The Minivan Years Page 10

  “That’s all right, Kent. We’ll do better next time.” I only half believe it, but it is the thing to say at such a moment.

  “Why didn’t you come get us out of the service?” asks Mom, the same woman who expressed relief when dropping off her son. She had said that she “really needed to go to church,” clearly exhausted from a week of chasing Kent. Like several kids in this class, Kent needs special attention. That’s why we call it Special Friends.

  We had, in fact, almost called them. Our church has a number system that enables volunteers to summon a child’s parent from the main worship service if problems arise. But we remembered his mom’s exhausted face and couldn’t bring ourselves to interrupt her one-hour break—her one hour of much needed refreshment.

  “Listen, don’t worry about it.” She obviously felt concerned that Kent might be wearing down the volunteers, causing them to abandon the special needs class or ban him from attending altogether. “You deal with his energy all week long. We can manage it for an hour. We didn’t want to disturb you.”

  I don’t know if that made her feel any better, but her thanks seemed sincere.

  My husband and I periodically help out in various children’s classes at church. Our rotation includes the special needs class. Usually only a handful of kids attend, with varying degrees of “special,” including autism, mental retardation, physical disabilities, or, like Kent, severe attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. A handful in every sense of the word.

  We find something uniquely rewarding about the Special Friends class. Sure, it can get chaotic, even frustrating. But something, well, special happens there.

  When we walk in we are confident, glad to be heroically filling the most difficult volunteer roles. But by the time we walk out, I feel completely inept. And completely in awe. Waving good-bye to the parents, a lump in my throat, I realize that the true heroes are those worn-down moms and dads who deal with such chaotic frustrations all week, all month, all year.

  I become too easily annoyed with my kids when they forget homework or lazily neglect the passing ball during a soccer game. Kent’s parents would trade anything for such insignificant irritations. Teenaged Katie sits on the floor next to a toy, rocking back and forth the entire hour. Unlike us, her parents don’t worry about how to pay for their daughter’s college or wedding expenses. They worry about who will care for her when they become too old.

  After church one Sunday my husband spoke to the Browns, the parents of one particularly difficult special-needs child. Their then-six-year-old daughter, Milly, had been born with a disorder so rare it had not been named. She required continual care and attention. They wondered aloud whether the church might start a program to help such families cope with the unrelenting stress. “It would mean so much to families like ours if we could just get a break now and again.” Not that attempts hadn’t been made. The typical, well-meaning volunteer came to the house in order to give the Browns a daylong break. Nervous about leaving Milly with someone ill prepared for her outbursts, aggression, and tantrums, they did their best to explain the task at hand.

  “Don’t worry about it,” came the typical reply. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  Six to eight hours later, the Browns came home to an obviously frazzled volunteer, who barely veiled her relief at their arrival. “How was she?” they asked, bracing for the worst.

  “Oh, she is such a precious little girl.” True. “We had a fine time together!” A bare-faced lie. They knew their daughter had been her usual self and that the volunteer was trying to put a happy face on things. They also presumed they would never see her again. They would be right.

  I’m certain the Browns would prefer to hear something like, “Your daughter was a lot of work. What time do you need me next week?” If only people would be real. What helps is someone willing to serve, despite the hard reality—something very few of us have the courage to do.

  Most of us feel a bit awkward around those with special needs, at least until we build a relationship. I’m not sure why. It may have something to do with our desire to say or do the right thing without knowing what that right thing is. Do we act as if nothing is wrong so the family feels as though they fit in? Or do we lower our voices and eyes in sympathy for the heartache they endure? The former feels dishonest, the latter condescending.

  But our awkward feelings have a much deeper root. Our stomach becomes tense because the disabled know and quietly proclaim the undeniable reality that something is wrong. Seeing them trapped in a difficult experience reminds us that life is unfair. It raises questions with no easy answers. Why are some people healthy, beautiful, and driving red convertibles, while others spend a lifetime needing others to dress them? Why is one child placed in the gifted track, another in special needs? Both sets of parents love their child and long to protect him or her from the hardships and heartaches of life. But the daily reality of the second quickly drains much hope of success.

  During a recent party we found my then four-year-old son Troy hiding in the closet, frightened by a teenaged boy with a deformed face.

  “I’m afraid of that guy with the face,” he explained.

  So we began bringing our boys with us when we volunteer in the Special Friends class—partly to help us but mostly because we want them to push past natural kids’ fears of those who are different. We want them to become comfortable relating to the disabled.

  I’ll admit to subconsciously averting my eyes and walking past a person living with disability. I force myself to smile, greet, or do nothing, depending upon what seems appropriate. But the initial reaction still occurs, as if we are hardwired to avoid feeling awkward. It is like some internal mechanism in our hearts attempts to distract itself from what it knows to be true but wishes were false. And so I—we naturally turn away before willing ourselves back.

