The Tough Ones

We try to stay positive.
We, meaning the parents of the kids with autism.
We really do.

In fact, we're some of the most positive people you'll ever meet. I think that's because when you have a kid with struggles, you slowly learn to change your expectations and really focus on the good parts, not just in your child, but in everyone. Our kids are inspiring. We like to talk about all of the amazing things they can do - and they truly can do some amazing things. Besides that, we don't want our kids to grow up and feel like they're a burden. Especially when they have taught us so much, and given us so much joy.

So...
We shoulder on, we buck up, we suck it up, we try again, we keep swimming, we re-think strategies and approaches.

We stay positive.

But there are those days...
The tough ones.
Autism Moms and Dads out there - you know which ones I'm talking about.

Right now, at the this very moment, here's the scene in my bedroom:

 

Meltdown Management: Mom's bed, pink fluffy pillow, red popsicle, tablet with Hungry Shark Evolution, green diffuser with calming oils, Ice Age on the t.v. and still... barely calm.

 

The cause of the meltdown, you ask?

 

 

Clyde's homemade symphony didn't have a gong. See the pan and spoon where I tried to make a gong? Nope. He wanted this gong.

 

 

Me: "Clyde, I'm so sorry son, but we're not going to be able to make that work."

Clyde: "But my symphony will never work without a gong!"

Me: "Sweetheart, how about we make you a homemade gong here at the house?"

Clyde: "No! It has to be a real gong with the perfect stick that makes it loud and fills up the room."

Me: "I can't really get a gong right now, it's five o'clock in the morning."

Clyde: "Then go to the symphony and steal one!"

 

Wondering how long this conversation and meltdown went on? Oh, only about two hours.

It sounds crazy but Clyde just has a really hard time getting over a disappointment like that. He gets... stuck, and sometimes and moving on is hard.

 

Okay, so take that and add about thirty more of these types of meltdowns into your month. Throw in five meetings with the district and school administrators, sprinkle in three visits to the child psychiatrist, and don't forget to add in some private therapy time.

Oh, and decrease your sleeping hours to four or five a night.

And did I mention you somehow have to still function normally, maintain your positive outlook, and complete all of your same regular life responsibilities?

 



Starting to understand why this morning, I looked like this - ?

 

That my friends is how tired and haggard look.

That is how the tough days look.

Especially when they turn into tough months.

(also - if you're really my friend you'll never copy or paste this picture anywhere.)
(It was EARLY.)

 

 

When the tough days pile up you may see me around town looking a bit like this, except with a purse, a Diet Coke (which I totally quit for two months and then picked back up when the stress hit), and a worried, harassed, look on my face. - (probably because I feel worried and harassed)

  

Look, we know you can't fix this for us. It's the card we've been dealt. We sort-of just have to ride it out and take our time figuring out how to get things back into some kind of sustainable, life-with-autism pattern. Autism shifts and changes as our children grow and we have to shift and change with it. Try to imagine that every time you're done using the restroom, you realize you have no toilet paper.

 

 

 

That's pretty much the feeling around the house on tough days. Exasperated, stressed, uncomfortable, but actively trying to work around it and come up with Plan B.

(How's that for a visual? You're welcome.)

 

I think we just need to feel 'allowed' to have tough days. Sometimes the guilt of having a hard time parenting a child with autism is almost as bad as the hard time. Man, I beat myself up when I can't figure things out. Autism can humble you as a parent in ways nothing else can.

 

Me: I've got this! I'm going to get up, and be positive, and we're going to figure this out. Today's the day! Autism can't get me down!

Autism: Um... instead of that, we're going to meltdown and watch The Lorax five times. Also we need more popsicles.

Me: But I had all these plans...

Autism: They'll have to wait. Right now I need you to help me line up every stuffed animal in the house and cuddle me while I tell you about all the different kinds of sharks.

Me: But... me...?

Autism: Nope. We need you to adult for a bit longer.

 

Sometimes it's hard even admitting that you have tough days. I try to write about them sometimes but I always feel like its too much of a 'sensitive' topic. Like if I bring it up people will think I want them to leave me alone, or they'll think I've fallen off my rocker, or they'll think I'm a bad parent, or they'll think that my kid is sucking the life out of me like a vampire.

 

I struggle to even admit that sometimes I struggle.

 

It's not that I want people to feel bad for me. I don't. I have a great life and I wouldn't trade it for anything. It's not about pity.

