making a difference

Today is Pentecost and our church did something out of the box, especially for Methodists. We met at our church building and paraded to a tent in the middle of town where the bulk of our worship service was held. Our gospel choir sang, our band played and three members of the congregation spoke about where they've seen God showing up in their life. I was honored to be asked to be one of these three speakers. So in case you weren't sweating it out in downtown Geneva this Sunday (oh, yes, it was a hot and humid day in May!), here is what I said.

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For over a year our family has been volunteering to make lunches for Lazarus House, the local homeless shelter. We’ve often rallied neighbors to donate food and help us. The last few months we’ve been inviting my son Liam’s three best buddies to come home with him after kindergarten and make the lunches with us. Each of the boys contributes a food item and then we pack the lunches assembly-line style. Originally I was inspired to volunteer because I wanted to involve my son Liam in a service project and as an older 4 year old (now a newer 6 year old) the opportunities to actually do something are limited.

This month, though, as the boys were making the lunches, I wondered what they were really getting out of the experience. Liam was bothered that we didn’t have extra juice boxes. I saw two oranges drop into one brown bag more than once – an issue I’d have to sort out later after the guys had been released to play. And one friend was visibly upset.

“I want a lunch like this,” he whined. “Why can’t I have one of these lunches?”

Another little friend piped up. “Don’t worry,” he said very matter of factly, “You can have one someday when you’re homeless.”

I started thinking my effort to involve my son in service wasn’t really making a difference.

After Liam’s friends had gone home, I put the lunches, the gallons of milk and juice and my boys into the car and drove over to Lazarus House. I figured out a way to lug everything in one trip and cajole Elliott into following us. We got buzzed in and made our way through the dining area where some of the guests were hanging out. After Elliott loudly greeted everyone, we dropped off our bags and headed back out.

As I was getting into my car, a woman whisked up to greet me. Her pin said that she was the Lazarus House director. She stood close and spoke in a low voice, “You know,” she said. “This is very dangerous place to bring children.”

I quickly thought over the last three minutes. We said hello to some homeless guys and brought them some food. Had I really just put my boys in danger?

Then she smiled. “I used to bring my children,” she said. “And now one is a social worker and one is a teacher and one works in social justice.”

Once a friend told me that her husband always buys from the people soliciting door to door. Then she added, “He tells me, ‘You never know how Jesus will come.’”

I think about that statement all the time now. The guy who said it is not a pastor. He’s just a quiet, unassuming person. But somewhere, I’m guessing early in his life, he learned not only to treat every person with kindness and respect, but that when he least expects it, he could be opening the door for Jesus.

“I tell you the truth,” Jesus said in a parable in Matthew 25, “whatever you did for one of the least of my brothers, you did for me.”

Since Third Tuesday Suppers began at our church, my boys and I have been there every time, eating (of course) and clearing some plates. Mostly Liam and Elliott wander around and play with the other kids who are there. But I still hold out the belief that it means something more than just dinner out – that they are absorbing the service and community aspects as well.

This past Tuesday was business as usual. We went, we ate, we cleared, we chatted, they wandered and played. At the end of the night there was leftover food and we were encouraged to take a couple meals worth home.

As we drove up to our house, I noticed that our neighbor, a single mom, and her middle-school-age daughter were doing yard work, just as they were when we left. I thought about the food in my lap and asked Andrew if he thought it would be weird to go over and offer it to them.

“Yeah, maybe,” he said.

I agreed and headed inside. Liam was stricken. He quickly caught up with me.

“Mom,” he pleaded. “You have to take that to them. We always take food to people. You have to.”

I looked at his urgent expression, sucked up my pride and walked with him next door.

“Hi,” I said to my tired and sweaty neighbor. “We just came from a free community dinner at our church and we brought home a couple extra meals and it’s just delicious and we’d love for you to have it if you haven’t eaten yet. Liam especially wanted you to have it.”

I opened the container and together we smelled the savory, home-cooked meal.

“Why, thank you, Liam,” my neighbor smiled at my son. “We would love to have this dinner. Thank you so much for thinking of us.”

It’s true. We never know how Jesus will come. And we never know who will remind us to keep looking for him. But now I see how dropping juice boxes into lunch bags and clearing a plate on a Tuesday night can make a difference.

in the moment

Last weekend in his standard explorer, mud-pie, weird-contraption-building mode, Liam sighed, "I wish I could find something in this yard." And then he did.

In a week of endless work, worry and waiting, I have been willing myself to remember that little-person awe, the giddy and urgent shrieks to "catch him", the giggles as our new friend hopped out of my inexperienced hands again and again. It was a moment of pure happy.

For a bossy doer who's always looking for the answers, it can be hard to find these gifts. So, I'm thankful this week for two wonder boys and a toad who brought me back to reality, if only just for a moment.

the incredible mr. E turns three

Bubbles and balloons. Balls and matchbox cars. Dinner delivered by train and a cupcake with sprinkles. Shared with a few of our favorite little people. Happy birthday, Elliott. We're so incredibly happy to have you.

now we are six

If there is anything brimming with more happiness than a boy on his sixth birthday, I haven't seen it yet.

postscript

When I wrote yesterday's post I was thinking about Elliott and a way to illustrate the strange reality of never wanting to have a child who has special needs and being so grateful for exactly the child that I have. But after rereading it I realize that people could get the wrong impression of my playgroup and the women in it. Soon after having Liam I got swooped up into a group of neighborhood moms who all had babies around the same age. At first it was just nice to have peers to celebrate and commiserate with as we got our feet wet in motherhood. But this has not been just any group of women. The playgroup quickly spawned a book club, a regular girls' night out and many very dear friends. Nearly every day these women offer me support, advice and comic relief. We have shared great joys and unthinkable losses. And we talk about far, far more than doing laundry and wiping bottoms. It is a rare and precious thing to have this kind of friendship right where one lives and I want to be sure to say that I am incredibly grateful for this gift.

