Tag: love

Posted in musings

pastor barbara and the out-of-sync girl

Posted on by kristinabean

Once upon a time there was a church which had a female pastor. Now, this pastor wasn’t the lead pastor, or even the primary teaching pastor; she led the family and children’s ministries, actually, and spent most of her ministry time with women and youth. But she had the title of pastor – Pastor Barbara.

She was beautiful. She had long, curly brown hair and a nose with that perfect spark of defiance bringing its straight lines singing up from her face. She had a gentle way of moving – never too fast or too sudden – and a gentle way of speaking – never too loud or too harsh. And when she saw the children she loved and taught and prayed for, her whole body would glow with that love and light, like an emanation of the Holy Spirit through her presence.

There was a small girl at this church who adored Pastor Barbara wholeheartedly and unstintingly, although mostly from a distance as she was a quiet child. She enjoyed above all the new songs that Pastor Barbara would sing with them! For her, songs were a release from the uncertainty of social interactions, because the songs (at least the children’s songs that she knew) would specify how you were supposed to act. Take for example “Father Abraham:” no one would ever move that way in everyday life, but the song says to do it so everyone does it and no one has to worry about being out of sync.

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Posted in family life, information, musings

acceptance vs. awareness

Posted on by kristinabean

I’ve been spending a lot of time on Pinterest lately, in an effort to avoid Facebook (and while waiting for my books on hold to become available!), and I’ve found some really encouraging, helpful, and inspiring posts! I’ve also found quite a few off-the-wall recipes that I’ve made to varying familial approval… but let’s not dwell on that.

I think the following two images which I found there are amazing examples of the difference between awareness of autism and acceptance of autism (the first was uploaded directly to Pinterest by a user, and the second is from the Thirty Days of Autism blog):

Notice how in the first poster only the negative effects of autism are mentioned: meltdowns, avoidance, tears, frustration, worry, and stress. Autism is an evil, something that one needs to fight through with hope and prayer, like a sickness that needs to be overcome and that left unchecked would destroy one’s life. (And if it were a sickness, like cancer, that would be more than fine! As it is actually a neurological and developmental difference that is always going to be part of who a person is, however, this attitude can feel like a personal attack on an autistic individual’s identity.)

In contrast, the second poster focuses on the unique behaviors caused by autism – things that are different from normal, but neutral rather than negative: parallel play, a need for space, deep focus and passion, love of technology, and stimming. Autism is portrayed as a part of who that family is – something for which they love each other, not something despite which they love each other. Acceptance gives them the freedom to be themselves, however autistic that self might be, while still receiving unconditional love and support in the midst of their individual needs and struggles.

Let’s just say I know which lens I’d rather be seen through – and therefore, which perspective I want to take when raising my differently wired child.

Posted in family life, musings

waking in the night: a meditation on love

Posted on by kristinabean

I lie on the low bed in the darkness, and my baby curls against me, resting her head on my soft chest and stomach (the stomach I resent when I try to dress for adult life but which functions so perfectly as a cozy baby pillow). Our breaths are the only sound, her faster, shallower breaths a counterpoint to my deep and steady rhythm. I slow the pace of my breathing to guide her into sounder sleep, hoping her body will follow mine. She is warm and solid next to me, tangible physicality grounding me in embodied reality and relationship. There are books I wanted to read, projects I wanted to work on, chores I ought to take care of, but I stretch out this moment much longer than necessary. There is such immense privilege in being the one whose presence can calm her fears and dry her tears; there is such wonder in being able to soothe and comfort another when I cannot do so for myself. I recall her newborn months, when I sat in the hospital rocking her, deep into the darkest depression I have yet experienced, and yet somehow able to calm and comfort her anyways.

Maybe none of us can completely accomplish that for ourselves; maybe consolation and peace are gifts we can give to others better than we can create them for ourselves, and which we must in turn receive from others if we are to experience them fully. My baby cries out for me to come to her and restore her to peace, to console her in the loneliness of the night; we grow, and become independent, and pride ourselves on our self-sufficiency and strength, and we stifle our own cries in the darkness. Maybe we have cried too many times into an unresponsive void, and have decided we don’t want to risk adding the pain of rejection and worthlessness to the burden we already bear. We forsake the openness and vulnerability of our infancy, protecting our hearts – and closing the door to the fullness of comfort and peace that only comes through the love and presence of another.

