Camp Shepherd - Part 2

Having grown up with my brother, Erik, has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. Watching him grow into a well-rounded adult has taught me much about myself, about others, and about my children.

Sometimes, though, I forget that Erik is a whole person. He does need to be told what to do, reminded to shave and brush his teeth.  Erik does talk to strangers for longer than he should, and sometimes has to be strongly encouraged to leave them alone. He loves to look at iphones, almost cannot stop himself from touching them.  It does feel like parenting, and I have to keep my kids in check that they do not boss Uncle Erik around.

Dad, Erik, and Ella the dog

As I remind the kids that Uncle is a 32 year old man, I also remind myself of that fact.

While Erik does accept his lot in life, that does not mean he does not have dreams.  I clearly remember the day I discovered that Erik fully realized some of his losses. We were at a swimming pool, and my two girls were very little. He and I were taking turns passing the baby, Laurel, back and forth in the water. It was June, and we were talking about what to get our Dad and Lee for Father's Day.

Erik asked me a question that took my breath away.  "I won't ever get a Father's Day present?"

I had no idea that he even thought about those things, I wrongly assumed that he just understood that he would always be cared for. Erik's simple question pointed to the fact that he had thoughts of his future, of his identity in this world. 

The best lesson I have learned from Erik, is that just because someone requires extra care, it does not mean that they are less of a person.

Recognizing that Erik has depth, that he has desires that he cannot verbalize, that he is spiritual (he really loves Jesus) is a catalyst for me recognizing that all people have much more going on than meets the eye. Erik accepts that he cannot drive, that he cannot cook if he is home alone, and that he will always need someone to take care of him, but he doesn't always like it. My brother, just like the rest of us, desires a place in this world. He desires that his life has meaning and purpose.

Erik inspires me when he comes to stay at Camp Shepherd, because all of his meaning and purpose come from serving others. He happily mows, vacuums, unloads the dishwasher - all very simple tasks. I have learned though, that just because the task is simple, does not mean that the doer is simple. Erik is a complicated person of depth, but he interacts with the world in simple ways.

Isn't it just like God to use his simplest servants for such huge tasks?

Erik hanging with the nephews and niece.

Some Other Mother's Day

Yesterday found me daydreaming about my ideal Mother's Day.  I fantasized about a clean house, no bickering, sleeping in, a BBC marathon, and endless foot rubs.

Last night found me in bed at 8:30, worn out, wrangling a not-so-sleepy 3 year old to bed. Reminding my people to brush their teeth and have their church clothes picked out, and inspecting a certain 9 year-old boy's feet for mud, had me exhausted. I think I forgot to brush my teeth before falling asleep. I woke at 10:30 pm to take the toddler to the toilet.  I woke again at 3:30 a.m. because the toddler had peed through his pull-up, creating a lake that surrounded only me.  Lee's side of the bed remained dry, so I decided to let him sleep. Liam and I went down to the couch, where I collected a couple more hours of sleep with the kid on top of me. Can you say comfy?

I woke again at 5:45 a.m. to let out that puppy. You know, the one I have come to love.

I woke again at 6:30 to let our other dog out.  I woke again, for good, at 7 a.m. to put my parent's dog out.

I made coffee, I made breakfast. I enjoyed homemade cards and flowers. My hubby picked me out some super cute jammies, that I will be in by 7 p.m. tonight. My parents gave me new towels, and my brother took credit for every gift I was given, presenting each one as if for the first time.  I received hugs and kisses from all my people, and felt gloriously loved.  I imagine that my life, even urine soaked, is someone else's fantasy.

I realized that some other Mother's Day will find me well rested, not soaked in someone else's urine.

Some other Mother's Day will find my house tidy and mud-less.  Maybe my bathroom sinks won't look like science experiments.

Some other Mother's Day will find me able to shower alone, with a clean towel awaiting, shampoo left where it was, and not having to use my husband's razor because my daughter's take mine.

Some other Mother's Day will find me wearing matching earrings because I wasn't the last one to get dressed.  Heck, maybe I'll even deodorize BOTH armpits.

Some other Mother's Day will find me not playing referee between teenage daughters and one skirt.

Some other Mother's Day will find me sitting on a couch that doesn't have match box cars and cheerios stuffed under the cushions.

Some other Mother's Day will find me getting underwear from out of my drawer, rather than digging through the pile on the laundry room table.

Yes, this is my laundry table.

