Category Archives: Asperger

What happens when you yell at church?

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Something happened at church. Or perhaps what you need to know is, what didn’t happen.

I pulled up to the church and Max bounced out of the car swinging his favorite vacuum. Several people were unsuspectingly milling around by the front door, exchanging greetings. “Watch out for the people!” I yelled behind Max as I watched his 8-pound Oreck swing like a ten ton wrecking ball. I fully expected to see the crowd part like the Red Sea, people diving into the bushes head first as Max and his vacuum bolted toward them. But instead, they extended their arms for a handshake, or a pat on his back.

Every time I walk through the doors of our church I remember the years we lived in isolation, and the five years of staying home on Sunday mornings when we could not find our place. Autism held us hostage. But it is not a bitter memory; it is the soil from which God grew a victory. When I cross that threshold now with Max, it feels like holy ground. Max comes most Sundays to serve as a greeter, and at the Welcome Center, and as part of the clean up team, otherwise known as the “Grunt Crew.” Max has clearly been given one of the lesser-known spiritual gifts of vacuuming. But what has changed Max’s life is what has changed mine: he is loved. He belongs. He is indispensable. We have been back at church for twelve years now, and none of this has been easy; sitting quietly is not part of Max’s skill set. But it’s as if the whole church is learning to breathe a little deeper, and in that, we find there is enough room for everyone.

After a wonderful and slightly aerobic morning, we could see from our seats at the Welcome Center that Pastor Paul was finishing up the message, or “the talking” as Max calls it. That’s Max’s cue. He flew into the sanctuary and took his position in the back. This is Max’s spot, up several stairs beside the sound booth. He worships there most Sundays, all 190 pounds of him, dancing above the congregation. Most Sundays Max bounces so hard that one would expect him to go right through the wooden platform floor, dunk tank style. But he won’t. Some of the men at church noticed the same risk. They got together one day and reinforced the floor where Max dances. It was months before anyone told me what the men had done. There was no mention of cost or inconvenience; no suggestion that perhaps the sound booth should not be used as a 1960’s GoGo booth. Instead, they just strengthened the floor. Maybe this is what we all want – to find the spot where we belong, and to know that others will hold us up in it. My friend, Pastor Brooks, said to me recently, “We move from a family attending church, to a church that becomes a family.”

Max and I could now see the music team taking their positions on stage. Max started dancing even before the music began, bouncing on his toes as if he were walking on hot sand. He was extra excited this morning, anticipating our church picnic that would follow the service. But when the music started, it wasn’t a dance song at all. Instead, it was slow and piercing, a quiet rhythm that pulled us forward. Everything became still. There was a shift in the room, as if the Spirit was pouring in like a gentle tide, surrounding us, lifting us, washing over our feet. The entire church rose in unison to stand in the deep, with our hearts turned to God. And when the song ended, no one moved.

Well, almost no one.

Max could no longer contain himself. He threw his arms over his head and leapt from the platform. He got some good air and then stuck the landing with the precision of a Russian gymnast. And when he landed, he yelled. Loudly. This was not your average run of the mill shout, or even the kind of noise one might expect when leaping from such a height. No, this was the kind of sound one exerts when instigating a food fight.

“BAR-BE-QUE! Max yelled across the church, his arms still stretched to the sky.

I ducked down to make myself slightly more invisible in the now well-lit church, wishing there were a dressing room curtain I could quickly hide behind.

Through squinting eyes I watched as the church moved in unison once again. But this time every head fell forward, every shoulder curled. It was as if a single rogue wave had crashed over the entire congregation. A moment later those same heads bobbed back up for air with a burst of laughter that filled the sanctuary. And then the most remarkable thing happened. Or perhaps, didn’t happen.

No one stared…or sighed…or scowled. No one even turned around to see where the sound had come from. Instead, every person just wiped the salty spray from their faces and turned to smile at the person beside them. The same sweeping tide that had lifted us to God in worship was drawing us together in love.

Max darted into the crowd and started shaking hands with people as if he were campaigning for office. I just leaned against that reinforced platform, trying to decide if this was completely embarrassing, or achingly beautiful. And then I heard something in the distance. It was a man’s voice, rising above the laughter in the church,

“That’s our Max.”

1 Corinthians 12:18,22  “But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be…those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.”

Thank you friends,

Emily Colson

Max’s Two Words about Autism

Max's Two Words about Autism - specialneedsparenting.net

“Max!” I said with the kind of enthusiasm I hoped would be contagious, “We are going to like this new doctor. He has a daughter with autism!”