 

I think its really about allowing myself to have one moment of real, open honesty. It's about acknowledging what I'm up against. It's about giving myself the freedom to say, "This is hard," or "I don't know what to do," or "I'm depleted."

 

I worry so much about my friends who are in the 'parenting-a-child-with-autism' boat. They try so hard to make it work. They try so hard to stay positive. It's like they think admitting that something is hard will mean that they're failing at it. 

 

Here's something to consider:

 

 

 

Parents out there - in my boat,

the ones having tough days...

Admitting that you're having a hard time does not make you weak. It doesn't mean you don't love your child. All it is, is honesty. You're squeezing the artificiality out. You're clarifying your purpose. You're becoming who you were meant to be.

 

The tough days give us strength for tomorrow. The tough ones build us. It hurts, but they do. It's okay to speak that truth. It's okay to say, "THIS IS HARD FOR ME." That's growth. That's finding the essence of what we really are.

Update 1: The Great Baptism Challenge

On June 20th the Grand Mesa Ward took a trip to the Monticello temple to participate in Baptisms for the Dead. The end goal is for the Relief Society to baptize 270 women - the same amount of women we have in our Grand Mesa Ward Relief Society, by December 31st, 2015. A Relief Society 'there', baptized by a Relief Society 'here'.



Angel Moroni - Monticello Temple - Picture by Rodney Beynon

Our First Trip Results: 

15 women in attendance, 1 for the first time ever.
8 men in attendance, 1 for the first time ever.
93 female names submitted by Grand Mesa Ward members, 35 by the Monticello Temple workers.
39 male names submitted by Grand Mesa Ward members, 65 by the Monticello Temple workers.

128 female baptisms, total.
104 male baptisms total.

The workers at the Monticello Temple were so wonderful to work with. We're getting closer to our goal!

Grand total: 

232 baptized.

My heart is so full!

I truly do not have words for what an incredible and uplifting experience it was. I wasn't in the temple for very long, but the spirit there was so strong it was overwhelming. Just look at all of these wonderful people.

Rod and Joy Beynon
(A shout out to Brother Beynon for the awesome pics)

Bobbi Brunson and Christy Armendarez

Brian and Dina Day

Fred and Pat Jarvis

Louisa and Jerry Lewis

Mikayla Redd and Alec

James and Melissa Collins - Our 1st timers. So proud of you both!

Suzanne and Howard Sanders

(Not Pictured: Sandra and Jamie Woodring, Gaylene Ludwig and kids, and Bishop and Lisa Redd - We'll get you next time though! You can't hide forever)


Oh yeah, and let's not forget these nuts.

The Harkers - Living proof that you can take children on a temple trip and survive. (Thanks for the babysitting support Gaylene. Couldn't have done it without you!) 



Delicious Lunch - If you come, we will feed you. ;)

A special moment with Dad...Families are Forever.

Sisters - we are getting close to our goal. Our next temple trip is coming up in August. Now is the time to prepare to attend the temple. There is never a commandment given to us with out a blessing to go along with it. See if you can spot the blessing.

You can overcome every trial and each temptation...
I know it's not easy, but with God, all things are possible. I believe in YOU.

Here are five steps you can take today to help us with our RS temple goal:

1. Take a temple preparation course to help you toward your goal of attending the temple. Just ask Sister Elaine Wells about it. She will hook you up.

2. Make goals for yourself to begin to live worthily enough to enter the temple. Start small. Lean on the Lord for help. There is no earthly sin that can compensate for the blessings of the temple. It can be difficult, but nothing worthwhile comes without effort. Have faith in yourself, and faith in the Lord.

3. Meet with Bishop Redd and work toward obtaining at temple recommend. Ask Brother Beynon to get you an appointment. He can help you out. The Bishop can give you specific and inspired ideas to help you in your journey.

4. Pray. For guidance. For inspiration. For wisdom. For strength. Ask, and ye shall receive.

5. Visit the Grand Junction Family History Library. Anyone, whether they have a recommend or not, is welcome to research their own family history. Getting in touch with your kindred ancestors is a great way to connect with the holy purpose of the temple. We need temple names to take with us on our trip and anyone can contribute.

The family history library is located at the Stake Center, 2881 Orchard Ave. Call them at 970-243-2782. Their open hours are Tues 10-4, Wed 10-7, Thurs 10-4, and Sat 1-4. They will be more than happy to help you anytime, or contact Brother and Sister Lewis or Brother and Sister Sanders in our ward. They are experts!

We have 142 names to go.

We need you. We truly do.

