“I need help, please.”

I need help, please was a bit of expressive language that some good teacher or therapist helped our son with autism to use years ago.

For a person like our son, navigating an array of impairments like fine motor and personal care skills, the request is vital for opening a bottle of juice or getting to the bathroom on time.  (Of course he also learned to use it to enlist mom and dad for remedial action; I need help, please could signal a wardrobe change or a bathroom cleanup.)

It’s a sweet phrase in our family life.  It’s entered that volume of cute things the kids used to say, so my wife and I might raise our voice to a childlike tenor and say it if we can’t  find some item around the house.

But it came to mind in a more serious context this week when I asked a clergy friend about his Easter service at a residential care facility.

He shrugged and said, Well, there aren’t that many there to attend because they don’t have enough staff to house the population they used to.

help

From here.  They need help, too.

I need help, please.

People with special needs need family caregivers.

Family caregivers need professional allies in public and private agencies.

Public and private agencies need good human and financial resources to support individual and family needs.

The need for help is broad, but energy, money, time, staff, space, love and other resources can be in short supply; either hard to find or quickly exhausted and slow to replenish.

It’s a tough and perennial problem, even for the ultimate caregiver,

And Jesus said to them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Therefore pray earnestly to the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”  (Luke 10:2)

A different kind of death

The days after parents hear their child has a disability or special need can be difficult days… Most parents go through a mourning process. The expectations and dreams they may have had for their child die and new ones must take root.  (Sandra Peoples)

003Easter is about an empty tomb.  The expectation that “It’s all over, all is lost” gives way to new life so amazing that, at first, it’s beyond words,

And they went out and fled from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.  (Mark 16:8)

May the surprise of Easter give you new hope – new LIFE – in place of whatever you’ve had to give up.  Don’t worry if you can’t hang words on it right away.  Just live it and the One who gives it will help you understand.

Silver Roses

An excerpt from our book showed up on our Publisher’s page today.  Hope it helps you get off of your own back.

One year, my wife and I planted roses all around our backyard. If we knew what we were doing, we would tell you that the flowers were called Lady Wilhelmina Sunburst Spectaculars or some such name. The reality is we went to the nursery and said things like, “Oh, let’s get some of those silver ones.”

Sure, we had red roses and yellow roses, but we were really excited by the bush that would give us silver roses. Our friends would stare and sputter, “Wow, silver roses. Never seen those.”

We planted the silver rose bush in a prominent angle of our fence line. It would be the eye-catching star of the backyard. We followed the nursery’s instructions about how deep to dig, how much to water, and whether it liked red or white wine with meals.

Our dog at the time was a burly malamute mix named Rocky. Evidently, he shared our interest in silver roses. We came home one afternoon to find Rocky lying on the grass, gnawing on the dug-up silver rose bush. After much arm-flapping and loud shouts of, “Oh no!” and “Bad dog!” we replanted the bush. Rocky was a good dog and left it alone. A few weeks later, we had our silver roses. That rose bush didn’t pout because a couple of beginning gardeners forgot to protect it from their dog. It just went back to making silver roses.

Our son Joey endured much because his caregivers were medical amateurs. We never spotted warning signs before a seizure caused him to bang his head on a TV stand, making him bleed profusely. He couldn’t tell us that a stomach bug had him dehydrated, and all we could do was watch the emergency room nurses give him an IV to re-inflate him like a tire.

But after incidents like those, he just took up wherever he left off. Our expertise—or lack thereof—didn’t bother him. He went back to his daily routines and loved us just the same. Joey is not what we made him or failed to make him. He’s always carried strengths of his own that we can admire as precious gifts from God.

We are part of a culture that takes responsibility for too much and assumes that our every word, deed, or thought will have a life-altering impact. Caregivers take that warped thinking to another level since we are in constant interaction with people who have special needs, and we assume that we will do them more harm by our perceived failures.

“For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing. To the one we are an aroma that brings death; to the other, an aroma that brings life. And who is equal to such a task?” (2 Corinthians 2:15-16 NIV).

We are who we are. Others are who they are, too. Our impact on them is dictated as much by their own inner workings as by our intention and skill.

So let’s drop fear of failure from the one hand and fantasy futures from the other and concentrate on taking hold of what is true in the relationships entrusted to us by God in the here and now. Those placed in our care have special needs we can meet, but they are unique people and not just extensions of our lives.

Silver roses are not our creations; they are the beautiful flowers of tough plants.