perspiration inspiration

Never before have I had an epiphany while on an eliptical machine...

Until today.

I just joined a fitness club, not because I need to lose weight, but because I needed some inspiration.   I needed some fresh air after the cold and the snow and the decorations came down.  I needed to get out and see people, friends, and remember to be kind to myself. I needed a challenge, and I wanted to step outside my comfort zone.  Imagine that.

As I was...elipticizing (???)...I chatted back and forth with a friend of mine who I joined with.  When we finished our half hour, she said good-bye and I headed to work on a few more machines.  A woman smiled at me as I was wiping down an ab machine I fondly refer to as "Killer."  I paused, thinking she might ask me a question.  She looked like she was about to and then turned and walked away.

I was slightly confused as I got situated on "Killer."  I made a note to approach her after I was done.

As I passed the eliptical machines on my way to the locker room, I saw this woman again.  I made a quick decision to hop back on the machine next to her, hoping to strike up a conversation...and not get punched in the face.

Her face was not what it was 15 minutes before.  She was somber, focused, and kept her gaze directed away from me.  On purpose.

Defeated, I decided I couldn't get off of the machine after only 30 seconds, so I set my course and kept pushing myself.  My legs were done.  But I felt like I needed to wait for her.

She finally finished up and I pretended I did too.  I had given up as she cleaned her machine and walked away.  I guess I wasn't supposed to talk to her after all.  Embarrassed, I walked to the locker room to get my sweatshirt and keys.  As I was zipping up my hoodie, I felt someone come up next to me.

"I'm sorry...I just thought you looked like someone I knew.  I must look like a weirdo..."  It was her.  The woman I caused paralysis in my legs for.  I smiled at her.  "No, no, not a weirdo.  I just wondered if...you were...okay."  The words came out of my mouth like a splash on the floor.  After a pause, she spoke.

"I just noticed you here yesterday, and I saw your Walk for Autism shirt...and then, today...I saw you were wearing a shirt about...Team Isaac with that "Keep on Truckin" saying on the back...it was inspiring to me, I don't know...and I just wanted to tell you without being weird."  Nervous laughter.

I tried not to cry.  I was so touched.  "Isaac is my son, actually, and we had these t-shirts made up when we walked in his honor a few years ago.  We put a truck on the back because, well, he  loves anything with wheels, and keep on truckin' is the slogan we decided on since...you don't stop fighting for the ones you love, no matter how hard or how long it takes, right?"

She nodded and smiled but it looked sad.  "Have a good one." She put on her jacket and walked out.  I wondered how hard that was for her to tell  me what she just did.

We don't always know the reasons why we end up where we do, at what time, and with whom.  I flashed back to the day I wore that "Keep on Truckin'" t-shirt on a cold September day in 2009, watching Isaac in his stroller as we walked...I remember looking at him and wondering where he'd be and how we'd get there.   Today, I knew I was there not to BE inspired, but to be and INSPIRATION.  I really hope I see her again, and maybe we can talk more.

My legs are sore, but my heart is revived.

red light day

My phone rings.  It's two-something in the afternoon.  It's a Friday, I have dessert done for a get-together later tonight--the sun is out, promising for an unseasonably lovely weekend...and the phone rings.  I recognize the phone number.  It's Isaac's teacher.  I take a deep breath and answer.  

"Hello?"  "Hi Mrs. Hladky, it's Mr. Wojnicz, Isaac's teacher..."  "Oh, hi, how are things?"  (Don't know why I ask this question, so I squint my eyes shut and smack my forehead...but we keep talking). "Well, I just wanted to call to let you know Isaac's going to be coming home with a red light today...he made some bad behavior choices while waiting to use the bathroom, and was running in the halls, raising his voice...we had a talk about it, but decided it was a good idea for him to have a red light today to talk about it at home with you and Dad."  Some of you are reading this thinking, "That's it?  He was running and being loud and cutting in line for the bathroom?"   In Isaac's school, its a little different.  Order, control, and even how loud the kids are become major issues in creating a healthy, safe, and encouraging environment for these kids who may not function in a regular classroom.  Back to my story...

First, relief.  Isaac's not physically harmed.  Second, smiling.  I could picture him running down the hall, yelling something along the lines of "I'M FREEEEEE!" while trying to zip up his jeans on dress down day.  Third, a pang in my heart.  It's never easy to hear that your child had to be reprimanded.  I'm not embarrassed, though...never embarrassed.   I learned long ago that although Isaac's my son, he is still his own person and responsible for his own actions--especially in school where he knows the rules.  It's just my job to love and lead him through.  

I text Dan with a few questions...how should we discuss this?  He tries very hard to listen and obey and this is only his second red light of the school year...but, what should the discipline be?  

