PSALM 23: He leads me beside still waters … He restores my soul … He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake … yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … I will fear no evil … for THOU ART WITH ME!!
Did you spend your FIRST FIFTEEN MINUTES with God this morning.
First thing?
I didn’t.
And before I knew it, there was a wellspring of righteous frustration inside of me.
Another wasted, unproductive day, I wanted to cry out.
This self-quarantine is a disaster, I wanted to conclude.
All because we spent most of the morning navigating a ...
SLOW BURNING, GRADUALLY ACCELERATING MELTDOWN.
There is a temptation, since my son is on the AUTISM SPECTRUM, to want to address life as if this was not already a given:
He has autism.
He relies on routine.
He struggles with every significant change to that routine.
And we adjust everything in our lives to revolve around that fact.
He does so well 95% of the time that I forget that he doesn’t really understand all the stress that surrounds him right now. So much stress over something we can barely even see with a microscope.
And. In a way. Right now. The rest of us. Are feeling what he always feels.
A little anxious and a little uncertain.
A bit overstimulated and a bit unsure.
Wanting to turn off all of the messages that are bombarding us.
But afraid that if we do tune out, we might miss something important.
Suddenly. Everyone is having sensory integration issues. And none of know how to put all these pieces together.
I need reminders like this to help me empathize with what his world might be like. But I struggle to deal with world as I imagine he sees it. Or hears it. It’s so much. It’s so, so much. Sometimes it feels like too much. And now, it seems, that everyone else suddenly understands this feeling too:
For all of us, as parents, school is closed indefinitely.
So we’re homeschooling the best we can.
And many of us are still trying to work as full time as possible from home.
And we have the people at church that we love and care about and are concerned about.
And we want to volunteer when we can, especially in places like the Fair Park neighborhood of South Dallas, where the need is great.
And we try to avoid the news.
But still we hear that we haven’t managed to flatten the infection curve as much as we might have liked in the United States, and especially in Texas.
And … when we stop to assess … if we stop to assess … we must admit … whether we want to or not …
We’re not at peace.
Oh, yes, we’re coping. We’re managing. We’re keeping a positive attitude. But we’re also trying to keep busy enough, so we don’t have to feel fully what, deep down, we know we are feeling.
We’re not at peace.
Or at least I’m not. I can’t speak for you.
My world has changed. Drastically. Just like everyone else’s.
Only I can’t explain that to him.
Why he isn’t going to school for the 20th day in a row.
Why we can’t go ride his therapy horse.
Or attend his adaptive karate classes.
Or work on his next solo with his music teacher.
Or go to his favorite restaurants.
Or play on his favorite indoor playground or swim in an indoor swimming pool.
What he knows. Is that I am at home.
And when I am at home. I am his. He has my attention. He is my first priority.
He’s learned to trust this. And he’s learned to trust. That when he is overwhelmed. When the sounds and sights and smells get too much for his brain to integrate all of those blasting sensations.
He has learned to trust. That he can come to me. And I will help him find peace.
I will help him find peace.
Which means. My FIRST FIFTEEN isn’t optional. It’s a discipline I dare not miss.
I must. Go to the source.
Preferably BEFORE the meltdown.
For when I do not go to the source. Early and often.
To the well.
To the still waters that restore my soul.
In search of that peace.
And the source of that peace.
I cannot be available when his world comes crashing in on him.
Like it did this morning.
For some reason he has a phobia about his iPad.
Which is normally his constant companion.
So his portable DVD player is right now a sorry substitute.
And our best one broke at the beginning of Spring Break. But we still had a backup. Of course, during this chaos we haven’t had time to chase down the extended warranty on the first one. So we only have the backup.
And. Yes. You guessed it. Yesterday, the backup broke. Not completely. Just mostly. So it will still work. But not the right way.
And. Yes. You guessed it ...
His world came crashing down around him this morning.
When he woke up hungry. And the DVD player wasn’t working. And the episode of Curious George he really wanted to watch isn’t available on the DVR. And, NO, he will not let me pull it up on an iPad or the Computer. He looks at me like, Father, don’t you know that YouTube is the devil right now?
