All God's Children

If you've never been in a room full of kids with disabilities, you haven't lived!

That wish may not be at the top your bucket list but, trust me if you ever get the chance it will tip your whole bucket upside down. Add music, worship or performance to that room and you approach an other-worldly experience that quickly becomes spiritual.

There is nothing quite so humbling or profound as watching people express themselves creatively without inhibition. I have had this experience a handful of times: at a Music Therapy Center recital, at Beyond Limits adult Sunday school class, and at the Young Life Capernaum Club Talent Show last June. Take a peek at what our friend Sean Horton captured on film.

Capernaum Talent Show from Sean Horton on Vimeo.

My experience must only begin to approach God's delight at watching us, his children--all of us differently-abled--using the gifts He gave us freely without comparison or ego or pride to adulterate them. It's pure and true to a liberating extent.

"Looks aren't everything. Don't be impressed with his looks and stature. God judges persons differently than humans do. Men and women look at the face; God looks into the heart." 1 Samuel 16:6-8

“To one he gave five bags of gold, to another two bags, and to another one bag, each according to his ability. Then he went on his journey." Matthew 25:14-15

Photo credit: Bill Wilson

P.S. You're invited to visit a Capernaum Club every other Thursday night at 6:30 at Flood church offices on Ruffin Road in San Diego.

Always laughing?

Having a sense of humor is:

a. valuable

b. preferable

c. mandatory

d. all of the above

Standing at the sink, I made statement "a" like an opening bid then raised it to "b" before Jim added "c" and the correct answer "d."

In progressive waves, we have realized this truth. Was a time, we could not laugh. At the mere suggestion we'd make the cynical retort, "It's that or cry." Worse yet, "shut up, it is not funny!" which I think I actually said to my mom when she suggested, "it helps to have a sense of humor about it, don't you think?"

"It" being the precarious predicaments Reid gets himself (and us) into or our inability to control him. At the time, it may have been climbing into a recycling bin or cutting to the front of an ice cream line unabashedly.

Another time, a college buddy of ours came to visit with his family of four from Ohio. We hadn't seen them in years nor met each other's kids. The hallmark of this guy (and his wife coincidentally enough) has always been his sense of humor. On and on the stories go, of spring break trips when he used cream cheese to soothe his sunburned face since Noxema was unavailable. Or numerous one-liners he's coined which live on in our collective family lexicon but make no sense cause "you had to be there" for his Chaplin-esque delivery.

Leave it to them to identify the humor in our family dynamic. It was his wife who said, "So are you just laughing all the time?" For that was their experience of a day with Reid. What a funny, entertaining household must be created by his antics. Hahahaha...the possibility gave me pause. When had amusing become annoying and how could we go back?

Yesterday, for whatever cumulation of reasons, Jim and I were genuinely, simultaneously, heartily both belly laughing with Reid (not at him which is a key distinction) in public! It felt like a milestone of joy replacing grief. Reid's exuberant joy superceded any vestige of anger and fear we used to hold.

On the way home from the beach we had stopped for the ritual Roberto's burrito. Often we get it togo. Tonight Kool and the Gang was wafting through the outdoor patio seating area which drew Reid out like a magnet. While Jim ordered at the window, Reid was in plain view. I saw him approach a solitary male diner but could not hear what he said. The man bemusedly looked around for a parent or some explanation. I laid low in the car in my barefeet and modest cover up. He hadn't done enough to require my intervention.

Then began a series of dance moves in between the two-top tables. Starting with a little step ball change, he transitioned to the Snook torso twist, the Linus and Lucy dance, then what looked like the Elmo slide from my vantage point. The sequence brought unavoidable chuckles from a neighboring table of 2 men.

Jim rounded the corner of the building, grinned at his dancing fool and offered his own woot woot and Latin hip movement to the party. To which Reid shouted, "let's get Mom!" "Let's all dance....come on mom get outta the car."

I tried to duck, hide behind my hand, and lower my gaze but the entire town had eyeballed me by the time Reid got to the driver's side car door. He opened it and tried to pull me out across the front console. I had to go now. The last time this happened I was in a wedding dress back-paddling out of the mosh pit Jim's (they-don't-call-him-Gumby-for-nothing) relatives had formed at our wedding. I've changed since then. For this time I raised my hand above my head and busted out my best John Travolta Sunday Night Fever move as I came around the car.

