A Sacred Gift

Adoption. The concept, the process, the idea, the beautiful child… It is something that has been a part of our every waking moment for the past two years. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when I was invited to participate in the intimate details of a dear friend’s delivery and subsequent adoption that the reality of what adoption is truly began to sink in.

I had met with my friend, let’s call her Kate, throughout her pregnancy. For reasons that I will not go into in order to protect her privacy, Kate was adamant that adoption was the best thing for the child growing inside her. She never wavered. She never once considered abortion for her baby. We discussed her options. I was aware of a few families who I knew would love this child. Finally, Kate selected the family who she was most comfortable with.

I was honored to be by Kate’s side when she delivered. The doctor instructed me to stand at ground zero and hold her leg. I cheered for her as she pushed. Having never been a part of an actual delivery before, I was awestruck when Baby J left the safety of Kate’s womb and joined this world. The nurse expertly cleaned him and placed him on Kate’s chest. It was then that my heart began to break. I cut the cord with trembling hands. The last thing that physically tethered him to his birth mother. I still remember the feel of the scissors in my fingers and the sensation that shot through my hand as they slowly severed the rubbery cord.

He was beautiful. He was perfect.

Of course, we say that about every baby. We have to. There was something almost otherworldly about Baby J. Something beyond beautiful. Beyond precious.

The adoptive family, also very close friends of ours, were not able to fly in until the following day. The doctor finished attending to Kate’s immediate postnatal care while Baby J was weighed, measured and checked out by NICU staff due to his slight prematurity. They confirmed what we already knew. Baby J was perfect in every way.

Kate made the decision to pump to give Baby J the benefit of the colostrum that only she could provide. Her face beamed with adoration as she took him in. Kate would keep Baby J with her that night. Their first and only night together before the adoptive family would assume his care. I exited the room quietly and sobbed all the way home.

Kate was all smiles when I greeted her the next morning. Baby J’s first night had been wonderful and uneventful. He cried only when he was hungry or in need of a fresh diaper. Kate held him comfortably and glowed with pride.

For perhaps the hundredth time, I asked if she was sure. Was this really what she wanted? Her answer was the same. Yes. Not because Kate did not love Baby J. Actually, because she loved him with every fiber of her being, she needed to know that he was safe. Because of her situation, she could not be sure that he would be protected. She continued to nest and smile and admire her son. It wasn’t until a mutual friend who had agreed to privately shoot some pictures for Kate and the adoptive family arrived that I saw the dam of emotion break.

The photographer, Kate, myself… none of us could speak. So we didn’t. Our sobs and the camera shutter were the only sounds for a long time. The photographer, a lovely woman who had regrettably made a different choice when faced with an unplanned pregnancy years ago, sat on the edge of Kate’s bed and tried to relay a message of encouragement.

“You are so brave,” were the only words that she could manage to say.

Then came the moment of truth. The adoptive mother, Abby, had finally arrived at the hospital ready to meet her baby. While Kate was also eager to meet Abby, I noticed that she clutched Baby J a little closer at the news of her arrival. The photographer did her best to blend in with the background and capture the moment when birth mother and adoptive mother met.

I had no idea that sorrow and joy could be experienced simultaneously. Kate, Baby J still in her arms, and Abby embraced, their bodies shook uncontrollably as they wept. Abby finally sat next to Kate and took her hand.

“Are you sure?” Abby asked. “If you want to raise him, we will help you.”

The tears continued to roll as Kate answered. “I am sure. He needs to be safe.”

The next few days were full of joy and turmoil and emotion so deep that I don’t have words to attach to them. When it was finally time to leave the hospital, I watched as Kate slowly dressed Baby J in his adorable going home outfit. Her tears fell on him like a steady rain, baptizing him with her love.

I have never seen such love. Sacrificial. Selfless. Noble.

I have asked for prayers for Kate throughout her pregnancy. To those of you who prayed for her during this difficult time, I am so grateful. Some have sent cards and gifts anonymously. I can assure you that your gifts and words of encouragement have meant so much to her.

Unfortunately, there have been some negative responses as well.