One for here, one for there...I believe in us.

Love,
Your Relief Society Presidency

"The Infinite 'I Give Up' Bed"

Anyone who has a child with autism, knows what a real meltdown looks like. Sometimes I see other parents struggle with their children's little tiffs and tantrums at the grocery store and I always smile a little when they apologize and get a bit embarrassed. It tugs at my heart strings. Mostly because I'm thinking, "You wouldn't be worried if you knew what I've seen."

Clyde can MELTDOWN. Like full-fledged screaming, writhing around on the ground, kicking, sobbing hysterically, can't-cope-even-though-we're-at-Kinko's meltdown. And the thing about these meltdowns, is that they don't work like Henry's (typical child) meltdowns. I can't reason them away, I can't argue with them, I can't threaten them, I can't bribe them. I can't distract them. I can't even defer them until later - like maybe when Jessica-from-Kinko's isn't staring at me with judge-y horror on her face.

The meltdown is a monster, and chilling that monster out takes some time, patience, and considerable autism-mommy skills. The meltdown monster will not be commanded away. He needs to slink away slowly, and on his own time.

As Clyde ages, we are constantly trying to stay ahead of the meltdown triggers, but that isn't always possible, so this year, we've been trying hard to teach him how to self-soothe when he feels a meltdown coming, or how to calm down if he's in the middle of one.

One of our tricks is help guide him to a quiet place, like his bedroom, until he can get his bearings underneath him. Sometimes that helps, but sometimes, he's more like - "Mommy is going to watch me meltdown. She is going to acknowledge that it is all her fault that the internet has a lag, or that the velcro on my shoe scratched my foot, or that there are hornets on the earth even though one has never stung me." 

Sometimes I get the brunt of a meltdown. Well, if I'm being honest, most of the time I do. And sometimes, even though the last thing that helps a meltdown is another meltdown... I get frustrated. Really frustrated. And tired. I get sick of the meltdown monster. Especially when he's screamed and yelled at me for forty-five minutes - and kicked me in the shin - and tried to run down the street.

Then one day, after a big, difficult meltdown, I crept into to Clyde's dark room - to see if he was ready for a hug, or a popsicle...

...and I saw this...pinned above his bed.

Not just the "I Give Up" Bed. The INFINITE "I Give Up" Bed.

My heart broke.

And I remembered this:

And this:

And this:

But most of all, this:

I was humbled - and I deserved to be humbled. I was frustrated, but he was more frustrated. I was tired, but he was exhausted. I was sick of the meltdown monster, but he couldn't get away from it no matter where he turned.

So today - I took the sign down and replaced it with this one.

Clyde laughed when he saw it and said, "Much better, Mom."

Yes... much better.

I figure we all have a choice. When we're having our own meltdowns, we can sink into the "Infinite 'I Give Up' Bed" and let our stress, anxiety, depression, and despair take over - or, instead, we can maybe stop for awhile, in the quiet, in the dark, to pray, and catch our breath - on the, "Never Never Never Give-Up" Bed.

"There is no trial so large that we can't overcome it together." - Neil. L. Andersen

To the People Attempting to Socialize with Us:

It happens every time.
Every. Time.

Our youngest son Clyde will run up to you, a perfect stranger, and shoot off a line from his current favorite movie or YouTube video as a means of social introduction. The lines sound a little bit like this,

"Listen Ma'am, I know you're upset!" (The Incredibles) or
"Nobody messes with UglyDiaper22" (YouTube) or
"Just a water bug! Nothin' to see here." (The Bee Movie)

His comments rarely make any sense in the context of the conversation. That's okay. He doesn't mind. He'll just keep right on talking to you until he decides he's finished his side of the discussion. Then he'll giggle and hop away. Don't worry about saying much. It's okay to be baffled. It happens to the best of us now and then. Even those of us who are Clyde experts.

Other things you may want to be aware of when socially interacting with our family -

Even though you've just met, Clyde may treat you like you're his best friend and sit on your lap and touch your earlobe, and/or your hair. Especially if you happen to look a little bit like Grandma. He may even call you "Grandma" because at our house, "Grandma" is an idea as well as a person.
It's possible he will hug your youngest, smallest children because he can't get over how adorable they are. Sorry if any tiny people fall down or get a little squished under his not-so-tender care. We're attempting to teach him to restrain his exuberance. He really does think babies and toddlers are cute. At least until they touch his stuff.

