speaks to her heart (which may be a different word or line this time through), and how it speaks to the circumstances of her life today. The passage is read once more, and then we go into quiet, waiting for the Holy Spirit to move through the words of Scripture written on the page, transforming them into living Words; enlivening us, lighting our paths, speaking words of wisdom into today’s situation.

The Holy Spirit never fails us.

This week, we read Psalm 1:

“Blessed is the woman who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but her delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law she meditates day and night. She is like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that she does, she prospers.” (v 1-3)

The line, “She is like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither,” speaks to me. I am in a time of major life transition, which is hard enough. On top of that, people that I love dearly are hurting. I spend hours, in the middle of the night, praying for them. Truth be told, I spend more time worrying about them and trying to solve the problems of their lives, than praying for them!

And so this image of a fruit-bearing tree, planted by streams of water, speaks to my soul. I want to be that tree! I want to soak up the Lord’s presence. I want that living water instead of these sleepless nights that leave me feeling tired and dry and dusty.

I close my eyes and sink into meditation.

I repeat my centering words. Maranatha, come, Lord Jesus. Maranatha, come Lord Jesus.

I picture myself as a tree. A cypress tree, my leaves evergreen. I see myself planted not next to a stream, but in the stream. Bubbling, sparkling water courses around my roots.

As the picture becomes clearer, I see knobby cypress knees surrounding me, their ugly misshapenness protruding out of the water. These twisted, unsightly roots don’t belong in this meditation!

Look again, the Spirit whispers.

I look more closely, and see that each of these knobby knees represent a difficult life situation. Joel’s slide back into manic swings. Matt’s chronic pain. My mother’s dementia, among others.

Each of these situations has brought me to the Lord in prayer. Over and over again, they bring me home. They remind me of my powerlessness and root me in the power of the Master of the Universe. Like the knobby knees of the cypress tree, these roots are part of me, misshapen as they are. They tap down into streams of living water. Water that hydrates my dryness, refreshes my thirst, resurrects my dying self as I hand my life over to God for the power I need to make it through each day.

“She is like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that she does, she prospers.”

Lord, thank you for this vision of myself as a cypress tree, knobby knees and all. Thank you for meeting me in my place of need. I praise you that your Word is a living word, a word that speaks directly to my life today.

“Our vocation is not only to do what the Word told us to do but also to say what the Word told us to say, until the whole world is transformed by the news.” Barbara Brown Taylor, When God is Silent

Is there anything more beautiful than a walk in the woods in the middle of October? Sunbeams, streaming through a golden canopy of maple leaves, creating a cathedral of light. The pungent smell of decay, tickling the nostrils and igniting feelings of nostalgia for the dying summer and memories of autumn days as a child, raking piles of leaves into leaf houses. The sounds of crunching leaves underfoot, and brown sycamore leaves still clinging to the trees, applauding the beauty of the day. The visceral sound of thousands of bird wings, felt deep in the chest, as a flock of grackles takes flight, flashing purple and black in the treetops. The taste of smoke, carried across the lake on the wind.

It couldn’t have been more perfect, this walk Wally, Joel and I took yesterday on the Big Woods trail at Hueston Woods State Park, just down the road from Cloudland. We’d had a morning of worship and praise at The Oxford Vineyard, a tasty lunch at the Mexican restaurant in town, and then this walk on a perfect October day. It was the end of 10 days of sickness for me, and several months of rapid-cycling mania for Joel. It couldn’t have come at a better time. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

But God had even more in store for us.

I had been leading the way, Joel behind me, walking slowly, tentatively through the leaves, afraid of tripping on a root. Wally took up the rear. We’d been walking for 30 minutes or more, and were climbing the hill toward the car.

Suddenly, Joel sped up from behind, appeared at my side, and grabbed my hand. He grinned at me—the special Sunday-morning grin that he shines on us at church each week—a grin of pure adoration and love. With that, he clutched my hand even tighter, not letting go immediately as my long experience as his mom told me he would. He walked next to me, squeezing my hand and swinging my arm, his grin widening at my obvious delight.

