Growth

Those dedicated few who still check in on my blog from time to time may recall that I've been working with my older, autistic son Patrick using a program known as RDI.

I don't know if I've mentioned on here that I now work with a consultant out of Houston for help and guidance with this program.  Her name is Melanie.  She is amazingly good at what she does.  It is really neat to see Patrick progress in these subtle but complex ways using this program.

But what has gotten me thinking lately has been how this work has challenged me.  Let me explain.

One of the entirely unreasonable requests that Melanie made of me not so long ago was to start sending in more videos.  Not just one or two every couple of weeks, but more like 2-3 each week.  I, of course, eagerly agreed and mentioned the multiplicity of ways that I could see this benefiting Patrick.

And since then...I have found myself dragging my feet on it.  Well, I'm not entirely sure that's it, to be honest.  It's probably some combination of the fact that I'm dragging my feet and, well, it's been hard for me to find the time to make more videos what with all the other stuff I've got going on right now.  With the work.  And the housework.  And the evaluation write-ups.  And the occasional need to mow the yard.  And the single-parenting.  And the working every other Saturday.

But at least in part it's dragging my feet.  And what I'm learning about myself is that I struggle to feel OK with making a video unless several things are in place.  Like that I've cleaned up that particular corner of the house to a reasonable degree.  And that I've thought through what I'm going to do.  And that I feel some reasonable degree of success.

Or, put differently, I definitely don't want to seem like a slob, like an incompetent, like a failure.

And so, I sometimes fail to do this work (work that I want to do) because I fear to show my failures.  Which is utter nonsense, of course.  I'm quite sure that the wise and kind Melanie learns much more about me and Patrick from the times when we fail, though I know she also cheers us for our successes.  I know that failing, openly, honestly, genuinely, is what allows me to learn, to grow, to help Patrick and to become a better father to him.

So this is my goal right now: to try, to fail gloriously, and to grow.  And, I think, to become more comfortable with failures large and small.

RDI attempts to teach those with autism that failures and imperfections are so common and unavoidable that they can't really be a big deal.

I hope to live that.

Trust

Being divorced gives you a fair amount of free time.  Time that one could spend in reflection, I suppose.  Or exercising.  Or donating to charity.  Or, in my case, playing mindless, soul numbing video games.

OK, maybe "soul numbing" is taking it a bit far.  Perhaps it would be more accurate to observe that there's little I would take from such experiences and say at the end of my life "damn, I'm really glad I spent time playing THAT game!  I really learned something."

With the notable exception of a concept from the latest game I've played:  Words of Power.

Now, in the game, learning such words allows you to do all manner of things, mostly in combat.  You can push stuff around, breathe fire at them, run at impossible speeds, turn invisible.  The notion is that once you learn the true name, the true essence of something, it is yours to use in some type of magical way.

Now life would be AWESOME if it worked like that, though I would have to be much more careful about the words I taught my children (let's just say disciplinary situations would become much more fraught with peril).  But of course, that isn't the way of things.

But I am in a profession that believes in the power of words.  And I am starting to find that there are indeed "words of power" in a sense.  But first you have to understand the nature of the problem deeply enough.  My word right now is "trust."

I should take a step back here.  If you read my last post, you may recall that an autism consultant has been giving me some feedback about ways to work with my son, Patrick.  Among that advice was the recommendation to reduce his sense of demand -- in large part so as to create a relationship he chose to participate in, a relationship where he could develop trust. 

So this idea of trust has been in my mind a lot lately.  I've been thinking about the clients I work with, and the various ways in which they struggle to trust...whether it's trusting in themselves, trusting in their partners, trusting in therapy.  I've thought a lot about how I want Patrick to feel trust in me, to have an instinctive sense of our interactions as safe, to know that I won't let him fail because I'll be there to support him when he needs it.

And then one morning, I was reflecting on myself.  I was thinking about that side of me that somehow questions whether people want me around, that side of myself that feels a pressing need to do things for people in order to be considered good enough, the side of myself that (despite these efforts) never feels like it can quite get there.

And it hit me.  The missing piece here was...trust.  Trusting in others.  Trusting in myself.  Trusting rather than having to prove myself.  Trusting rather than constantly striving.  So I took a few minutes and sat with that anxiety, picturing it as a ball of energy, holding it and accepting it, summoning whatever kindness and compassion I could and directing it there.

And, frankly, it took a few minutes before it began to relax, to melt away.  And once it did so, I became aware of this almost palpable sense of relief, of opening up, of just letting life happen rather than trying to make it go one way or another.  I experienced trust.

So I'm not sure if "trust" as a concept is what really changed things.  Maybe the true power came in having that experience of holding that feeling, experiencing it relax, of experiencing trust.  But still, the word "trust" has come to mean something different than it did before.  It's a reminder of how I hope to approach things differently, a habit of mind that I hope to cultivate.