Clyde may also treat you like you're a piece of furniture in the room and refuse to acknowledge your presence. We have no explanation for this phenomenon and why it may or may not apply to you. You can ask him questions, but he will most likely not answer you. Don't take it personally. It takes him time to warm up. This year was the first year he finally started to acknowledge my Dad. He calls him, "That weird guy who likes to tickle me".

And of course... there's an outside chance that Clyde will have a full-blown meltdown over your presence. A meltdown which may or may not include slumping dramatically to the floor, crying, screaming that he hates me, you, and everyone, calling everyone he can see, "jerks", and demanding that you leave. Sorry you have to sit awkwardly at my kitchen table and leaf through farming magazines while we figure it out. It takes time, and popsicles, to calm him down. We're working on it, I promise.

Oh, and be aware - Henry will talk your ear off and play with your children to any degree you will allow him. This behavior stems from not always having an engaged playmate at home. Brother Clyde needs a lot of alone time and patient, quiet, occasionally-one-sided play. Henry's mostly understanding, but does feel a bit lonely at times and will very likely smother your children with attention, love, magic tricks, math questions, hugs, silly behavior, and jokes. It's possible this will be irritating for you and/or your child. Please forgive us while we try to teach him appropriate social boundaries. We live in a home with very limited social constraints - for autism purposes and comfortability.

We're weird. Maybe that sounds like an odd thing to say, but it's true - we're totally okay with it though, so don't worry. We have one child on the autism spectrum and one with sensory processing disorder and ADHD, so our whole family vibe may feel a little strange to you. We deviate from the norm. We do weird things like serve rice and cucumbers with every single meal. We set a lot of timers and play a lot of Minecraft. We have a therapy swing in our living room. Stuff like that. Feel free to ask questions. Sometimes talking about the weird stuff makes it less weird for everyone.

We're trying to find that thin line between letting our kids engage with others - and making sure our guests feel comfortable. I'd love it if this line were always clear, but sometimes it just isn't. If we seem too "Knock that off, kids," or too "Let it fly, boys," it's because we've most likely misjudged your level of comfort and are attempting to adjust accordingly. Give us some time to get to know you and things will eventually smooth out.

Lastly - Socializing can be hard for us. For all of us. Sometimes, we want things to run smoothly and they don't. Sometimes we have to pack it in earlier than we expected. Sometimes we have to handle a meltdown in the parking lot of the Spray Park. Our kids usually need extra supervision, and sometimes it's hard to find the energy to want to supervise. Socializing takes extra effort for our family, so sometimes, we have to say no, even when we want to say yes - and sometimes we say yes when we should've said no. We do our best to show up for you. Thanks for letting us try.

If you're wondering - yes, this is hard on us - the parents. We watch our beautiful perfect children try to navigate a world they don't always understand, and it's hard to watch them struggle. It's also hard to sacrifice the 'normal' playdates, hang-outs, and relationships that other Moms and Dads seem to get. It's hard to try and plan a perfect 'family 'n friends' social event. We spend hours trying to eliminate possible meltdown scenarios, and it's frustrating when, after all of that work, it doesn't pan out. We do get embarrassed. We do feel ashamed over things we know we can't control. We do have moments where we long for a regular routine, a "typical child" moment, and an understanding ear. We do. We can't help it. We're only human.

So - To the People Attempting to Socialize with Us:
Thanks for trying, and trying again.
Thanks for inviting us even though it's not always easy to have us.
Thanks for putting in real effort with my children.
Thanks for not judging us when things, and kids, blow up.
Thanks for believing in us and praying for us.

We truly do cherish and appreciate you for it.

Love,
The Harkers

The Great Baptism Challenge

A Relief Society for here. A Relief Society for there.

That's the idea.

We have 270 women in our Relief Society, so we'll do temple work for 270 women. One for here, one for there. We picked a date for our first trip:
June 20th, 2015 at 11:30 a.m.

LDS Monticello Temple

I've started to lose track of how many people told me it can't be done.
Some of their comments:

Our ward temple attendance is too low.

That's too many names.

A third of our Relief Society members don't even have temple recommends. 

Six months isn't long enough to make this happen. We need at least a year.

There are too many logistics out of our control.

Who's going to babysit all those kids?

The drive to Monticello is too far. 

Too many people are gone in the summer.

We'll never find that many priesthood holders willing to come and perform ordinances.

Stuff like that.

But... here's the thing. There's something stronger than all the opposition. 

There's something bigger than the reasons "why not".

Faith. 

I have faith. 