“I could never do that,” is a common response. I get that. There were also comments demeaning birth mothers that I won’t mention. I do feel compelled to say this. If we do not provide support and encouragement to these selfless women who choose to give life to their babies, then what we are really saying is that abortion is a better option. A more comfortable option, at least for those of us on the outside looking in. We MUST change our attitudes and develop hearts of compassion and sensitivity toward birth mothers if we call ourselves pro-life.

Thankfully, Abby and Kate have decided on a very open adoption. Baby J will grow up to know the woman who carried him and made the best decision for him. Abby feels that her family has grown not only by one, but that Kate has been grafted in as well.

I don’t know if adoption has touched your life at all. It has been a part of our lives for the last two years, but until my experience a few weeks ago, I don’t think I truly got it.

Adoption is painful.

Adoption is beautiful.

That moment when a birth mother places her child into the arms of an adoptive mother is sacred.

I hate to over spiritualize things, but so many times my thoughts were drawn to God. How he gave his one and only truly perfect son. He did not give him into the arms of a loving family, but handed him over to be brutalized and murdered for a world that had nothing but hatred in their hearts. He did this so that WE could be adopted. So that we could be his sons and daughters.

What an honor it was to be a small part of Baby J’s life. What a joy to call the God who created him my Dad through the miracle of adoption.

And Then There Were None

This past weekend, I had the honor of participating in a healing retreat for former abortion clinic workers. And Then There Were None, the organization which held the retreat, was founded by former clinic director and one of my dearest friends, Abby Johnson. 

At first, I felt a bit intimidated. As one of the only ones at the retreat who had not worked at a clinic, I wondered if they would accept me or even want me there. My fears were put to rest very quickly. The former workers welcomed me warmly and received me into their circle. 

There are so many thoughts and revelations swirling through my head since the retreat. These women shared their experiences, thoughts, and struggles with shocking honesty. Some of them have been out of the industry for quite some time. Even their families do not know about their participation in the industry. They literally have no outlet to share their burden with, so when they come together, it all pours out. 

I am not going to go into their specific stories because they are not mine to share. I do want people, particularly people in the pro-life camp to understand a few things. 

1) No one is unreachable.  Consider the Saul-to-Paul conversion. Can you imagine the surprise of those early Christians when they learned that the very one who had persecuted and murdered them was now their brother in Christ? I think God was very intentional in choosing Paul. He wanted to show us that his grace is greater than any sin. That sin isn't broken down into tiers. 

2) No one can be shamed to Christ.  What I saw before me this weekend were repentant, heavily burdened women who know what they have done. No one can judge them more than they have already judged themselves. Several of them explained what the reactions of their churches or closest friends have been upon their sharing with them that they were a part of the industry. It was anything but grace-filled. One former abortionist was told not to mention her past to her "Forgiven and Set Free" Bible study. Was anyone else encouraged not to share about their past? I doubt it. If you don't know what to say, say nothing. Give a hug. 

3) Abortion clinic workers are not bad people.  I am not going to go into the grizzly reality of abortion. I think we all know that it is gory. It is hard for most of us to picture ourselves doing the things that these workers have done. If you were to sit with them and listen, or take their phone calls when they finally decide to leave, you would come to a place of understanding. This does not excuse their sin, but ask yourself, have you ever been a part of anything that you knew from the start was wrong, yet continue? Oftentimes, clinics will advertise for a medical assistant, say that they will train the right person, and offer a great benefit package. One worker described her interview. 

"It was a Friday, which was not a procedure day. All I knew was that it was a women's health clinic. I was hired on the spot," she said. "When I started on Tuesday, I was shocked to find that it was an abortion clinic. I went to the manager and asked her why she didn't tell me. She assured me that I would only be working the recovery room and doing administrative work."
Before long, she was piecing together body parts and holding the suction machine. When this woman's child died, she was sure it was because of the curse she had brought on her family by being a part of what went on at the clinic. 

Some women work at referral only clinics where abortions are not performed. Suddenly, they are told that they have to go to a different clinic to cover a shift and before they know it, they are in the middle of something they never imagined. 