This might not seem like a big deal, this hand-holding on the walk up a hill in the middle of the woods on a beautiful day in October. Might even seem blasé, cliché, boring. On the contrary. This was magical, this was stupendous, this was sheer gift. My 26-year-old son, this son with autism and all sorts of sensory issues, never holds my hand. He gives me high-fives. He pats my back. He lets me pat his hand. Let me repeat. He never holds my hand.

We walked the rest of the way up the hill in the golden light, scuffing our feet in the crunchy leaves, breathing in woodsmoke, listening to grackles chattering in the trees. Hand-in-hand.

Transformed.

What could be more beautiful than a walk in the woods in the middle of October? Holding hands with a messenger of God.

God’s message for me?

It is all grace. It is all gift. Taste, eat, for the Lord is good.

The Word told me to tell you today, that you might be transformed as well.

My good friend Patty just started a blog, “Stark Raving Mythopath, Musings about Myth and Meaning and Everyday Mysteries.” (http://www.mythopath.blogspot.com) Don’t you just love that title? Her first post, “Magic Beans,” is as tasty as a bowl of my mother’s bean soup on a brisk autumn day. A handful of magic beans: Plant them. Water them. Wait for them. And when they grow stupendously high, all the way up to the sky, ask yourself this question: “Will you be brave enough to climb? Or crazy enough?”

Patty continues, “So begins a story. And so begins every story. With a choice. Even a really bad, how-could-I-be-so-dumb choice. Our choices take us places we never dreamed of going. Who knew that beans could sprout a stairway to the stars?”

In prayer this morning, I pictured God holding out his hands to me. “Here, Kathy,” he said. “Magic beans, just for you!” And he opened his hands and let the beans fall, with a soft clicking sound, into mine. Then he disappeared, leaving me with a handful of beans and a fluttery feeling in my stomach.

I saw myself planting the beans in fertile ground, behind the barn, right here at Cloudland. I pictured myself watering them, feeding them with Miracle-Gro, waiting for them to sprout. I saw myself waking up one morning. I walked out the door, ignored the tormented sounds of the hungry cat, and hurried around the barn, expecting to see perhaps a few measly sprouts poking their heads above bare ground.

Instead, I was confronted by a row of bean stalks, greenly gargantuan, climbing, like Jacob’s ladder, to the heavens.

As I sat with the image of mile-high bean stalks, I realized that this is where the story-within-a-story of my life begins. Here, today, at Cloudland. What will I choose this day? Will I choose life, or will I choose death? Will I run away from these monster-sized beanstalks, afraid of the power they represent? Will I chop them down in a frenzy of fear? (They are, evidently, a genetically altered species, and I avoid genetically modified food whenever possible!) Will I brag about their superpowers to my friends, while I spend most of my time in the house, afraid I might give in and start climbing?

Or do I take a deep breath, hike up my jeans, and hoist myself up, praying for God to help me overcome my fear of heights?

God has given me a handful of magic beans. I’ve planted them here at Cloudland. And I’m committing myself to climbing up those stalks, no matter their height. What I’ll find at the top is still a mystery. But that’s okay. Like my friend Patty, I enjoy a good mystery at bedtime. As Sherlock Holmes would say, “The game is afoot.” Anyone want to join me?

This is a companion piece for the guest blog I posted earlier today. This chapter appears in “Autism & Alleluias” (Judson Press, 2010), and “A Place Called Acceptance” (Bridge Resources, 2001).

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood.
1 Cor. 13:12

It is communion Sunday. Joel, eleven, sits between his father and me. As usual, we sit in the front pew so that Joel can’t kick the pews in front of us or reach forward and grab someone’s hair. By trial and error we have found that with Dad to his right, Mom to his left, and empty space to the front, Joel can usually sit through half of the worship service.