  Not everyone forces himself back. I remember Kurt sharing a conversation he had with a high-ranking official in then-communist Russia, who was on a lecture tour in the United States. The official agreed to a question-and-answer session in Kurt’s office. When asked his first impressions of our society, the Russian made an interesting comment: “I am surprised by your compassion and care for the disabled.” He then described our wheelchair ramps, special-access restrooms, reserved parking, and other accommodations for the handicapped. “In Soviet Union, we do not have such things.” Apparently, an atheistic society sees no particular reason to accommodate those unable to advance the collective good.

  Mother Teresa stuck out like a sore thumb in India precisely because she didn’t accept the principle of Karma, a doctrine that serves as the foundation for ethics throughout the Hindu world. Pantheism sees God as everything and everything as God. God is not a person we worship but a force in which we dwell. Karma teaches that those who suffer are paying off a debt from a former life, purifying themselves in this life so that they can reincarnate into something better in the next. The entire caste system depends upon the premise that we are destined to pay in one life for what we did wrongly in a previous life. To help those suffering is to prolong their debt. That is why the sick, poor, and disabled suffer so in Hindu countries. Their suffering is meant to be. So, in the name of compassion, their religion tells the healthy to avert their eyes.

  Those who believe in a personal God, however, force their eyes back. They consider caring for the poor and disabled heroic. Survival of the fittest is a malady to cure, not a reality to accept. God cares for the needy through the heroic, through those willing to sacrifice themselves on behalf of another. But that kind of redemption doesn’t come easy. It requires heroes, like the volunteers who help special needs kids for an hour on Sunday. No—like the exhausted parents who love their disabled child for a lifetime.

  * * *

  Mini-Tip

  SPECIAL NEEDS

  Make an intentional effort to create opportunities for your children to interact on a routine basis with special needs children and the elderly in need of care and attention. Since
we live in a society that tends to isolate the less than perfect, many children develop unhealthy attitudes or fears of the disabled. Our children need to learn that every human life reflects the image of God and deserves our respect and concern. The best way to learn about them is to befriend and serve them.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mini-Perfections

  ACCEPTING THANKFUL TIMES

  Troy sat at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal, a nightly routine for all four of our children. Despite the three-course meal I served only ninety minutes earlier, my kids always feign starvation fifteen minutes before going to bed. I suppose that is why our milk and cereal budget exceeds the house payment.

  Anyway, Troy had a look of deep contemplation on his face, milk dripping from the side of his mouth, as he began talking over his half-swallowed mouthful of Rice Krispies.

  “I think Daddy is one of the best in the world!”

  I noticed Kurt turning to look at his then seven-year-old fan, not sure whether to relish the praise or question the “one of” qualifier.

  “Isn’t Daddy the absolute best in the world?” I asked, offering Troy the opportunity to clarify.

  “Well,” came Troy’s less than hoped for reply, “I would score Daddy at 9.1 out of 10.”

  My eyes met Kurt’s. We both wondered the same question, but he beat me to the punch. “Why not score Daddy a ten?”

  Troy swallowed hard before replying, “Because nobody’s perfect.” His grin told us a 9.1 was indeed a compliment to enjoy.

  Listening in on the conversation, Nicole decided to add her perspective. No sooner had the words “nobody’s perfect” left Troy’s lips than Nicole shouted, “Mommy is!”

  We had a good laugh, and I secretly relished the affirmation. Reading between the lines and beneath the words, however, I knew what Troy and Nicole were really saying: Daddy is great because he works hard to provide for us, plays ball when we ask, and carries us to bed when we fall asleep in the car. But we prefer Mommy because she smells nice, dresses pretty, and calls us “sweetheart” and “beautiful” instead of “buddy” and “silly filly.”

  In short, moms have an unfair advantage in the parental battle of the sexes because we get to reflect the more tender parts of God’s image.

  About five years before the parental scoring incident, Kurt and I conducted a little activity with the three older boys when they were ages three to eleven. Hoping to help them understand the perfect character of God, we built a scale using a plastic Nerf basketball stand. After securing a shopping bag on each side of the balancing pole, we gave out the instructions.

  “You need to look around and find stuff to place in the bags. But, remember, you must put the same amount of weight in each side or the scale will fall over.”

  Accepting the challenge, they went off to find materials that seemed about the same size and weight to bring back for our experiment. As the oldest, Kyle took charge of the insertion process—careful to ensure equal distribution despite little Troy’s desire to indiscriminately throw anything and everything into the bags.

  “Well done!” came Kurt’s unbiased evaluation. “You have done a great job keeping the two sides in balance.”

  Next, Kurt took a black marker and wrote a single word on each bag. On the left bag he wrote “justice” and on the right “love.” As had been the pattern on family nights, the boys settled in for a brief explanation of the activity.

  “You see, our God is a God of perfect justice and perfect love.” While Troy wondered when we would get back to throwing stuff in the bags, Kyle and Shaun listened to Dad’s explanation of a God of perfect balance.

  “I don’t know about you,” Kurt continued, “but I sometimes wish God was all love. I don’t like when He becomes angry at sin or gives us strict rules to obey.” The boys could relate. After all, Daddy could be strict at times also. “But what would happen if we got rid of all the stuff in the justice bag?”