The industry also does a good job of brainwashing these women and hardening them against the truth. I could write pages and pages about this, and may at another time. The bottom line is that no one wants to grow up and work at an abortion clinic. But we must know our enemy. They target idealistic college students and post-abortive young women in denial about their own abortions. They promise empowerment and deliver shame and death. When workers decide they want out, as pro-lifers, we must be there for them. 

4) The lives of the baby, mother, and worker are all of infinite value. If we truly believe in the sanctity of human life, then we must not place more value on one than another. Think if Paul had not been received by his new brethren because of his past? A good portion of the New Testament would be lacking. The loss of each child is a tragedy. The knowledge that one (or more) of her children is missing at her hand is a deep grief for a post-abortive mother. Experiencing a conversion and coming to the realization that you have been involved in the wholesale slaughter of children under the banner of "choice" is a burden that not many of us could bear. The babies, the mothers and the workers are all victims of the abortion industry. God created them all, and to him they are precious.

5) No one can do more to end abortion than former workers.  The abortion industry HATES former workers. Especially ones like Abby who refuse to be silenced. They can take her to court and threaten her, but they cannot shut her up. And they cannot keep her from helping people just like her leave the industry. To date, 139 workers have left the abortion industry through ATTWN. Several clinics have been shut down as a result of their testimony. There will be more. These workers know the industry's dirty secrets, and when they have had a conversion, there is NO ONE as on fire to end the evil of abortion than them. 

At the end of the retreat we decided to walk through a clinic that had recently closed and is in the process of being acquired by several pro-life organizations to be used for life. The clinic was left exactly as it was when it was in operation. There was blood on the walls in the procedure rooms and the POC lab. It was dirty. Walking through it had a heaviness that I cannot even explain. The thing that stood out to me the most were the quotes that the clinic had chosen to put on the wall in every room. 

This one was on the wall of the waiting room's restroom. I wondered how many women had stood there, looking themselves in the mirror wondering if they should go through with the abortion and been spurred on by this quote. 

I found this one to be particularly ironic. It was plastered on the wall of one of the procedure rooms. 

This one, on the wall of the recovery room, I thought was the saddest of all. What message was this sending to the hurting women sitting in that room who had just aborted their child? 

This weekend has taught me many things. It was intense and painful at times, but the way God chose to wrap it up was so perfect, so beautiful, only he could have orchestrated it. 

We had walked through the clinic. Some of us prayed together. The atmosphere was heavy and some needed to leave. As the workers loaded into the van, Abby and I watched as a crowd of people began to emerge from behind the clinic. There were children, teens, middle aged people and old folks of all skin colors. Suddenly, a tall black man belted out, "Abby!" 

The group of people were from a local church who had decided to come to the clinic to pray. They had been praying for the workers during our retreat, but they had no idea that we would be there. I love this picture taken in front of the clinic.

One other thing I would like to share. I wish I could name the retreat center that allowed us to come this weekend, but out of respect for the worker's anonymity, I won't. God knows, and I'm sure he will bless them. The chef was amazing and interactive, and the women serving us were sweet as pie. We didn't find out until later that these women, who we thought were employees of the retreat center, were actually part of a post-abortive Bible study and felt the need to come and serve these former clinic workers. Some of them drove four hours to do so.

Folks, if that isn't spiritual foot washing, I don't know what is. As Sanctity of Human Life Sunday rolls around, please pray for the evil of abortion to end. Pray for the babies, the women and men whose lives have been forever impacted, and for these brave, strong, former workers who I am proud to call friends. I am in awe of their understanding of grace and repentance and inspired by their determination to end abortion. 

Feisty Sheilas

The last month or so has been full of pretty awful news. First, the denial from the USCIS, then finding out that we have to hire an adoption agency and pay to do all of the things we've already done and paid for: home study, clearances, post-placement visits... The list goes on and on. For a few days, I allowed myself to wallow and had a pity party along with some hissy fits that were quite unproductive. Today, I have been thinking a lot about the amazing people that God has placed in our path.