So much for take out. We sat there groovin' and movin' enjoying how contagious joy can be...and grateful we'd caught it!

Dancing with Mal

I just finished Emily Colson's book, Dancing with Max. It is a terrific read disclosing her journey getting to know both her dad and her son all at once. Her faith and immense love--themselves gifts from God--are central themes enabling her to appreciate that her son with autism is a gift. Her masterful writing and disarming humor refresh the familiar story line of diagnosis to acceptance. I could particularly relate (as in, laugh outloud) to this excerpt:

Max had an appointment with a doctor who specialized in integrative medicine. He wasn't one of those crystal-worshiping, incense-burning practitioners, but a rather sophisticated doctor utilizing both alternative and conventional practices... He needed Max's treatment history, and of course, in the process, he would realize I was not neglectful crackhead parent, but a serious overachiever-type mom. The cross hanging around my neck would speak of my faith, my commitment, my clean lifestyle. I even found a way to tell him that I'd spoken at several area conferences, just in case he might need such a service. All those years as a graphic designer creating corporate identities taught me the power of communicating the right image. I pictured this doctor eventually inviting us into his home, telling me secret cures for autism, while he stood at his kitchen counter mixing Chinese mushroom powder into wheat grass. And he would realize that helping Max, the innocent child of a loving Christian and by-no-possible-fault-of-her-own single mother, was his life's mission.

"Does he have any language?" the doctor asked as Max sat silently outside the door.

"Oh, yes. It doesn't come easily, but he uses full sentences now," I answered.

He fired off a list of questions about sleep habits, diet, digestion, but kept coming back to the issue of language. "You said he does speak, is that correct? He's right outside my office door, and . . . I don't think I've heard him say anything."

"Yes, he's just very anxious here," I explained as if we were colleagues.

Our appointment was nearing an end, and I was pleased at the doctor's willingness to order numerous laboratory tests. "Could your son come in so that I could talk with him a bit? Would

he do that?" he asked.

"Maybe," I answered. "Max," I called as I looked into the hall. "Can you come sit with Mommy for a minute? Then we'll be all done and do something fun." Max stood up as if he always followed my requests and entered the examination room. The doctor greeted him, but Max brushed past his desk and stood silently at the window gazing out over the Cambridge neighborhood. "Good job Max," I proudly commended. "We're going to do something fun next."

And then it happened. My son must have a locator device implanted in his brain, because it only took him two seconds to see into a storefront window on the street below that obviously had commercial refrigerators. And with that motivation, my son spoke his first, and what would be his only, words for the doctor to hear.

"Mom, after this we can go to the liquor store."

Delighted at the prospect, Max walked out and sat beside my mother, who looks as much like an alcoholic as Mary Poppins.

The doctor's eyes shone on me like headlights. I was so busy being perfect that I forgot to laugh. The more I tried to explain, the worse it looked; he wasn't buying the whole refrigerator-obsession thing.

She has been there! I have been there. She has been where I have been! Thank you Lord that you do whatever it takes to free us from a spirit of pride.

It happens bit by bit--like becoming real. Reid, like Max, has taught his mom many things, not the least of which is to recognize embarrassment as the indicator light of pride. Having a son with absolutely no social inhibition continues to set me free from a fear of man.

Allie too. Just last week, she recalled sitting in a theater dying a thousand deaths because her brother was "so embarrassing." "What was he doing?" I'd forgotten. "Being overly happy," was her description. Is that such a crime? It's exactly what he does though. He expresses uncontainable joy so much so that it's socially unacceptable.

Even when he was a toddler, I found it hard to correct him for being too gleeful during library storytime, too excited to meet Mary Poppins at Disneyland, or euphoric when Souplantation had Barney bean salad (our term, not theirs) in the buffet smorgasbord. Gradually (unable to control or contain it), I've come to realize that it is more my problem than his. He embodies joy. That is a gift to those who receive it. And if it bothers someone on the way, that is their problem.

