Is There No Other Way?

· Reflecting on my will versus God's will ·

September 20, 2017

Pride is the universal sin and, it turns out, handling your robust preteen as he has loud meltdowns in public is the universal antidote to pride. My inability to project perfection humbled me. I couldn’t stop Jack from throwing the Kitchenaid mixer across the room. I couldn’t fix our problems.

We are pleased to welcome Megan Wilcox Goates as the newest member of the Segullah Blog Team. 

Four months ago, I drove my son Jack two hours away to a new town and moved him into a group home. He turned thirteen just the day before.

The necessity of placing my second child in residential care was something God knew was coming, and for which he had been preparing me. The painful execution of it—getting approval for Jack’s placement and then transitioning him from the only home he had ever known to life in a faraway town—depended on me deciding it was time to get on board with God’s plan for Jack’s life.

Knowing God’s will and accepting it are parallel paths which don’t always converge. In my case, I found myself having to beat a track between “knowing” and “accepting,” to bring the two together.

For the thirteen years that I raised Jack at home, I was, as Isaiah describes, “acquainted with grief.” Special-needs parenting is challenging. Add severe aggressive and destructive behaviors compounded by nonverbal autism and intellectual disability, and you have a perfect storm for deep and abiding hardship.

But this is not a tale of woe.

I don’t like recounting the bad days, which for many years felt like most days. I prefer to think of the breakthrough moments, like when Jack told his big brother to shut up and we squealed with laughter and pride at his use of words (WORDS!) that made sense in context. Or the time my family sat on the couch and watched an entire movie together, without anyone screaming, throwing things, or painting the house with applesauce. That winter’s night equaled a teaspoonful of my someday heaven.

My life raising kids on the spectrum has been characterized by difficulty, but also by growth and, surprisingly, humility. It took me an age of mothering travail to understand that the most important thing Jack and his two younger brothers (who also have autism) would teach me, is that the way to survive one’s life is to cast aside the natural woman and be humble.

Pride is the universal sin and, it turns out, handling your robust preteen as he has loud meltdowns in public is the universal antidote to pride. My inability to project perfection humbled me. I couldn’t stop Jack from throwing the Kitchenaid mixer across the room. I couldn’t fix our problems.

In this post-Pinterest generation, womanhood and motherhood reflect an unspoken need to demonstrate more than competency. Is it good enough to be a “good enough” person? Or must we demonstrate mastery of fitness and health, aesthetically-realized wardrobes and homes, fashion-forward party-planning skills, and correspondingly curated social media pages for capturing and retouching our life into striking posts?

I am raising my special-needs children in an age when the pendulum of disabilities parenting has swung from the place-him-in-a-home-and-forget-about-him model of earlier generations, to the new world of disabilities awareness, acceptance, and inclusion. Parents now raise and celebrate their children with special needs. The convergence of this new wave of disabilities parenting with the invention of the blog has created a wide and well-traveled avenue for moms like me to write, parent, and sprinkle bits of empathy for differences around the internet like bread crumbs.

Herein lies the tension: I write about inclusion and acceptance, and yet because of the nature of my son’s disabilities, I can no longer raise him at home. He must attend a specialized school without typically developing peers. Our family’s life is unfolding “less progressively.”

In the thick of this tension lies my faith. God’s plan contrasts with my desires for my life and Jack’s life. Sometimes I wonder if the My Will/His Will conflict is the central underlying struggle of humankind.

After our most recent visit to see Jack, I wept as I told my husband, “If there had been any way to keep Jack in our home, I would have done it.”

He looked at me and said, “I know.” And then, “There was no other way.”

If life unfolded my way, it would be easy, worldly, hedonistic. Jack wouldn’t be disabled and would live at home with his family.

God’s way hurts more. It’s harder. I’m learning that he has the long view, though, and it’s better. It has made me better.

I feel I could have written Psalm 118:5: “I called upon the Lord in distress: the Lord answered me, and set me in a large place.”

I did cry out, repeatedly, and he did answer me, placing me in the prickly garden that is my particular life, with all the right pruners and trowels for cultivating peace.

The breadth and expansiveness of the earth, and the experience it has to offer, pain notwithstanding, astonishes me. It is bigger and richer than I could have imagined.