We have temporarily given up on Sunday school. Sunday school is just too difficult - too much like “real” school, a place where “keeping it together” is a real struggle. Because Joel loves music, and is enthralled by the choir, the beginning of the service is something he looks forward to. It has taken other members of the congregation a while to get used to Joel’s spontaneity. Often he stands up, pretend baton in hand, and imitates the choir director. During hymns he loves to sing along, usually (thank God) on tune, with a few words right, and always with a loud amen! at the end, generally a few beats behind the rest of the congregation.

During the boring parts of the service (any part without music is boring as far as Joel is concerned), he twists and turns in the pew, stares at the people behind us, waves at the pastor, swings his feet, claps his hands or stomps his feet (he usually saves these last two for times of silent prayer), and at least once during every service says in a loud voice, “I have to go to the bathroom!” Worshiping with Joel is an interesting experience. It’s not unlike sitting on the edge of your seat during an action movie, when you’re not quite sure what’s going to happen next - you only know something is going to happen. It’s difficult to develop a prayerful attitude in those circumstances.

On the first Sunday of the month, communion is served. We pass the bread along the pews, administering it to one another, saying, “This is the body of Jesus, broken for you.” Likewise, we pass the wine to one another with the words, “This is Jesus’ blood, shed that you might live.” My husband and I allow Joel to take a piece of bread, reciting the familiar words to which he never seems to pay attention. He chews the bread, picking at the sticky stuff left in his teeth with his fingers, but far prefers the wine, which in our church is really grape juice. Again, we recite the words to him. “Joel, this is Jesus’ blood, shed for you.” He slurps down the juice and sticks his tongue into the cup, determined to get every last drop. His father and I close our eyes briefly to pray our own private prayers of thanksgiving for this unbelievable gift of grace. Joel cranes his neck to watch as everyone else is served, and wiggles through the remaining quiet time

This particular Sunday, the pastor raises the plate high in the air and proclaims “This is the body of Christ, broken for you.” Then he raises the cup, saying, “And this is the blood of Christ, poured out that you might live.” Joel pulls on my sleeve. I look down to see him grinning, his face lit up as if from within. He stands up tall, and taps himself on his chest. “For me! For me!” he cries joyfully. He turns around to the people behind us. “For me!” he repeats. “For me!”

Ordinary time stops. All that exists in this moment is the radiant look of understanding on Joel’s face. Joel knows that God loves him. On a spiritual level he knows that God has sent Jesus for him. My body remains in the front pew of College Hill Presbyterian Church, but my spirit stands in the sacred presence of God. All the accumulated Sunday hours of embarrassment, impatience, frustration, and yearning for wholeness as the world knows wholeness slough away as I watch the love of God glimmer like gold in the face of my son.

Lord, for a moment today the mirror of existence, like a mirror wiped clear of steam, brightened and cleared, and I understood clearly. Joel, although cognitively impaired, is spiritually whole. I glimpsed a realm of existence where schedules and priorities and developmental timetables do not exist. A realm where it is enough simply “to be.” I praise you, Lord, for letting my son teach me this truth. Amen.

One Saturday evening 5 years ago, we were sitting in the pew with our four children at Mass. During the consecration, the priest held up the host and repeated the words of Jesus: “Take this all of you and eat.” The word “all” resonated in the spacious church and we realized that our 7-year-old daughter Danielle, who has autism, was certainly part of that “all.” But as we fixed our eyes on the consecrated bread and wine, we were both praying God in heaven; don’t let her spit it out.

Fortunately, when a few minutes later the time came for Danielle to receive her First Holy Communion, our prayers were answered. Danielle received the precious Body of Christ reverently. Kneeling together in silence, our family shared this very special moment in our daughter’s life, a moment we thought might never happen.

But our story didn’t begin that August evening. When Danielle was age 4, she was diagnosed with autism, a neurological condition that affects language, social interaction, and behavior. Danielle is non-verbal and we realized early on that for her to receive the gifts of the sacraments she would require a different approach than what is used for most children, including her two older brothers.

