I know yesterday I promised "perky," but you should know better than to trust my promises by now. I am big on reneging. As un-PC as it sounds, "Indian Giver" is actually my Indian name. In the blogosphere, all truth is relative anyway (unless, Reader, you are a prospective employer and then, yes, I really am exceptionally reliable, honest and clever!).
Uhhh...no perky here.
This heart-breaking story in the news yesterday really moved me as a parent. It also brought back some memories for me.
Years ago I sort of blogged before blogging was really even a thing (yes, get it out of your system: "Really, Grandma?!"). I used MicroSoft Publisher to design a monthly (then quarterly, then neverly) journal of sorts (don't call it a newsletter!) called Solomon's Porch, and shared it via email with family and friends. There were updates on my mysterious illness and medical odyssey (newly begun), on my life with Hub (also newly begun), on my projects and my shenanigans and my dogs. I remember there being a fair number of photos, some poetry, some memorable quotes, a little scripture. A recipe, a prayer, a plea. A first sonogram of Toe ("Tidbit") and eventually of Roo ("Peanut").
A little text box on the cover of the PDF always explained the significance of the name "Solomon's Porch" for me, and why I referenced it as my home:
An architecturally beautiful portico on the eastern side of Solomon's Temple, a place where Jesus and his disciples came to teach, heal and have fellowship, a place where there was great power of the Spirit, where the broken waited on the arrival of the Master, a place of miracles and restoration, of evangelistic boldness.
So, when I read about the parents in Brooklyn, all I could think of was the endurance test of their wait, of not knowing what will become of their lives or their child's life. I prayed that they could choose courage. I prayed that they would know great and authentic love. I prayed that Jesus would meet them on the porch, tell them to take up their mats, and dance with their baby daughter.
It's kind of hard to have the faith to wait on the Porch in your own state of disability, year after year. Waiting there for the restoration of your child is an almost unthinkable burden. Still, we do it. Here we are. Waiting for what the news will bring for Toe, whether we will kick autism's ass once and for all with therapy and science, whether Toe will beat the beast with sheer brilliance of mind and joyfulness of spirit, whether Jesus will send a rushing wind in to refresh the soul of our tiny, miraculous little blonde boy-thing.
And I realized that the truest test of faith is what most of us already instinctively know. Not "can I carry this burden," but "can I wait on God while I watch my beloved carry a burden I have no power to take from him?" I'm not sure how I will come out in the test, but I'm 6 years in and going for the long-haul.
4th ANNUAL WORLD AUTISM AWARENESS DAY IS APRIL 2, 201. SEE WHAT YOU CAN DO HERE.
Uhhh...no perky here.
This heart-breaking story in the news yesterday really moved me as a parent. It also brought back some memories for me.
Years ago I sort of blogged before blogging was really even a thing (yes, get it out of your system: "Really, Grandma?!"). I used MicroSoft Publisher to design a monthly (then quarterly, then neverly) journal of sorts (don't call it a newsletter!) called Solomon's Porch, and shared it via email with family and friends. There were updates on my mysterious illness and medical odyssey (newly begun), on my life with Hub (also newly begun), on my projects and my shenanigans and my dogs. I remember there being a fair number of photos, some poetry, some memorable quotes, a little scripture. A recipe, a prayer, a plea. A first sonogram of Toe ("Tidbit") and eventually of Roo ("Peanut").
A little text box on the cover of the PDF always explained the significance of the name "Solomon's Porch" for me, and why I referenced it as my home:
An architecturally beautiful portico on the eastern side of Solomon's Temple, a place where Jesus and his disciples came to teach, heal and have fellowship, a place where there was great power of the Spirit, where the broken waited on the arrival of the Master, a place of miracles and restoration, of evangelistic boldness.
So, when I read about the parents in Brooklyn, all I could think of was the endurance test of their wait, of not knowing what will become of their lives or their child's life. I prayed that they could choose courage. I prayed that they would know great and authentic love. I prayed that Jesus would meet them on the porch, tell them to take up their mats, and dance with their baby daughter.
It's kind of hard to have the faith to wait on the Porch in your own state of disability, year after year. Waiting there for the restoration of your child is an almost unthinkable burden. Still, we do it. Here we are. Waiting for what the news will bring for Toe, whether we will kick autism's ass once and for all with therapy and science, whether Toe will beat the beast with sheer brilliance of mind and joyfulness of spirit, whether Jesus will send a rushing wind in to refresh the soul of our tiny, miraculous little blonde boy-thing.
And I realized that the truest test of faith is what most of us already instinctively know. Not "can I carry this burden," but "can I wait on God while I watch my beloved carry a burden I have no power to take from him?" I'm not sure how I will come out in the test, but I'm 6 years in and going for the long-haul.
4th ANNUAL WORLD AUTISM AWARENESS DAY IS APRIL 2, 201. SEE WHAT YOU CAN DO HERE.
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