Tag Archives: Emily Colson

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

My Thanks to the Stranger

Years ago the grocery store was the last place I wanted to go with my son with autism. Now, it’s the place I don’t want to leave. 

 I followed my son into the tiny grocery, his steps bouncing so high that I thought he might lift right off the ground. He dashed behind the counter and slipped off his coat so that everyone could see the store logo on his shirt. Max is so proud to put on that shirt in the morning, to wake up with purpose. It’s the same eagerness evident in everyone at Max’s day program, a true appreciation for the privilege of working. The other employees in the store burst into smiles as they welcomed Max to work. As I waved goodbye, I gave my son a huge silent cheer and a double thumbs up. I must have looked like one of those over-zealous moms at their child’s first kindergarten play.

Max’s teacher, Kacey, greeted him warmly and the two of them walked toward the refrigerators at the back of the store. Max loves refrigerators. He can identify any refrigerator—anywhere—by the brand, temperature setting, and fan system. He is like the CSI of appliances. I could see Max at the back of the store now holding up a bottle of cleaner and giving the first glass door a few sprays. He was focused, working so quickly that it was like watching a speeded up movie reel. I was mesmerized; I couldn’t leave. And there was Kacey, standing back just enough to let him soar.

To imagine this victory years ago would have been impossible. When Max was younger, he couldn’t even walk through a grocery store. The sights and sounds and smells overwhelmed him. And he was terrified of commercial refrigerators, often melting down before we even walked into a store. He didn’t have the language to explain any of it back then. We stopped going to the grocery…and the pharmacy…and just about everywhere else. For far too many years, autism held us hostage. Even now, nothing is easy about this journey.

But sometimes victories come. Today, at age 25, my son now works in a grocery store.

Then just a few weeks ago, something happened. Kacey couldn’t wait to tell me. It made our years of isolation and struggle come full circle. A customer had come into the store and noticed Max. Actually, it’s hard not to notice someone who works with as much enthusiasm as Tigger. Kacey hadn’t seen anyone watching; just business as usual. But when Max finished his shift, the cashier had something extra for Max.

Max $10 tipApparently, when that customer saw Max working, he stepped in. He approached the counter and handed the cashier a $10 bill. “This is to buy that young man lunch,” he said as he pointed to Max, “Because he is working so hard.”

“Mom?” Max called as he suddenly noticed me hiding in the canned goods isle, watching him work. “Are you going home?”

“Oh…yeah Max,” I said, pulling my emotions together and quickly searching for an excuse for why I was still in the store after dropping him off. “I’m just…looking at something,” I said as I held up a can and pretended to read the label. My vision was blurry with tears as I stepped out of the aisle and waved goodbye to Max again. But he didn’t lose his focus. He just turned back to the job he was doing. After all, he had work to do. It was business as usual.

By Emily Colson

My deepest thanks to all those who help our loved ones with autism serve and work in the community, and to every stranger that steps into the joy of our hard-fought victories. 

Photo credit: Kacey O’Gara

Hope at 3am

 

Where we find hope, even at 3:00 am - specialneedsparenting.net

Dear friend,

I started to write you a charming little story and was halfway through…when Tuesday night hit.

Let me just say that most of our days and nights are good. Not easy, but good.

For the past two months, however, Tuesday nights have been different. It’s as if autism grabs hold of our lives like a 1950’s sci-fi flick, the one with the pretty little plant that suddenly starts eating unsuspecting by-passers. But there are no cheesy special effects here. No curtain to peel back to see what’s behind. It is 2am, and life is loud and messy, all of our tried and true strategies failing.

I breathe in and force prayer into my mind and mouth, to drown out the noise and my ugly thoughts.

I ask God for strength for the next second.

I blow it.

And then I ask Him again.

Finally the raging battle, which is too big to be fought on earth alone, subsides. It is quiet. My son is asleep.

I stand in the bathroom with my toothbrush in hand. I have no energy to fall on my knees, or close my eyes. “This is really difficult,” I tell God as if He were standing in the bathroom beside me, helping me to hold the weight of my toothbrush. “I know you are here with us. I know, even when it is this hard.”

I turn on the television to clear my mind. I watch an ad for a body lotion that will shimmer in the light and make your arms “look thinner and more toned in your holiday dress” the voice claims. And then I hear about a door buster sale, with record-breaking low prices, on toys. More and more toys.

So let me clear through all the clutter and noise – in the midst of the Christmas season, in the midst of your Tuesday nights, or Wednesday mornings, or Saturday afternoons. There is one truth. Jesus.

