Autism as a sacred trust

I’ve just returned from a week in my daughter’s home. I give Kristin and her family a week each month, to help with the kids and give Kristin some space as she is working through an online masters degree program. The two older kids are in school, Reilly in third grade and Paige in kindergarten, which leaves two-year old Peter at home. So, for five days I essentially am on “Peter-patrol.”

Peter is bright, beautiful and quite a handful. He has already defied a diagnosis of blindness (see earlier blogs), although he probably will be classified as “legally blind” once he is old enough to respond to the vision tests. But his continued quirky behavior has led the people working with him to suspect autism. He is currently in the middle of a series of tests, and the results seem certain at this point.

Autism—this mystery condition that seems to be affecting more and more people in our country. As if Peter’s visual impairment were not enough, his parents now add this to the challenge of raising this little boy. The crisis element of this news has passed, and we are all on a journey of exploration. What exactly is autism? What does this mean for Peter and his future? What does it mean for Jon and Kristin, for the hopes they cherish for their children?

Our family recently watched the movie, Temple Grandin, and I am currently reading Grandin’s book of essays, Thinking in Pictures: My Life with Autism (2006). Grandin’s amazing story documents her struggle through childhood, her social and educational challenges, and her discovery of a connection with animals. This connection eventually led to her Ph.D. as an animal scientist and her remarkable contributions in the design of livestock handling facilities.

One thing that seems clear from this story is that Grandin’s contributions would probably not have been possible without the uniqueness of her autism. It was the specific traits of autism—the visual thought patterns, the intuitiveness, the connection with animals—that enabled Grandin to design the cattle chutes and curved lanes that have made the handling of these beasts much more humane. Grandin writes, “I love nothing more than surveying a plant I’ve designed where the animals are calm and quiet. One third of the cattle in the United States are moved through handling facilities that I have designed.”

Kristin and Jon have taken the position of accepting Peter as he is and considering him God’s gift. The total package includes the autism and visual impairment. This is part of who Peter is. They are actively pursuing resources for ensuring that their son has every chance in the world to become the person God created him to be.

I affirm them in this, although I will continue to pray for God’s healing light to be at work in Peter. I’m open to miracle. I wouldn’t be offended if God took away the autism and give Peter 20/20 vision.

On the other hand, I see the wisdom in my daughter’s attitude, and I admit my lack of perspective. I don’t yet know what God has in mind for Peter. I wonder sometimes, “Is there some way that Peter will bless the world, not in spite of, but because of the special challenges he has?” Is Peter’s autism part of the sacred trust that God has given to us?

So I continue on this journey of prayer and service to my family. Perhaps my best praying is simply being there for them. I’m certainly learning a lot. Already the blessing that is Peter has touched us all. What will this gift to the world become?

Gifts from the sea*

I am writing this on a personal retreat. Hal and I are staying at the Captain’s Cabin, part of Twin Rocks Friends Camp in Rockaway, Oregon. This place is a gift, and this retreat so far has been full of gifts. Here are some of them.

--We drove up on Tuesday night, after a day of work and meetings. Because of flooding, the main highway to Tillamook was closed and we had to travel north, way off the usual route, causing us to arrive at 1:00 a.m. But the forest we traveled through in the dark was vast, mysterious and beautiful, even at night. At one point, as we slowed down to go through a small town, we saw deer on the road ahead of us and were able to stop in time. But as we stopped, we realized that these huge animals immediately in front of us were not deer, but elk. And that there were not just two of them. We had driven into the middle of a herd of about 20 elk. Most of them were on either side of the road; apparently the herd was in the process of crossing when we came upon them. They didn’t linger long to let us admire them, of course, and within probably 10 seconds, they were gone. But what a privilege and joy to be in their midst, however briefly. We carried a sense of awe with us for the rest of the trip.

--Yesterday morning, well before dawn, we walked the beach under a clear sky brightened by a full moon. The moon was setting over the sea, and as we walked, the path of light over the water followed us. With still a few hours before the winter sun would crest the hills, the sands shone in the moon light. Overhead, only a few stars managed to shine through.

--A sunny day in January is always a gift, but enjoying it at the beach is a bonus we don’t take lightly.


--I found the perfect walking stick, sturdy, smoothed by the waves, and just the right length.

--Dragons! The shores were populated by driftwood dragons, some of them vanquished, others in repose, waiting for the next challenge.

--More heart-rocks for my silly collection.

--A sunset whose swirling colors clearly proclaimed the glory of God.

--Time to work (we called this a “working retreat,” not a vacation), pray, talk, read, watch movies, sleep-in. Yes.