Now only a vestige of my pride remains. I recognize it in this clip of Reid cutting loose at a recent Banding Together coffeehouse concert. He's the one--the only one--on the dance floor doing aerial 360's. I am one feigning nonchalance in the black and white raincoat. Who's the woman dancing with him unabashedly? That is Malvina. Thank you Lord for friends who have more love than pride . . . who dole it out liberally all over everybody . . . who don't squelch his exuberance. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away. Isaiah 35:9-10

The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him. Psalm 28:6-8

Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:7-9

Moms (Open Mic) Night Out

What did you do for Mother's Day? When Jim asked me how I wanted to celebrate the day, I took it as a round tuit to do something I've been meaning to experience for awhile: Open Mic Night at the nearby E Street Cafe. Rallying the troops for such an off-beat adventure on a Sunday night is ordinarily difficult; on Mother's Day it was a shoo-in. Jim was thrilled to get off so easy. My wish was his command.

One thing you must know in advance:

Compliments of his new school, Reid has a thorough and effective Behavior Intervention Plan. One of the replacement behaviors they have taught him is to "move to a quiet area" (to replace throwing a shoe, running for a plate glass window, or biting your neighbor). Handy skill, well worth teaching. They've identified the antecedents to each of his maladaptive behaviors and itemized them for the benefit of all. During calm moments, Reid recites, writes, and is otherwise drilled on the five occurrences that warrant "moving to a quiet area" to pre-empt the meltdowns. The goal being for Reid to internalize these explicit triggers to his own agitation, take a minute away, and self-regulate eventually without even a prompt from the teacher. The plan is scientific, genius, and strategically comprehensive. His particular five reasons to move to a quiet area, which are committed to memory:


1. feeling silly

2. work is hard

3. others are loud

4. difficulty concentrating

5. difficulty communicating



I had several motives for getting to the Open Mic Night. Re-living my college days was not one of them--although that was a perk. (The vibe was reminiscent of The Rathskeller at the University of Wisconsin-Madison Student Union.) Rather, it seemed to be a relatively low frills, low cost night out for the whole family (ie. engaging everyone's interest). In addition, I am currently on the look-out for places to take Reid and his fellow Kingsmen band members to socialize (move beyond bowling), expose them to other performers, and scout out possible performance venues. Before I invited all four of the teens, I figured I better see whether censorship would be required.

We had a relaxed, lovely family "date" for less than $20 in just over an hour. No dirty jokes were delivered. Two guys who looked like twins in white t-shirts and jeans (note to self: this is what cool guys wear) played original, acoustic songs they'd written in the style of Jack Johnson or James Taylor. Reid enjoyed them, adding a little percussion by beating on our belly bar table and the one next to us. Although we tried to discourage him from getting up and actually dancing, once we received the warm smile from a 20-something, female patron bored with her computer, we relaxed into the scene. Most folks were engaged primarily with their laptops. The poor JT-wannabes were providing ambience at most. Reid was, in fact, flattering them with his rapt attention and adding to the entertainment value.

The third contestant was "Big Eddie." The cafe owner introduced him awkwardly, "Do you really want me to call you, Big Eddie?" Eddie was merely paunchy, a 70's boomer with an electric guitar and rhythm track to back him up.

He gave a shout out to Reid having eyeballed him in the smallish crowd, "Hey I need a drummer, if you're interested," and invited others to "shake your bootie if you want to." Reid got back on his feet (a notable moment of compliance) and poised his legs like a hoofer in an audition for Chorus Line. Now he had permission to tap his feet alternately right and left, and snap tap his fingers! Gotta love natural inclusion opportunities!! Big Eddie was cool with me.

He interspersed a few lyrics he'd written between lengthy guitar solos. A total departure from the other two, Big Eddie was more of an Eddie Van Halen wannabe. I wondered where his wife and kids were. They would have been identifiable in the intimate audience. During the fifth guitar solo, Jim commented, "This is why I sold my amp and electric guitar." Not Big Eddie. He's stickin' with it! A rocker for life.

After his third song, "Cosmic Love," we called it a night and headed home. Sunday is a school night. Very amusing, good clean fun, a peanut butter cookie and a tasty macchiato made for a happy camper van headed home on Mother's Day.