I have faith that we can do this in spite of the things that stand in the way - because really, those things are small in the scheme of eternity... and this challenge - is eternal. 

"The temple is a point of intersection between heaven and earth. In this sacred place, holy work will be performed through selfless service and love. The temple reminds me of all that is good and beautiful in the world." —David A. Bednar

We can do this sisters. We really can - but we're going to need everyone to do it. You and me. Both of us. All of us. I know it's intimidating. I know that it takes work. We have to take time out of our lives. We have to give up some habits in exchange for a temple recommend. We have to plan ahead. We have to miss work and give up some of one of our weekend days. We have to get up early. We have to sacrifice.

Sacrifice.

Carol B. Thomas said, "Sacrifice is an amazing principle. As we willingly give our time and talents and all that we possess, it becomes one of our truest forms of worship. It can develop within u s a profound love for each other and our Savior, Jesus Christ. Through sacrifice, our hearts can be changed; we live close to the Spirit and have less of an appetite of things of the world."

Here's the good part.

Blessings.

"I know your lives are busy. I know that you have much to do. But I make you a promise that if you will go to the house of the Lord, you will be blessed; life will be better for you."

 Gordon B. Hinckley

"I promise you that, with increased attendance in the temples of our God, you shall receive increased personal revelation to bless your life as you bless those who have died." 

Ezra Taft Benson

"Just as our Redeemer gave His life as a vicarious sacrifice for all men, and in so doing became our Savior, even so we, in a small measure, when we engage in proxy work in the temple, become as saviors to those on the other side."

Gordon B. Hinckley

Doctrine and Covenants Section 18 - 15 And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father! 16 And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!

Temple Baptismal Font

It's going to be worth it.

If you haven't been able to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead yet, I would encourage you to do it. Set a goal. Now is as good a time as any. The bishop will help you.Your Relief Society sisters will help you. Most importantly, Heavenly Father will help you. 
I know He will. 

He will. 

We have six months. Let's make a difference. Let's push ourselves. Let's make our own miracle.

My earnest prayers are with you.

My love is with you.

A Relief Society for here. A Relief Society for there.

We are his hands.

We can do this.

The Powerful Widow

Before July this year, when I heard the word "widow", it brought to mind something like this - 



The Granny Babushka

When I was younger, as far as I was concerned, widow's were elderly women that liked to make homemade jam from their fruit trees, show me pictures of their grown children and late husbands, and pay my brothers five dollars to mow their lawns. To me, they were generally reserved, quiet, kind women who'd lived through something awful... loss - a big word I'm only now beginning to comprehend. Loss.

That's what I thought - before this year.

But this year, I learned something about widows. Yes, some are elderly, some make jam, some show me pictures of their children and husbands - but...

Widows can be young or old.

Widows can be strong in the face of great pain.

Widows can be movers and shakers.

Widows are powerful.

In the Bible, in the book of Mark, it reads:

“And Jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury: and many that were rich cast in much. “And there came a certain poor widow, and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing. And he called unto him his disciples, and saith unto them, Verily I say unto you, That this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury: For all they did cast in of their abundance; but she of her want did cast in all that she had,
even all her living.”

During his earthly ministry, the Savior Jesus Christ often used stories to teach gospel truths. This story is no exception, but this time, when I read it, I couldn't help but wonder about the widow in the story. The scriptures say she was poor, but there's no mention of her age. We have no way of knowing how she came to be a widow. We can't know if she had children to care for, or bills to pay. We don't know what pieces she had to pick up after her husband's death. She may have been struggling, still stricken with grief and shock, when she cast in her two mites. All we know, is that she was in need - and still, she gave everything, even all her living - to the Lord.

Now that, is a powerful widow.

When I was little, I loved to play with my cousin Sharee at her house in Idaho on Sheep Trail Road. One day, Sharee and I were playing outside in the yard and a massive hoard of sheep started down the road in one of the craziest, dustiest, most chaotic sheep drives I've ever seen. The sheep ascended upon us like a massive, fluffy, stinky, thundercloud. I was terrified. It seemed like there were thousands of them. They were everywhere - on the road, in the driveway, and on the front lawn.

My Aunt Julie



Oh no. 

Not the front lawn.

Because let me tell you - this wasn't just any front lawn.

This front lawn was groomed. It was mowed. It was weed free. It was beautifully green. It was the result of many hours of sweat and toil in the hot sun.

And the sheep were ruining it.

They were stamping it into a sad mess of divots, mud, and broken dreams.

But not for long.