I come to my babies in the night, though I may be exhausted or frustrated, because I know the pain of crying when no one hears, and I don’t want that pain to be theirs. I lift them in my arms, my little ones wakeful and sad for reasons beyond their ability to explain. And in the teary eyes wiped on my shoulder, the little head laid against my chest, the arms wrapped around my neck, I receive gifts just as powerful as any I give: love, meaning, and worth. They remind me of my own need for love and connection even as they show my my own power as a giver of that love and connection. However weary I may be, all the sleepless nights, all the hours pacing and rocking and snuggling, all the worry and time and energy spent, are nothing compared to what I have received simply be being their mother.

Posted in musings

how does the soul survive?

Posted on by kristinabean

Modern fiction brings out the evil in domestic lives, ordinary relations, people like you and me […]

Once evil is individualized, becoming part of everyday life, the way of resisting it also becomes individual. How does the soul survive? is the essential question. And the response is: through love and imagination.

– Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran

It’s easy to see evil as something distant, or something belonging to people “not like me;” it’s been especially easy, I think, in a politically polarized era to attempt to push our perception of evil off onto politicians or political enemies, the political and cultural “others”, instead of recognizing the sin that cuts through each and every individual heart. We ignore accusations of immorality against those whose ideology aligns with ours, or who benefit us in some way, while jumping at every hint of wrongdoing in those who disagree with us.

But a good novel will show us the hidden depths of goodness and humanity in even the people we dislike and disagree with, while exposing the foolishness and flaws within the people we most admire and who are most like us. By drawing us in emotionally through the story, it relaxes our defenses and allows new, unpleasant, or inconvenient truths to seep in. Our empathy for the characters can engender empathy for real people whom we may have overlooked, avoided, or misunderstood – and the realities that we see more deeply and completely by the light of imagination can spur us to resist the daily evil and pour out the daily labor of love in our own mundane lives.

In other words: let us go read great books so that our hearts and minds can grow in love and understanding – and maybe, as a result, evil need not win each hourly battle in our thoughts and interactions.

…the same thing that distinguishes addiction from passionate interest also divides unhealthy love from that which is the highest experience of humanity. That is, love is real when it expands and enhances your life – and troubling and problematic when it contracts or impairs it. Whether you love a person, a drug, or an intellectual interest, if it is spurring creativity, connection, and kindness, it’s not an addiction – but if it’s making you isolated, dull, and mean, it is.

– Maia Szalavitz, Unbroken Brain: A Revolutionary New Way of Understanding Addiction

 

healthy vs. unhealthy love

Quote• Posted on by kristinabean
Posted in family life

dance to the music no one else can hear

Posted on by kristinabean

So now, having just explained in great detail why I think special ed preschool could be a great help for Rondel despite my misgivings about the public school system in general, I am going to argue the other side against myself. Hopefully writing this out will help me make a decision! And if not, hopefully it is helpful or interesting to someone else in a similar spot.

First, you should know this about Rondel.

When my son is in a highly stimulating, fun, chaotic environment, his energy ratchets up so high that he can’t always control it. Simultaneously, especially if he is hungry or tired (or if another kid is pushing his buttons), his anxiety often escalates as well. Either of these things could be a struggle independently, but when combined they can make situations very difficult for him. His body feels out of control, his emotions feel out of control, and his external environment feels out his control. In response to that, he will often take actions that on the surface appear irrational or bizarre: he may get overly aggressive in his play, wrestling after his friends have asked him to stop; he may try to run away to escape the chaos; or he may break down into incoherent tears.

Birthday parties, amusement parks, playgrounds, noisy restaurants, music class, movie theaters, and other noisy places can all cause sensory overload and meltdowns. Vigorous physical play may be avoided because of concerns about falling, sensory overload, and the potential for explosive outbursts and aggressive behaviors due to fight-or-flight reactions. Perhaps most unfortunately, the kinds of things done by the teachers who work hardest to make their classrooms fun for most kids – busy, colorful places with lots of “activity stations,” fun music, dancing, games – may be precisely the things that aggravate kids with SPD. As a result, these teachers may find that the harder they work to make class enjoyable and to involve these kids, the more they shut down or overload. It’s hard to imagine a more potent recipe for frustration and misunderstanding on both sides.