I tried to mask my own nerves, wondering how we would get through the next-day’s appointment in the city. I watched Max for a reaction as he bounced in his seat and started eating his dinner in a style reminiscent of a wood-chipper. Sometimes dinner in our house is so active that I think our dining room chairs should be equipped with seat belts.

“Max,” I cried excitedly drawing his attention away from the — gluten-free — grain-free — dairy-free — creation that only resembles food by the fact that it is on a plate.

“Who else has autism?”

Max’s eyes brightened. “Max has autism!” he answered, sitting up a little taller in his chair.

“Yeah! That’s right!” I cheered. “So we like this doctor already!”

Our over-zealous dinner conversation hung in the air as I took my first bite of dinner. The word autism has been a part of the conversation in our home since Max was very young. But on this night, when I gave that word a purely positive spin with Max, I felt like a fraud. I’m not telling him the whole story. And in truth, I don’t know the whole story Max would tell me. What would he say about autism?

Thoughts of this journey and the bittersweet sound of the word swirled in my mind. None of this has been easy, yet God has made it beautiful. Autism has been the fertile ground in which God has grown my faith. And it is the ground from which God has brought love and joy and goodness to us, and to others. There have been victories so sweet that I can almost feel myself climbing the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, hands thrown up in the air like Rocky Balboa, shouting that we are more than conquerors in Christ Jesus.

And then there are the other times…the not so pretty times…when autism collides with life and I fall face down in exhaustion, in weakness, breathing out one-word prayers that lift above me like a feather in the wind.

“Help.”    “Father.”    “Help.”

And God hears.

God sees.

But…Max. What would he say about autism?

“Max,” I said, placing my fork down on my plate and gently turning toward him. “Can you tell me something about autism?” The question lumped in my throat.

Max took another bite of food, as if he hadn’t heard me. I silently reprimanded myself for such an open-ended question. Max struggles with conversation, and especially with questions as big as this one.

I turned back to my dinner and pushed my food around knowing I could let that question float away unanswered. Maybe I didn’t really want to know the truth. What if he told me it was painful, or that he feels frustrated by the challenges, or even that he is simply tired of it all? Because I’m sure, at times, that is true. But God loves me enough to hear my words of pain and struggle when I turn to him. So Max deserves the same, for me to love him enough to hear his truth as well.

I leaned toward him and slid my hand along the table to gently, bravely, ask for his attention. Max is so handsome, almost 25 years old now, and a Christian; he belongs to God. He has touched more lives with is sweet spirit, and his uncontainable enthusiasm, than most anyone I know. I smiled as I caught a glimpse of his missing sideburn, the result of his overly efficient shaving experience the night before.

“Max,” I breathed, “Can you tell me two things you want someone to know about autism?”

He looked down and, without hesitation, spoke two simple words that left me speechless…

“Love.  Peace.”

 

By Emily Colson

Photo credit: Kacey O’Gara

Max’s Go2 Team!

I’m letting you in on the start of a God-inspired project. I don’t know how it’s going to play out, but I do know one thing: life with special needs requires a team. So that’s exactly what we’re doing – building a team around our family.

 A few weeks ago I bravely sent a letter to 9 people in Max’s life inviting them to be a part of this team – teachers, buddies from church, family. I’ve attached that letter below. I’m happy to say all 9 have accepted. What a great start!

 I hope you’ll follow along as I share progress reports and next steps on this team-building journey. Most of all, I hope you’ll be inspired to build a team around your own family. Here we go…shutterstock_257655130

Dear Friends,

It’s Emily Colson here. I have an idea that I’d like to share. It’s a vision for life lived as a “we,” and not a “me.”

Let me explain.

You know Max – he’s 24, totally awesome, and has a diagnosis of autism. When Max attended school, he had a team. It’s the way school systems work for children with special needs. Max’s team was made up of people from many different disciplines, each bringing their expertise. We held an annual TEAM meeting, and kept in touch throughout the year. Whenever a new challenge came up, the TEAM was on it. We were unified by our common desire for Max’s best.

And then Max graduated…and the word “TEAM” quickly dropped from our vocabulary.

But here is the reality: Autism is a team sport. It requires coordination. It calls for a coach. It can’t be done alone. So bear with me – this is a work in progress.

Right now our lives look like this:

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Max and I are in the center, and we are connected to many wonderful and amazing people for whom we are deeply thankful. This is great…until an emergency arises. Or until I’m too tired or overwhelmed to hold things together. Or until one of those giant cartoon anvils drops from the sky, the one that has “1 TON” written on the side, and flattens me like a paper doll.

So, I’m writing to ask you, as someone very special in Max’s life, if you would be willing to let us connect the dots between you and others around Max. I’d like our lives and relationships to form a circle rather than spokes. People in our lives will get to know one another, and bonds will become stronger. Through this process, a complete circle would be built around us, a team of people Max and I can go to.