The punch line is this: at bedtime as we were tucking Reid in, reflecting on the novelty of the evening, openly laughing at the memory, Reid chimed in, "I think Big Eddie needs to move to a quiet area."

The high-level cognitive function that goes into a comment like that was not lost on me. It was a special treat to hear evidence that he has generalized his behavior plan, not only into our home environment but also projected it onto others in coffee houses. The comment attested to his sense of humor, ability to track and process the conversation, and put himself into others' shoes. Big Eddie was "being silly." Or was he?




They sing to the music of tambourine and harp; they make merry to the sound of the flute. Job 21:11-13



A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.
Proverbs 25:10-12



Immediately Jesus made his disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to Bethsaida, while he dismissed the crowd. After leaving them, he went up on a mountainside to pray. When evening came, the boat was in the middle of the lake, and he was alone on land. Mark 6:46-48

Perpetual Motion

A professional dance company called dre.dance, has choreographed a new work, beyond words, which premiered in Wichita recently. JoyMama at Elvis Sightings shares her dad's impressions of it. It was favorably reviewed in the Wichita Eagle. And also in more detail at Taking the Scenic Route.

How cool to see the performing arts using autism as a theme--building acceptance and awareness in the process. I am filled with admiration and curiosity about this company and their choreographer. Here is a clip of them instructing a group of teens with special needs. Apparently, they have taken the cause to heart and are gifted in using their own talents to develop others. Another apprenticeship model.




Dance dance dance! Do all kids with autism love to dance? I know Reid does. It is one of many behaviors that was sooo cute when he was younger and sooo not at all cool now that he's a teen. Bummer, because people merely watch him and get energized. Turn music on and he's bustin' a move like none you've ever seen.

Boys need to move to learn. I love the work of Carla Hannaford (Smart Moves: Why Learning is Not All in Your Head) and Cecelia Freeman (I am the Child) who support movement as a requisite way to switch the brain on for learning. The freedom of homeschooling allowed for lots of purposeful movement in Reid 's early years. Interactive metronome technology, which we did during the try-it-all hey day of his early childhood, is basically keeping time with hands and feet to a recorded tick-tock sound. Only, it's not that fun and lacks any significant social interaction.

Once he had completed the IM protocol, I made the giant mental leap of transferring those skills to tap dancing--which is really fun if you wannabe Gene Kelly and are obsessed with the best musical of all time, Singin' in the Rain. Having landed on a fantastic, local, male teacher who was up for it, Reid began his brief stint as a hoofer. It was a grand couple months of percussion with the feet and building a relationship with Louis. In his imagination, Reid was Donald O'Connor, the talented ham. And Louis was Gene Kelly, the rugged, masculine, athletic dandy with all the moves...and mirrors surrounding them so they could watch themselves. What could be more thrilling?!

I have to include this clip of Moses Supposes from Singin' in the Rain. For one, it offers a Biblical tie-in. And, who among us wouldn't love to do this with one of those district stick-in-the-mud speech therapists?! Telling the articulation coach to take his long a vowel sound and ----- it! in the nicest way possible.





Reid did this all by himself once, a long time ago. At about 5 years old, he was upstairs in our little "office classroom" with a speech therapist from the district during his preschool home program days. She told him, "only one more time" of some torturous game and then he'd get to do...x y z (whatever preferred task was the reward of the day). Well, it is one of my favorite recorded moments we have on video. His touche to the whole ABA discrete trail annoyance. He performed the obligatory one more time and doesn't she then say, "OK, now let's do this...," breaking her promise; making herself a liar; and ruining any trust Reid may have had in her. Under his breath yet clear as a bell, practically into the microphone, Reid said, "I'm not surprised." Then, he complied which is even more amazing.

One more on the same tapping theme, just for kicks! Snuffy and Savion in his younger days. (Don't get me started on Happy Feet.)





They send forth their children as a flock; their little ones dance about. Job 21:10-12


Then Miriam the prophet, Moses’s sister, took a tambourine and led all the women as they played their tambourines and danced. Exodus 15:19-21


David, wearing a linen ephod, danced before the LORD with all his might... 2 Samuel 6:13-15