No. I did not.
Oh, that fickle FIRST FIFTEEN.
It’s so often the mornings we need it most. That we forget to make it the first priority.
I tried to stay calm as he melted down. I walked him through each of our familiar steps.
Headphones.
Crayons.
Breathe.
Stuffed dog and sensory pillow.
BREATHE.
List of the don’ts.
Don’t scream. Don’t slam doors. Don’t spit. Don’t stand on the glass table. Don’t knock over the chair. Don’t hit. Don’t kick. Don’t bite.
BREATHE.
He doesn’t do most of those any more. But the “Don’ts” are now a familiar mantra. He recites them himself. They all remind him to breathe and breathe and breathe.
And so is this:
Do you want a time out?
He doesn’t need a time out any more to practice relaxing before he acts out or strikes out. He needs a time out to be held. During a time out, we hold him close. Very tight. And massage his arms and legs and hands and feet. And the deep pressure helps him relax in those moments when the stress is stressing his limits.
But this morning he didn’t want to be touched.
And at the moment I didn’t really realize. I wasn’t relaxed enough. I couldn’t hold him with a peace that passes all understanding. Because his father. Hadn’t spent enough time yet. With HIS Father. With OUR Father. Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.
Oh. That FIRST FIFTEEN.
But thanks be to the abundant grace of God. We can always start our day over again.
And Nikhil took me. For my time out. To Lake Ray Hubbard.
Sure. I was the one who realized we BOTH needed a road trip. We BOTH needed our attention diverted. And we BOTH found that at the lake. But he led me. The he that is my son. Helped me follow the HE that is my SAVIOR.
He led me beside still waters … watching him throw sticks into the water … started to restore my soul … he led me along a path of noticing and appreciating God’s creation … and celebrating the gift of this world … and the gift of our part in this world … and, yea, though the anxiety of this virus can make us feel like we are in the valley of
the shadow of death … we will fear no evil … for GOD IS WITH US!!
I’d like to tell you that our time out by the still waters restored his soul. And it lasted ALL day.
It did not.
He has started just as many meltdowns this afternoon as he did this morning. But after I followed HIM (and him) to the still waters. The valley of the shadow of death didn’t feel nearly so overwhelming any more.
The FIRST FIFTEEN. Whenever we can get to it. And it does seem, the earlier the better.
But the FIRST FIFTEEN is all about letting God restore our soul.
Which God does. Any time we ask. Every time we ask.
I have been asked, during this virus outbreak, whether God is trying to get our attention. Whether God is trying to teach us something.
I want to be clear. The God that I know and trust and have met in the Scriptures, does not test us or punish us to teach us lessons. It might seem that way if you read certain parts of the Old Testament.
But Jesus taught something far different. In the Gospel of John. Chapter 9.
When the disciples encountered the man born blind, they asked,
“Who sinned? This man or his parents?
Whose fault was it that he was born blind?”
And Jesus said, NEITHER.
This happened.
So that the glory of God could be revealed.
God isn’t punishing us. Or testing us. Or causing a meltdown because we are not paying attention.
This is happening. So the glory of God can be revealed. Through us.
That works for blessings. As well as challenges. This. And all things.
Everything happens. So that the glory of God can be revealed.
And God doesn’t leave us alone in any of it.
In the blessings. In the challenges.
God ...
Gives us.
The tools we need.
The space we need.
The time we need.
The green pastures we need.
The still waters we need.
To meet the blessings. And meet the challenges.
With God, our Father, with Christ, our Good Shepherd.
Leading us onto right paths.
And if you haven’t heard it yet. This means a lot to me:
That he was born. Just this way. So the glory of God could be revealed. Through him.
Because I believe that with all of my heart, soul, mind, and strength.
The glory of God is daily revealed, through him.
My son.
And through me. And through you.
All of us. Fearfully.
And wonderfully created.
And God saw all that God had made. And God said:
"This is ... you are ... sooooo GOOD!"
Lay us down, Lord, in green pastures. Lead us beside still waters. Restore our souls. And lead us to see, how the Glory of God, can be revealed. Through us.
Amen.
