WE CAN DO HARD THINGS
I made an angel-friend last year. The kind of friend God sends to you when you need to be seen in a way you can't see yet. I would pump breastmilk in the car on the way to meet her, hold teeny-tiny Wyatt, and drink an extra large coffee while I sniffled and stammered about not knowing how to be a special needs mom. She was the one I could be very raw with and say I didn't WANT to be a special needs mom. I could ask the questions you're not supposed to have and feel all the feelings I didn't think I should feel with her.
My angel-friend, Sarah Collins Prince, just published a book called "Anguish to Awakening: Journeying with Autism - Adventure. Heartbreak and Hope". I found myself in many parts of it and underlined things I'd come back to when I was ready. Sarah has a chapter in her book called, "You Can Do Hard Things". It's a two page chapter about her friends throwing her a "Hard Things Party" when her son was diagnosed with autism - based on the Glennon Doyle quote, "I see your pain, and it's big. I also see your courage, and it's bigger. You can do hard things."
Sarah let me struggle while I needed to and made sure to let her hope shine through in a non-obtrusive, non-judgmental, "I'm just gonna let this sit here when you're ready for it" kind of way. Recently, a "Sarah-the-angel-friend lesson" came back to me.
We're doing all the things we feel we should be doing with Benjamin on our journey with autism. We've got a great team of specialists around us. He's in a very supportive special needs preschool, blossoming as he receives therapy daily. He sees an occupational therapist, and I've been trained to do some of the techniques twice a day at home. We've installed a sensory swing in his room and work on it twice a day as well. We've adjusted our schedules, parenting style and life as we know it. Not every day is good, but we are learning!
I was particularly thrilled a few days after installing the swing and diligently working with it. We'd had two days in a row of Benjamin being Benjamin after several hard weeks. He felt grounded, regulated, secure and peaceful. It was so great to see him feeling better than he had in a while. Hope began to stir unexpectedly. Maybe if we keep going with these therapies... Maybe we have found the right team...
And then, just as I dared to hope, there was a meltdown of epic proportions. Out of the blue, Benjamin begin to panic about the seams on his clothing from the waist down. This was a new one. (His beloved sock collection had to be put away a several weeks ago when he could no longer bear how they felt on his feet. He had been very frustrated with himself. He loved those socks.) But, this particular day, he was coming unglued. Every seam below the belly button caused such discomfort he couldn't stand to keep them on, couldn't stand himself, and couldn't stand the feeling of panic overcoming him. It was very, very loud and very sad to see him struggle.
I felt panic rise in myself as I watched my child suffering in spite of himself and inside of himself. We couldn't keep anything on him and had to send Chris to pick Lifa up from school. Finally, a very still, small voice fluttered through me. "He's sick. Take him to the doctor." Benjamin has never been able to identity pain when he's sick. His sensory signalers are constantly overloaded and pain doesn't take priority. He usually doesn't know he's sick until he's one day away from being admitted into a hospital. (Can we talk about extreme parenting for a minute, please!?!) I put Benjamin in a Pull-Up to make it through the night and prevent seams from touching him, but he remained wildly frustrated with himself and embarrassed about what people would think of him. It was the saddest thing.
I took that flutter seriously, and Benjamin's pediatrician squeezed us in the next morning. I walked in feeling completely ridiculous and told him, "This might be your most ridiculous consult ever. I don't actually know if my kid is sick. He says he has no pain, is perfectly happy, but he just can't wear underwear." It just took a few minutes for the doctor to say, "Good job, Mom! His ears and throat are a mess." He showed me his swollen, pulsing glands and how to check them next time. He patiently helped me understand why Benjamin can't feel the pain like others do.
I do not want to tell you how much I've spent on medical costs this month. But I DO want to tell you that I CAN DO HARD THINGS!
I had sick kids for the next week while I was preparing to teach at our church's women's event. Sleep was slim. Needs were high. And to tell you the absolute truth, I felt AWESOME because of the wildly empowering truth that I CAN DO HARD THINGS.
I thought about Sarah and her journey. I thought about her "Hard Things party" and how she got to the other side of her journey stronger than before. That baffled me in my beginning days. I didn't want the journey and certainly wasn't equipped for it. This journey, quite frankly, didn't fit into my life. And then, as my child unraveled before me, desperate and vulnerable, I heard God's voice. And I had a huge support team in place to back me up. And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I can do hard things.
I can do this with Benjamin - the good days and the hard days. I don't want hard things for the sake of hard things, but I sure as heck want to live a life that moves to the rhythms of God's voice and in a pack with His people. I've got nothing but weariness and bitterness in my own strength. But I'm starting to see what Sarah showed me from the beginning. That the hard things that you never wanted could actually be the hope things if you do them with God and good people.
I betcha you can do hard things too.
Wanna read Sarah's book? (Yes.)