Yes, I said the "d" word.  

Discipline is something we use in our home.  We use it because we love our sons.  It's tailored specifically to each boy, because they are different and comprehend differently.  We want to teach them, correct them, and love them all at once (and it IS possible, done in the correct way.) We want them to grow up with respect, and an understanding that every action has an effect. Good choices=good effects.  Bad choices...well....

I hear the car pull up the drive, and watch as my friend/carpool partner leaves and Isaac comes through the back kitchen door.  He knocks first (this has become his habit--he likes me to say, "who is it?") When he walks in, I pretend I'm oblivious.  Simply mom, just unloading the dishwasher.  

He is very still and very somber.  

"Mommy...I didn't get a green light today...I didn't even get a yellow light...I got a RED LIGHT."  He emphasizes the red light part.  I simply stop what I'm doing, go to his side and kneel down to eye level.  

"Isaac, everybody has red light days."  I give him a huge hug.  "I love you and I'm sorry you had a red light."  

We talk about the behavior that he got in trouble for.  He tells me he's ready to go to his friend's house for the playdate we planned.  I make the difficult decision to cancel the playdate as the consequence to the red light.  He is sad...mad...frustrated.  I hold my ground.  I try and hug him and he pushes me away.  

This is the painful part of parenting.  

After a few minutes, Isaac has forgiven and forgotten.  He smiles as he plays with his cars.  And I finally get that hug.  

It might seem like an insignificant day, but for me, and for Isaac, it's moments like these that build trust between us, teach boundaries, and remind him that there are rules that he has to abide by.  

The rule that never changes is my love for him.  Even on red light days.  

Fears and other birthday gifts

Fluffy white clusters of flakes dance around outside the window of my living room.  A giant helium filled shark is flying around my head inside my living room, thanks to Isaac's borrowing of his big brother's Christmas gift.  I hear the Jaws orchestral riff--duh da....duh da...duh da, duh da, duh da...."Look out, Mommy!  He's going to EAT YOU!"  Ah...another birthday has come.

Rewind twenty four years...it's my 10th birthday.  Because being born a few days after Christmas has it's negatives (let's face it, sharing a birthday the same week as Jesus kind of puts my birthday at the end of the totem pole...) I have learned to enjoy the little things--they mean so much more to me.  1988 was one of the memorable birthdays--I had a sleepover with some of my friends, and each part of that 24 hours is still alive in my mind like a Technicolor remake.  Everything from the talent show we did, to my dad pretending to be "the blob" and scaring us all to death.

Fast forward to 2008...it's my 30th birthday.  My husband and friends threw me a surprise party that will forever be a highlight of my life.  It's not easy to surprise me, but they did--and severely.  I almost had a heart attack when I walked through the swinging kitchen door of my friends' house to hear "SURPRISE!" Sitting around with those who were, and are, so dear to my heart was priceless.

Of course...if you can rewind again to December 28th, 2006, you'll find me sitting up in my hospital bed.  I can still remember that beach front scene framed on the wall directly across from me.  I stared at it, trying to imagine sand between my toes curling, breathing during my labor with one of the most fantastic, painful, surprising, and amazing gifts I have yet to experience.   A new life.  One that would challenge every fiber of my existence, and thrill me deeper than any birthday surprise ever could.  On the morning of December 29th, 2006, I was holding my baby boy snug in my arms.  Looking back at that moment, I realize I had sort of been prepared for that exciting fearful moment--what lies ahead?  And being filled with hope and peace at the prospect of the journey.  God knew I'd need it. 

Every birthday comes with fears and often times, unmet expectations.  I have learned through each December to soak in each moment--even if you AREN'T the headliner.  The beauty of life isn't found in avoiding the hard parts, it's created in experiencing and conquering--adding another small medal (or, huge trophy) to your heart's collection.   That's what each yearly milestone is about, and that's what I love about December 29th. 

As the snow still falls, and Isaac sits on my lap, wiggling and singing in his loudest voice, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUU!" I'm so thankful for the memories, thankful for the fears, because I have shelves overflowing with reminders of victories.  

Best. Gifts. Ever.

Wonder

Wonder: A feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.

Last week, as we spent the evening at my parents' house for dinner, my mom and I were talking.  As we discussed upcoming holiday plans, times, at whose house we'd be for what, we paused from talking.  Isaac had been at the china cabinet in the kitchen as we frantically made plans.  He had carefully repositioned the shepherds that were on display in the nativity.  They weren't facing out anymore.  He had turned them so they were facing the baby Jesus, backs to the room.  He then simply skipped away as if nothing had changed.  