Also, on a completely different note, if anyone made the shredded wheat bars I posted recently, I forgot to include the egg in the recipe. Oops. (The error is now corrected in the original post.) So sorry to those of you who ended up with shredded wheat granola instead of bars!

someone special

Before Elliott was born, I was sitting around with some moms at a playgroup. We were putting together plates of snacks and pouring juice for our firstborns when one of the moms, dicing her daughter's cantaloupe, started off on a tangent about how she imagined the worst thing ever would be to have a child who was intellectually disabled.

"I could handle a sick child," she said. "But I just wouldn't be able to take it if my child had some sort of cognitive deficit."

I remember the moment distinctly because I wished I felt differently but I didn't. We were a group of moms thrown together because of both geography and birth rate who were bonding over nursing and toilet training and the best ways to treat for stains. We had all emerged from interesting careers and regular adult interaction to wipe spit up and bottoms. We were all intelligent, industrious women. And, without even consciously acknowledging it, we all had smart, beautiful, healthy children. So far.

On Friday I got a taste of a different world as Andrew and I sat around a table with a group that included a nurse, a school psychologist, a social worker, a speech therapist, an occupational therapist and a special education preschool teacher. We were there to hear their assessment of Elliott and their recommendations for him as he turns three this month and ages out of the state-run early intervention program and becomes eligible for school district services. There couldn't have been a kinder, more encouraging group of individuals than the women in that room on Friday, but to be reminded of the extent of your child's delays is still troubling.

Like so many families, I am now discovering, we have a son without a diagnosable condition but who lags behind significantly for unknown reasons. His bubbly, outgoing personality has erased any doubt that he's a spectrum child, but his difficulty grasping simple concepts and inability to express thoughts or carry on a conversation is worrisome. When it's just us, at home, hanging out together, we don't think about it. Elliott is our funny boy who squeals out to name everything he sees, "chair!" "kitty!" "bug!" Our boy who makes faces in front of the mirror, who throws everything he can get his hands on down the stairs, who screams at the top of his lungs simply because he loves to hear his voice. He cuddles, he listens to stories, he eats anything we put in front of him. He imitates his brother, he gets his shoes to go outside, he climbs on the counter. But put him next to a child his same age who's riding a two-wheel bike and excitedly telling us what he just received for his birthday and the contrast is stark.

All along I have felt that he's going to grow out of it. That someday he'll simply catch up. But after the gentle yet clear recommendation on Friday that our son be placed in the five-day-a-week special education preschool next year because he "has so many needs," it's beginning to sink in that Elliott's trajectory may be different.

This Mother's Day I have been thinking about what that mom said in those blissful first years of motherhood that none of us could even fully identify as such. What mother would want a special needs child? Who would think they could take it if their child was cognitively deficient? How do any of us, when we say these things, have the slightest idea of what we're taking about? When it's not you, it's all about you. When it is you, it isn't about you at all.

I have a special needs child. He's funny and beautiful and loving and curious and smart in his own unique ways. And, honestly, no matter how long he wears this label, I couldn't be a luckier mother.

inspired by little bits

According to the note in Liam's backpack last week, today was teacher appreciation day. I remembered this while pulling together some breakfast and considered what we could do. We are trying hard not to buy extra things these days, so I figured out a cute way to upcycle some old jars. After scavenging the yard for blooms, we ended up with a pretty sweet gift. I have to give some credit to my friend Liita and her Little Bits Workshop. I have been a cheerleader for this creative venture since it began, but on Saturday I went to River Forest and visited the workshop and got a firsthand taste for the amazing creativity and inspiration behind it.


Everything about the space at Little Bits inspired me to want to make stuff. And Liita is the queen of turning old things into new things that are attractive and useful. Messing around with paper beads and Mod Podge on Saturday gave me the idea for our vases this morning. I just love that it doesn't take much to create something lovely. Even trash can become a gift. Or, as Liam's teacher said when she heard how we made the vases, "I bet you'll never look at paper napkins the same way again."


So, here's what we did. First, I dug up some old condiment and spice jars I had saved. Liam brushed the outside of his jar (except the rim and the bottom) with Mod Podge (which is basically watery glue). Then he cut up a napkin to fit around the jar. We used several pieces to cover the whole jar (pulling apart the layers so we were just using the one outside layer of napkin - like tissue). We also tried a couple other napkin styles on some other jars. In the end, the more lovely the napkin, the more lovely the vase.


After positioning the napkin pieces, we brushed another coat of Mod Podge over the napkin, carefully making sure that all the edges were sealed to the jar (some wrapping around the bottom) and that the wrinkles were brushed out as well as possible. Then we turned them on their rims and let them dry. The results were far better than I imagined. So while Liam was at school, I felt inspired to make one for his piano teacher and one for me. It's a strange day when I make something for me. But being at Little Bits, surrounded by all that beautiful, whimsical, creative work, I decided that it's time to change. We need more craft around her. Not just making it. Keeping it, too.