It's my word of power.

Much love and joy to you all, my friends.

Demand

So recently we had an RDI autism consultant fly up to see us from Houston. It was an eye-opening experience in a number of ways. But I think what struck me the most was what she had to say about Patrick and demands.

When she brought the issue up, I wasn't sure at first quite exactly what she meant. So when I asked her about it, she commented on how Patrick is saying "no" to what we say, even before he has really thought about what we're asking of him or inviting him to do. This seems to be something that's really common for kids with autism, it turns out.

So, essentially, my efforts to get him to engage have been misplaced -- or perhaps have even backfired -- by causing him to associate my words with a sense that he's about to be forced to do something whether he wants to or not.

The recommendation she offered was to invite him nonverbally when I can. To talk a lot less. And to give him space and time when he's overwhelmed rather than compounding the situation by chasing after him and adding further demands to what he's already experiencing.

It also caused me to reflect on the "demands" of being a parent to child with autism. At least for me, the demands come from the intense feeling of incompetence when your child screams "no" and runs out of the room. It comes from wanting so desperately for him to grow and succeed, and feeling like you're failing and letting him down.

And yet...it is those very feelings that often cause me to chase after him when he runs, those very feelings that cause me to feel like giving up rather than patiently giving him space and re-engaging around a familiar activity.

And so, with a nod to Pema Chodron, I think it's time that I learn to become more familiar and comfortable with these feelings. To sit with them patiently and compassionately. Because in a development that really shouldn't surprise me given the field that I'm in, I'm learning from this that learning to help Patrick is, first, about learning to grow myself.

Peace to all of you.

unfriend

I do believe I have been unfriended.

For those of you perhaps unfamiliar with the term, "unfriending" is a Facebook term. It's a command used when you have decided to drop someone from your "friend list."

I should clarify that I have not, I think, actually had someone drop me from their Facebook "friend" list. Or if someone should have had the good sense to do so, I have been sublimely ignorant of it.

No, I have been unfriended rather differently, it seems. The particulars of the situation relate to the divorce, and I should think it unseemly to go into the details. Suffice it to say that this person was better friends with my ex-wife than with me, and now no longer desires to be in my company.

I must say that, as someone trained from a very early age to be nice, to be careful, to avoid doing things that could provoke someone's anger...being unfriended is a bit emotionally jarring. My mind reels with thoughts that I had somehow done something wrong, and my heart stabs with a kind of panic at the thought.

And yet...I have done nothing more to this particular individual than to divorce their friend. And I tend to think that the divorce itself happened with some modicum of dignity and respect. So I am left to believe that this person's reaction to me has more to do with their loyalty to my ex-wife than to anything in particular I have done.

In an odd way, I almost admire loyalty like that.

But what strikes me most about this situation is that it represents an old and deep fear of mine, the idea of being rejected for no particular reason that I could control. And in facing this situation, in embracing my reactions, I find that there is some pain, some fear, some anger, some odd and lingering sense of dread.

And that is all.

Mind you, it is not a comfortable experience, and certainly not one I would recommend. But facing it, I realize that it actually holds little power. It is not so terrifying as I imagined it could be in the sixth or seventh grade, when such concerns plagued my young mind.

I can face this, open myself to it, accept it fully. I can be curious and accepting of the experience. And maybe doing that is a pathway to growth.

I am reminded of the lyrics by Ms. Alanis Morissette: "Thank you India/Thank you terror/Thank you disillusionment/Thank you frailty/Thank you consequence/Thank you, thank you, silence."

Peace to you, my friends. And also to my "unfriend."

An imperfect revelation

People seem to have a peculiar need to see some things as perfect, as without flaw. There are those who treat the U.S. Constitution, for example, as if it were perfect (particularly the bit about the "second amendment"), neglecting that whole nasty piece about how African-Americans would be considered as less than a whole person. Similarly, there are those who desire to view scripture as inerrant, and who go to great lengths to assure us that obvious biblical discrepancies (e.g., about where exactly Jesus was born) are in fact entirely consistent with one another.

But why? Why are people so fervent in their insistence that such documents are without error?

My own personal belief about this is that believing that such documents are inerrant allows for someone to have a kind of dangerous certainty about their own beliefs. They can believe that they are on God's side, that they are on the side of the framer's of the Constitution, etc. They can believe that they are, in a word, right.

But rightness is dangerous; it leads us to believe that we are justified in putting down those who are "wrong." I daresay that the vast majority of atrocities in the history of our world have been accomplished by those who believed (even fervently believed) that they were right in doing so. Humility, even some degree of doubt, is less comfortable but far less dangerous. Or, better, we should value compassion more dearly than our need to be right.