The minute one hoof set foot on that grass, my Aunt Julie was out on the lawn with a tennis racket, swatting and herding those sheep off her lawn and back to where they belonged.

I'll never forget the sight. 

There she stood - my aunt. Courageous, bold, and heroic in the face of the multitude.

Powerful.

My nine-year-old self certainly was impressed.

Twenty-three years later, this year - I saw my Aunt face another multitude - when she stood in the receiving line at her husband's viewing. Nearly two thousand people came to pay their respects to my Uncle - a bishop, a brother, a son, a friend, and a great man. Two thousand - yes, you read that right. My Aunt stood for over six hours, hugging, shaking hands, and sharing memories and grief with every single person in attendance. Young, raw, and suffering, but every bit the courageous, bold and heroic woman she's always been.

Powerful.



     My Aunt and her children the day of my Uncle's funeral

In my church calling as Relief Society President, I come in contact with many widows. We have more than a dozen in our congregation. They are incredible, faithful women.

I know one who bears an unshakeable testimony of eternal families nearly every Sunday.

I know one, who at age 75, weighing less than 100 lbs - cared for her dying husband until his last days - lifting him, carrying him, watching over him until her arms shook and her back ached - holding his hand while he suffered in agony - kissing him while he passed slowly from this life - sobbing with sorrow and relief when it was finally over.
I know one who tried, with everything she had, to hold it together and sing songs with the Primary children the week her late husband's favorite dog died. 

I know one who's come to church alone, with three children in tow, and cried private tears while they played at her feet.

I know a military widow who serves in the Scouts because she wants to teach others the real value of freedom - and the real price.

I know one who buried her parents, every sibling, and her husband in less than five years.

They are all different, but one thing is the same.

They are powerful.

What I Should've Said

Sometimes words fall out of my mouth, and before I'm even finished speaking, I wish I could take them back. Foot. In. Mouth. It happens to all of us. Probably me more than some others - if I'm being honest about it. It's a hazard of my biology.
On the opposite end of that spectrum, is the wish that we could say what we wanted to say, the moment we wanted to say it. I think we've all had one of those moments too - a time when we should've said something, but we didn't.
Maybe those words we should've said are simple, like, "I love you", or "I'm sorry", and maybe they're harder things to say, like, "I'm angry with you", or "You've hurt me" - but, I think we've all felt the sting of wishing, somehow, that the right words would have come out, when it mattered.
There are so many reasons why, when the moment comes, we don't say what we should've said.

Sometimes we're scared of what might happen...
Sometimes we don't think of the words until after the moment has passed...
Sometimes our own insecurities get in the way...

And sometimes our feelings are so huge, that words are impossibly inadequate in comparison - and so we struggle to know what to say...

I had a moment like that.
It happened when I went to see on old friend of mine.

Let me tell you about my friend.

My friend, Trevor Linderman

I met my friend when we were in high school. I was a Junior and he was a Sophomore. My friend was intelligent. He was educated. He had opinions. He liked to debate about his opinions. He liked to win those debates. At first, I didn't want to be friends with my friend. I thought he was a bit of a pain in the neck, actually.

Then I saw my friend stop dead, in the middle of one of our debates, and comfort a crying girl on the debate team bus. "Maybe that guy isn't as bad as I thought," I thought. I was still the new kid at the high school and perhaps I was being a little too defensive and emotional to be friends with my friend.

I got to know my friend a little bit better. I found out that he's an Eagle Scout. He wore his scouting uniform with pride, like my brothers. My friend was an avid outdoorsman. He liked to hike all over the mountains of Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana. He ran track and played tennis. He played the cello in the orchestra. My friend liked good music too, Pink Floyd and the Eagles. My friend liked to hang out with his parents, even though they were, well, his parents. My friend knew how to make everyone laugh. Turns out my friend was pretty awesome.



Jacob and Trevor - Scouts

My friend taught me a lot of things over the years. He taught me how to snowshoe. He taught me how to use a camping stove. He showed me all the best spots to swim, hike, and play in the outdoors. He taught me how to drive a stick shift, even though he was probably scared for his safety. He tried to teach me to swim without plugging my nose - unsuccessful. He also tried to teach me to love everyone, even if they were different - more successful.



My friend was good at including everyone. While we were at debate tournaments, he played cards with anyone who was up for a good game. He silenced anyone who teased those kids, who we were pretty sure were gay, but hadn't had the bravery to come out yet. He knew how to make people feel comfortable. He accepted people as they were. My friend introduced me to a lot of people who were every bit as fun and awesome as he is. My friend helped me make friends. He helped me feel at home in my weird teenager world.


