Worth reading

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Another member passed this along to me, thought many here might enjoy it, too.

Jenee Woodard.Creator, TextWeek.com

A Christmas Eve With My Autistic Son

Posted: 1/21/12

It was Christmas Eve again. We were in church. Or, rather, it was before church.

A number of folks from a college music group (college was 30 years ago) were

getting together to play for the Christmas Eve service. My family was all in one

room -- the rehearsal room before the church service. My daughter was playing

horn, my spouse was playing trombone. I was listening. To everything. Because I

knew that my son did not want to be there.

Phil is 20 years old, 6'2 " tall and 285 lbs. He is severely disabled by his

autism, and is incredibly bright and talented. He is not conversationally

verbal. He is generally easy-going, but when he's pushed past his " limit " that's

the end of his ability to tolerate " our world. " He has violent panic attacks.

Christmas is the Perfect Storm: hushed sanctuaries, lights, added decorations,

new churches, we were visiting grandma. Too much was new.

I knew it was time to get him out of there. Over the years, I've come to

recognize the signals of " overload, " and I've come to know when to watch for

them. They were all present. He was pacing, barking and tense. I braced myself

and told him that we would leave the one place I wanted to be that night. We

walked out into the parking lot. I heard the church service begin. I was

fighting feeling sorry for myself because I really wanted to be in there, making

music with my family and friends, or at least listening. And that's when Phil

started screaming and trying to get back into the church.

I knew that if he got in there he would stand at the back and probably scream at

the top of his lungs on this Holy Night, probably something that no one would

understand, and it would completely ruin the whole Church Thing on Christmas Eve

for everyone. He was struggling with me. He's too big for me to deal with

physically anymore. He was screaming and making ground back toward the church. I

had to get him to the car -- to the hotel, and to what for him, was sanctuary.

It worked out. I remembered " low and slow " and we both calmed down. Of course he

was sensing how angry I was about the whole situation and that once more

everything was different than I had planned. He was reacting in the way he

reacts, with his own need for everything to be " normal. " I remembered that, sat

him down, walked into the church, got the keys to grandma's car which held the

magical talisman-of-the-week (an iPad), put him in the other car, took the keys

back and drove him to the hotel.

I was thinking about another time when things didn't work out so well on

Christmas. Another time that there were travelers and there was God-in-the-world

in a way that no one understood or could comprehend. Another time that folks had

to deal with their " normal " being ripped apart by the " normal " of someone else

-- of God.

We sat in the hotel room, Phil and me alone together on Christmas Eve once more.

He hooted softly at Google Maps and the weather channel on his iPad (which he

had networked four different ways before he settled on the system he wanted to

use). I poured the diet cranberry ginger ale, and we sat, calming down. He

snuggled up, put his head on my shoulder and wanted me to fix something. (An

imaginative game we play when he is worked up. We find something to fix -- a

car, a leaking window, a sports dome.) I said, " fix, fix, fix. " He let out his

deep sigh. " Normal. " He said. " Normal, " I agreed, closing my eyes and relaxing

with him.

Once more, there were no churches but a strange room at someone else's hotel, no

choirs but those in the drone of the electricity and wireless connections that

Phil hears so much better than I, no worship but relationship with something

Holy -- something Other -- something no one could understand unless they were

there on that Silent Night. Once more, an opportunity for me to let go of all of

the trappings and see them for what they are, and to see my son for what he is

and the realities he unfolds for me every day. There is another world, another

" normal, " another place with which I am becoming familiar -- the world inside

the very deep soul of my autistic son.