Kwerky Kid

Five years ago next month a little boy came to our house for the first time. A friend of a friend had mentioned that we might be interested in adopting. So they dropped him off for a trial run, sort of. He had all his fingers and toes. He had huge brown eyes. On the back of his hands were scars. I’m not sure he even knew they were there or that they shouldn’t be there. They just were. They spoke volumes to us though. This little boy had already travelled a long road from being abused as an infant and then passed off to a strange family for safe keeping and even now was being passed off again. He must have wondered why and for how long. Would this be another lay-over on the journey or would this house, this family, offer sanctuary from a nomadic life that began with wounds from a world of sin.

We soon discovered the little boy was, well, active. Way to active. Off the chart active. He didn’t walk through the house, he bounced, like the super ball I had as a kid. ADHD were the letters that were attached to his medical file. Drugs were in order. It had to be either Adderal for him or Prozac for us. He needed help more than we did. Being tossed from Kindergarten every other day would not be a resume builder for the first grade. ADHD kids have difficulties in many ways. They are usually developmentally behind as much as three years. They can’t focus. They are often labeled lazy because they can’t concentrate to do their work so they do nothing. And, with a brain that never rests, they can have behavior issues. In lay terms, they are trouble makers. Labels, discipline, being ignored, considered lazy and not being able to relate to peers are bound to leave scars. These are not as evident as the others but scars none the less.

The boy still displayed unusual behavior, even for an abused child with ADHD. We had every test done that could be done. Nothing. Nada. No one could tell us anything definitive. There were terms thrown around by professionals that described a developing Hannibal Lector. About then we adopted the boy knowing that his journey was getting longer and harder every day. We hoped that permanency would help. It didn’t. Tortuous melt downs. Chairs being thrown. Screams that “the music is too loud”, “it’s too cold”, “I have to eat before I can put on my socks”, constant whining, ignoring adults, reclusive behavior, repetitive sounds, intense desire to be right, correcting adults, melting down when corrected, and oh so much more. Then Jana said the right word, “Asperger’s”. He was tested and that was it. The brown eyed boy had Asperger’s Syndrome. It explained it all. We were concerned and relieved at the same time. Finally, a diagnosis. Wait. What the heck is Asperger’s? It’s a form of autism and that’s about all I know, for now. We are learning, almost daily. What we do know is that you can’t see it. It’s not a scar on a hand that explains a world gone wrong. It’s invisible. What we see are symptoms. Not everyone gets it. Recently a teacher called the boy by a derogatory epithet when what she was observing was a symptom, not a “normal” kid making bad choices. I was angry. I wanted to say, “Look at the scars.” but there aren’t any that can be seen. Not for this. I realized too that this would be part of his journey. Misunderstandings, assumptions, judgments, and labels that he is “kwerky,” if people are kind, will be his lot.

Thomas asked Jesus if he could see his scars. Jesus showed him his hands. The scars verified for Thomas that it was indeed Jesus but for me, the scars speak volumes about a world of sin. A world that is not what God intended. It is a world where tornadoes rip through towns, wars begin over greed, adults are left on the streets to live and that quirky children are teased and maligned. It is a world where children on the other end of the autism spectrum are locked away behind blank stares. It is a world where adults sometimes behave like children. It is a world . . . well, you get it. What holds it together for me is the unassailable belief that God will and does continue to work. Creation continues. Grace somehow brings humanity forward even at the almost intolerable pace of a snail. So, thanks be to God for not giving up on quirky humanity and little boys who say, “No Dad, it’s 8:31, not 8:30.”

Thanks to “Geek Palaver” for the seeds for this story.

A Wild Rose

My mom used to say that Mama Bea could grow anything. Mom thought it was the dirt she used from the barnyard. I think it was Mama Bea. Besides the huge vegetable garden, her yard was full of flowers. I don’t remember what she grew; I just know she grew a lot of it. There were some flowers that she identified as poppies to me one time. She said that they helped you sleep at night. I didn’t ask any questions. She had the elusive green thumb that seems to have disappeared from the DNA chain after her. She once dropped a nail on the ground and the following spring there was a hardware store in that very same spot. She was good.

Mama Bea enjoyed sharing her plants with others. I think she took great delight in digging up a plant, wrapping the root ball in a paper sack and sending it off to another home. The house where I grew up was surrounded by plants and flowers that had migrated from Shake Rag to Grenada. Along the back fence there was a rose bush that had come from Mama Bea’s. It must have been twenty feet long. Someone said it was a wild rose. Every spring it bloomed for about a week and then it was done.