More specifically, I have been feeling very thankful for the strong women who have been a part of this process. This is in no way meant to be offensive to men, but I have learned that sometimes, to get something done, you need a strong woman to get the ball rolling, or kick in the door, whatever the case may be. 

One of my dearest friends, Abby Johnson, comes to mind. Without this fierce one, I wouldn't have had that first and very special visit with Leticia. The visit when I fell completely in love with her and just knew. Abby was aware of how desperately I wanted to go to Uganda, but couldn't afford it, so she just booked a ticket for me. Just like that. Because that's how she rolls. Abby is a pro-life warrior and never shies away from a battle if she knows that she is on the side of truth. Even if it will cost her dearly. Sometimes, it does. Undeterred, Abby dusts herself off and fights on. She is indefatigable. Thank you Abby (and Doug) for being such a constant and incredible source of support for us from the very start. 

My lawyers, Christine Poarch and McLane Layton have given me renewed faith in the legal profession. I solemnly swear to never tell another lawyer joke for the rest of my life. Christine is fiery, bluntly honest, and relentlessly fights against injustice. McLane is relational, persistent, and despite the fact that she is insanely busy, she always makes time for my stupid questions and concerns. Both Christine and McLane are mental powerhouses, just absolute geniuses. Thank you both for tirelessly fighting for our little girl. 

Lastly, Greta Van Susteren. This woman has just blown me away with her kindness, compassion, interest in our case, and genuine concern for our family. I will never forget the way she leaned back in her chair after we completed our podcast and said, "This is just insane. Who can I call?" She snatched up her phone and started dialing. She has people on speed-dial who I have only read about and seen on TV. Powerful people. I can only imagine how busy Greta is and how much is on her plate each and every day. Yet, she takes the time to initiate contact with me on a regular basis. She asks what is going on, if certain people she has contacted have followed up with us, and as she told me today, "You know where to find me if you need help." Greta does this not because she will get anything out if it. Being involved with our case won't increase her ratings. Frankly, we aren't that interesting. Greta chose to be involved because she cares. 

I could list many more who have done much for our family, but I really felt the need to recognize these feisty sheilas. Their intelligence, zeal, and extravagant compassion are such a wonderful example for young girls like my Leticia. Abby, Christine, McLane and Greta, we can never repay you for all the ways you've blessed our family. All we can say is thank you and promise to teach Leticia to follow in your footsteps and be a strong, kind woman who goes out of her way for others and uses her gifts to fight the good fight. 

#BringLeticiaHome

An open letter to the USCIS

Dear USCIS,

I need to start this letter with an apology. I have said and thought things about you that were less than kind and charitable. The God who I follow commands kindness in all situations, so I am without excuse. 

I also need to beg your forgiveness for undoubtedly making your job more taxing. Since starting our adoption journey, we have made some really stupid rookie mistakes, including filing our I600 incorrectly. We are so sorry for the headaches that I'm sure we've caused. Three appeals and many thousands of dollars later, we have learned a lot. 

Right now, our third appeal to classify Nakafuuma Leticia as our immediate relative is on your desk, or more likely, your desktop. We have a team of brilliant, dedicated lawyers who have done a wonderful job undoing the damage done by our careless mistakes and pointing out why Leticia more than qualifies as our daughter. I can only imagine how many cases such as ours are in your queue. 

As you wade through the twenty-two page document that is our third appeal, there are some things that we want you to know. We don't have access to anyone at the USCIS, so our prayer is that this post finds the person who will be handling our appeal. 

First, we want you to know that there is no deception in our case. Although we were extremely naive as we stumbled into this adoption process, the blinders are off and we are now aware of the level of corruption involved with Ugandan adoptions. Mothers who are simply poor, but have a desire to parent their children are talked into giving them up by agencies who are looking for children for families instead of families for children. A dear friend has walked away from their adoption after discovering that the child they already loved had living relatives more than willing to care for her. It is heartbreaking that this happens, and we have learned that it happens often. Thank you for your vigilance in making sure that families stay together whenever possible and holding corrupt agencies accountable. 

