Category Archives: Living Life Daily

What happens when you yell at church?

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Something happened at church. Or perhaps what you need to know is, what didn’t happen.

I pulled up to the church and Max bounced out of the car swinging his favorite vacuum. Several people were unsuspectingly milling around by the front door, exchanging greetings. “Watch out for the people!” I yelled behind Max as I watched his 8-pound Oreck swing like a ten ton wrecking ball. I fully expected to see the crowd part like the Red Sea, people diving into the bushes head first as Max and his vacuum bolted toward them. But instead, they extended their arms for a handshake, or a pat on his back.

Every time I walk through the doors of our church I remember the years we lived in isolation, and the five years of staying home on Sunday mornings when we could not find our place. Autism held us hostage. But it is not a bitter memory; it is the soil from which God grew a victory. When I cross that threshold now with Max, it feels like holy ground. Max comes most Sundays to serve as a greeter, and at the Welcome Center, and as part of the clean up team, otherwise known as the “Grunt Crew.” Max has clearly been given one of the lesser-known spiritual gifts of vacuuming. But what has changed Max’s life is what has changed mine: he is loved. He belongs. He is indispensable. We have been back at church for twelve years now, and none of this has been easy; sitting quietly is not part of Max’s skill set. But it’s as if the whole church is learning to breathe a little deeper, and in that, we find there is enough room for everyone.

After a wonderful and slightly aerobic morning, we could see from our seats at the Welcome Center that Pastor Paul was finishing up the message, or “the talking” as Max calls it. That’s Max’s cue. He flew into the sanctuary and took his position in the back. This is Max’s spot, up several stairs beside the sound booth. He worships there most Sundays, all 190 pounds of him, dancing above the congregation. Most Sundays Max bounces so hard that one would expect him to go right through the wooden platform floor, dunk tank style. But he won’t. Some of the men at church noticed the same risk. They got together one day and reinforced the floor where Max dances. It was months before anyone told me what the men had done. There was no mention of cost or inconvenience; no suggestion that perhaps the sound booth should not be used as a 1960’s GoGo booth. Instead, they just strengthened the floor. Maybe this is what we all want – to find the spot where we belong, and to know that others will hold us up in it. My friend, Pastor Brooks, said to me recently, “We move from a family attending church, to a church that becomes a family.”

Max and I could now see the music team taking their positions on stage. Max started dancing even before the music began, bouncing on his toes as if he were walking on hot sand. He was extra excited this morning, anticipating our church picnic that would follow the service. But when the music started, it wasn’t a dance song at all. Instead, it was slow and piercing, a quiet rhythm that pulled us forward. Everything became still. There was a shift in the room, as if the Spirit was pouring in like a gentle tide, surrounding us, lifting us, washing over our feet. The entire church rose in unison to stand in the deep, with our hearts turned to God. And when the song ended, no one moved.

Well, almost no one.

Max could no longer contain himself. He threw his arms over his head and leapt from the platform. He got some good air and then stuck the landing with the precision of a Russian gymnast. And when he landed, he yelled. Loudly. This was not your average run of the mill shout, or even the kind of noise one might expect when leaping from such a height. No, this was the kind of sound one exerts when instigating a food fight.

“BAR-BE-QUE! Max yelled across the church, his arms still stretched to the sky.

I ducked down to make myself slightly more invisible in the now well-lit church, wishing there were a dressing room curtain I could quickly hide behind.

Through squinting eyes I watched as the church moved in unison once again. But this time every head fell forward, every shoulder curled. It was as if a single rogue wave had crashed over the entire congregation. A moment later those same heads bobbed back up for air with a burst of laughter that filled the sanctuary. And then the most remarkable thing happened. Or perhaps, didn’t happen.

No one stared…or sighed…or scowled. No one even turned around to see where the sound had come from. Instead, every person just wiped the salty spray from their faces and turned to smile at the person beside them. The same sweeping tide that had lifted us to God in worship was drawing us together in love.

Max darted into the crowd and started shaking hands with people as if he were campaigning for office. I just leaned against that reinforced platform, trying to decide if this was completely embarrassing, or achingly beautiful. And then I heard something in the distance. It was a man’s voice, rising above the laughter in the church,

“That’s our Max.”

