Where Are You Going with that Book

I've posted about the Divine Hours before. It's Phyllis Tickle's book of prayers, psalms, etc that I read 4 times a day. The other day at lunch time I was carrying it through the living room, on my way upstairs to read. Chad was sitting in the room, and said to me, "Where are you going with that book?"

When we were in California for the 6 months, Chad and I shared a room. I read the Hours out loud to him every night. He enjoyed it, always wanted it read out loud, commented on it (things like "who's Jesus God?").

So when he asked me where I was going with the book, I said, "Upstairs. Why? Do you want me to read it to you?" He said yes, so I sat down and started reading.

Immediately he said, "Who's the alien?" I told him there was no alien, I didn't know what he was talking about. He repeated the question several times. Finally I asked him if he meant the Holy Spirit. He quit asking, so I figured that was who he was talking about. Then he said, "I don't know who she is." I do believe the Holy Spirit has a feminine side, but I found it interesting that Chad saw Him as a she. Anyway, we (I) talked a little about the Spirit.

This conversation got me thinking. How many of us, walk through the living rooms of our lives, with the Word of God clutched tightly to our chests? Do we even hear the lost voices around us imploring, "Hey. Where are you going with that book?"

God, give me ears to hear.

Broken

(Most of you know that the local newspaper here runs articles written by yours truly on most Fridays in the Religion section. Here's one I wrote for last week's edition.)

We look out on the world and we see brokenness. Truly, there is much that is broken. We live on a fallen planet, marred by sin, corrupted by influences millennia old as well as recent.

We look at people and see brokenness. Truly, there is much that is broken. Lives destroyed by abuse and neglect. Hurt that is self inflicted and inflicted by others. Atrocities that make one shudder at the depth of human depravity.

Into the midst of this, though, a beacon of redemption shines. We realize that some of what we thought was brokenness is actually the glory of God.

I have a 19-year old son. A man-child. He is autistic. Many looking at him would see brokenness. But I know differently. God has taught me something about life, love, and His purposes through my relationship with this child.

Years ago, while I was still in college, I spent a summer working with handicapped children. Most of my time was devoted to the care of the severely disabled. It affected me profoundly, and I went back to school determined to change my major from math to special education. Ultimately I didn’t change majors, but I did take some classes, both undergraduate and graduate level, in the psychology of the exceptional child.

A few years after graduation, I left my faith behind. The reasons are a subject for another day, but suffice it to say, none of them was good. Fortunately, God is so much more faithful than I am, and He continued to work in my life. Eventually, my husband and I had our first child. A few years later we would find out this delightful little boy was autistic and his life would never be the one that we had hoped for him. But through him, and other people and events, God would reveal Himself to me, and lead me on the long journey back.

Life with Chad could have been very difficult. Indeed, it has been trying at times. But eventually I was able to see that God had prepared my home for this special child years before, and He had equipped me with the skills I would need to raise him. I also knew that his disability was not nearly as incapacitating as it could have been, as had been the case with those children from my past. To my relief, I found a source of strength in my husband; so many disabled children don’t have intact families. As I learned these lessons, God continued to show me greater wonders. I began to see the lives of some of my friends significantly impacted by my son. In ways that I never could have demonstrated God’s grace and love, Chad could. He inspired courage in the face of timidity, and understanding in place of anger. My mind would go to the verses, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness,” and “We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all surpassing power is from God and not from us.” (2 Cor. 12:9; 4:7) The fact that my jar of clay, formed in my own womb but created from the same dust as Adam, reflects the light of God’s glory is a never-ending marvel to me. That this relationship God has given me has become a life testimony to share with others, also is a source of unending pleasure.

One day a few years ago, as I sat reading, Chad joined me and started a barrage of silly questions. To help me concentrate on what I had been doing before he arrived, I asked him if he’d like me to read out loud. He nodded and I proceeded. I was reading one of the Psalms. Halfway through I looked over at my child, and was surprised by what I saw. His eyes were closed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a peaceful smile, his chin tilted toward the heavens. He seemed transported to a place of delight, somewhere beyond me. I looked again at the page I’d read, wondering if I’d missed something. I knew then that Chad has an understanding of God that I lack. When I read the Psalms now, especially the ones focusing on the glory and magnitude of the Almighty, I see Chad’s face and understand something of rapture.

I read a book years ago, called Father of the Four Passages. I didn’t like it; I wouldn’t recommend it. But a scene in it has stuck with me all this time. It’s the story of a woman who happens to be the mother of an autistic child. Near the end of the book, an angel has come to be with her for a while. In one discussion she is telling the angel that she doesn’t know how to help her son, what to do for him. The angel looks at her quizzically and says, “Oh…you thought you were here for him? Oh no. Don’t you see, he’s here to help you.”

That is my story, too.