You are Not Alone

It was 2004 and I was sitting on my fire escape on a warm summer night taking in the lights and sounds of Jamaica, Queens. Even at 11pm, this far out on an appendage of the city that never sleeps, countless people were in constant motion.  An ice cream truck was still winding through the streets, an angler fish in the darkness trying to attract prey with bright lights and cold promises. The light rail was illuminated in the distance shuttling people from the E train to JFK. Despite the people surrounding me, I felt alone, separated. I had just finished watching the movie Crash and you convicted me that I do it to myself. I drive through life encased in a motorized cocoon, trying to do everything myself and not letting people in, observing everything through a glass windshield. It takes the calamity of a crash to force me out of my unhealthy patterns. Or a flat tire.

A flat tire in Queens is a safety hazard. It is a land where stop signs are optional, hitting the car in front and behind you is the widely accepted method of parallel parking, and cars roll through stoplights riding each other’s bumpers like the 80s video game Centipede. Best case scenario, you manage to get your crippled car to the shoulder before being crushed by people whizzing by at top speed. I was lucky. I was off an exit when the back left tire blew. Safely on a large shoulder, I started unpacking the trunk and stacking things Jenga-style so I could fish out the spare tire. Three cars came by asking to help and I smiled and waved them on, even though I had no clue how to change a tire. (I had a friend with an old jeep who fixed a broken fuel line with gum like a scene out of MacGyver and then drove it home. I could figure this out!) As I dug through the glove box looking for the manual I felt the car being jacked up on the left side. I came around and saw a tow truck driver changing my tire. He didn’t ask, he just started doing it. This angel you sent would not accept cash and informed me that his wife told him in no uncertain terms that they were not going to leave me on the side of the road without helping.

You would think I would have learned from this situation, but I can see from my current perch upon the whale’s tongue, in quiet communion with You, that I am still a help-rejecter. I face calamity rigid, white-knuckling my strategy. You send people to help. I wave them on. 

Your visual aid inside the whale flashes forward 14 years. I am sitting in my blue cocoon of a car sobbing in the parking lot of IKEA. There is a circular rug next to me on the passenger side. My son, who has autism, recently graduated from the toddler room at church to the Pre-K class. It was an event that seemed straightforward enough, but soon became a disaster of monstrous proportions. He was miserable. We could not figure out why. He cried through worship in Kids Church and we heard it in the main sanctuary. He refused to stay on his “spot”— a colorful round rug all the kids stood on while singing. I was determined to help him acclimate. I gave up being on the prayer team, volunteering at kids church, and even attending the service so I could focus on helping him. Week after week he cried and threw himself into a full tantrum. Week after week we left before finishing worship. In a last ditch effort I asked where I could purchase a spot similar to the one he needed to stand on at church. My white-knuckling strategy was to time how long he could sit and stand in place on the spot at home and slowly increase it over time, hoping he would generalize it to church. I loaded the spot into my car, closed the door, and to my surprise had a sudden and massive Lady-Macbeth-style freakout.

There I was, still trying to fix things on my own again. Even in this state of obstinate independence, You were with me and trying to guide me. I am so grateful You are more persistent than me even at the height of my stubbornness. You let me wear myself out, like a small child tantruming, until I was too exhausted to resist Your help.  I cover my face with my hands. My mind’s eye vacillates between being in the belly of the whale and being in the belly of my Subaru. In this flickering I see a ghostly Jonah giving me that annoying knowing look of his. I am reminded that even as a driver who wants to be in control of everything, I am ultimately Your passenger. I am riding in the whale, safe in the hands of You who knows the best plan and the best path. 

This time help came in the form of a text, not a tow truck. My husband received an out-of-the-blue invitation to a new church from a friend who said they felt God was prompting them to reach out. She shared that her church had a special needs program that might be helpful for our son. At this point we had no intentions of leaving our church but I had been worn down from my own exhaustive efforts of making it work. I didn’t realize at the time, but she was offering water to someone crawling across a vast desert, which makes the name of the church—Liquid—quite fitting.