But going back to revelation for a moment, it seems to me that revelation cannot be anything but imperfect. For one thing, if we view God as attempting to communicate Godself to us through revelation, then we have to see that God has a host of problems. For one thing, revelation has to be translated into words, which are limited and imperfect and prone to misunderstanding. Second, God has the limitation of having to communicate words through people, who we know impart their biases and political objectives into what they say (arguably despite...or even because of...the best of intentions). Third, God's revelation occurs in a historical context, in response to a particular set of problems and needs faced by the people of the time.

But what then does it mean to say that we follow an imperfect set of revelation? Is there something lost in the glory or majesty of religious belief? Or are we called upon to engage our religious texts more fully, to seek layers of depth and meaning in the texts? Do we not grow in some meaningful sense if we wrestle with difficult texts, understanding the context and limitations of the source material? Does it perhaps call on us to have some humility and perspective on our own sense of what is right and true?

Winter

I have never been a big fan of winter. Perhaps in part this is because I have yet to get into winter sports like skiing or hockey or ice fishing. But for me, winter has been defined by what it lacks: warmth, leaves, the ability to do things outside like golf. And so, in some important sense, winter has always felt to me like a time of deprivation.

But my thinking on this has been challenged lately by two friends of mine. One was a conversation in which my friend revealed that winter is their favorite time of year, one that is not so "hot and buggy" as the summer, one that allows us to see the structure and texture of trees, suddenly revealed without the covering of leaves to obscure our vision.

Another friend wrote a lovely poem about winter on her blog here. And again was the theme of winter as revealing, opening up a reality we had blinded ourselves to seeing.

My mind, of course, immediately responded that the reality we're talking about here is rather cold and unpleasant. And I thought of some of the worst winter moments from my time in North Dakota, where the realities of winter confront you eight months out of the year it seems.

And, interestingly, I then thought about Buddhism and therapy. Because it seems to me that both have to do, in part, with our relationship to unpleasant experiences. Both mindfulness and therapy call upon us to open ourselves to experiences that are unpleasant, to relate to such experiences with more curiosity and acceptance and kindness, to mine such experiences for the wisdom they contain. And, perhaps, to see the beauty in them.

It seems to me that much of our fear in life is diminished when we are no longer uncomfortable with simply accepting the experiences of fear, anger, terror, or loneliness. Indeed, we have much to learn from them, much that can teach us about ourselves and open us up to the experiences of others.

Peace to you all in this time of winter.

Bonhoeffer and revelation

I've been thinking lately of a story I heard at a conference. The presenter was talking about their work with a rather difficult adolescent, who tended to act out when dealing with adults (on the one hand) and associate with problematic peers (on the other hand). And the psychologist who was working with her brought up the notion of a "safety switch." Basically, the idea is that the safety switch has two basic positions: one position should tell us that the situation is safe so that we can be open and vulnerably; the other position should tell us that the situation is dangerous and we need to protect ourselves. His message to this adolescent was that she had a broken "safety switch" such that she couldn't trust those she should -- and didn't protect herself from those she couldn't trust.

I've been thinking about that story as I've listened to Eric Metaxas' book on Dietrich Bonhoeffer. It's a tale of a remarkable intellect who showed remarkable foresight and courage in confronting the evils of the Third Reich. Part of what struck me about the story was Bonhoeffer's early decision to stand up to the Nazi movement, while many of his peers still sought to maintain a friendly or open relationship with Hitler -- hoping, rather naively in retrospect, to convert him.

I think this story struck me in part because I tend to be a believer in openness. I find the notion of closing one's mind disconcerting, and the root of many evils. For instance, I find that the bigotry against homosexuals often has its root in a closed-minded interpretation of scripture -- or, at least, that people use such interpretations as a kind of justification for their own bigotry.

Which leads me to related point. Often in the biography, there is a discussion of scripture. Bonhoeffer seems to take scripture with utmost reverence, meditating upon it and seeking divine guidance from it. He exhorts his students and followers to follow scripture closely, and asks openly how they can take any other position than what they have -- given what scripture has to say.

In the context of his opposition to Hitler, such arguments are of course heroic. But it seems to me that throughout history we have had to question or de-emphasize certain passages or teachings from scripture. There are passages from Paul that have been used to justify slavery. And there are passages that are still used to justify bigotry against gays and lesbians.

So when Bonhoeffer argues vehemently that he could take no other position because by doing so he would go against the scriptural definition of Christianity itself...I am, on the one hand, awestruck by his courage and conviction...and, on the other hand, discouraged as I can hear those opposed to gay rights using the very same language.