  Now came Troy’s moment as Kurt invited him to remove some of the larger items in the left bag. Immediately, the scale fell over.

  “You see, God must be both love and justice or He wouldn’t be perfect.”

  Kurt placed the objects back in the left-hand bag, and returned the scale—and God—to his upright and balanced position.

  “Daddy and Mommy are also supposed to balance love and justice in order to represent God and to keep our home from falling over.” After inviting the boys to read a few related Scripture passages, we wrapped up our activity and unleashed Troy to destroy our temporary scale.

  Later that evening, the boys were sitting at the kitchen counter eating—you guessed it—bowls of cereal. Kyle got an odd look on his face, like he had had an epiphany in response to our scale activity.

  “Mom,” he began, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About you and Dad. I think Dad is seventy-five percent justice and twenty-five percent love. But I think you are seventy-five percent love and only twenty-five percent justice.”

  A smile came across my face. Kyle had nailed our basic natures and parenting styles. Together, we created a pretty good reflection of our heavenly Father. But neither Mom nor Dad had perfect balance. Mom’s scale tips a bit too much toward words associated with love—like nurture and affirmation. Dad’s scale tips a bit too much toward words associated with justice—like discipline and strength.

  It just so happens, kids tend to grade justice at 9.1 while they give love a 10. I know it isn’t fair, and it certainly isn’t balanced. But, since someone has to be the favorite, it might as well be us girls.

  When our children are very young—ages one through three—we imprint their lives by how we treat them rather than by instructional activities. It is in this season that we impress their hearts, not their heads. Because children form their early view of God largely from how they view their parents, we can use the early years to reinforce the character of God—including both His love and His justice. And the best way for a mom to impress the love of God upon their hearts is by doing what comes naturally. We should overwhelm them with affirmation and affection—including lots of hugs and kisses—and praise for their fledgling attempts to talk, walk, and feed themselves. In these small ways, we are demonstrating unconditional love and the kind of affection God has for us. (By the way, don’t stop as the child ages!)

  In addition to establishing the security of unconditional love and affection when our children are very young, it is important to establish a clear sense that Mom and Dad set the rules and the child is expected to obey those rules. Starting when your child is about eighteen months old, you should establish some consistent system of discipline when your child willfully defies your rules. We demonstrate God’s character when we refuse to tolerate rebellion against the rules we’ve established. Please note, however, that there is a difference between willful defiance and childish irresponsibility. Like God, we must clarify right from wrong with children and bring about appropriate discipline when violated. Parents who neglect this principle during the early years risk giving children the mistaken idea that love and justice are mutually exclusive. God is both, and we must try to model both. Some excellent resources to help you implement this balance include Dare to Discipline and Hide or Seek, both written by Dr. James Dobson.

  * * *

  Mini-Tip

  PERSONALITY CHECK

  Every husband-and-wife duo is unique. Take one of the many personality tests together to figure out which tends to be more fun and playful and which tends to be more structured and strict. (One of the most fun personality tests is found in Dr. John Trent’s book The Language of Love available from www.strongfamilies.com.) Then create a game plan for making sure you leverage both strengths to avoid one extreme or the other in your home. In our home, this exercise has been helpful in keeping my husband from always having to play disciplinarian because I want to remain the life of the party.

  CHAPTER 19

  Mini-Losses

 
GRIEVING-DYING TIMES

  Her silence said everything. Already we sensed that something must be wrong. That’s why we made an appointment.

  During my fifth month of pregnancy, I should have felt the baby kicking, so that I could have excitedly pulled Kurt’s hand onto my belly for him to feel it, too. The baby seemed healthy weeks earlier—a strong heartbeat prompting the usual excitement. When that changed, we became anxious, called the doctor, and obediently visited the radiology lab. The technician spread the gel and moved the ultrasound probe around my abdomen, as she did during Kyle and Shaun’s stay in the womb. We saw faint images on the screen that looked like a head and an arm, just as before. But this time was different. I noticed the technician staring at the screen and making notes as if trying to avoid eye contact. She hates this part of her job.

  We drove to the doctor’s office to learn the results. Only doctors are allowed to deliver bad news. During the trip we didn’t speak, both of us feeling the dread of imminent grief. “I’m sorry about your baby.” The doctor’s warm, compassionate voice opened the dike of tears. As we had guessed, our baby had died.

  The next several hours were among the most traumatic of our lives. I checked into the hospital; then endured five hours of induced labor and delivered a child who would never breathe. The nurses sensitively put us in a room down the hall, away from the maternity ward. The last thing we needed to hear was the happy sound of crying newborns. The hospital reserved our hall for another kind of crying.

  Kurt managed to remain strong until shortly after the delivery of the stillborn baby. Our friends arrived at the hospital with our older boys. Kyle was then five, old enough to feel very excited about baby Todd’s impending arrival but too young to understand the loss. Kurt had the task of trying to explain to him something he didn’t understand himself.