God sent his one and only Son, Jesus, into this world as a tiny baby. He sent His Son into this world of Tuesday nights, to be our hope. God planned this before He ever created you or me, knowing that this world, and our hearts, would be filled with brokenness and struggle. He knows it’s difficult. He has not forgotten us. He tells us, “In this world you will have trouble, but take heart, for I have overcome the world.” He tells us, “Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you.” He tells us, He knows the plans he has for us, plans to prosper us and not to harm us, plans to give us a hope and a future. God sent His Son Jesus into this world so that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. Jesus is all that is true and noble and right and pure. Jesus is the One Truth left standing when all else has crumbled.

So I will save that charming story for another time. Because right now someone else might be standing in a bathroom at 3am with a toothbrush that is too heavy to hold alone. And if that someone is you, take comfort.

There is One Truth we can hold onto.

It is the same Truth that holds the whole world together.

Jesus.

 

Sincerely,

Emily

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

 

Those Words that Let Us Know We Aren’t Alone

Those Words that Let Us Know We Aren't Alone - specialneedsparents.net

I brought my son Max to a neurophysiologist’s office for an evaluation. If you aren’t familiar with a “neuropsych eval,” it is a two-hour process in which you must:

1) Sit

2) Remain sitting

3) Give the allusion that you are paying attention while you remain sitting.

Back then, when Max was nine years old, and already years into the diagnosis of autism, fulfilling any of these three requirements was as likely as sprouting gills. Actually, it’s a little known fact that Einstein came up with his Theory of Relativity (E=MC2, the idea that everything in the universe is in constant motion) by watching a child with autism take a neuropsych eval.

As we finished the testing I could feel my shoulders pull tightly toward my neck, like involuntary isometric exercises. I braced myself for the doctor’s response. And do you know what he said about Max?

Neither do I.

All these years later, I don’t remember the results. But I vividly remember how the doctor said it.

“Our kids usually test this way,” he said.

I stared at this man who had a long string of letters after his name, and I wondered, did he mean to say that? And then, he said it again.

Our kids … something-something-something.”

‘Our kids?’  I thought. He didn’t say your kid. He said, “Our kids.”

As a single mom – overwhelmed, living as a hostage of autism, feeling isolated and alone – that little word “our” rolled through my mind and knocked down everything in it’s path. Suddenly, everything crumbled. This wall of anxiety that was bracing me for the terrible news that would certainly be delivered, the intense weight of feeling like I am doing this alone – it all dropped away. Even my steel plated protective armor, that has taken me years to build, fell right off.

But he didn’t stop there. This doctor added other tiny little two-letter words. Words that would never be considered interesting enough to qualify for a spelling bee championship, or fashionable enough to tattoo on one’s arm. They would be considered vocabulary light.

He began to say, “We” and “Us.”

My brain pulled out a giant blue pen and drew circles around those unifying words. And my shoulders began to drop. Autism is too big to be a me; I need to be a we. I need to have more “our” and “us” in my life. I wanted to jump up and hug this man, or burst into tears, or ask him if we could be facebook friends once someone invented it. But instead I put my arm around my beautiful, wiggly, E=MC2 son, knowing I was far less alone than when I walked in.

“Thank you,” I said softly, wondering if he understood the power of those words.

By Emily Colson

The Privilege of Freedom

Max,Old North Bridge

Max galloped across the quarter-mile field toward the Old North Bridge, one hand holding imaginary reigns and the other hand holding the failing elastic in his shorts. “I’m Paul Revere!” he shouted as he passed by other less enthusiastic visitors. Max loves everything about the Revolutionary War. He loves the facts, dates, soldiers, and he might even go for a pair of wool knickers if they came with more efficient elastic at the waist. But there is something else he loves about visiting the Old North Bridge in Concord, Massachusetts, the very site where the Revolutionary War began.

He loves the freedom.

There are few places where I can let go of Max’s hand, few times when there is not someone within grabbing distance of my fast moving 24 year-old son with autism. It means my everyday life is filled with darting and lifting and intervals of high aerobic activity – like Cross Fit. It is easy to become weary, and yet this journey is a remarkable privilege. God gives me the opportunity to defend, protect, and by even the smallest of gestures, affirm the value of human life. This is the square inch of territory God has asked me to steward.

I watched from a distance as my son ran along the path toward the Old North Bridge, his feet kicking up a whirling circle of dust like the Roadrunner. I finally caught up with him at one of the monuments. Max climbed the stone steps and traced his fingers over the worn letters as he did his best to read each word. Max has gained such independence that I could stand at a distance and, perhaps for the first time, truly listen to the words.