Madison High Debate Team - 2000

My friend and I kept in touch while I was at college and he was still a Senior in High School. We laughed together about my crazy roommates and my classes that were much harder than I was used to. He told me about a girl he liked - a cute one with red-hair named Chelsi. His debate partner. The girl who cried that one time on the bus. He listened at lot too. He gave me a lot of advice and encouragement. He kept me up-to-date on what all our friends were doing. He always made me smile.


My bro. Carson, Trevor's brother, Justin, and Trevor

One day, Jake, our mutual friend, called me with some bad news. My friend was sick. He had a seizure one night while he was out with some friends. His parents were taking him in for some brain scanning. The doctors didn't know what was wrong yet. I called my friend as fast as my fingers could dial. "I have a brain tumor," he said. "I guess that's what I get for sneaking out." He downplayed things as much as he could to make me feel comfortable. "I'll be okay," he told me, sounding very 'not' okay. "Is it cancer?" I asked him. "Yeah," he said. I swear I felt the earth move.

I went to see my friend after his first surgery. I was afraid walking through the hospital doors. I didn't know what to say. A hospital seemed like a very poor fit for my friend. He belonged in the mountains. "It's about time you showed up," he said when he saw me. I laughed. I relaxed. My friend had been through some tough times, but he was on the road to recovery. Everything would be okay.

Jake, Trev, Me

My friend graduated from high school, and even though he'd just had brain surgery, we stood from his wheelchair, and walked to pick-up his diploma. I cried my eyes out in the audience. I was so proud of my friend that day. Time passed. I still went hiking with my friend now and then, and even though he had a limp and a leg brace, he still pushed through the discomfort, every time - smiling, even. My friend went to college. More time passed. I got married. He got married too - to that cute girl he'd loved for years - Chelsi, the red-head. My friend and I were busy with life. I had kids. He had kids. We drifted apart - into that quiet place where old friends exchange occasional Christmas cards, e-mails, and "Long-time-no-see" hugs over the holidays.

I kept tabs on my friend. I bit my nails through Chelsi's blog posts and facebook updates regarding his health. I smiled at the pictures of his beautiful children. I cried when I heard that his tumor came back. He fought cancer - again. He went into remission - again. I cheered for my friend from afar. I prayed for him, the way long-distance friends do when they have no other way to help.

Then, not too long ago - I read that my friend had cancer for a third time. This time the options were more limited. This time it wasn't clear what the outcome would be. At first, I wasn't worried. My friend was strong. He's been in remission before and he'll go into remission again - but the more time passed, the worse it seemed to get. My friend and his wife started traveling. They created a bucket-list. They went to a lot of doctor's appointments. They made scrapbooks and asked for prayers. They started planning for the worst. Fear crept into my heart...

Then I one day, I read this post from Chelsi -
"If you're going to see him, now's probably the time. We don't know what will happen. We don't know what symptoms might crop up..."

So - even though it had been a decade, even though I had long-since been a B-list friend, even though it felt a little awkward - with some encouragement from his sweet wife - I went to see my friend.

Trevor.

I was a bit rusty at first, and a little nervous, but, as was usual for my friend, he made me feel comfortable right away. His house was full of people. His people. His close friends and family. The people that matter the most to him. There was a feeling in his house too. A strange mix of joy, friendship, chaos, peace, reverence, hope, and love. I wish there was a word for it, but even now, weeks later, I can't think of one. We talked. We caught up. We laughed about old times and old friends. It was a simple blessing, to sit there with him, and talk about life.

Me and Trevor

What I saw - People, family, kids, Chelsi - coming in and out. Always hugging him before they left and kissing him when they arrived. Cooking dinner. Hugging children. Asking him what he needs. Offering to help.
What I said - "Man, this house is like revolving door. How are you managing this?"
What I should've said - "You are so loved."

What I saw - Trevor's friend Josh, one of the most goofy, carefree, kids I can remember from high school, helping Trevor into his wheel chair and pushing him around, without an ounce of awkwardness - like he'd done it countless times before. Checking on him. Reminding Chelsi to give her children medicine on schedule - because he's been there so much, he has more than one medication schedule memorized. Josh's wife, Sam - helping Trevor's children, helping Chelsi, socializing with his visitors, joking with Trevor like a brother.
What I said - "I'm glad you guys have stayed friends over the years."
What I should've said - "You make me want to be a better friend, and I hope one day, more than anything, that my children will find a friend like you."