Perhaps there are those who would seek to justify scripture, who would make a scriptural argument against these bigotries. I am hardly a scriptural scholar and cannot pretend to have vast expertise in this area. But it seems to me that the larger issue is that we simply cannot pretend that scripture is without error, without fault. We must face the fact that there is great wisdom in the scripture but also great potential for misuse. And that a text whose last words were written almost 2000 years ago cannot hope to provide definitive guidance to all current social issues.

The tricky question meandering its way through my mind has to do with the fundamental source of Bonhoeffer's opposition to the Nazi regime. Was he outraged by what he saw as the Third Reich's fundamental incompatibility with a church based in scripture? Or did his openness to the suffering of Jewish friends and colleagues guide his thinking? I believe it was likely both. Indeed, I think it a bit misleading to view him as a simple Biblical literalist. Bonhoeffer seemed to do something deeper and more complex than that. He seemed to feel that God was a reality in the world, a reality that could be accessed through scripture, through reading it as if God were speaking some message to us today. It was, I think, his way of opening himself to God.

But to return to the original question, the difficulty is figuring out when we must stand firm, recognize a threat and act against it. How do we know on the other hand when it is best to stay open, to offer friendship and conciliation to those with whom we disagree? I believe that there are those who would simply say that we must ask scripture. But if the scope of scripture has limits and errors (as I believe it does), then our task becomes much more complicated.

In a sense, the task then comes down to the question of whether we believe that God is a historical reality or a present one. For if we believe that God is a reality that speaks to us today, then we must seek to be open to God's revelation. Surely, that can come (and for many has come) through an openness to the messages of scripture. But if God is felt to be the source of all that it good, then surely revelation must also be possible through other avenues of goodness...through an examination of conscience, through compassion for the poor and marginalized, etc.

Naturally, all of this this is fraught with a kind of peril. One person may believe a position to be true; another may believe that God is against such a position. How do we decide? If we limit ourselves to letting scripture alone settle all disagreements, then we are forever bound by the limitations of scripture. If we allow for an openness to revelation from other sources, then we open ourselves to conflicts and disagreements over the true will of God, as we are left without any definitive source of proof.

I should add here that, in fact, I don't think the situation is quite so dire as my previous paragraph makes it sound. I think it is possible to identify larger themes of revelation from scriptural and other sources, to see God's will calling us to compassion, to social justice, to care for the poor, etc. I also believe God has continually challenged us to grow and expand in love, to challenge our prejudices, and not to rest too easily on our assumptions about the way the moral world should work.

Perhaps in the end, we must simply trust in our own (albeit limited) ability to sense God's revelation to our time. We must acknowledge our capacity for error in doing so, and thus do so with humility. (It seems to me that Bonhoeffer did so as he pushed for his view in moving forward with the Confessing Church, but struggled with how this was at odds with the views of other theologians he respected). But this quest to discover God's revelation fundamentally requires openness; an assumption of entirely correct thinking make us deaf. We must not assume that we have all the answers. We must listen so that we can hear what God is saying to us through the voices of our children, through the sufferings of the poor, through the misery of the oppressed, through the devastation of our planet.

At the same time, our very openness to our world should call upon us to take action when it is required. It should cause us to flip our moral "safety switch" and stand with conviction against that which is clearly wrong. In the face of great evil, we must not retreat into safety (which is, itself, a kind of closing) but stay open to God's call for us. In the end, I think this is what Bonhoeffer did.

Loneliness

I was blessed this past week to have my very good friend and college roommate, Steve, drop by for a visit. His visits occur only infrequently, unfortunately, because he and his wife live in Arizona. Which is despite the fact that the climate there is basically inhospitable for human life. What with living in a desert and all.

I'm sure they'd say the same thing about midwestern winters.

But mostly what I find myself thinking about now is the experience of loneliness. This is perhaps in part because I've been alone most of this weekend. The boys are at Meg's place. So while I've had time to get things done, it has been...alone. I went to a movie by myself, golfed by myself, cleaned up the house by myself.

Of course, loneliness is only partially related to the actual presence of isolation. I remember a profound sense of loneliness growing up in a family of six children. I remember feeling alone in school surrounded by hundreds of children. I remember feeling alone in my marriage.

Mind you, isolation doesn't help any.

But part of what I find interesting about the experience is figuring out how much is fresh and how much is a kind of emotional echo. Because I think there's some of both. There is in loneliness a sense of missing companionship...but (at least for me) there is also a sense of having always been missing companionship, a sense of having always been an outsider, a sense of never quite fitting in.

This latter part of the feeling is not so much fresh as...known. And the very fact that this feeling is so familiar tells me that this part of the experience is not really about what's happening now. It's about a thought, a belief system, an emotional pattern that I carry around inside of my head. A pattern of neurons firing that is so well tread that it occurs at the slightest provocation.