Please know that this is not the case with Leticia. Her biological parents have been offered much help and resources to raise her. They have been offered sign language classes to learn to communicate with her, which they flatly refused. The judge berated them at length for parenting and caring for their hearing children and shunning Leticia. They were very clear. They do not wish to learn sign language. They don't want financial help to have her in their family. They don't want her at all, and seem quite baffled that we do. 

Leticia was left at a school for deaf children at the age of two. Normally, this school does not accept children of this age, but the director feared for this child's safety and well-being because of her abusive father. He believes that she has cursed him and has stated that he hates her, and she is a "kasiru" or "the stupid one." The biological mother has only been involved at the insistence of the school since leaving Leticia. They have never paid any school fees as they think it is a total waste to educate a deaf child. She has not been welcomed in their home. The few times that she did return to their home years ago when the school closed she was abused.

These people have willfully abandoned, deserted, and separated themselves from Leticia since they learned of her deafness. They do not want her. There is nothing anyone can say or do that will make them choose differently. I do not say this in judgement of them. Many Ugandans feel the same about children with disabilities. I say this so that you will understand that this child has no one in her country of birth that loves her, wishes to parent her, or appreciates the amazing little girl she is. 

We also want you to know how desperately we do want her and love her. Leticia is smart, strong, curious, brave, beautiful, and so full of potential. Her inability to hear or speak has not inhibited her ability to communicate. We have spent a great deal of time with Leticia in our four visits to Uganda. She understands that we love her and that we want her. On March 17, 2014 we were awarded Legal Guardianship of Leticia in a Ugandan court. She understands that on that day, she became Leticia Detrow. 

Please know that there is room in our hearts and our home and a place at our table for Leticia. She is our daughter. Her brothers pray every night that God would help their sister come home. Friends and family who are dying to finally meet her. We have resources in place to help her learn and grow and meet that potential. We see her deafness as different, not less. Leticia has a wonderful community of people here to welcome her home. 

Please keep in mind that there is a little girl in Uganda who doesn't understand why we aren't coming for her. I know you must be overwhelmed with cases such as ours, but please don't think of our daughter as a number, but a little girl who needs to be with her family. 

I don't know if you are a parent. If so, imagine being thousands of miles away from your child. Let yourself feel what it would be like knowing that your child could possibly be feeling that you are not coming for them because you have rejected them. I don't know if you can put yourself in that place. All I can say is that this mother's heart is broken and so heavily burdened with worry for Leticia that it is paralyzing at times. We have been advised not to visit because it would wreck her if we were to leave again without her. 

We are grateful for our Ugandan friends who are caring for Leticia during this time, but she needs to be with her family. We beg you to keep all of these things in mind as you review our appeal. God bless you. 

The Detrows

John, Kris, Stephen, Daniel and Leticia

#bringleticiahome

Nothing

I recently had major surgery at one of our nation's top hospitals. I am so glad that the team at Georgetown University was able to see me and fit me into their schedule, but it was not what I would classify as a stellar experience.

I mean, no one likes surgery, right? But I gotta say, this hospital was just old and creepy. Like, I kept expecting the lights to flicker and ghost children to appear. It had the feel of a hostel with Morphine, which I admit was my favorite part.

One moment in particular stands out in my foggy, post-surgery brain. I was thirsty. Like, after a hike in the desert thirsty. The tray with the white foam cup with bendy straw was about a foot and a half away. It might as well have been across the ocean. I could not reach it. The call button? Also out of my reach.

When the dietary staff came to deliver my "dinner" I was so relieved. I asked her if she could please push my tray to me so that I could have a drink. "We aren't allowed to do that," she answered as she fled my room to sling her hospital hash to the next patient.

So there I was. Hurting. Drugged. Helpless as a newborn kitten, and more thirsty than I have ever been in my entire life. A cup of cold water was there, just out of reach. I wanted to call out, but my voice, still extremely raspy from having the tube down my throat during the long surgery, betrayed me. I felt like Kate Winslet's character at the end of Titanic. "Jack? Jack?" That is how I squeaked. Not very effective for fetching the attention of the overworked nursing staff bustling by my room.