1 Corinthians 12:18,22 “But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be…those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.”

Thank you friends,

Emily Colson

My Thanks to the Stranger

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Years ago the grocery store was the last place I wanted to go with my son with autism. Now, it’s the place I don’t want to leave.

I followed my son into the tiny grocery, his steps bouncing so high that I thought he might lift right off the ground. He dashed behind the counter and slipped off his coat so that everyone could see the store logo on his shirt. Max is so proud to put on that shirt in the morning, to wake up with purpose. It’s the same eagerness evident in everyone at Max’s day program, a true appreciation for the privilege of working. The other employees in the store burst into smiles as they welcomed Max to work. As I waved goodbye, I gave my son a huge silent cheer and a double thumbs up. I must have looked like one of those over-zealous moms at their child’s first kindergarten play.

Max’s teacher, Kacey, greeted him warmly and the two of them walked toward the refrigerators at the back of the store. Max loves refrigerators. He can identify any refrigerator—anywhere—by the brand, temperature setting, and fan system. He is like the CSI of appliances. I could see Max at the back of the store now holding up a bottle of cleaner and giving the first glass door a few sprays. He was focused, working so quickly that it was like watching a speeded up movie reel. I was mesmerized; I couldn’t leave. And there was Kacey, standing back just enough to let him soar.

To imagine this victory years ago would have been impossible. When Max was younger, he couldn’t even walk through a grocery store. The sights and sounds and smells overwhelmed him. And he was terrified of commercial refrigerators, often melting down before we even walked into a store. He didn’t have the language to explain any of it back then. We stopped going to the grocery…and the pharmacy…and just about everywhere else. For far too many years, autism held us hostage. Even now, nothing is easy about this journey.

But sometimes victories come. Today, at age 25, my son now works in a grocery store.

Then just a few weeks ago, something happened. Kacey couldn’t wait to tell me. It made our years of isolation and struggle come full circle. A customer had come into the store and noticed Max. Actually, it’s hard not to notice someone who works with as much enthusiasm as Tigger. Kacey hadn’t seen anyone watching; just business as usual. But when Max finished his shift, the cashier had something extra for Max.

Apparently, when that customer saw Max working, he stepped in. He approached the counter and handed the cashier a $10 bill. “This is to buy that young man lunch,” he said as he pointed to Max, “Because he is working so hard.”

“Mom?” Max called as he suddenly noticed me hiding in the canned goods isle, watching him work. “Are you going home?”

“Oh…yeah Max,” I said, pulling my emotions together and quickly searching for an excuse for why I was still in the store after dropping him off. “I’m just…looking at something,” I said as I held up a can and pretended to read the label. My vision was blurry with tears as I stepped out of the aisle and waved goodbye to Max again. But he didn’t lose his focus. He just turned back to the job he was doing. After all, he had work to do. It was business as usual.

By Emily Colson

My deepest thanks to all those who help our loved ones with autism serve and work in the community, and to every stranger that steps into the joy of our hard-fought victories.

Photo credit: Kacey O’Gara

Hope at 3am

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Dear friend,

I started to write you a charming little story and was halfway through…when Tuesday night hit.

Let me just say that most of our days and nights are good. Not easy, but good.

For the past two months, however, Tuesday nights have been different. It’s as if autism grabs hold of our lives like a 1950’s sci-fi flick, the one with the pretty little plant that suddenly starts eating unsuspecting by-passers. But there are no cheesy special effects here. No curtain to peel back to see what’s behind. It is 2am, and life is loud and messy, all of our tried and true strategies failing.

I breathe in and force prayer into my mind and mouth, to drown out the noise and my ugly thoughts.

I ask God for strength for the next second.

I blow it.

And then I ask Him again.

Finally the raging battle, which is too big to be fought on earth alone, subsides. It is quiet. My son is asleep.

I stand in the bathroom with my toothbrush in hand. I have no energy to fall on my knees, or close my eyes. “This is really difficult,” I tell God as if He were standing in the bathroom beside me, helping me to hold the weight of my toothbrush. “I know you are here with us. I know, even when it is this hard.”