It is tempting to see it as a kind of emotional enemy, something to be defeated and overcome. But my experience tells me that creating such a battle inside your soul is not the solution. My latest project for myself is to follow what Pema Chodron talks about -- to learn to relax into such experiences, to respond to them with openness and compassion rather than tension and resentment.

Because ultimately the loneliness that is truly about this moment is manageable and can be addressed. The loneliness from the past is a part of me; it cannot be destroyed, and a battle will only turn mind mind into a war zone. Such things can only be healed.

Peace to you, my friends.

the divorce mower

Meg is moving to her new place on Saturday, a day in which I will be taking the boys to a birthday celebration with my side of the family at Chuck E. Cheese's.

Meg's announcement of her impending move led to some urgency in getting some things taken care of before she left, things in particular that I need the van to transport (Meg will be getting the van in the divorce). The thing of particular import today was a lawn mower.

Buying the mower itself was a fairly simple process for me. I have a place I like to go to for servicing needs, and they sell a reasonably good brand of mowers. So I borrowed the van, went to this repair place, and picked one up.

Lawn mowers, it turns out, are kinda expensive. But the lawn mower itself is kinda cool.

Which, I was thinking, is an oddly appropriate metaphor for my feelings about the divorce right now. It's a big financial hit, what with less income, taking on a greater share of the costs for the home, and having to buy all this stuff. But I am left with a living situation that is less conflictual, more full of hope. Cooler.

It is now officially my divorce mower.

Peace to all of you.

Divorce is...

I was thinking recently that I might jump-start my effort to update my blog more frequently with a series of entries under the heading of "divorce is...."

I'm finding that, like most events of significance in life, divorce is many things, with layers and depths. It is grief. It is growth. It is imprisonment. It is liberation. It is fear. It is pain. It is hope.

It is, in short, a difficult journey...though perhaps not primarily so much one through the legal system, but through the heart, through the soul. Divorce has a tendency to expose and lay bare fears, angers, resentments, and bitterness. The least pleasant sides of yourself and of your partner are on full parade with an alarming frequency.

It is perilously easy to demonize, dangerously tempting to assume the worst in this kind of situation. And yet I have come to think that perhaps the greatest test of one's character is how you treat someone who is divorcing you. To do so with some sense of integrity, some sense of compassion, some sense of dignity and healthy boundaries...that, my friends, is growth. Painful, difficult, sometimes even excruciating...growth.

I can say with the utmost honesty that I fail that test at least as often as I pass it. But I hope and pray that I am getting better, that through this all I will have become more aware, more honest with myself, more compassionate.

My prayers for peace and love to all of you.

on divorce and worry

I've been reading one of those books on the stages of grief as they relate to divorce. There is a lot of stuff in there that is true and helpful. Still, I can't help but find a bit laughable the notion that they can capture "stages" that describe what divorce is like for people.

Take me. At heart, I can be something of a worrier. And so, I find that the emotion most prevalent as I navigate this strange world of divorce is...(drum roll please)...worry.

My mind seems to have an almost endless creativity in finding things to worry about. I worry about whether I'm at fault for what happened. I worry about whether I'm being kind enough to Meg. I worry about whether I'm being kind enough to myself. I worry about how all of this is going to affect the kids. I worry about all manner of choices related to the divorce...from the bank I chose for refinancing the mortgage to my decision to stay in the home rather than move away. I worry about finding love again. I worry about whether my heart will heal enough to be open to it.

The worry itself, of course, really shouldn't surprise anyone. Worriers, when faced with stress...worry. It's as close to a psychological truism as they come.

Part of what I find intriguing about the worry, though, is that logic seems to have little power over it. I know that most of these worries are untrue or exaggerated. But knowing this logically has little power over worry. Indeed, worry seems to respond to this by worrying about why on earth I would have so many illogical worries.

No, worry seems to respond better to a kind of inner gentleness, to acceptance, to kindness. I pray that I might remember to bring that attitude to myself, to Meg, and to our boys in the days to come.

a holiday divorce

My wife asked me for a divorce about a week before Thanksgiving.

From what I know of other divorces, ours has been relatively civil. We both remain dedicated to putting our children first. There haven't been any truly ugly conflicts.

Still, divorce is a kind of hell. It robs you of the ability to enjoy things. When things are going well and everything seems nice and normal, you look up at her face and remember that she's divorcing you and says she doesn't love you anymore. When things aren't going well, you question whether this is any better or worse than what you'll be facing when the divorce is over.

And, strangely, it feels a little bit like it has robbed me of the holidays. I feel little reason for joy at the moment.

I have heard many people talk about the holidays being the most difficult time of the year for them -- people who have lost loved ones or who struggle with depression, for just one example. And I guess I can understand that now, in a way that I haven't in the past.