Like many children with autism, Danielle is a visual learner and uses a picture-based language to communicate. Therefore, she needed a visual, picture-based approach to learn what was needed in order to be ready to receive her sacraments. She prepared for her First Holy Communion using a variety of homemade teaching tools. With this approach, she was able to satisfy the bishops’ requirements of distinguishing the consecrated host from ordinary food and receiving communion reverently. We were so proud of her!

Some time after this, our son Brendan, a Boy Scout, was nearing the rank of Eagle. As part of this process, he had to organize and implement a special project. He remembered how we had prepared Danielle for her First Communion and told us that other parents “should not have to reinvent the wheel.”

Therefore, for his Eagle Scout Project, he developed a special needs resource library in our parish to be used by children who might require special approaches to prepare for their sacraments. Out of this we put together additional materials that ultimately became The Adaptive First Eucharist Preparation Kit, now available through Loyola Press.

This brings us back to the words of Jesus quoted at the beginning of our story: “Take this all of you and eat.” We believe that Jesus was reaching out to all people everywhere, including people with cognitive and developmental disabilities. We believe strongly that Jesus meant to include all God’s children and that is why we are so excited to see the Adaptive First Eucharist Kit available as a resource to help this all become a reality.

Mercedes and David Rizzo
August 28, 2011

If you’re interested in buying a kit for your church, you can do so through this site:
http://www.loyolapress.com/about-the-adaptive-first-eucharist-preparation-kit.htm

“To lose faith is to stop looking. To lose faith is to decide that all you ever saw from afar was your own best dreams.” Frederick Buechner

Boy, can I relate to this quote today.

Do you ever get tired of praying and not getting answers? Feel like arrow prayers zoom into space, never finding their target? Feel like you just can’t utter one more prayer?

That’s where I am today. It’s not a good place to be.

Our son Joel, who has autism, is struggling through a manic phase like none he’s ever known. And believe me, he’s known many. But because he no longer lives at home, it’s a whole ’nother monster. Wally and I had years to hone our responses to Joel’s restless and sleepless nights. Mohamed, who has worked with Joel for close to 10 years, also knows exactly what to do. But now Joel’s in an environment where there’s not just Mom, Dad, and Mohamed. Several staff cross Joel’s path each day, many, but not all of them, beginning to know him well. But overnight staff change often, and many of them don’t know Joel—his idiosyncracies, his habits, his aversion to impatience and frustration.

Consistency is difficult under these circumstances.

And consistency is the name of the game when it comes to dealing with manic swings.

Suddenly, I can’t sleep. I don’t feel like eating. My plans for the day crumble to dust when I get word that Joel has had another sleepless night. I can’t concentrate, can’t get moving, can’t get anything done.

The enemy is making himself mighty comfortable in my spirit today.

I tell myself that praise silences the enemy, and then I start praising. My words feel empty, but I keep on praising. I praise you, Lord. Thank you for your presence in this situation. I know you are there, Lord. Thank you, Holy Spirit, for your presence in Joel today. Thank you, Jesus, for shining your light into this dark situation. Thank you, Father/Mother God, for your creative power and for your love. Your love for Joel, your love for me and Wally, your love for everyone at Safe Haven Farms.

John Richter, pastor of the Oxford Vineyard, said a couple of weeks ago that Satan has a tipping point. He can only take so much prayer and praise to the Lord Jesus Christ.

In the name of Jesus, by the blood of Jesus, it’s tipping time for you, Satan.

I claim today that my “own best dreams” are dreams planted within me by my God. I will praise Him night and day, no matter the outer circumstances of my life. I claim God’s salvation power within my son Joel, within my sons Matt and Justin, within my daughter-in-law Elizabeth and within me and Wally. Sozo power, working ALL things for good.

Hallelujah!

Praise God in his holy house of worship, praise him under the open skies; Praise him for his acts of power, praise him for his magnificent greatness; Praise with a blast on the trumpet, praise by strumming soft strings; Praise him with castanets and dance, praise him with banjo and flute; Praise him with cymbals and big bass drum, praise him with fiddles and mandarin. Let every living, breathing creature praise God!

Hallelujah!
(Psalm 150, The Message)