September 21, 2017

12 Comments

  1. Teresa TL Bruce

    September 20, 2017

    Some of our deepest, hardest lessons surround us in the sacred space of “not my will, but thine” moments. And sometimes those moments last years.

    Thank you for adding your voice and experience to Segullah.

  2. Catherine

    September 20, 2017

    Your love for your son and all your children seeps out of your words. I admire your ability to let go, to acknowledge the parallel paths, then step over to His. It is a beautiful submission. Full of trust and hope. Thank you for writing this. And welcome to Segullah! So glad to have you!

  3. Sandra

    September 20, 2017

    I gasped and sighed through the whole piece. It was evidence why we are so glad to have you here. Your writing and voice is so fresh, so vulnerable and so considerate. Our experiences are so different (my biggest parenting challenges are parenting others children as a foster parent in tandem with my own), but I feel like I’ve known versions of those feelings in my own path. There are intersections we don’t realize until someone opens the unfamiliar. Thank you and welcome.

  4. Jennie

    September 20, 2017

    I never tire of your words and perspectives. The intricacies of pride and life always come through and warm me because of your WORDS! (love the shut up story).
    Love you.

  5. m

    September 20, 2017

    I was touched by your article and wish you the best. I can’t imagine how hard that would be. I also can’t imagine how you must hunger for the next life when you can sit and watch movies together for eternity.

    This made me realize not all of our disabilities are so visible as your son’s. Just as you probably can’t wait to meet him without those disabilities, I can’t wait to meet me and others without my/our not-so-visible disabilities. I can’t even begin to fathom what we will be like.

    But your story made me want it even more. Thanks!!

  6. Kerri

    September 20, 2017

    There is always so much grace and peace in your words. I love you.

  7. Ab

    September 20, 2017

    Thank you for sharing. It reminds me that sometimes parenting is just… PARENTING. It’s not a matter of successful outcomes but just doing the best we can. Loved your comment on humility. Amen

  8. Anne Marie

    September 20, 2017

    Thank you so much for sharing pieces of your journey here with us. Your experiences and words have really moved me and given me completely new insights into Christ’s Atonement.

  9. Lisa

    September 20, 2017

    Oh how I needed this today! I’m raising a daughter with pretty severe adhd and anxiety and suspect more diagnoses will be coming as she gets older (she is currently 11 years old). My life as a parent is nothing like I imagined. There is so much to learn, and it seems like with every year that goes by, a new layer of this experience is peeled off and exposed. There is always something new to confront and work through. We’ve always been so focused on how to help her and what to do next for her, but lately I’ve felt such a need to look inward and get to the core of how this experience has affected and changed *me*. I’m having to take a hard look at myself and deal with some not-so-pleasant realities, including my very strong desire to not have myself or our family look like anything less than awesome and wonderful to those around us. I definitely want to demonstrate “more than competency”, and it is utterly humbling to not be able to do so, to have our family’s most intimate challenges sometimes play out in a very public sphere, like the time my daughter bolted through a parking lot and down a busy street because she was mad at us, or even just last night when my husband and I needed to leave a particular public place and ended up staying an hour later than we wanted just because she refused to come with us, and we couldn’t at that moment face the embarrassment of forcibly carrying a kicking, screaming and probably biting 11-year old out of the event in front of a hundred people.

  10. Blue

    September 20, 2017

    Even people without special needs parenting situations can gain so much from your experiences and insights. You always evoke a cornucopia of images and insights in my mind when I read your words. No one has a life devoid of challenges, and I learn much by watching how are you gracefully navigate yours. I love you my friend.

  11. Michelle Lehnardt

    September 21, 2017

    Oh Megan, this is beautiful and stunning and wrenching. Sending you love and prayers and deepest thanks for sharing your heart.

  12. Jessica

    September 23, 2017

    I too am raising children with autism, but am not faced with the heart-wrenching situation you are in. I can only imagine how difficult that decision was. My husband and I have at times talked about what we will do with our nonverbal, intellectually disabled and behaviorally challenged son when he is grown, but we mostly avoid those conversations. I hope we will have the faith and humility to follow God’s will, no matter where it leads us. Thank you for sharing your experience.

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