I'm trying to work on facing this situation as fully and openly as I can -- to face the pain rather than resent it, as it were. But I'm finding that this isn't easy, and sometimes not possible. To some extent, the pain has to be contained in order to just get through the day sometimes.

Sorry for the rambling, folks. Thank you for all your prayers and support.

Changes

Everything can change in a day, in a moment even.

There may be no change in location, in employment, in income. Things can go along day-by-day much as they always have.

Yet a single phrase, a single conversation can change seemingly everything. It can change how we see ourselves, how we see our relationships to others. It can change our sense of our future, our hopes, dreams, and plans.

A single phrase can bring pain or redemption. And perhaps sometimes both.

I am faced today with a difficult change in my life. I cannot go into details for now. But I would appreciate your prayers.

Veteran's Day

Veteran's Day haunts me with stories.

When I had finished my second year of graduate school, I was looking for something to keep me gainfully employed...some type of work that would give me "clinical experience" for my resume. After some searching, I applied for a summer "traineeship" at a VA hospital, and was accepted.

Mind you, at this point I had had a total of maybe two therapy cases at the college clinic. And here I was suddenly dropped into a world of severe PTSD, alcohol dependence, and misery. I sat with people recounting memories of violence that were almost incomprehensible to me -- violence from their childhoods, violence they committed as soldiers, violence committed against them as soldiers, violence from their fellow soldiers.

As I look back on it now, it seems to me that so much of what I witnessed there had to do with the impact of such experiences, of the need to escape those memories by drinking, by blaming, by dissociation, by escape.

It left me with a complex set of feelings about military service. I am amazed beyond telling by the courage and sacrifice of those I got to know. I am horrified by what we as a nation asked of them, by the human impact of what we put them through. I am mindful that sometimes such sacrifices must perhaps be asked. I question whether our leaders would ask for such sacrifices so often if they grasped the enormity of the cost.

Regardless, I am thankful to the veterans I met that summer. For what they sacrificed. For what they taught me. For making almost every clinical experience I've had since then seem easy in comparison. For letting me witness their courage in the midst of such great suffering.

discouraged

I have not posted here in some time, so I'm not sure if anyone is out there reading this. Still, I apologize for my absence. I have no excuse but to say that summer was busy, that with time it seems comes more responsibilities and distractions.

I am writing this evening because I am aware of a heavy sense of discouragement in myself.

You see, some time ago, my wife became upset with the Catholic church's teachings on women and decided to seek out a more progressive institution. She eventually found a relatively small ELCA church with a kindly pastor and decided that it was (from all we could tell) the most progressive church in town.

As most of you are most assuredly aware, the ELCA recently had a national meeting wherein matters relating to gay pastors serving openly were discussed. As I understand it, this national meeting passed a historic vote, allowing congregations to accept openly gay pastors if they chose to do so. I remember my wife and I cheering the news.

Now, mind you, I cannot say that I have been an active member of her church. I haven't formally left the Catholic church, and I haven't attended church of any kind regularly in some time now. Still, I felt a deep sense of discouragement when my wife attended a meeting of the congregation that ridiculed the ELCA's actions as unfaithful, that planned a likely separation from the ELCA, that threatened to withhold funds from the ELCA.

By my wife's report, there were about 50 people at that meeting and 47 spoke. All who spoke were in favor of denouncing the ELCA.

I guess my discouragement is in part that there simply is no church in our area that practices a faith I could find compelling.

But more of my discouragement comes from...look, I happen to personally know at least four of the people who were at the meeting (in addition to my wife). These are people that I like and respect. I am discouraged by their prejudice, by their fear, by their clinging to their fears and prejudice and pretending that it is the Word of God that tells them they must do so.

I am discouraged because at this moment, Christianity itself seems mostly to be about confirming pre-existing prejudices rather than confronting them. It seems to be about moving back the clock, about a search for certainty rather than an openness to Truth in all it's complexities and ambiguities. (And I know that this isn't true, or at least isn't what Christianity should be about at it's core.)

I am discouraged because at this moment humanity seems so small, petty, even vindictive.

I hope to wake up tomorrow and recognize my shared humanity with those I find so discouraging this evening. I hope to see how others may find me at times to be petty, small, or vindictive. I hope to grow in compassion through this exercise, to open my heart and to be less judgmental of them. I am aware that in some ways my feelings of judgment are perhaps an indication of my own flaws.

Still...tonight I find myself thinking of those I know who are gay, lesbian, or transgendered. I think of their stories, of the emotional damage done to them by churches, by society, by people (dare I even say people of good will?) who perpetuated beliefs that they were sinful for who they love.

I had been hoping that society was starting to move beyond such beliefs. Tonight, for this moment, I am discouraged.