"Look at this," my mom noticed.  We both stood by that nativity scene and let the implications soak in.  Isaac had seen what we often look past. A nativity is for display, yes, but it is our attitude of focus that defines where we direct our worship during Christmas.  We can decorate and wrap and stage all season long, but if our faces and hearts aren't turned to the truth of Christ's birth and allow that to shape our hearts, it's just a show.  

I love the wonder that comes from the perspective of my son.  In a moment, he can allow us to see what he sees.  Often, that perspective brings me back around to eye-opening reminders like this nativity scene.  It can be so easy to look past this gift.  I can care too much about others' opinions--care too much about how others see me. Isaac sees the unexpected and isn't afraid to share it, even if it goes again status quo.  He is a reminder of God's impact in my perspective every moment...a reminder to turn my heart to Jesus and to worship his beauty that outshines the lights of a million stars.

He truly has a gift for wonder.  And what a treasured gift he is to me.  

worthy of being loved

I am feeling under the weather today.  And it is quite the weather to feel under.

Outside, buckets of rain and thunder and lightning ricochet around, while I, with tissue box and tea in hand, sit on my chair.  I am reading my latest issue of People on my Nook, when I decide to delve into a story about Demi Moore.

I'm not sure if you are as savvy as I and keep up with all the juiciest gossip ( insert thick layer of sarcasm here...) but you have been buried under a rock if you haven't heard that Moore and her husband, Ashton Kutcher are no longer.  Well, this article squeezed some lemon into that wound as it talked about Kutcher's newest romance, leaving Demi in the dust, so to speak.

Why am I writing a blog about Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher?  It's because of a quote I read in the article referring to something Demi had said to Harper's Bazaar in a past interview about her biggest fear:  "it's that I'm going to ultimately find out at the end of my life that I'm really not lovable, that I'm not worthy of being loved."

I have to set my reader down and let that comment soak in.  I am thankful for this beautiful movie star's candid openness, but I'm broken-hearted at the lie she is afraid of!

We are ALL worthy of love, if we are talking about the kind of love that is worth it all.

There are many forms of love--in the Greek language, there are 3 that I can define:   "Eros" or, romantic, passionate love; "Philia" or, friendly, brotherly love; and "Agape", love that is selfless and totally committed.

Eros + Philia = trouble, pain,  confusion, undetermined expectation and comparison, selfishness

Eros + Philia +Agape = complete acceptance, complete devotion, and complete satisfaction.

If you don't know Agape love--the kind that is selfless and committed, that covers the ugly we all have in us--you will never know TRUE love.

I think of my children, and I think of how they see the world around them.  It is my passion to teach them the right equation for love, because it was the most difficult, the most challenging, and most eternally exhilarating lesson I've learned in my life (and continue to learn daily!)

Isaac always tells me, "I love you, Mom."  I am confident in his hugs and his affection, not because I'm worthy--but because I'm exactly the opposite.  I'm confident in my unworthiness, knowing that with the love of Jesus--Agape love--I am free and forgiven, no matter what stains may mare my past, no matter how much devastation has swept through my soul. It's because of this love, this mercy, I am lovable.

I can take a deep breath and close my eyes and know this love...
"Never fails, never gives up, never runs out..."

And that's worth it all.

out of clay

I wake up to a rainy, dark morning.  Isaac is in bed with me, snuggled between Dan and I...humming and announcing each minute change on the digital clock.  "It's....6:12....13!" As I get out of bed, I am reminded that today is my first day of free art therapy at Julie Billiart.  I am looking forward to meeting other moms and hearing their hearts (and maybe making something crafty too...)

I pick up our carpool buddies (Sandy, the mom, and her 3rd grader at JB, Sean) and we head over to the school.  After we high-five the boys good-bye, Sandy and I make our way into the school, signing in with pens topped with plastic sunflowers.  (These flowers are the school's symbol:  "Look to God as a sunflower looks to the sun for life")  

Making our way to the art therapy room, we are surrounded by organized drawers labeled with supplies, weaving looms and paintings, framed pieces of childrens' art work.  My heart does a little leap with excitement:  free time to make something?  Yes please!

As we find our seats, take of our jackets and sip on our coffee, other moms begin coming in.  I am introduced to everyone--most moms have been coming here for years, and obviously, get something much needed from the time.  I smile at them.  They do their best to smile back.  

As we begin, our facilitator (who is also Isaac's art teacher) reads a meditation from a book.  We start with piles of clay on some fabric.  As she reads, and soothing, instrumental music plays in the background, she tells us to close our eyes.  

I use this time to pray. I'm not sure what the others do, or even if this what what we were instructed to do...but in my experience, when I have quiet time, I use it to talk to God.  Plain and simple.  It's the best use of the moment.  

I begin to make something from the clay, but we are encouraged to keep our eyes closed.  Using our hands only, we shape the cold, moist ball into something...anything...