Brock Eide, The Mislabeled Child

Second, you should know this about me.

One of the greatest struggles in my life – a struggle that I have heard countless times in the lives of my friends and family as well – is feeling that I don’t belong: that there is no group of people among whom I can be completely myself and at the same time completely loved. It is out of this struggle that my parenting philosophy was born. My goal as a mother is to give my children a relationship (and ideally a whole family community) in which they will be listened to, understood, and unconditionally loved. Whatever societal forces are pressuring them to fit into a certain mold or to act a certain way, I want our home to be the safe place in which those forces have no power.

Now, I also have hopes and expectations for my children. I want them to be thinkers and readers; I want them to be wise and compassionate; I want them to love deeply and speak kindly. But even the wisest person has moments of foolishness; even the kindest person has words they regret. In those moments, I want my children to know that my love will not cease or waver, that I will always love them for who they are even as I help them grow and mature. And I want them to know that the rate of their growth is never a cause for shame, regardless of how slowly they may be progressing. The direction and the effort are the things that matter.

With both of those things in mind, putting Rondel in a special preschool designed solely to help him acquire certain skills by a certain deadline seems antithetical to my whole concept of parenthood. He is not a flowering bush that I can freely manipulate by well-timed applications of different fertilizers or hormones; he is his own person, uniquely designed and gifted, with his own path and timeline to follow. It is helpful for me to know the ways in which he is different than “normal,” so that I can anticipate his struggles instead of setting him up for failure, learn how to help him through difficult situations instead of flailing about in the dark, and access the accommodations he needs to thrive – but it isn’t helpful to focus on those differences as things that are “wrong” with him and try to fix them or train them out of him.

And my fear is that he will think just that: that we believe his way of being is inadequate or wrong, that we don’t accept him as who he is, and that we are willing to put him in an environment that stresses his sensory and emotional systems to the point of overload in an attempt to change him into someone else. It’s hard to think of a better way to demolish a child’s confidence in himself or to damage his trust in his parents’s love and understanding. When the music plays that only Rondel can hear, I want him to dance to that beat with freedom and fullness, holding nothing back in his pursuit of the calling for which God has designed him, no matter how strange or awkward that dance may appear to those who are deaf to the song. Speech therapy we can get at a private clinic, without needing to compromise our ideals in the process; the other skills he needs for life will grow in time, as he learns their value, in the context of love and peace and belonging.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in musings

the girl who became a warrior

Posted on by kristinabean

Once upon a time there was a little girl who worried. She didn’t worry about practical things, like fires and robbers; she trusted her mom to handle things like that. But she worried about heaven, and how to know what happens when you die. She worried about wanting to be alone and making her friends feel hurt. She worried about being the littlest and the last and being left out because she was too late. She worried about losing her stuffed bunny that kept her company in the dark at night.

When she grew up, her worries didn’t really leave; they just changed to fit her new grown-up circumstances. She still worried about death, and wondered just what she would find after passing through that painful door. She worried that her introversion made her less of a good Christian by crippling her witness to Jesus’s love and grace. She worried about never measuring up to the people around her; she worried about missing out on something important by showing up late to anything. And she worried about losing the people closest to her, the relationships that mattered most, the love that kept her feeling safe in the dark at night.

This little girl didn’t realize, for years and years, that she worried about all these things. She thought that because she didn’t care about what other people thought of her, and wasn’t anxious about the future, and didn’t get nervous for doctor appointments or tests, and could handle large crowds and speaking in public (although it wasn’t enjoyable), that she wasn’t a worrier. She prided herself on her ability not to worry, to trust God with the outcome, to embrace new situations and attack new problems with confidence. But the worries were always there, in the dark corners, ignored but not silent.

They were there in the moments she wanted to speak but couldn’t open her mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing; they were there in the Psalms of trust and strength she memorized and would recite over and over again before getting out of the car and walking back into the relationships that mattered so much they hurt; they were there in the nights lying sleepless in bed aching over a careless word that might have damaged a friendship; they were there in the years and years of picking away all the bumps and scabs and scratches on her arms. But it wasn’t until they grew so strong that she couldn’t leave her house without physical panic that she admitted they were there, and that she wanted to let them go and help them rest in peace.