Some other Mother's Day may find me remembering the best days of my life, the ones filled with bickering, sleepless nights, dirty children, endless laundry and constant cooking, because these days are also filled with chubby hands, no-longer chubby hands, sweet hugs, heartfelt laughter, and the truest love I've ever known.


 I imagine that my life, even urine soaked, may be another person's fantasy.

What are you grateful for this Mother's Day?

Camp Shepherd - Part 1

So, my brother Erik comes to stay with us sometimes.  I'm not sure when he started this, but he calls staying with us "Camp Shepherd".  I know he's ready for a visit when he calls and asks for the dates of the next camp. That guy cracks me up.

Erik is 32 and is developmentally delayed (at least I think that's the current politically correct thing to say). So, in some ways he's like a 9 year old, and in other ways he's like a grown up. Whichever level of maturity he's on, he's pretty much one of my favorite people in the world.

Last week I let Spencer,my nine year-old son, take his uncle out on a walk in the neighborhood. After they were gone for a bit I asked Lee if he thought it was a good idea.  "Absolutely not," was Lee's comforting reply.

They were fine, of course.

Erik and Spencer had an epic sword fight that crossed multiple neighbor's yards.  Not everyone in the neighborhood knows us (yet) and I was worried someone would call the police if they looked out and saw my boy, and his adult-sized uncle, whacking each other with wooden swords.  Erik also lets out a high pitched scream when sword fighting, only adding more oddness to the scene.

Erik always has an agenda when he comes to Camp Shepherd.  That agenda always involves vacuuming. He vacuums the church, he vacuum the living room, he begs to steam-clean the carpets. He also enjoys mowing. In fact, when Erik is really stressed mowing and vacuuming are his tension relievers.  In the week he has been here he has mowed the yard twice and vacuumed every day.  No, my brother cannot come visit you.

This is a couple of years ago. Erik made me take this shot.

I crack when I hear one of the kids moan, "Mom, Uncle's getting out the vacuum again."

Vacuum on, my brother! Vacuum on!

There have been many highlights to this particular visit. One of my favorites occurred at dinner. Erik thinks it's hilarious when people bicker.  In a family of six, there is plenty of bickering to be had. Erik found whatever was said so funny that he laughed, with a mouthful of Sprite, spraying the entire table.  This sent us all into laughter, Spencer wanted a re-do and copy-catted and Erik ended up on the floor he was laughing so hard. I don't even remember what was said.

My other favorite (so far) was an overheard conversation. I had been upstairs folding laundry (the bane of my existence) and saw Spencer splashing in a puddle in the backyard. He was covered in mud and grass.  I went downstairs to tell him to cut it out. By the time I got down he was already in the house.  He got Erik to take a break from vacuuming so he could ask him a question.

"Uncle, hey, can you take this roll of toilet paper and wrap me up like a mummy?",  my little deviant asked.

Erik took in the boy in front of him, looked at the toilet paper he had been handed. He paused for a milisecond and then said emphatically, "Sure!"

I guess Erik was having a less mature moment.

I stepped in before the paper could be applied to the boy. Can you imagine the mess?  The mud, the water, the toilet paper. If he'd been wrapped up all mummy-like it would have been like glue. The kid wouldn't have been able to move.

Hmmmmm. Maybe my brother was thinking it through.

Erik on a riding mower. I couldn't take the time to rotate it. Sorry.

Broken Vessel

I am one of those people that is good to know when you're going through stuff.  I'm calming, I'm encouraging, and I have deep faith in the One who has carried us through hard times.  I can say something quirky to make people laugh, even when they thought their smiles had dried up.

I am not bragging about this ability.  It's just the way I am, and I think God intended me that way.

Unfortunately, I seem to not be able to encourage myself when going through difficult times.

My battle with myself has always been my anxiety.  Look how I even call it 'my anxiety' like it's a pet that I have to take care of.  I nurture it, feeding it fearful thoughts. I try to play 'worst case scenario' with myself as preparation, know where all the emergency rooms are located. You know, 'plan for the worst, hope for the best'.  I'm one of those goofs who wears clean underwear, not because it's hygienic, but because I might be in an emergency situation that will involve having my pants removed. Then I play mind-games, like "Well, because I'm wearing clean underwear, I probably won't be in a wreck." or "Well, the house is a wreck, so there's sure to be a disaster!"  I call these mind trips "Going to Funkytown".  Over the last few months,  I've been making a lot of trips to Funkytown.  I imagined the worst - things I can't even write about here because, you know, they're the worst.