At the end of the session, we open our eyes to see what we've made.  Some of us have abstract, tree-like vertical creations.  Some have flat, pancake-like stepping stones.  Mine?  A bowl, with a spout on the side.  

We talk about what it's like being moms.  Not just moms, but moms with children who have special needs.  I listen more than talk, because honestly, my problems seems small in comparison to the hurt, the frustration, and the pain that these women brought into the art room this morning.  One mom, Kelly, rubs her teary eyes while sitting in her sweat pants and hair in a bandana..."It just couldn't be a worse time for a divorce...Grayson is in 6th grade and needs a dad...how can I do this alone?"  Another mom, Anne Marie..."We had to tell our son he had Aspergers years ago when he was suicidal, he was so young...I wanted him to understand why he is the way he is..." I am flabbergasted. I am humbled, and I'm looking at my clay bowl on the table in front of me.  

I was reminded of the scripture verse, from Isaiah 64:8:  "But now, Oh Lord, we are the clay, and you are our potter.  We are all the work of your hand."

When the potter works the clay, he wets it down, forms it gently, and never takes His hands from his creation.  Sometimes, if he isn't satisfied with the work, he will fold it up and start again.  This isn't easy, and it isn't quick.  It applies to us as moms, and to our children.  They were made by the potter's hand, and so were we.  He never takes his hand from us.  

As I shared this thought with the other moms, I felt vulnerable...like I had said something weak or irrelevant.  But in response, there were muffled sniffs, tissues wiping eyes, and I could feel hearts soaking in the reminder:  We aren't alone as long as we remember the potter.  

I decided to have my sad little bowl that I made with my eyes closed fired.  It's not pretty, and it's not perfect, but isn't that the point?  We are made perfect through the fire...and when I see that little bowl when the times are frustrating, or when I feel like I can't make it through the day, I will remember...

I'm still just made out of clay.  

Kindergarten

Oh sweet, lazy, bittersweet summer...

You were my favorite.  

There were amazing adventures with friends and to parks, pools, and beaches...and a heavenly reminder of how precious those times are with one another...(We will always love you, Boompa! We will see you again soon...7-4-2012) 

Sometimes it takes the difficult to make us dig our heels and hearts in to love deeper, hope stronger, and push harder for the things that are so valuable and yet so fleeting.  

And here we are, the last day of that free-wheeling, wear-your-bathing-suit-all-day, eat-ice-cream-for-dinner, catch-lightning-bugs kind of season...and I'm gearing up for routine again!

Back packs are ready, hanging on hooks in the foyer...lunch items are picked and ready to be stashed for the first lunch of my 3rd grader and my [gulp...deep breath...] Kindergartener.

Isaac is a Kindergartener.  My Isaac.  

The baby who stopped talking at 20 months.  

The baby who physically pushed me away.  

The baby who didn't call me Mommy until he was 3.

The baby who didn't look anyone in the eye. 

The baby who couldn't be around people or loud noises.

The baby who stole my heart and challenged every hope, belief, and dream I could imagine...

And he's going to school. And he's going to be amazing.  

Bittersweet.

I'm truly grateful for the amazing place he gets to learn at.  The teachers, the building, the way they teach a child HOW to learn, not just what to learn; how they treasure Isaac's differences without forcing him to conform or feel incapable...my stomach is in knots and butterflies all at the same time with excitement and with pain.

I'm reminded of the day I broke down in a Target parking lot when Isaac was just diagnosed with his autism over 3 years ago.  I was feeling the heaviness, the burden, of trying to solve my son's "problem."  And just like that, God spoke to my heart through a message on the radio I had stopped to listen to in tears.  The story of Isaac and Abraham is one we learn in Sunday school...but it never meant much until the Holy Spirit made it relevant to my situation:  I remember it as clear as a bell ringing.  

Give Isaac to God.  

What did that mean?  In my hot angry tears, I shouted this question in my soul.  I hadn't really allowed myself to submit to who could possibly love my son more than me?  Who could possibly know him better than I?  God does.  And He is capable of making a way for Isaac to live, to thrive, and to reach his full potential.  I laugh at this scenario now, because honestly, it was the changing point in my daily life with my son.  And just like Abraham had to follow God's difficult instructions to submit to God's plan and not his own...I saw the power in that.  I handed Isaac's present, his past, and his future up to a God who is the ultimate provider.  

And boy, am I glad I did.  

So, here we are...on the cusp of a new season of challenges and victories.  And I'm ready.

I have a feeling, Isaac is pretty ready too. 

Happy Kindergarten, everyone!  (sniff, sniff...where's the Kleenex?)

my babies, big bro Ethan and little Isaac on his birthday

Isaac and his Boompa, Father's Day 2011...we will miss him so

My Booder 2008