We drove to Liquid the next Sunday. We parked our car, led Caleb through the parking lot filled with smiling parking attendants waving large white Mickey hands, walked through the door held wide open for us, and stepped right into the outstretched arms of God. 

We were greeted by two people who helped us register our son, showed us the sensory gym, and took us to his classroom, which had a soundproof room with sensory toys, a sensory canoe, and a sensory swing. We were introduced to his temporary buddy. The buddy would stay with Caleb and help him participate as much as he could with the programming the rest of the kids followed. I was prepared to stay with him the first day and take pictures so I could laminate them and make a schedule and a social story. These were tasks that I was used to doing for every new experience. Then Kelly Henn said six very confusing words that left me gobsmacked.

“We can do that for you.” 

Wait…..what?! Nobody knows what these things are unless they are trained to work with kids with special needs. What is happening? What is this place? 

Turns out, the church had kids like my son in mind when they designed the space. The staff was trained. Volunteers were at the ready. Kelly Henn specifically handles Special Needs Inclusion. This was a whole new world. Turns out, I was not at all prepared for this and the process of stepping out of that room and letting them do their thing felt like trying to breath underwater. The only reason I turned to go into the sanctuary with my husband was out of complete shock. My brain was short-circuiting. I had no schema for this level of love for my son from strangers who had never met him.

We left church that day, piled into the car, and had a defining the relationship discussion about our new church. When we got home I eighty-sixed the spot rug in a way that would make Lady Macbeth proud and decided I would be a horrible mother if I did not bring my child to this upside-down Kingdom of a church. It wasn’t a place that just tolerated him, it was a place where he belonged and where his uniqueness was celebrated. It was a church that included him in their plans.  After three Sundays, he was SKIPPING through the parking lot to go to church. (The first time we ever saw him skip!) I had laminated velcro pictures at home to help him anticipate where we would go each day and he kept grabbing the Liquid Church picture and putting it on every day of the week. His buddy, Alli, sent us videos and pictures of him dancing and singing during worship, sometimes running and hopping on and off the stage. He participated in crafts, sat on the couch and read with her. As she picked him up and swung him around, she prayed that God would help her know how to interact with him and teach him about Jesus. My son was thriving at church, not just surviving.

I realized why I had been crying in that parking lot. I was about to train my son to do what had kept me isolated and restricted so much of my life—learn to be self-sufficient and stay on your spot. Until Liquid, I didn’t know there was another choice. 

You did. At Liquid, Caleb could be the way You created him to be—a free spirit worshipping in a physical, joyful way. (He is in good company—King David worshipped the same way.) This was huge for us because the prayer we received about him said he would be big for Your Kingdom. We could finally see a possible path toward what You promised.

You so graciously stepped in to help me as a mom free my kid of inappropriate expectations. Then you freed me. With Caleb so fully being cared for, I was able to join and fully participate with the Prayer Ministry Team with zero Mom Guilt. You helped me tap into gifts that I didn’t even know You had given me. I could finally give back and help take care of other people, while Kelly and her team gave back by taking care of my son. I could see more of Your vision of community. The unique gifts You created in each of us are wasted if we are content to just sit in our little self-contained vehicles, navigating in isolation, and observing through the windshield. You want us to live our lives free and fully engaged with each other.

You are not alone. Look to your left, look to your right and see your fellow travelers. They love you and want to support you, you just have to reach out and engage them. Otherwise, on your own and isolated, you are vulnerable to a flat tire derailing you or an attack of despair trapped in your Subaru in an Ikea parking lot. God’s plan is for the yoke to be easy and the burden light. For me the first step was driving up to a new church, leaving all that I tried to build for myself behind, trusting God, and stepping out of the car.

Lord, thank You that You do not call us to go through this life alone. You designed us to be in community, serving each other as we seek You together. Help me step out in faith, accept help, and, like You, fiercely love without boundaries. Jesus himself sought community while he walked this earth and came as an infant, fully dependent on others. It is in His name I pray. Amen.

“And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another…” (Hebrews 10:24-25)