The call came after my quiet prayer that Brian would be able to protect Isaac’s head. I had felt that something would go terribly wrong that night, and I had been right. Brian had taken Isaac to Walmart to “play with the toys” as was part of his daily routine. Isaac loves going to the store to check out the toy section with his Dad. This particular day, I could tell his nervous system was becoming increasingly dysregulated which often ends in a meltdown. In an effort to try and keep his normal regulating rhythm, we had proceeded with this part of his day in hopes the familiarity of his routine would help his nervous system settle down. “He lost it in Walmart. I need you to come.” I heard amidst a clear struggle. I pulled out our home security camera and wrote a note to our other sleeping children in case one of them woke: “I went to pick up Dad and Isaac. Talk to the camera if you need something. I love you.” I grabbed my keys and left. When I found Isaac and Brian in the parking lot of Walmart, my heart sank. This was going to be a bad one. It already was.
Meltdowns of this sort effect my soul. The desperate look in Isaac’s eyes as he reels in an overwhelming flood of disorientation and fear. “I sorry.” He says in between attempts of self harming behavior and blind fury directed toward his most loved ones. “It’s ok. I’m sorry too.” We ride this terrible wave together. We struggle to keep him safe. We struggle to keep ourselves safe. Again. This time it takes a couple of hours to subside. Finally, after the fury has died down; after calm can find purchase in his body, my tears start. When I am finally alone, I cry.
The next day, my sweet husband sent me a picture of a flower. It was a perfect pink and white with overlapping angled petals like a pinwheel. Sometimes Brian will take a detour from his normal route on campus to find the prettiest flowers just so he can snap a picture of them and send them to me. The beauty of this flower brought tears to my eyes as I studied its delicate elegance. It was perfectly exquisite. Fresh tears. I puzzled to myself why a picture of a pink flower made me cry. Then I remembered an improvised orchestral piece created by Jacob Collier that my mother had shared with me a few weeks ago. I had watched a clip of this creative genius bringing together people and instruments of all kinds and sorts to create a stunning landscape of delicate sound and structure. It had moved me and brought tears to my eyes as well. As I thought about these two experiences, I realized it wasn’t just the loveliness of these creations that had moved me. And it wasn’t just the gesture of kindness from my loved ones in sending me these things. It was a yearning deep inside of me to reside in an environment in which this kind of beauty is allowed to flourish. I knew that with a single squeeze the nuanced beauty of the perfectly formed flower could be crushed. With a single outburst of confused noise, the majesty Collier’s music would have lost its spell. But there was no smashing or abrupt clash. The environments where these creations existed were ones in which their resplendence could be preserved. They existed in a space attuned to the needs of their creation and the preservation of their beauty. I yearned to exist in an environment like that because I, myself, felt smashed and crushed by the reality of my son’s suffering and the often unpredictably violent, and painful nature of my current reality. Isaac was not to blame. His autistic storms were not his fault. Nevertheless, this aspect of his autism creates a painful reality for all of us.
I pondered this yearning as I studied Brian’s flower. And then, an interesting realization rested in my mind. It was not a realization of my own making: Fragile beauty—the kind that can be crushed or disturbed by a single swipe or crashing cymbal is not the same kind of beauty as is found within my developing nature. I was designed to become resilient, unbreakable, and a force for good that cannot be disturbed—that kind of beautiful. And that kind of beautiful is forged in the heat of mortal tribulation as I make deliberate choices to trust in and partake of His Power and Grace in the very hour of my brokenness, my confusion, and my desperation. Jesus can rise me from the ashes of this mortal sorrow and create within me a depth of resilient beauty that I might fulfill the full measure of my creation.
Brian and I fell in love on a backpacking trip in the Grand Canyon during the late spring of 2011. The sheer magnificence of the canyon was overwhelming. We flirted and shared our dreams with each other as we tromped through the many glistening water trails. We ate blocks of cheese and stacks of pre-packaged ham on off brand Ritz Crackers for lunch and then scrambled up slippery boulders energized to the core with young love. And, together, we memorized “Good Timber,” a beautiful poem written by Douglass Malloch.
It was this poem that came to mind as I continued to think on the kind of beauty God was growing me into:
The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.
The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began.
Good timber does not grow with ease,
The stronger wind, the stronger trees,
The further sky, the greater length,
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.
And so, having this truth settle in my heart, I can continue on. I can trust that beauty will rise in strength from the ashes of this particular sorrow.
*Note: We continue to research and pursue help for Isaac through medical and therapeutic professionals as well as pursuing medicinal support for him
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