In that moment, I could do nothing to improve my condition. I could not quench my thirst. I was completely helpless. Can I just tell you how much I HATED that feeling? I am a doer. I like to do things. Make them happen. It was in this moment that I did, despite the drugs, feel God speaking to me. Telling me that this experience was no different than the last 38 years of my life, I was just thirstier.

John 15:15 says  "Yes, I am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from me you can do nothing."

I cannot reach that cup and put the straw to my lips. I cannot make the USCIS apply the law correctly and issue my daughter a visa to come home where she belongs. I cannot live with the pain and gnawing ache of her absence everyday. I can't do any of it. Sure, I can be a shell with a smile on my face and hide and pretend that it is all under control, but that is such a lie.

We are devastated by the recent denial of our appeal to bring Leticia home. People ask if I am ok. No, really, I am not. But was I ever? Without God, I can do nothing. So, during this time I am trying to remember to cling to him and reject anger, bitterness, and worry. People we don't even know have offered to do fundraisers for us to pay for ANOTHER appeal, and we welcome all help. Because if there is one thing God has taught me in the last month, it is that I can do NOTHING, and that on my best day, I desperately need him.

We are grateful for the friends who have brought meals after surgery, prayed for us, donated toward our legal costs, and keep Leticia and our case in their daily prayers. What an encouragement it is to know that although I can do nothing without my God, nothing is too hard for him, and in HIS time, everything will be made right. Love you all! <3

The Zoo

Today was a great day. Our family visited the zoo for the first time and we had a wonderful time. Some of you will remember that my boys referred to Petsmart as "the zoo" until they were about four, so this was quite an outing for them. The weather was great. There were no crowds. The monkeys were playful and the birds were talking. There were no meltdowns. 

While I feel so blessed to have had such a lovely day, I found myself choking back the tears as I remembered my last zoo experience. In Uganda. With Leticia. 

I really am trying to avoid being whiny while still maintaining honesty when sharing about our adoption. I understand that we are blessed beyond belief and our gratitude list is darn near infinite. I do get that. Can I just be real right now? This wait is killing me. There are times that I can almost see her with me. The grocery store, for example, although I have no idea why. As I push the cart, I can clearly visualize Leticia sitting in cart kicking her legs and pointing to things on the shelf as she signs "sweet!" 

Or today at the zoo. What fun she would have had. As much as we enjoyed the time together, her absence was palpable. At least it was for me. 

People ask what is going on. What we have heard from our lawyers? The answer, unfortunately, is nothing. And this limbo is for the birds. I know she's in very good hands in Uganda, but I worry what she thinks and how she feels. This legal mess doesn't make sense to me, how is she supposed to understand it? Is she healthy? Does she know we love her and are fighting for her? We can pass the message on through others, but I'm sure in her heart she wonders. If we care so much, then where are we? 

On the bright side, we know that God is in this. A dear friend of mine is also playing this dubious adoption waiting game.  We have decided to ask friends to take time to pray and fast for our situations this week. Thank you for participating. If you haven't been praying, there's no time like the present! Prayer changes things. Please keep them coming. 

I trust that one day soon Leticia will be home and we may even understand and see the value in the wait. Until then, I have to agree with Stephen and Daniel's sentiments as they darted off for the exhibit they'd been eagerly anticipating. "Let's run to Africa!" 

To twine own self be true

I hate twine. And cotton balls. And burlap. Especially burlap. I hate them with an eternal, white-hot hatred. I have no idea why. I don't believe I was wrapped in burlap as a child, but who knows. The why isn't important. The point is, I cannot tolerate these things. 

Last night at VBS (that's Vacation Bible School for you unchurched heathen) I came face to face with my nemesis: TWINE. It all came about innocently enough. 

"Can you help with crafts?" 

"Sure. Why not?"

All the usual suspects were there: paints, Styrofoam plates, wooden treasure chests, sparkly jewels, pipe cleaners and roughly a zillion children. I was up for the challenge. Until I saw it. My Kryptonite. 