This would become our Go2 Team!

Our lives would begin to look more like this:

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It’s the same principal that makes a wheel roll instead of thump.

This is where you come in! Would you consider being a part of our Go2 Team?

Of course, you might want to know exactly what this Go2 Team is, and just as importantly, what it is not. Let’s start with what it is not.

What the Go2 Team is not:

It is not people who will let me off the hook for the things I am responsible for as Max’s mother. It is not people who will be expected to cover Max when I am away, although some of the team members already serve in this role. It is not people I can call on a whim, like when there is a large bug in my house. Although at times this is actually an emergency. It is not a popularity contest. It is not the same as a legal guardian. It is not people who will make decisions without me, or instead of me. It is not people who will be asked to take over in case I decide to live in a hut in Tahiti. (Don’t worry, I won’t – there are bugs)

What the Go2 Team is:

It is a team I can Go2 when a problem is too big for me to think through alone. It will be a Max “think tank,” if you will. It is a team I can Go2 when the person covering Max gets hit with food poisoning, and I’m all the way in California, or Delaware, or a lounging leisurely at a spa (well, it might happen) and I can’t find anyone to step in. I could send one email asking the Go2 Team to either step in or reach out to their connections – our family or church or Max’s day program for example – and sound the alarm. It is a team I can Go2 when there is a looming concern on the horizon, and when there is a big accomplishment to be celebrated. It is a team that could spring into action in case of an emergency, and help each other navigate an otherwise complicated path. It is a team I can Go2 when I am exhausted, overwhelmed, or when that one-ton anvil has made contact.

We would be a team. Not necessarily an every day team, but a ready and willing team.

Now…there is still a problem.

 Autism is complicated. If there really were an emergency, and I became suddenly unavailable, our Go2 Team would need to do more than just pull together as a team – they would need fast advice. Certainly, there would be questions about support services and insurance and medical care and more. And it would be difficult to know where to begin. Yes, I have a “Max Book” to cover the basics, and files organized in a file cabinet. But the Go2 Team would need more. Where would the Go2 Team go for more information and advice?

It looks like we need another circle beyond our Go2 Team.

If we built a second outer circle for emergency help, it could include autism specialists, the family support personnel from state agencies, our pastor, a deacon at our church, disability ministry friends, a representative from Max’s past school program, a representative from Max’s day program, past and present teachers, and Max’s doctors. These are people who know and care about Max, and who have access to his history and story and records. Only those who state a willingness to offer individual guidance in the event of an emergency would be listed in this second circle of support.

Since this outer circle is where the Go2 Team can go for help in an emergency, let’s call this second outer circle the Go4 Team!

Our lives will start to look like this:

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Now, this thing is going to roll!

Of course, individuals may come in and out of both of these circles. The most important thing is that everyone will stay connected. I will have a team to reach out to when life gets complicated. And the team around Max will have a place to go for help and advice in an emergency. And when all of this happens, the weight of the really big challenges will become lighter, the joy of accomplishments will become greater, and the bonds between those who love and care about Max will become deeper.

And I can live life as a we, and not a me.

Now, about that flight to Tahiti.

With Love,

Emily Colson

 

Darkness in a Theater

Update: Emily wrote this post in January of 2014 and has a follow-up piece she wrote in April of 2014. You’ll want to be sure to read “Love to the Max” to see how Emily’s church and community reached out to Max!

Finding light in a dark theater - specialneedsparenting.net

We came to see a movie. But I never imagined that we would become the entertainment.

Patty and I found our pre-assigned seats and sunk into the plush leather, with Max sandwiched between us. Despite the exorbitant ticket price, this posh new cinema was completely full. I studied those around us searching for a smile, which is the gold star sticker of acceptance. But no one seemed to notice Max. As we sat waiting for the film I marveled that we could be part of this audience, sitting like everyone else enjoying Christmas with their families. We became something bigger than just us; we were a school of fish moving together in unity, gliding through the deep blue. Max’s eyes darted around the room, his pupils like black pools as the lights dimmed.

“Don’t worry if Max gets anxious in the beginning of the movie,” I whispered to my step-mom Patty. “He needs a few minutes to adjust, and then he loves it.” I felt a little rush of pride come over me, with a desperate hope that it would actually work. Sitting at the movies is one of our hard-earned victories. But after 23 years, I know that life with autism is predictably unpredictable. I clutched my bag under my arm, with Max’s teddy bear peeking out of the top just like the Hollywood starlets carry their Chihuahuas.