Brittish side of the Old North Bridge, monument

“Here on the 19 of April 1775 was made the first forcible resistance to the British aggression. On the opposite bank stood the American Militia. Here stood the invading army and on this spot the first of the enemy fell in the War of that Revolution which gave Independence to the United States.

In gratitude to God and in the love of Freedom, this monument was erected 1836”

My eyes gazed toward the bridge as I pictured the battle. I imagined the men who stepped forward. “I haven’t a man who’s afraid to go,” Captain Isaac Davis had said of his men who had gathered together to stand against the British soldiers. I brushed my foot against the soil knowing Captain Isaac Davis, along with others, lost their lives on this very ground. Our freedom, our country, was born of this battle.

I stared down at the dusty path and dug my toe into the soil, humbled by the sacrifice of these men. And I wondered,

Am I willing to sacrifice it all for what I believe to be true and right and good?

Will I hold to God’s truth, daring to draw a line in the sand?

And when opposition comes, and it will surely come, will I retreat in fear? Or, by His help, will I steward the one square inch of territory God has given to me?

 Out of the corner of my eye I could see Max starting to gallop toward the bridge again. I glanced at the proximity of the other visitors knowing my son can, at times, move from point A to point B in a style similar to a wrecking ball. I lunged for Max’s hand, but when I saw the unbridled joy on his face, I let him go free. He darted over the bridge with his knees bouncing toward his chin. As he reached the other side, much to the surprise of the other more neutral visitors, Max sounded the alarm.

“The British are coming! The British are coming!”

By Emily Colson

“There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!” Abraham Kuyper

A Man and His Vacuum

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We bolted into the store so quickly that I thought Max might pull the handle right off the door. He was on a mission, but I had one too. My job was to size up the clerk. I looked across the store and saw a rather serious looking older man wearing a black suit and standing behind the counter. This is not going to go well, I thought. We would do much better in a store like this with a clerk who was…say…on a three hour break in the back room. This called for fast action. I quickly approached the clerk, stretched out my hand and introduced myself as if I were on a job interview. “I’m the one who called you,” I said. “My son Max is interested in the Oreck XL 2000 R-1 vacuum.” (Yes, I speak Oreck.)

I pretended not to notice that Max had already darted toward the line up of vacuums and was flying around the store like a helium balloon caught in a wind tunnel. I flashed my biggest smile trying to maintain eye contact with the clerk. But as I locked eyes with this gentleman I could see, with my highly trained peripheral vision, that Max had now turned one of the vacuums on and was pushing it across the carpet with the level of exertion typically required to push an eighteen-wheeler off a cliff. Gripping the man’s hand tightly, which would make it much more difficult for him to point us to the door, I reminded him, “My son is here to BUY a vacuum…with HIS money.”

Max has always loved working. He loves knowing that he can serve, contribute, and be productive, even if he is only working a few hours a week. Working gives Max a sense of purpose, which is essential to every human being. But only now, as he stood in an Oreck vacuum store, did he understand something else. He could buy stuff.

Max's savings chartIt’s all thanks to Max’s amazing teacher, Kacey. Before this, Max didn’t understand the value of money. His paychecks were always crumpled up at the bottom of his backpack. So Kacey made a chart to help Max understand how many paychecks he would need in order to purchase his life-long dream – an Oreck vacuum. All he needed was 11 paychecks! Each week Max dutifully collected his paycheck and marked his chart. And each week as he worked at his jobs, the excitement grew – even his employers were cheering for him. All these weeks of working and saving made this moment in the Oreck store a very sweet victory.

I finally let go of the store clerk’s hand realizing that my distraction strategy was going to become obvious. The clerk turned to get a good look at my son, who was now as electrified as the vacuums. Max’s 190 pounds mocked gravity as his feet hovered above the ground. We both watched as Max set the first Oreck back in line, and grabbed another in his arms. He twirled across the floor as if the store were a 1940’s dance hall, and he were the only man in a room of waiting wallflowers.

I didn’t try to stop him; actually, short of divine intervention or the tiniest of sudden tornados, nothing could stop him. I held my breath as the clerk finally began to speak. “I’ve been selling vacuums for forty years,” he said. I gasped in awe, knowing that this man and my son probably had more in common than one might expect. I looked at him and smiled. “Forty years?” I asked. “Have you ever seen anyone as excited about vacuums as Max?” He laughed, and the sharp lines in his face softened.

We spent an hour in the store living out Max’s motto, which in military terms would be, “No dirt left behind.” Customers came in and out, and Max offered them vacuums, and handed out vacuum bags. You would have thought my son had a share in the company.