When Dad died, I dug up a piece of the bush and took it back to Waco. I planted it in a sunny spot, watered it and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Nothing. Three years went by and the bush not only did not bloom, it didn’t grow, not even an inch. I guess being wild also means being stubborn. When we moved to Huntsville, I dug up the pitiful plant, threw it in a bucket, put it in the truck and planted it some three months after moving into our new home. After just a few days, it began to perk up. It grew . . . and grew . . . and grew. I think it sent runners out at about the rate of a foot a day. Then in May, like it always did in Grenada and has ever since here in Huntsville, it began to put on buds, little bitsy buds that begin with a yellowish tint and then open to white blossoms. Today, right now, there are about two hundred blossoms on the bush. They will showcase their beauty for about a week and then they will be gone until next year.

The wild rose requires a lot of work for just a week’s worth of enjoyment. I’ll cut it back at least three times during the summer and will suffer the pricks of some wicked thorns. It will never be tamed. But it is worth it, at least for me. The bush begins calling to me with the first signs of spring each year. I’ll peak out a window watching for the first of those tiny buds to appear. They are reminders. They remind me of a childhood that is long since gone, along with my parents and my grandparents. They remind me of the good and the bad of growing up at 922 Franklin Street in Grenada, MS. They remind me of my roots in Shake Rag and a farm that nourished many bodies and my soul.

“A wandering Aramean” the Hebrew grandfather begins as he recounts the story of his people. He remembers, because it is important to remember, the good and the bad, the lean times and the times of abundance, the delicate blossoms and the wicked thorns. We remember because where we came from makes us who we are and what we will become. We remember because it is important to recall God’s presence through all that life offers: the celebrations and the healing graces of pricks from life’s wicked thorns. Despite our hard work, life will always be untamed offering us a full slate of experiences. Thanks be to God for His faithfulness through all of it. Deuteronomy 26:5ff

I'll Fly Away

I have a favorite uncle on my mother’s side. Actually he’s my only uncle on my mother’s side but if he weren’t, he would be. I’ll call him “Uncle Fred”. Uncle Fred grew up at Shake Rag and is the source of many of my stories that occurred before I was even conceived, I mean thought about. He is a veteran of the Korean War and then served the state of Mississippi as a Highway Patrolman. He served faithfully for a hundred years or so, eventually becoming District Supervisor. After retiring, he had a brief stint as sheriff in his small town in north Mississippi. I always said he could have been on a recruiting poster. He is tall and has a stare that could stop most crooks in their tracks. I have a vivid memory of him pulling my mother and me over on I-55 as we made our way home from Memphis. As we stood on the side of the road chatting, my mother took her empty Coke bottle and heaved it out away from the highway. With arms folded, dark glasses, and wide-brimmed hat on, Uncle Fred stared down at her and said in a low but stern voice, “Sista, that’s a five hundred dollar fine.”

With his military and law enforcement career, it’s no wonder that folks would naturally turn to him when disaster strikes. There is one lady in particular that calls Uncle Fred even when the tiniest of clouds comes floating by. Now, Uncle Fred is a good man, a deacon of First Baptist Church and long on patience. However, Uncle Fred finally ran out of that patience and the next phone call that he got from the dear lady concerning some benign thunder cloud brought this response , “Mrs. Smith, why don’t you just put a cell phone in your pocket and when you land, call me. I’ll come get you.”

Dorothy could have used that advice when she landed in Oz. That is, if cell phones had been invented. “Auntie Em? This is Dorothy. Are you ok? That was some twister. Yes, I’m fine. The house isn’t quite the same. As a matter of fact, nothing is quite the same. There was this witch, and there are little people, and everything is black and white, and, well, I don’t know how to get home. Could you come get me?”

Or Elijah, you know, the prophet that was taken away by the whirlwind. Elijah: “Dude, I’m ridin’ this whirlwind and we just passed over Kilimanjaro. Oops, clipped a pink flamingo.” Then there’s Enoch. Who knows what happened to him? “I was there, now I’m not.”

One day, we will be here, and then not. Jesus said that He has prepared a place for us. What if we could have cell phones? “This isn’t quite what I expected, but you know, I like it. You won’t believe who I just saw. That grace thing was way bigger than I ever imagined. No, don’t be in any hurry about getting here. There’s plenty more to do where you are. Things are so clear now. Love. Peace. Grace. Tell Auntie Em not to worry. I’m home.”

Why don’t you join with me in singing or humming “I’ll Fly Away”? It seems appropriate. But, before you do, put a cell phone in your pocket. You just never know.