The idea was that each child would roll their precious Bible verse into a scroll to place within their treasure chests and then we would help them tie the twine around the scrolls. I stared at the pre-cut pieces of the vile little rope waiting in front of each child. I felt a little green. I tried to joke with my co-workers. I don't do twine, I told them. They chuckled. 

Inside I was screaming NOOOOOO!!! You don't get it! I don't DO twine. I CAN'T do twine. 

But this was VBS for goodness sake! And I love Jesus, and want these little guys to love him as well one day, so I soldiered on. When a sweet fourth grader handed me her scroll and asked me to please tie her t-t-twine around it, I jumped right in. I smiled sweetly, as VBS workers are required to do, grabbed the scroll and the t-word from her outstretched hand and got to work. 

I realize that people often use hyperbole and state that they do not have words for things, but I swear, I cannot describe to you the intense feelings that surged through my body after simply touching this heinous rope-like substance. It would be a bit dramatic to call it torture, but I have to tell you, it was physically painful. My arms turned to goose flesh. My teeth hurt. I could hear the twine touch my skin. I tried. I tried really hard. But in the end, I had to pass the job to a baffled friend and admit defeat. Goosebumps are popping up now just talking about it. 

If you are still with me, I do have a point. As the mom of a kid with ASD, (Autism Spectrum Disorder) I often hear of sensory issues. I have often tried to imagine what certain things are like for him. Or sometimes when he is really struggling, I try to take note of what is going on around him. But I have to say, until last night, I sympathized, but I didn't "get it." 

I watched as my experienced VBS co-workers tied those wretched pieces of twine around the scrolls like nobodies business. Easy peasy for them. I felt at that moment that God (not audibly, don't stage an intervention. But if you do, I insist on somewhere coastal for my  twine rehab) was talking to me through the discomfort. As an adult helper, I was unable to do what was expected of me. Why? Twine. But more specifically, because of my reaction to twine. My sensory issue. 

Sensory issue. It just sounds so made up. If you aren't familiar with ASD, it can seem like some kids are just controlling brats who want their own way and their parents are eager to slap a diagnosis on them to make themselves feel better. I have heard that from more people than I care to number.

I started to think about my son and all of his sensory glitches. Food being the most severe. It seems that almost since birth, this child has has a bologna sandwich on a Martin's potato roll for lunch. Sometimes, he asks for his sandwich at odd times, like in the shower. Who wouldn't want a bologna sandwich in the shower, right? Anything goes in our house, I guess, 

My sweet boy is as particular and specific about his dislikes as he is his likes. Apples are hated. Applesauce is acceptable. Carrots are unacceptable. Strawberries, grapes, oranges, completely beyond the pale. The lists go on. They are long and rather boring. 

Here is the point just in case you were wondering if I would ever come around to mentioning one. Because of ASD, my son feels that same intense feelings in reaction to many things in his everyday life.

Watching him break out into goose flesh of his own after eating a non-preferred food item has given me an enormous amount of empathy. I know how intensely uncomfortable I was for just a few minutes. I wonder what his life must be like. I am always demanding hugs that he doesn't care to give and requiring him to eat foods that he hates. The last time I saw him eat a carrot, his reaction struck me. I could see that it was literally painful for him. He wasn't being a picky brat, he simply could not tolerate a carrot in the same way that I can't tolerate twine.

I feel like my nasty encounter with my old friend twine has been a wake up call for me. A call to patience. What if someone expected me to use twine everyday and I HAD to do it? What would I do? I would meltdown, that's what.  I felt like I was in his place. It was uncomfortable, painful, and embarrassing.

The point (FINALLY! ) is this. We hear the term "sensory issues" and think that it is a load of crap. That people simply don't care to feed their kids good food or train them to do A, B or C. With the help of twine (ewwwww) I have learned that true sensory issues are HUGE. 

The positive is that I felt like it was God telling me that this is how many things feel for Stephen. Some kids just don't want to eat veggies. And then there are the kids who want their bodies to be healthy but would rather be hit by a truck than eat a carrot.

I pray that the Lord will give wisdom in parenting and discernment to know when our kids are just being themselves. May my old foe, twine, remind me to be sensitive and show me how to relate to my son.

To twine own self be true.