I think because I am imaginative, I am a good writer.  I can create fiction anytime, anywhere. This is great when writing a story, not so great when I apply it to my life.

While we were in the middle of having one child, possibly more, diagnosed with a life-long, life-threatening heart condition, I was deeply ashamed of how I felt, of how I acted, and how I retreated to the computer for (terrifying) information.  I wanted to movie-slap myself back into shape.  I wanted to be one of those Christians that other people look at say, ,"Wow. Her faith is amazing.  She's going through so much, and the woman doesn't even look fazed! Even her hair looks great!"

My hair may have looked great, but the rest of me did not. I had two or three fever blisters, a stye, my gray hair had grown way out, and I had the perpetual look of someone who had played too many video games.

I mean, I know Christ. I believe God's promises for my life, and for the lives of our children. I was shocked at how rocked I felt.  All of my children were alive, well, and nothing terrible had happened. Yet, I felt like I was in mourning, and  looking back I think I was. I was mourning the 'perfect' lives I wanted for each our children. I was mourning the fact that things weren't going to be the way I thought they would be. It may sound weird, but I was also mourning that the world was not perfect. I mean, I've always known that this world isn't perfect, this was just the thing that tipped the scales because it was home. I thought of all the children who suffer horrible abuse, people shooting people for no reason, the precious babies in Newtown, cancer diagnoses running rampant through my Facebook feed, world hunger, and failing DNA. For the first time in my whole life the world felt burdensome.

After the dust had settled a little, my mom took us all out for lunch. I've always loved people watching, but this day I was really looking at the people, noticing things that I would normally skip over. A little girl with leg braces on came in holding her dad's hand. She had a heartbreaking, beautiful smile..  An elderly couple, on the way out the door, had such sweet faces I wanted to hug them. There was a woman wearing a scarf on her head, a tell-tale sign of chemo, who was enjoying being with her whole family.  As we sat waiting for our lunch to be served, I looked around the room. It was packed with people who had their stories, all of them coming out of, going into, or in the midst of something major. Isn't that how it is for each of us, all the time?

We're all coming out of, going into, or in the midst of challenging life circumstances.

That's part of the deal of living in this beautiful, messed up world. We are going to go through crap, some of us even go through what seems like hell. I believe, I know, and I trust that the vehicle to get us through is faith in Jesus.

Jesus does not require perfect faith, or even huge faith. Just mustard-seed sized faith. The main requirement of faith is perseverance, and perseverance is not always never pretty.

I thought that when I went through a rough time I needed to look strong, so that others would see the work that Christ was doing in me. It took a tear-filled day in public to open my eyes to the truth:  It is our weakness that binds us together, it is in our brokenness that Christ can shine through (thanks for that Liz Vos!)  I knew this truth, but I it had been a while since I lived that truth. ( 2 Corinthians 12:9)

So, here I am, Kara Shepherd, broken vessel for Christ. Perseverance or bust!

I do have on clean underwear, though, because that's how my mama raised me.

Elusive AND Reclusive

There is a phenomena that no one warned me of when I had children. Upon giving birth, I quickly realized that I would likely, never, ever, ever be alone again. I got comfortable with that. No one told me that one day my children would become ninja-like: not to be seen by day, roaming the house by night.

One day, our oldest daughter turned twelve, and she disappeared to her room. She was stealthy, too.  The girl would be standing in front of me, sulking over something, and I would look down to brush food off of my shirt, when I'd look up and she was gone. Just gone. We were always looking for her, and our house wasn't huge.

Where was she?  She was in her room.

Doing what?  Who knows?

We have two daughters, the youngest just now entering teen territory, and she, too, has begun disappearing. She wears clothes that match her bedspread so that she blends in. I am certain this is why teenagers leave their clothes piled on the floor: they hear their parents' footsteps and immediately drop to the floor in order to be camouflaged. Also, the girls leave cups of water all over their bedroom so that if I do venture beyond the doorway to their room, and begin looking in earnest, I am sure to knock over a glass of water. They know this will distract me from my original task. It is all part of their plan to not be seen.