Worry grows like a climbing plant, wrapping its tendrils tightly around the support bars of your heart, cracking stone, weakening foundations, inserting itself into every nook and cranny and taking hold. Removing it is not the task of a day, nor an effort for the faint-hearted. Sometimes, this grown-up girl worried that it would be an futile effort, not worth the time and energy it demanded. But now that she knew how deeply it could incapacitate her if allowed to grow freely, she could see that even just keeping it fought back and somewhat maintained was a necessary (if unrewarding and unending) task. Left to itself, it would destroy everything else.

Worry builds unseen walls around the tended places of your heart, sealing them in, claiming to protect them from danger and harm. But all the time, as it builds, it pricks and pokes and pierces those vulnerable and intimate areas with images of all the possible scenarios that could bring about your devastation and despair. You may be safe from the actual event you fear, but you are locked in a dungeon with your worst tormentor of all. It took years of patient love, proving the worries false and unfounded, to open doors in those walls and coax the frightened areas of this girl’s heart out into the wild and beautiful free world again, and still she finds herself drawing back into those confines in moments of fear or anger. But now she knows the feeling of warm sun, fresh air, and flowing water in the deepest part of her being; now she knows the peace that comes from leaving behind worry’s dark and fearsome fortress.

Worry tried to convince this girl, through all these years, that she was unable to control the forces surrounding her life, and that events were sure to overwhelm her at some point or another. It tried to tell her that she could never hope to be enough, to break her spirit and close her in. But the deeper story, the more lasting truth, is that worry has trained her to be a warrior, fighting for her own joy and peace and love and beauty, and for all those things for the world she lives in: a warrior who will never give up, who knows her enemy is a liar and a coward – a warrior who fights with hope.

Posted in family life

being loved

Posted on by kristinabean

Tonight at dinner, to forestall the usual request to read a Magic School Bus book (good books, but we’ve been on serious repeat mode here and they’re still a bit over Limerick’s head so he gets left out), I brought down one of our children’s Bibles and read a few stories from there.

As we read the story of King Solomon, I asked the boys what they would ask for if God said He would give them anything they wanted. What would you want most?

Without hesitation, Rondel answered, “Mommy!”

And then, “And baby.”

To say I was touched would be an understatement. I am so blessed to be loved so much by my sweet boy – and especially when the depression is telling me that everyone would be better off if someone else was filling my place, it’s extremely validating to have such deep and unconditional love given to me.

Posted in family life, sqt

{SQT} – seven stories about my mom, for her birthday

Posted on by kristinabean

Today is my mom’s birthday and I didn’t get to see her. We’ll be celebrating tomorrow though! My mom has always been one of those people who makes special days (like birthdays and holidays) really feel special and significant, so for her birthday I wanted to write a little bit about her, and some of the memories I have of her through the past twenty-odd years. Because it’s also a Friday I’ll give you seven snippets and link up with {SQT} at This Ain’t the Lyceum.