Progress

The other day, I heard my nine-year-old, autistic son wander into the bathroom. He struggles with things like remembering to wipe himself after he goes there, so after a few minutes I knocked on the door and asked if he needed any help.

Now, I was fully expecting one of two responses: 1. "yes" which would mean that he needed my help, or 2. "no" which could mean any number of things. But on this day, he responded "leave me alone!"

He's been doing much more of that in the past month or so -- sharing increasingly complex things about how he feels, what he thinks, what he notices. And I've been aware of how much joy this brings me, to feel like I finally have this window into my son's world.

There are many things of which I'm unsure these days...church, even God at times...but this ability to have a glance into my son's mind, to know the richness of life that such an ability opens up to him...this is a miracle to my mind.

I pray that I might never lose sight of it.

the 200

My son Patrick ran in a race today.

My wife and I had been taking him to "track practices" for several weeks, actually. He'd line up for whatever event it was, engage in some type of cross between walking and jogging, and eventually cross the finish line. He seemed a bit bemused by it all, actually.

I should clarify that I wasn't personally able to make it to the big finale event tonight, so my report of the events is based on my wife's recollection.

Anyway, she decided to have him run in the 200 yard dash. And so he lined up, the race began, and by the time the other kids had crossed the finish line, he had gone about 10 yards.

From what I gather, he seemed in no particular hurry after this, and kept his typical pace in progressing down the track. Eventually some adult monitor of the race went out to meet him and encourage a slightly faster pace. The crowd cheered.

I must admit that I have mixed reactions to the event. I'm delighted that the crowd was so generous in its attitude towards my son. But I'm also pained by his struggles, by his delayed motor coordination, by the sense of aloneness and confusion he felt (or at least that I imagine him feeling).

It's a reminder, I suppose, that life will pose challenges to him that I can't fully prepare him for. It's a painful reminder of how far he lags behind his peers despite the progress we've seen in him.

In some ways, I guess, the race is symbolic of where he's at right now. Ten yards of progress when other kids his age have made 200.

Yet I have so much pride in him for those ten yards. What comes naturally to other children does not always come natural to Patrick. His gains are the product of concerted effort and challenge and struggle, not byproducts of just doing what comes naturally to him.

And so now when I think about those ten yards...and the other 190 he ran after all the other kids were resting, I like to consider this: he earned them.

A poem

I ran across this poem by Dr. Mohja Kahf. I think it's stunning. And stunningly beautiful.

All Good

They see it as far-off,

but We see it as near.

Quran, The Ways of Ascent 70:6-7

Out in the blue infinitude

that reaches and touches us

sometimes, Hajar and Sarah

and Abraham work together

to dismantle the house of fear, brick

by back-breaking brick.

With a broom of their own weaving,

they sweep the last remains

away. They sit down for a meal

under the naked stars.

Ismaïl and Isaac come around shyly,

new and unlikely companions.

Hajar introduces them

to her second and third husbands

and a man from her pottery class

who is just a friend.

Hajar's twelve grandchildren

pick up Sarah's twelve at the airport.

The great-grandchildren appear,

set down their backpacks,

and tussle to put up the sleeping tents,

knowing there will be no more rams,

no more blood sacrifice.

Sorrows furrow every face.

This, in the firelight, no one denies.

No one tries to brush it all away

or rushes into glib forgiveness.

First, out of the woods, shadows emerge:

the dead of Deir Yassin,

killed by Zionist terror squads,

the Kiryat Menachim bus riders

killed by Palestinian suicide bomber.

They face each other, tense up.

Some of them still do not have gravestones.

The ghosts of Mahmoud Darwish

and Yehuda Amichai begin to teach them

how to pronounce each other's names

in Hebrew and Arabic. The poets

will have a long night. Meanwhile,

a Hamas sniper, a Mosad assassin fall

to their knees, rocking; each one cries,

"I was only defending my—my—"

Into the arms of each,

Hajar and Sarah place a wailing

orphaned infant. Slow moaning

fills the air: Atone, atone.

The grieving goes on for untold ages,

frenzied and rageful in the immature years,

slowly becoming penitent and wise.

When an orange grove is given back

to its rightful owner, the old family drama

finally loses its power, withers, dies. A telling time

for new stories begins. Housekeys

digging bloody stigmata into the palms

of Palestinians cast from their homes

turn into hammers and nails for the rebuilding.

Despite the abject pain

each person here has known, no family

that has not lost a child,

no one wishes they could change the past

because of which we have arrived

at this transforming time.

Hajar pours water that becomes

a subtle, sweet, and heretofore unheard of wine.

Sarah laughs again, more deeply.

Abraham is radiant. Everyone, this time

around, can recognize

in the eyes of every other,

the flickering light of the Divine.