Even when they are in plain view, it becomes difficult to see them. They squeeze themselves into the folds of the couch, going so far as to put couch cushions over themselves, to 'keep warm' those girls tell me, not to hide. The teenager's natural habitat seems to be the bottom of piles, I'm telling you. Their dad asked them to rake the leaves. A few minutes later he took a bag out to them, only to find their rakes propped against a tree. He came to ask me where they were, and I told him to go out and kick the small leaf pile. Sure enough, he found them.

I ask them to fold laundry, I come to check on them 15 minutes later, and find them MIA. I search high and low, I call their name, I send in their three-year old brother, to no avail. I mention chocolate and the laundry pile shudders and heaves, and out pops two teenage girls from the depths of socks and underwear.  The sisters say they were searching for the mate to a sock. They have been trained by other teenage ninjas to never cave to interrogation.

Not only do they disappear from sight, but they disappear from responsibility. The profess to hear no door bells chime, no phones ring. They look completely dumbfounded when I flip my lid, finally gaining access to the house after knocking for 30 minutes. No, they say, they had no idea I took the trash out.  No, they say, they don't know who could have locked the door. They had their headphones in, they are completely innocent.

Ha! I'm onto them, though.

I stumbled on a way to ferret them out of their hidey-holes.

We had been looking for our oldest daughter one morning, and could not find her. The hubby and I have been exercising and eating better, with excellent results. I was telling him about interval walking, where you walk at a brisk pace for two minutes, and then as fast as you can for one minute. The point is that you are extremely out of breath, unable to speak.

I thought we were alone, so I coyly said, "You know, out of breath, like when we are having...."

At that point our 15 year old daughter began screaming, and we had honed in on her location.

Simply talk about sex with your spouse. Soon, the screaming will commence and you will know EXACTLY where your hidden teen is.

Parents can be ninja-like, too.

The Parent Trap

A friend recently wrote a great post about parenting and the trap of pride. This wise woman pointed out, gently, that it can be very easy to take credit for compliant children. Her gentle reminder to be careful where you place your pride was well-received by me.

Not because I have compliant children, though. Because I don't - not most of the time, anyway. Liz's post resonated with me because pride can lead us into believing that we are responsible for who are children are. Pride has led me to feel superior to other people in less fortunate circumstance.Prideful thinking has caused me, at times, to feel disappointed in the children God has blessed me with.

Growing up with two brothers who were 'challenging' gave me a unique perspective on judgmental adults. My middle brother was, I learned during college, kinesthetic.  My youngest brother was developmentally delayed AND kinesthetic.Now, that's a combo!  Many people we encountered were kind and loving. There were homes we were invited to, and there were moms that I knew were 'safe', moms who I knew liked my mom and decided her friendship was worth getting to know her wild boys.

There were those, however, who felt that with a 'firmer hand' or 'more consistent discipline' my brother, especially Erik, who is developmentally delayed, could be better behaved. I can remember children repeating cutting things their parents had said about my brother, or, even worse, overhearing adults at church discussing our family's unique circumstances with disdain.  I learned, especially as the oldest child, to be fairly thick-skinned about our family. I also learned to stand up to bullies, even when they were quite a bit older than me.

I am thankful to have grown up with a brother who wasn't 'normal'.  It helped me, as a new mother, to accept that my children were unique individuals.  The miracle of growing up with Erik was that because he was so delayed no one had ANY expectations for him at first - my parents were bystanders in his flowering as a person.  When he walked, it was a miracle, when he spoke, it was a miracle, when he fed himself it was a miracle.  I learned that my plans for my children's lives would never compare to God's plans for their lives.

Oh, man, have we ( my husband and I ) made mistakes along the way, though! Consistency is not our strong point, and this has gotten us into trouble.  We both like the fun side of parenting and can sometimes neglect the more difficult side. There have been times when we have gone through difficulties, such as job loss, the death of a parent, life stuff, and have allowed parenting to fall by the wayside. I think of those times as 'Just Getting Through'.  We're coming out of one of those times right now, and our three-year old is showing it.

Romans 12:3-6 from The Message reads:

³ I’m speaking to you out of deep gratitude for all that God has given me, and especially as I have responsibilities in relation to you. Living then, as every one of you does, in pure grace, it’s important that you not misinterpret yourselves as people who are bringing this goodness to God. No, God brings it all to you. The only accurate way to understand ourselves is by what God is and by what he does for us, not by what we are and what we do for him.
^4-6 In this way we are like the various parts of a human body. Each part gets its meaning from the body as a whole, not the other way around. The body we’re talking about is Christ’s body of chosen people. Each of us finds our meaning and function as a part of his body. But as a chopped-off finger or cut-off toe we wouldn’t amount to much, would we? So since we find ourselves fashioned into all these excellently formed and marvelously functioning parts in Christ’s body, let’s just go ahead and be what we were made to be, without enviously or pridefully comparing ourselves with each other, or trying to be something we aren’t.