--This cabin itself. The Captain’s Cabin was a gift to Twin Rocks many years ago, but a gift with a stipulation. This small house overlooking the beach is to be used primarily by pastors and missionaries, at an economical rate that makes it possible.

 I am grateful and I feel renewed in spirit, ready to go home and face the work I have been given. I guess that’s what retreats are supposed to do.

(*Thanks to Anne Morrow Lindberg for the title)

More monsters

A fellowship of poets

I spent yesterday at a conference entitled, “A Celebration of the Life and Poetry of William Stafford,” sponsored by the Peace and Justice Center of George Fox University and a society called the “Friends of William Stafford.” The conference focused on the life, poetry and peace stand of Stafford, as well as on the nature of poetry. The cast of presenters and readers was impressive, including current and former Oregon Poet Laureates, Paulann Petersen and Lawson Inada.

I feel strangely at home in the company of poets and lovers of poetry. I say “strangely” because I met most of these people for the first time yesterday. But poetry involves a unique set of values and a certain way of looking at the world. We agreed, in the words of a Stafford poem that was read several times during the day, that “it is important that awake people be awake…the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—should be clear: the darkness around us is deep” (“A Ritual to Read to Each Other”).

At different times during the day, people told stories about William Stafford. I had my own story to tell. In 1992, a year before his death, Stafford did a poetry reading in Newberg. Only about 25 of us gathered at the Catholic Church in town to hear him. At the end of the reading I mustered up the nerve to approach him and tell him that I, too, was a poet. His response was not only warm and accepting, he asked to see some of my poems and wrote out his address. I sent him a few poems right away, keeping my expectations somewhat low. After all, he was a Poet Laureate and I, an unknown.

But his response came immediately. He said he liked my poems. He asked if Hal and I might like to come to his home and get better acquainted. He drew me a map to his house.

I still have that letter, tucked into one of his poem books. We spent a wonderful morning in his house in Lake Oswego, sitting in the breakfast room, overlooking his garden. He read new poems to us, I read mine to him. We talked about the writing life. I learned that he got up every morning at 4:00, sat awhile in the silence (how Quaker-like), then wrote from what he received. Every morning. And he was a prolific poet. What impresses me today about this memory, added to the other stories I listened to yesterday, is what a gracious person William Stafford was. A poem, as well as a poet.

Recently a movie was made about Stafford and the peace movement, based on his journals and including the testimonies of other contemporary poets. It has a great title, “Every War Has Two Losers.” I bought a copy but haven’t viewed it yet. I did see at the conference another movie about the friendship between Stafford and Robert Bly, “A Literary Friendship.” Excellent. I will watch it again this week. Another testimony to the fellowship of poets.

When I returned home a package awaited me in the mail, a small volume of poems, hot off the press, written by Chilean poet (and friend) Luis Cruz Villalobos. He had previously sent me a digital copy, but this is the real thing. His first published book of poems, Breve mente, a play on words that could simply mean “briefly”—and many of the poems are strings of brief stanzas—or it could mean “brief or little mind”—a typically humble statement (like Saint Paul’s “I am the least of the smallest of all the saints”), or even “snippets from the mind”. I know enough about poetry not to ask, to simply let the ambiguity play in my own mind.

I am touched to see that Luis dedicated the book to me, and to another poet friend of his. This is a first, and I accept with gratitude and with a renewed intention to “be awake” and let the signals I give be clear. It helps to know that, while the darkness around us is deep, there is a gathering place where friendship, poetry and peace are possible. Our mandate is to extend it gently into the darkness.

Best books of 2010

Hal gave me a Kindle for Christmas. We had been discussing whether or not to take the plunge with this new technology, and now we’ve done it. I’m trying to get used to it, and I can already see that this will never replace the feel of a real book in my hands. But it has its advantages. This will definitely allow us to travel lighter, and we travel a lot. And I appreciate how gently the larger print treats my eyes. The first book I uploaded was a free copy (imagine that!) of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, a book I’ve been meaning to re-read, and I feel like I’m flying through it, partly because my eyes don’t burn. A detail, but an important detail for my future with books.

But now, a look at the past: 2010. I love reading other people’s list of favorite books and movies, and their recommendations lead me down exciting paths. So, here’s my list. The year 2010 refers to the books I read last year, not books that were published during the year. These are not in any particular order.

Mary Doria Russell, The Sparrow (1996) and Children of God (1998): Fiction. I read these novels at the recommendation of my friend, David Gilmore, and was delighted at the quirky coming together of science fiction and mission theory. These chronicle the improbable missionary adventures of Father Emilio Sanchez (and company) as he attempts to spread the gospel among the alien population of a distant planet. The books treat serious issues, such as how to communicate the gospel and plant churches while respecting the culture of the recipients. They also deal with the redemptive suffering of God’s servants. Plus, the story itself is gripping.

