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If you can imagine one of those desert movie scenes where the main character is all haggard-looking, stumbling in search of water, that is pretty much me. All. Summer. Long.
Towards the end of fifth grade, my boy’s anxiety seems to build ferociously, likely due to the anticipation of starting middle school this fall. “Easy” transitions are a rare phenomenon in the world of autism and this is going to be no joke. Plagued with the obsessive need to pick at the skin on his fingers and feet, my boy spends most of the summer pitifully trying to care for his self-inflicted wounds, smothering them with Vaseline, putting on Bandaids, lifting the Bandaids to see if everything is “okay” and replacing those that are about to fall-off. All day. Every day. Crying, whining, excessive fast-paced talking and pleading for reassurance. “I am so tired of suffering!” my boy laments. “I wish I could be in someone else’s body!” My boy suffers. Our family suffers.
This is not the first time along our 12-year journey that autism strips me of my calm composure, leaving my nerves raw and exposed. Angry and exhausted, I steal away to our bedroom closet, slump against the mirror and sob, cursing, and shaking my fist at God. Why are you allowing this to continue? Where are you?! I can’t take it anymore! The storm inside me subsides temporarily. I breathe. I ask God to pray for me because I am just too tired to think. I open the door, quietly descend the stairs and pick-up where we left-off.
Later in the summer, I glance at the dried-up stream bed beside the path I walk on a rare morning alone. That stream is just like my soul. All dried-up. I smile to myself as the Bible story comes to mind where Jesus tells the Samaritan woman sitting at the well that she needs to ask for Living Water. Water for the soul. “Give me Living Water,” I pray. And God offers me small drinks of water, just to get me through until the end of summer. Until I can breathe again.
An unsuspecting friend asks about my summer and before I can say much of anything, tears stream down my face and she puts her arms around me while I quietly let out a few sobs. “How can I help?” she asks. “Just do what you are doing, ” I tell her. “Sit here with me and listen.” She shares my pain. My mother-in-law spends time alone with my girl, allowing her to enjoy a few hours away from the tension in our household. My parents bravely take both my girl and boy for a weekend at their house on the farm while my husband and I enjoy a quiet house by ourselves.
These desert seasons have taught me that we are not meant to live life solely on our own strength. There are times when we have to admit our own thirst so that others can provide Living Water for us. Sometimes just enough to keep us going until we can reach a long stretch of fresh flowing water. For me, that life-giving stream comes in the form of a new school year. I will take this time to breathe in quiet. To listen and give my soul what it needs. And then with a quenched spirit, I will offer a cup of water to the next thirsty soul.
The Blue Mug 