Autism awareness? We need family.

I have read several blogs since the beginning of April, and I am noticing a common thread: awareness is not enough. What our kids, our families, and we as parents are really longing for is love, support, and family that is bigger than our immediate family. A family who helps hold up our arms, who picks up the slack when we are spent, who loves our kids no matter how unloveable they are, and who offers hope and physical help instead of heart-felt platitudes.

My own family left our Moms and Dads, grandpas and grandmas, aunts and uncles to follow a call that took us 2,000 miles away from our nearest blood relatives. But just when we were dragging ourselves through multiple points of crisis, God graciously embraced us and held us from the grasp of utter despair with the very real arms of our church family. I wish I could introduce you personally to our “extended Oregon family” of whom I am more than proud. I am absolutely in love with them. And while the ridiculous multitude of dinners, groceries, beef, free trees and flowers for our yard, unending Christmas and birthday gifts shout their generosity, there is something else that tenderly whispers the depth of their love…it’s the day to day, the continual tending to the little things that are really the biggest, right? Here’s a snapshot of my precious family today:

So today during our church service, I flitted between the service and children’s church classrooms, and eventually landed in our Open Heavens Room (an Autism-focused classroom staffed by a trained professional) which is becoming full of phenominal, precious little ones most of whom fall somewhere on the Autism Spectrum. As I pass through the half door, I carefully latch it behind me to prevent my favorite escape artist (Jackson) from bolting gleefully down the hall. My eyes take in the calm, busy little bodies at the moment quietly absorbed in their play: the dark-haired artist bending over a tenderly rendered horse, next to his brother layering paint colors over a carefully cut target, the blond builder in the opposite corner creating a lego masterpiece, a barefoot little guy laying on his stomach under the windows creating an elaborate internal scenario with a playhouse and tiny figures, another dark haired little boy snuggling under a blanket between the bean bag chair and wall in the “break corner,” a tiny breath of a girl burying herself under a mountain of colorful balls in the lightning McQueen-shaped ball pit, Jackson and a younger boy are at the slide with the incredibly skilled Miss Lori assisting them with turn taking as they send a big yellow dump truck down the slide, turned ramp. It’s not always this quiet, and I quickly do a head count, not believing this many little people and these particular little people could possibly be so content, so focused, so quiet. All accounted for, all peaceful. I breathe a thank-filled sigh as I kneel on the floor beside artist boy to check out his masterpiece. I have seen more than ten people check in, smile, offer assistance and speak kinds words over the half door, including Miss Sue, who was rewarded with a, “Hello, Baby!” from Jackson. It made her day.

Earlier, I smiled to be a part of this rag-tag group as we trouped into the worship service. Every week, the amazing Miss Lori, armed with a busy box full of sensory toys reserved especially for “music time” bravely leads her students into the main service to participate for as long as they last. It used to be about 5 minutes, now it’s usually at least 20. I love to see the warm nods, the welcoming eyes, and the occasional tender pat or word of welcome from the people in the rows around us. My son is usually the one who squawks and squeals just when the music fades, and when heads turn, I can expect to see a smile, not a frown. They’re glad we are a part. If Jackson decides to make a break for it, I can almost always count on someone’s arm to reach out and grab him in a barracading embrace (which he loves, by the way). And when we do file out of the service, I can count on the nearest person with their eyes open to help us herd these loved little ones successfully back to class.

As parents begin to meander down the hall to retrieve their kiddos, I am called on to relieve one of our teachers who has to leave before the unusually long service officially ends (which really has no meaning at our church). A few minutes later, I enter the sanctuary to walk the last 3 children to their parents. Scanning the room for their moms, my eyes fall upon my family huddled up near the stage on the floor. Jackson is laying in his father’s arms like an infant, staring up at the ceiling. My daughters lean against their father and brother with tears streaming down their cheeks. A mass of people are sitting, kneeling, and standing around them with arms outstretched most of them weeping as well, truly feeling our weight, praying fervently for us, and for our son. And my heart is broken and mended, melted and strengthened all at once. My own dam of tears breaks as I am reminded for the umpteenth time how deeply we are loved. Truly. Unconditionally. Continually. Thankful doesn’t begin to express it. I desperately wish all families could be enveloped by this love that blows awareness out of the water in every way.