Geraldine Brook, March (2005): Fiction. The other side of Little Women, this story follows the father of the March girls to the Civil War and gives an inside view of the horrors of war.

Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, The Gurnesy Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (2009). Fiction. Another insider view of war, this novel in letter form narrates life during the German occupation of Gurnesy, an island in the English Chanel. It also shows the power of great literature to give insight and meaning to life in difficult times. This was one of my favorite books last year.

Alan Patton, Cry the Beloved Country (1942): Fiction. One of my all time favorite books, I again wept at this story of a family in the throes of cultural upheaval, a story of suffering, loyalty, love and transformation.

George MacDonald, The Tutor’s First Love and The Lady’s Confession: Fiction. Hal and I read these aloud, enjoying the simple old-fashioned tales and MacDonald’s insights into how the fruits of the Spirit are fleshed out in God’s sons and daughters.

Greg Mortenson, Stones into Schools: Promoting Peace with Books, not Bombs, in Afghanistan and Pakistan (2009): Non-fiction. Again we found ourselves moved by Mortenson’s quiet, behind-the-scene attempts to build peace through education in this difficult place.

Evelyn Underhill, Concerning the Inner Life (1926): Devotional. This is a book I want to read at least once a year. Underhill beautifully integrates contemplative and intercessory prayer, showing how our loving worship of God leads to missional involvement with God’s purposes in the world.

Eugene Peterson, Practice Resurrection: A Conversation of Growing Up in Christ (2010): Theology, spirituality. An encouraging journey through the book of Ephesians, unfolding a spiritual theology of the church. Peterson gives me courage to stick it out, to see the glorious Reality of the church behind all the disturbing realities of whatever local congregation we happen to be involved in. A key insight is that the local church is God’s chief means for bringing transformation, both on the personal and on the broader cultural levels.

Luis Cruz Villalobos, Brevemente y más (2010): Poetry, Spanish. Luis Cruz Villalobos of Chile is becoming one of my favorite Latin American poets. Chile has produced some of the best poets (Pablo Neruda, Gabriela Mistral, José Miguel Ibáñez), so Luis stands in good company. This is his first published volume as a “real book,” although he has published widely on the Internet (http://www.benditapoesia.webs.com/).

Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems (1979-1997): Poetry. Wendell Berry always feeds my spirit. I’ve put a line from one of these poems by my desk: “When we work well, a Sabbath mood/ Rests on our day, and finds it good.”

Michael J. Gorman, Cruciformity: Paul’s Narrative Spirituality of the Cross (2001): Theology, spirituality. A profound study that finds Paul’s spirituality and missiology to be rooted in the cross, both as exemplified in Christ and as lived out in Christ’s servants today. Gorman presents a missional spirituality of suffering and service that is paradoxically joyful. My Mennonite friends Mark and Mary Thiessen Nation recommended this book.

Dave Eggers, What Is the What (2006). Autobiography/Fiction. I picked this out in an airport bookstore and was not disappointed, although it’s definitely not easy reading. It’s the fictionalized true story of Valentino Achak Deng, one of the “lost boys” of Darfur. It’s impactful because it gives a human face to the suffering in the Sudan.

I read many other books in 2010, and I’m sure that after I post this, I’ll think of another one that should be on the favorites list. I blogged about some of these earlier in the year (eg.,Children of Fate, The Peaceable Kingdom, The Essentials of Orthodox Spirituality, The Unbearable Lightness of Being). I would love to hear about your favorites.

Celtic invocation

Hal and I have been using the Celtic Daily Prayer book this past year.  The invocation at the beginning of the book is a powerful and beautiful prayer.  I pass it on to you.


INVOCATION

Most powerful Holy Spirit,
   come down
      upon us
and subdue us.

From heaven
   where the ordinary
      is made glorious
   and glory seems
but ordinary,

bathe us
   with the brilliance
   of Your light
like dew.

From Bolivian mud

Lord God Almighty, Powerful King,
   Maker and Mover of mountains
   and universes,
we're stuck in a river.
We've been here for over an hour
   and what I want to know is--
   why don't you get us out?
Sure, the scenery is great,
   but I'll bet it's just as pretty
   'round the bend.
Those mountains--
   you raised them up from nothing
   with a mere creative word.
Why are you mute now?
Speak, Lord, and resurrect this hunk
   of steel, fiber glass and rubber
   from its muddy grave.
Move, miracle worker, feeder of 5000,
   elemental wine maker, curer,
   creator.
I know you can do it.
After all, I'm here on your business.

But here I sit.