The first preview started with eardrum-breaking volume. “I want to go home!” Max shrieked as he folded over his ears. I leaned in quickly, knowing the drill. “It’s ok Max. Our movie will start in a minute. This will stop.” Just as Max was about to completely unravel, our great green friend appeared like an angel on the screen, but with the potential for warts. It was Kermit, as big as a house. Max’s face relaxed, “The Muppet movie!” Max cried out in a jubilant voice that carried unfortunately well with the fine acoustics of the theater. “And Fozzy Bear!” Max laughed nearly slapping his knee. It was apparent that, despite their best efforts, these felt puppets were not bringing joy to the rest of the audience. I leaned into Max and pointed to our movie theater rules. “Whisper voice,” I reminded him.

Finally our feature started, and once again the change startled Max. “I want to go home!” His voice cracked across the silent theater.

But he was quickly drowned out.

“Are you going to make him be quiet?” The older woman next to Patty exploded with aggravation.

Patty leaned toward her and explained, “He is autistic and…”

“I know he is,” the woman shot back as she lunged forward and pounded on her chest. “But why should the rest of us have to suffer.”

“If you don’t make him be quiet,” her husband shouted, “I’m calling the manager!”

I desperately needed an oxygen mask to drop from the ceiling. I couldn’t breath. There in 3D surround sound, my own horror movie began to play.

I threw my hand up toward them in a stop motion. It works for policemen. And I desperately, achingly, wanted it to stop. “Ok. Ok,” I said. “Just give us a minute.” It takes both great finesse and a forklift for Max to leave quickly. My heart leapt into my throat as if it were trying to make an escape before the rest of us. At another time I might have defended our right to be there, but I could hear a strange rumbling of underground thunder. After a minute of dust-flinging commotion, Max stood up beside me, with Patty soon to follow.

And the thunder grew louder.

It was applause for our exit. It was the sound of an angry mob chasing us away with their jeers and taunts.

“And don’t come back,” I heard as we slowly made our way down the stairs in the dark.

I tried to block Max from the view of the crowd, my every step labored, detached, brittle. I wanted to throw my arms around Max to remind him, and everyone else, of just how deeply he is loved. But I couldn’t make my arms work. As we neared the exit, passing center stage, I heard a voice from the back of the theater. It was a man shouting over the thunder of the crowd like a crack of lightening.

“He’s retarded.”

I lost all bearings. I even lost track of watching Max. I stopped and turned toward the sea of faces lit up by the screen behind me. They were colorless, floating, with their little fish eyes watching our every move. The movie must have been showing on top of my silhouette. I don’t know if they could see my hand clutching my heart, my chest heaving for a breath. I tried to squeak something out, but a Boa constrictor had wrapped itself around my throat. I had to find some kind of answer to such cruelty, some memorable response to wash this away.

“There is a lesson here,” I began as I forced my tiny voice forward fearing the movie sound track would suddenly drown me out. “A lesson that is so much more important than anything you will learn from this movie.”

I turned back toward the exit, my arms and legs stiff like metal rods. But just as we were about to walk out, the voice from the back of the room struck again.

“Merry Christmas!” he called to us sarcastically. It was a kick in the back on our way out the door, a final deathblow meant for purely perverse entertainment.

I looked back up at the crowd once more. The little girl in me wanted to storm up those stairs and throw over the monopoly board. Fortunately the grown-up part of me was numb. Plus, I knew I was outnumbered. Just minutes ago, I was a card-carrying member of this audience. And sadly, despite everything that would speak to the contrary, despite my desperate desire for it to be untrue, I knew I still was. I shuddered at the truth of it, at the vile potential of every human heart. Including my own. And then came the strangest sense of clarity, the tiniest bit of perfect peace.

Christmas.

It was a nudge of truth from the Holy Spirit. Even as I share this story with you days later, I feel it. Christmas…when God sent his only Son into the angry lynch mob of the world that groans with self-serving demands and cruelty and hate, to bring us light in our darkness. To bring us healing for our utterly disabled souls. To save us from ourselves – something we cannot do. I couldn’t wait to get my son out of there. But Christmas…Christmas is when God, in his lavish love for us, chose to send His only Son right into this carnage. Christmas is God’s answer to the evil in every human heart.

We stood just a step from the theater exit, my chance for the last word. With my hand still clutching my chest, I scraped up every shred of kindness I could pull together in my fragile splintered self, and breathed words of hope back to the audience, and to myself.

“Merry Christmas,” I whispered.

And the words spilled around us like a little pool of light.

“In Him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.

The light shines in the darkness,

and the darkness has not overcome it.”

John 1:4-5

Written by Emily Colson