What I saw - Chelsi, running errands, taking care of sick kids, hugging visitors hello and goodbye, worrying about dinner, massaging Trevor's feet, asking him if he's too cold, or too tired, or too sore, adjusting his socks, going to and from appointments and pharmacies, figuring out how to pay for everything, offering everyone drinks, and food, and a place to sleep, organizing rides for Trevor, and musicians for Trevor, and visits from neighbors and friends, and doing so many other things, I eventually lost count.
She hugged me when I left. She followed me out the door to make sure I was okay. - Imagine. She was concerned about me. That's what kind of woman she is. Struggling in ways I can't possibly fathom, but still taking the time to care for other.
What I said - "I'm so sorry. I hate that this is happening to you guys."
What I should've said - "You're an angel on earth. When I think of courageous women, I think of you. I'm so glad my friend found a companion like you to share his life with. You inspire me to want to be a better person."

What I saw - My friend, Trevor. The same, intelligent, educated, opinionated, funny, kind-hearted, courageous, clever, man he's always been - trapped in a body that isn't working too well anymore. He's tired from endless rounds of radiation, but still resilient enough to push himself in physical therapy. He's proud of his kids. He lights up when his wife and family are around. He's hopeful. He laughs through his discomfort. He makes jokes about himself. His memory is remarkable, considering. He's open, vulnerable, and honest. He's unafraid. He's caring and concerned about others. He's surrounded by love- more love than I've ever felt in one home.
We both cried when I left. I struggled to find words through my tears. I couldn't seem to find words big enough to express what I was feeling.
What I said - "You know, I'm going to cry the whole way home. I'm sorry your struggling. I'm so sorry. I've missed you, Trev. You have wonderful family. One of the reasons I married my husband is because he reminded me of you. I love you. I pray for you every day. You've made my life better, happier. You've been a wonderful friend to me. I know it must be so hard. Keep fighting."
What I should've said -
...
...
...

I still don't know.
Turns out, there aren't words for those kinds of feelings - those huge, intense, encompassing, feelings. Maybe it's some immense combination of gratitude, concern, sorrow, joy, nostalgia, fear, faith, respect, and love - but if there are words. I don't know them.

So... I cried instead. I'm still crying. Weeks and weeks later.

Before I left, Chelsi, an incredible poet in her own right, quoted something to me. Something about tears being a noble form of expression. I looked it up when I got home because I never wanted to forget it...

“Tears are the noble language of eyes, and when true love of words is destitute. The eye by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.” - Robert Herrick

How true. My tongue is mute. I can't really find the right words because there aren't any. How do you contain the memory of seeing that beautiful and terrible struggle into a few words? How do you find things to say that are encouraging and uplifting in the face of so much trial? How do you tell someone what they've meant to you, and how they've influenced your life for the better? How do you express that level of respect and love?

Here's a few people who've done a bit better than me - 

“True friends influence those with whom they associate to “rise a little higher [and] be a little better.” - Elaine S. Dalton

"I cannot even imagine where I would be today were it not for that handful of friends who have given me a heart full of joy. Let's face it, friends make life a lot more fun." - Charles R. Swindoll

"A true friend freely, advises justly, assists readily, adventures boldly, takes all patiently, defends courageously, and continues a friend unchangeably." - William Penn

I don't know what I should've said - but it's probably something like that.

So for now, while I search for better words -
I'll pray for my friend. I'll pray for his family. I'll have hope for better days. I'll find peace in the knowledge that the gospel of Jesus Christ brings. I'll have faith that Lord has a plan for my friend, and for all of us.

And I'll ask you, my friends, for your help.

Below are links to Trevor's story -
Youtube Video - #Linderlove
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1WF4jN6P30

The Linderman Family Blog
http://lindermanlife.blogspot.com/

Medical Fundraising page -
 http://www.youcaring.com/medical-fundraiser/join-the-linderman-s-fight-/303310

***If you can, join him in his fight. Help this family feel the comforting arms of friends - and friends of friends - who care. I can't think of a more deserving family. One thing everyone can do, is share. Share the youtube link. Share the Youcaring page. Share Chelsi's blog. Share this post. Many hands make light work...

***Seriously, I don't need a Christmas present, or a birthday present, or a cookie, or a high-five from you. I want you to give all that love to this wonderful family instead. :) So...if I've ever owed you a favor...guess what? I'm calling it in, folks.

Much Love,
Mandy