I love Romans, and I especially love chapter 12.  What if we applied this passage to parenting?  Would it be easier to see that while there is one standard (God's standard) to raise our children with, God has designed us each uniquely to raise our children, who are also uniquely designed?  Could we stop comparing parenting and children, and see that the world is made up of many different types of people, all to be used by our Creator?

I am guilty of having compared my children. One of my dearest friends has 'perfect' children in my eyes. I used to compare my children to them, and consequently my parenting to my friends'. I seemed to fall short. My children, all of them, have never had a problem arguing with an adult, especially me. They can be sneaky,  deceitful, and, on occasion, mean.  Our children can also be gentle, loving, and generous beyond comprehension. I also know that my friend's children are equally distributed with good and not-so-good qualities.  The more I learn about the body of Christ, the more I see that we are distinctive and individual with a purpose. Our individuality is not accidental. God used Jacob and Moses, just like he used Rahab and Naomi, just like he used Elijah and Paul, just like he is using you and me to drive home His message of grace.

I can see that our children, yours and mine, are fearfully and wonderfully made according to God's divine plan. Children are people in the process of growing up. They are not manequins waiting to be molded into a position that would make their parents proud. God already has a plan for our children, and it is our job to allow God to reveal that plan. Yes, we should train them up (but please don't exasperate), but train them up for God's glory and not our own.

Pride is not to be confused with being pleased. We should not overly focus on our children's star qualities, nor should we browbeat them with their shortcomings. Parents should be pleased with their work, but not take credit for anything except the hard work put in.

What if parents, especially Christian parents, quit judging one another by worldly standards, and chose to embrace the kaleidoscope of individuality the body of Christ has to offer with love and acceptance?  Who would we find ourselves getting to know better?  I truly believe that each time we encounter someone who is different from us we have an opportunity to grow.  My friends who are more consistent in home discipline have taught me to stick to my guns. My friends who are more, shall we say, loosey-goosey, have taught me to enjoy who my children are.

I wonder how God will grow me today.

my unique people

Poised for Success

One of my favorite things in life to do, is to send my husband to the store for 'a few' things. The usual suspects are always on the list; milk, bread, eggs.  I always know I can get him there if the list is short and sweet. Then I sucker punch him with a text that may include any of the following: capers, cilantro, canned black eyed peas, tahini, or quinoa. These items have a high frustration factor because they are not always in stock in my neck of the woods, and because they are often moved around. I can't explain the joy it gives me to think of my man furiously pounding the aisles at the store, determined to bring home the goods. I consider it my higher calling as Lee's wife. I feel it keeps him in touch with the hunter/gatherer within.

I want to be a good wife, you know?

Sometimes, though, a trip to the store requires my husband to really stretch his abilities as the man who brings home the bacon.  Recently I had a cold, which caused a cough, which put stress on my bladder, if you catch my drift.

Occasionally, I send him to the feminine products aisle, because after having 4 children, my eyes aren't the only thing that leak.

I know, it's more than I can stand, too.  It is what is, though, folks.  This is not a post about weak bladders, though. This a post about a man who is willing to jump hurdles for his woman, or at least venture into the incontinence aisle for his lady love.

Sometimes he tells people he's shopping for his grandmother.

Whatever gets him through, I guess.

The problem is the packaging is tricky.  There are diagrams depicting a person's level of need, and this can be confusing for anyone.  Once, in a total panic, he brought home a diaper-like product. I just rolled my eyes and tossed the package under the bathroom cabinet.  I didn't think of them again, but Lee must have had a use in mind. As we were getting ready for a road trip, Lee tried to convince the whole family to wear them to cut down on stops. I will not mention names of interested parties.

I wish I was kidding about that.

So, this week, when he was sent into No Man's Land, he felt a little more sure of himself. Still, he came home with an extra package that was a little heftier than necessary.

"What's up with these?  Kind of over-kill, don't you think?"  I asked, lovingly, of course.

He didn't even miss a beat.  "Those are for when you have a cough, and are exercising, too."

Thanks, honey.  You are SO thoughtful.