Could it be
   you're trying to tell me something,
   something I can only hear
   from this river bed?

Could it be
   you have your reasons and lessons
   and character sessions
   better learned mid-stream
   than mid-church service?
OK, Lord,
   I give in.

Pardon my griping
   and teach me
   what I need to know.
In all of this
   I'm still your
   wet but
   willing servant.



(From The Secret Colors of God: Poems by Nancy Thomas, Barclay Press, 2005)

Quaker business and the silence of God

After years of sitting through Quaker business meetings Latin American style, I am currently experiencing the practices, policies and quirks of doing things in the older traditional Quaker way, US style (and, presumably, European as well). For the most part, I’m drawn to what I see—the focus on waiting on God and seeking God’s will, on genuinely listening to each other, even all the language and formalities that at times seem so, well, old-fashioned. And the time all this can take. There’s a sweet seriousness about it that I sense pleases God.

But it doesn’t always work as smoothly as it’s supposed to.

I’m currently an elder in my congregation. A year ago in the midst of a budget crunch, the congregation gave the elders the task of coming up with some creative alternatives for the configuration of our pastoral team. This deepened into a visioning process that involved the whole congregation asking such questions as who are we and why has God placed us in this particular place at this specific time. The focus on the calling, as well as on the needs of the church, was to guide us elders to a proposal for our pastoral team.

So we have been meeting regularly for over a year now, usually with our three pastors, occasionally without them. Without going into the particulars that have made this into such a complex task, let me just say that it’s proved to be daunting. When we finally presented a proposal to the October business meeting, I was tempted to jokingly label it “Revision #467.” And now we see that our church body is finding it just as frustrating. After three business meetings (and more revisions) it seems like we are making little headway to a contented “sense of the meeting,” other than “this is really hard.”

I believe that God speaks to his people, that he reveals his will. And I know that this sometimes takes time, especially as we emphasize the community nature of discernment. During the year I’ve occasionally taken God to task, saying, “OK. So what is it? Tell us. Show us your plan. It’s time.” But for some reason, God is not speaking clearly to us, at least in terms of a plan for the pastoral team configuration. This has not been easy for the congregation, the elders, and, particularly, for the three dear people that have served us well as our released pastors. So, why the silence on God’s part?

But even in the middle of all this, I’ve sensed the presence of God. While silent, God has not been absent. A few months into the process I began to wonder if God might be telling us that the particulars of the plan were not as important as the process, that he wanted us to use our minds, to listen well, to treat each other kindly, and to take the time necessary.

Then one night I had a dream. (Let me say here that my life among Latin American Friends has helped me be open to dreams as one of the ways God speaks to us. If the dream is of a certain quality and if it stays with me in detail after I wake up, I pay attention.) In the dream I entered the sanctuary at the end of a Sunday morning worship service. People remained in the room, some seated, some standing in small groups, quietly talking or just holding the silence together. No one seemed in a hurry to leave. I asked a friend what was going on, and he replied that the Spirit of God had been so present to the body that they all wanted to stay awhile and bask in the love and warmth. Our pastors were part of the congregation; it was not evident which one had been leading the meeting.

I sense that the Spirit wants to bless us, move among us, and use us in greater measure. And I sense that this does not depend on the configuration of the pastoral team, as important as that is. When I shared this in the business meeting, there was agreement and encouragement. I sense consensus in that basic Quaker (and Christian) value—that there is One, Christ Jesus, who can meet our need, that Jesus is among us to be our pastor and teacher, that he wants us to deepen in this reality. And I sense consensus that we are a community, the people of God in this place, and that it matters that we continue to listen to each other, to treat each other kindly, and to take the time to work out whatever plan we come up with. We may never agree on all the details, and that may not be so important. We may all have to give and take some, to practice mutual submission, to lay down personal preferences. Uniformity on details is not what Quaker practice is all about. At least not always.

It probably won’t happen in this situation. I certainly wish for a speedy end to this continuing saga. On a certain level I would still like for God to just give us The Plan. Maybe another dream, with the actual blueprint? But no. That’s not going to happen. In some mysterious way, what is really happening among us is probably deeper and better than we could imagine.

Yesterday as I was praying (pleading, actually), three metaphors came to mind, coming from three poems that have ministered to me many times. I won’t quote the poems here (maybe in another blog), but the metaphors alone are apt. One is Arthur Robert’s poem, “Our Winter Is a Foggy Drive.” Another is William Stafford’s “Travelling through the Dark.” And finally, a poem I wrote about being stuck in a river, entitled “From Bolivian Mud.” They all speak of slowly working (or driving) our way through difficult circumstances where the silence of God is the loudest sound around.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us, your people. Show us the way. Amen