In the very end, in the fourth,

unseen dimension that has been here

from the very beginning, unfolding

just outside the limits of our perception,

suffering, not in its rawest form,

but distilled in temperate hearts,

takes us to higher levels of cognition.

Hajar and Sarah, Ismaïl and Isaac, you and I

break out of the cycle,

Here, Now, to higher life,

and it is fine.

If They Can

I'm reading Ross Greene's excellent new book "Lost at School." For any of you involved in parenting or dealing with kids, I'd very highly recommend it.

One of the things I find so interesting about the book is his discussion of prevailing theories of child behavior problems. Essentially, most current ideas are focused on the notion that kids act up because the misbehavior WORKS. So child behavior problems are thought of as manipulative, attention-seeking, etc. And the theories to change these behavior problems focus on making sure that the behavior doesn't work any longer -- so you take away attention during the tantrum, make sure you don't give in to the manipulation, etc.

Greene does a great job of pointing out how often that approach simply doesn't work and is often counter-productive. And then he puts forwards a different theory: kids do well when they can. In other words, most child behavior problems result from a skill deficiency. And when kids are faced with situations they lack the skill to handle, they become overwhelmed and fall back on the only thing they can think of. That might be a tantrum, shutting down, biting, etc.

One of the really interesting things to consider is the number and variety of approaches to disciplining children that never get around to actually teaching kids the skills or abilities they need to succeed. So we have "zero tolerance" policies that put kids into detention or suspension. We have written agreements that kids and parents sign, saying that the disruptive behavior won't occur again, etc.

We're so focused on notions of accountability, in other words, that we assume that it is the entire picture. We forget that our kids might be lacking some skill or ability they need in order to succeed. And amidst all these consequences, we risk ruining the relationship with the child that is needed to help them.

There is a surprising amount of resistance to the notion that "kids do well if they can." People complain that if we don't suspend a kid, we're sending a message to the other kids that it's OK if you do something destructive. But this is based on the strange assumption that these other kids are only behaving well because they fear the consequence of not doing so (rather than seeing that they're doing well because they CAN -- because they have all the skills necessary to behave well). It also neglects the issue of what message we send to these other kids by continuing to use a disciplinary strategy that is entirely ineffective in helping a child to succeed in the future.

But I suspect that an underlying resistance to this model comes from the intuitive leap people make. If this approach is really better for dealing with behavior problems in children, then what does it say about our approach to behavior problems in adults? What does it say about the adult correctional system?

in other news...

So I've been aware of how many of my latest postings have been about the Pope or things I struggle with in the Catholic tradition. So for this post, I've decided to point my ire elsewhere, and what more commonly despised object could I find than a managed health care company?! (really, it's kinda like shooting fish in a barrel with these guys....)

You see, MBH is the company that manages mental health care services for clients covered by medicaid in Nebraska. As such, they manage services for many of the most severely mentally ill people in our state. So they made this decision recently that may sound technical, but that actually has a big impact on how services are provided.

You see, they've apparently decided that when psychiatric care is billed as "psychotherapy with medication management" (which is the most common billing code for psychiatric care), it is "overlapping" with standard psychotherapy codes by psychologists and counselors and the like. In other words, they won't pay for both.

Do they let providers know of this change ahead of time? No.

Do they give providers another way to get paid? Well...kind of. See, to still get paid, they're now asking the psychologist/counselor to contact the psychiatrist and inform them of this change. Then the psychiatrist has to weigh if they're willing to take a reduced fee for billing under another code (for "medication management" alone). If so, they can submit a request to MBH to change their authorizations to this "medication management" code. And if all of that happens, we psychologists/counselors can resubmit our application to MBH for the therapy codes that we had already been approved for.

So let's just think this one out, shall we?

1. If the psychiatrist refuses to change billing codes, the patient will lose access to their regular therapist. And since psychiatrists are notoriously difficult to get into (most people in our area have to wait a minimum of 60 days to get into one), patients are likely to have much less access to therapy.

2. This change essentially creates an economic conflict between psychiatry and other mental health service providers. Believe me, institutions that hire psychiatrists are concerned enough about paying their salaries that they feel great pressure to maximize every dollar they can bill for. So psychiatrists will likely feel a pressure to bill the more lucrative service code...but will have to weigh that against what is right for the patient.

3. Providers are likely to think a good long time before referring a client to a psychiatrist, given the financial downside to them for doing so.

4. The change speaks volumes about the unwritten "hierarchy" within the mental health system. If there is a supposed conflict, why should the psychiatric services continue to be authorized but not the therapy services? Who makes this choice?

5. Who makes the choice? Mindless, faceless, fracking bureaucrats who are so bent on saving money (and maximizing profits) that they couldn't care less about good patient care.

Argh!