I turn on the television to clear my mind. I watch an ad for a body lotion that will shimmer in the light and make your arms “look thinner and more toned in your holiday dress” the voice claims. And then I hear about a door buster sale, with record-breaking low prices, on toys. More and more toys.

So let me clear through all the clutter and noise – in the midst of the Christmas season, in the midst of your Tuesday nights, or Wednesday mornings, or Saturday afternoons. There is one truth. Jesus.

God sent his one and only Son, Jesus, into this world as a tiny baby. He sent His Son into this world of Tuesday nights, to be our hope. God planned this before He ever created you or me, knowing that this world, and our hearts, would be filled with brokenness and struggle. He knows it’s difficult. He has not forgotten us. He tells us, “In this world you will have trouble, but take heart, for I have overcome the world.” He tells us, “Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you.” He tells us, He knows the plans he has for us, plans to prosper us and not to harm us, plans to give us a hope and a future. God sent His Son Jesus into this world so that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. Jesus is all that is true and noble and right and pure. Jesus is the One Truth left standing when all else has crumbled.

So I will save that charming story for another time. Because right now someone else might be standing in a bathroom at 3am with a toothbrush that is too heavy to hold alone. And if that someone is you, take comfort.

There is One Truth we can hold onto.

It is the same Truth that holds the whole world together.

Jesus.

Sincerely,

Emily

The Privilege of Freedom

Is He Ready? On Helping Our Children Transition to Adulthood

8 Replies

There’s an expression I heard just after graduating from college, back when I was fresh-faced with optimism, living on instant coffee, and in need of a great job.

“Luck,” so this saying went, “is when preparation meets opportunity.”

At 23 years of age, this was a revelation. Suddenly, luck wasn’t some random commodity floating around in the air; it was actually within my control. I could catch it, hold it in my pocket like a rabbit’s foot, and make it my own. If I worked my hardest, I’d be ready when opportunity came along. And there is some truth in this. But, as those of us with special needs children know, life isn’t always lived out in bumper sticker slogans.

Wednesday was an extra special day for my son, Max, who is now the fresh-faced 23 year-old. He jumped out of bed, which for Max happens just slightly faster than a slug slipping off a log, and pulled on a brand new shirt. He patted the store logo on the front pocket and yelled, “They need you, on the work crew! Stocking shelves is what we do!” He threw his hands up into the air as if he were riding a roller coaster, and we both cheered. This would be Max’s first day on the job. He will work just two hours every Wednesday morning, but it’s two hours that make the whole week smile.

Of course I shared the news with everyone I know, and even some I don’t. “Max is a hard worker,” I‘d say. “He’s so proud to have a job.” The more I shared the news, the more I began to wonder how a picture of Max would look on just the smallest of announcements in the Wall Street Journal. When I told one friend who is quite savvy – she works with kids with autism and has known Max for years – I knew she’d be excited. “Max’s day program secured the position,” I told her. “And he has the perfect job coach to help him. It’s a great opportunity.” She was quiet for a moment, and then ever so slowly, cautiously, said into the phone, “I’m not sure Max is ready.”

My mind swirled. I wanted to jump through the phone and tell her that Max will be the best employee that store has ever seen. But even with all Max has to offer, I knew that wasn’t necessarily true. I began to picture what it might look like if Max weren’t actually ready for this job. What’s the worst that could happen? Floods? Plagues? Locusts? Or could there be customers who would complain about my son? What if the management complained? The thought of it made me feel immobilized, as if someone had just tied a cinder block around my ankles. And Max’s life.

And then I thought about my own life.

Not much of my life’s journey was on my radar back when I was graduating from college. There have been obstacles I couldn’t have imagined. But those obstacles have revealed opportunities – not because I thought I was completely prepared, or even ready – but because God is at work. He invites each of us to step forward, to risk living with vulnerabilities, even to accept that we are wholly inadequate for the task on our own.

“You’re right,” I said finally agreeing with my friend. “Max isn’t ready for this job.” As the words left my mouth I felt a sudden rush of excitement again. “But maybe it isn’t always about being ready. Maybe sometimes it’s just about saying, ‘Yes.’”