As the clerk wrote up the purchase, he looked kindly into my eyes and said, “I have a nephew with autism. And there’s another boy who comes in here every few weeks. He has autism too.” I felt the dust-bunnies in my heart clear out a bit. And then he turned to Max and said, “You can come back here any time you want.”

Max clutched his brand new vacuum to his chest and we walked out the door. As we stepped into the bright sunlight, I could see that his hair and shirt were completely soaked with sweat. His faced was glistening and flushed. But it was from more than just the exertion of vacuuming for an hour.

This moment was truly his.

I put my arms around his warm shoulders and squeezed him close. His smile was bigger than the whole outdoors. Max stood on the sidewalk and held his new vacuum up against the brilliant blue sky, and yelled,

“I did it Mom!”

By Emily Colson

 

 

The Certainty of Risk

Something redeeming happens when you admit your deepest hurts—you meet people.

People become part of the healing.

Something redeeming happens when you admit your deepest hurts—you meet people who becoming part of your healing.

My son Max and I had a terrible experience when we went to the movies last month. Maybe you read about it. Max broke movie theater etiquette and was talking through the previews, laughing too loudly at Kermit. But there was more… he panicked a few times when the volume of the previews frightened him. Autism makes his sensory system fragile. Max would have been ok but the audience was not – they jeered us out of the theater before the feature even began. We never saw the movie, but thousands saw the blog post I wrote after our experience.

Everyone weighed in. Suddenly it felt as if the whole world was sitting in that theater with us. Some threw their arms around us. Others were horrified at the cruel potential of the human heart. Many shared similar experiences. But then there were the others…the people who were outraged that I would bring Max to a movie theater if I knew he might disrupt. I didn’t read all the ugly comments – I learned a few things living through Watergate. I prayed for God to give me wisdom, to give me grace, and like the Cowardly Lion…c-c-courage. I resolved to not let this movie theater experience change the way we live.

But it did.

It was almost three weeks before I summoned the courage to take Max out again. As we sat in our favorite restaurant I studied the waitress – she was new. I sized up the group of teenage girls sitting across from us. I watched the people around us just to see if they were watching us. I felt debilitatingly self-aware, like Junior High only with better skin. I don’t know what was going through Max’s mind, but he appeared more confident than me, so happy to be out on an adventure again. He guzzled down his lemonade and ate his French fries as if he were sending branches through a tree chipper.

And then, just for the sake of evening atmosphere, the restaurant dimmed the lights. And then…turned up the music. Max cringed, dropped his food, and grabbed for his ears. He pressed his hands against the sides of his head and looked at me desperately. I reached across the table for him, fearful that he would cry out, afraid of a movie theater rerun. “Make it quieter, make it quieter,” he whispered to me. I cupped my hands around his sweet baby face, and told him it would be ok. My eyes darted around the room – why did we risk coming out again? I wanted to put up a little force field so that no one would notice us.

But someone did.

She was all the way on the other side of the restaurant, and she was watching Max. And then I saw her nearly sprint toward the hostess desk. This does not sit well when I am dealing with paranoia. I took a deep breath as she made eye contact with me and mouthed some words into the air.

I squinted my eyes to see that it was our waitress. What could she possibly be saying to me? As I caught each word that floated across the restaurant it look as if she where saying, “I – can – turn – it – down.” My eyes widened. And then she reached up to a black box on the wall and the music grew softer again.

Max sat back up and his arms dropped to his sides. All of his muscles loosened. His entire body smiled. I never expect someone to accommodate for our needs; we do our best to fit into the often-treacherous terrain of this world. We aim for our version of success, and always keep plan B, and C, in our back pocket. And every now and then, a kind, strong stranger steps in and throws a few rocks off our path.

I tried to get the attention of our waitress again, but she was already off to another table. When she finally came over, I thanked her profusely. At another time I might have missed such kindness. But when you’ve seen how dark the world can be, the tiniest act of selfless grace can bring true healing to the soul. And remind us that every life has the power to affect another.

“No problem,” she said shyly. I watched her face closely, curiously. I wondered about her own story of hurts and bumps and bruises. Of rocks in her path.

“You are very thoughtful,” I said looking up at her and patting Max’s forearm as if speaking for him too. “And you’re very kind,” I affirmed in a very Mr. Rogers sort of way. I tried my best to press a little more goodness into the hard rocky soil of this world, to give words that might blossom in the heart. I waited for her to respond, wondering if she might need a little healing too. But she just looked down at her notepad and let her thin brown hair fall around her face.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked. And though she tried to hide it, I know I saw her smile.

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