  1. I don’t have an earliest memory of my mom. She just always was, and always was making life good, in unseen, taken-for-granted sorts of ways, all through my early childhood. So nothing specific stands out in my memory, unfortunately.
  2. I do, however, remember how much she loved to garden in our home in Pennsylvania – how she had strawberries and peas along the fence, and tiger lilies all along the back so she could see them from the back porch or the kitchen window, with soft mossy patches around them. I remember how excited she was the year she planted blueberry bushes, and how we hoed the ground together to make it ready for their tender new roots. My love for gardening largely comes from those early memories of her making our small yard beautiful and fruitful with life.
  3. Hmm, there was also the time when I stepped on a bee as a toddler and couldn’t explain what had happened, my mom thought I had broken my toe and took me to the ER, and was rather frustrated with me after the X-rays when the whole situation was finally explained. I remember feeling rather confused and small, just caught up in the whole event without really understanding what was going on. She was just being a caring and slightly over-anxious mom 🙂 Have I struggled with her worry? Of course. Has it helped me in countless unexpected ways? Also of course.
  4. Many of my best memories of my mom take place in the kitchen, either cooking or cleaning together. She taught me how to bake bread, crack eggs, and prep a raw chicken; she taught me fractions with measuring cups; she showed me how fulfilling and meaningful it can be to do everyday things well for the benefit of the people we love. We also had a lot of fun – for instance, one day for lunch we made pancakes and stacked them up with brown sugar and butter like they did in the Laura Ingalls books, assembly-line style, and then devoured them joyously. I still remember our excitement, as kids, about getting to do that!
  5. My mom is not a sensitive person, and that served me well growing up. I could argue, complain, protest, debate, attack, be moody, speak sharply, and know that she would be able to let it go, not take it personally, and keep loving me. It wasn’t that she made me think my bad attitudes and unkind words were ok – but she always made sure I knew that I was ok and loved, even when my actions weren’t acceptable. She often said that she wasn’t empathetic or compassionate, as if those were her weaknesses, but I think that her thick skin and realistic attitude were great strengths in her parenting and allowed her to love her thin-skinned, sensitive children well. She neither gave in to our emotions nor allowed them to hurt her. Or rather, as I see now that I am older, she didn’t allow that hurt to change how she loved and cared for us, and she didn’t let us see the hurt because that is usually too great of a burden for a young child to carry.
  6. My mom filled our lives with books. She would read to us, she would read the same books as us and talk about them with us, she would leave books scattered around the house for us to find and read, she would give us books for every holiday, she would take us to the library every week – books of information, books of stories, books of poetry, picture books and chapter books and classics, all had a place in our home because of her efforts. I wouldn’t be who I am today without those books, and I will always be grateful for that.
  7. Now that I’m a mom as well, I see my mom with new eyes. I see the love and pride and fear in her eyes when she talks about my brother’s illness and future. I see the boldness it takes to be proud of her children even when their accomplishments are invisible to a world that sees only their struggles. I see glimpses of the vulnerability that she has always hidden so well, the tears that come equally from seeing her children create something beautiful or from watching them suffer in the fight with their internal demons. If having a child means having part of your heart live forever outside of yourself, as the quote has it, then part of my mom’s heart is with me, and my sister, and my brother, and I suddenly feel as if I ought to treat it gently, and with great reverence. It was this heart that showed me how to love, and taught me how to live, and which still treasures me in its embrace.

I love you mom, on your birthday and every other day. You were and are an amazing mother to me, and now you’re an amazing grandmother to my kids as well. I could never thank you enough for everything you have done and are doing for me.

Posted in family life, quotes

different

Posted on by kristinabean

Learning to love ourselves, to be humble enough to admit our limitations, to truly appreciate the gifts our differences bring while also being willing to accept help and healing for the most painful ones, gives us greater mental, emotional, and spiritual health. […]

We are so often encouraged to fit into the boxes of academic achievement, intellectual prowess, recognizable achievements, personality profiles, status, money, power, external significance—to perform, to fit in the box, to be acceptable. Yet our wonderful God loves us unconditionally, now and forever. We do not have to work to please Him. He values us for what is inside our hearts—our character and integrity, our ability to love, to be faithful, to help others, and to show compassion. Our individual personalities are a gift of His design so that we might add color and variety to the world. And He can use our unique combination of circumstances—even the painful ones like mental illness—for our good and His glory.

Sally Clarkson, Different

One of the most romantic and wonderful things about my husband is that from the very beginning of our relationship he has valued me for my character and heart more than for my intelligence and knowledge. I’ve always been smart and been perceived as smart, and while it wasn’t a difficult appearance to maintain (because, at least when it comes to academics, I am quite smart), it always left me feeling somewhat empty when that was all people would see. Intelligence was a gift, a talent, but not me. So when I found this man who loved me for who I was, who saw all the other aspects of my character and personality and delighted in them, I was profoundly and deeply touched. It helped me understand God’s unconditional love; it helped me begin to love and accept myself as God made me; it is helping me now learn to love my children with that kind of acceptance and delight in all their uniqueness – even when those unique traits are difficult to understand or tame.

Different is a book written by a mother and son together, telling the story of a different and difficult childhood and the love and acceptance that carried their family through their struggles. After reading the first chapter (available here) and listening to an interview with both authors on the Read Aloud Revival podcast (available here), I’ve decided that I need to get my hands on the whole book and read the rest of it! I want to learn how to love my children as they are, while still guiding them towards maturity; I want to learn how to help them flourish best without coddling or overprotecting them. I want to stop listening to the critiques and judgments of the ignorant world and start listening to the needs and dreams of my children’s hearts: it was God who made them with those needs, God who gave them their deepest longings and most beautiful dreams, and I am only His steward, raising these children for a time, so who am I to ignore their truest selves or demand that they be other than He created them to be?