I have a fourteen-year-old grandson who lives in Seattle, and for that reason, time spent with him is rare. A crisis in my daughter’s family brought her and Wolfie (short for Wolfgang) here to Florida and has afforded me the opportunity to spend time him while Amy attends to the needs at hand.  Because Wolfie is autistic, Amy is very thorough in her explanations of his behaviors, potential problems, his desires, and so on. Spending time with Wolfie brings unique challenges and, as I have discovered anew, unique moments of unbridled joy and unexpected glimpses of truth.

 Story. It is how we live our lives. It offers sense when other explanations fail us. Our story is part of a much larger story. Our role on the stage of eternal history is replete with heroes, villains, setting, conflict, resolution, strength, support, joy, risk, – all the elements that make a story worth reading – and telling – and gives honor and glory to our existence. Sometimes I am keenly aware of my role; most times, though, I move through my days not giving it a second thought. I live in the moment, or at best, a few moments ahead.

 This morning Wolfie and I played in our pool. The weather was warm; the sun was bright; the water was perfect. At first I didn’t want to go in. I tried to get one of my sons to swim with him. No takers. So I donned my suit and relented to the pleas of my grandson. Once I was in, I was in.  I love water. I love it at the beach. I love it in the rapids. I love it in the creek. I love it in the pool. I love how it buoys me up. I love its cool refreshment. I love that it churns and bubbles and resists and gives way. And Wolfie loves this water too. We had fun. We laughed and twirled and jumped and loved the water together. It was glorious.

 Story. So what about Wolfie’s story?  Can he ever even come close to grasping what it means to live out his own? Wolfie navigates his life by clinging to what is predictable and repetitive. He watches the same films over and over. He requests the same food. He wants to know what’s coming. He doesn’t like surprise or change. His language, for the most part, is one of memorized lines and repeated phrases – many of which come from movies or songs. His communication springs from well-rehearsed, familiar, and predictable words which he has heard countless times. Until today I assumed it was simply rote repetition.

 Wolfie let me know when he had had enough of the pool. “Hot shower!” signaled that he was ready for the next transition. Amy had explained that he would want to swim, take a hot shower, go to Taco Bell for lunch, come home, have a snack, and watch “American Tail”. We made our way out of the pool and onto the deck to dry off.  Both of us were happy. We had shared our love of water and our love for each other. As we sat together warming and drying, I said to Wolf, “I love you”. He responded, “I know.” (Amy later told me he was quoting a line from “Star Wars”.)  A few moments later Wolfie looked at me and with no prompting from me, and in response to nothing I had said, quoted,

 “It’s a classic story. A toast – to us!”

 Story. It flows from the pen of God. There are no useless lines. Every breath, every move, every choice, every smile or glance or retracted hand becomes the transition to the next line. And we take our place in the grand story of life and love, of sorrow and loss, birth and death, of forgiveness and redemption. We write our lines into the story of our own lives and into the countless lives of those we touch. And sometimes, maybe most times, the setting takes us no further than our own backyard with our own grandchild.

 The day played out for Wolfie and me, and there was one point of difficulty and confusion. In one moment of frustration, he lashed out in aggression and anger. This occurred in a public setting where the opportunity for embarrassment could have overwhelmed me. The outburst took me by surprise, and there was no time to prepare myself for it. In that moment I knew only one thing – I needed to navigate this very wisely and with much grace. The incident was concluded as quickly as it had begun. In his own way Wolf was contrite. In that moment I knew one more thing, “This is not the truest thing about Wolf – about us. This is only one conflict in our story – a conflict which has just added depth and experience and expression.” 

 I need to find out what Wolfie was quoting from earlier. Without even realizing it, he acknowledged what I know to be true, and this is it: we live in a story. Our lives are invaluably linked in ways we may never know. We may actively engage in the writing, or we may be oblivious to the process, but it does not change the truth of our existence. In one loving response, my grandson, who lives out his own story set on the stage of autism, penned a line on the tablet of my heart that he may never be aware of, yet the line is written for eternity. It’s what is true.

 “It’s a classic story. A toast – to us!”

Note: I first wrote this in May of 2011. Wolf is now sixteen-years-old, and while many of his mannerisms remain as I described, he continues to grow into an amazing and delightful young man. He and my daughter Amy just visited from Seattle, and it was a longed-for joy to spend time with them. The ink from this chapter is still wet on our hearts….

Sitting in the silence of early morning calm, favorite mug in hand, favorite dog asleep at my side, I let my eyes rest on the beauty of our Christmas tree. At least I think it is beautiful. It is filled to overflowing with ornaments of every assortment. Some are offerings carefully crafted with chubby, childlike “precision”. Some reveal particular interests or hobbies. Some hang in tribute to family members who have gone before us. Still others are inexpensive baubles included simply to illuminate and multiply light. I like a lot of light. Together they lend their unique charm as they hang in silent, majestic memory and splendor. There is so much of my heart that is addressed by this tree. It goes way back….

Recalling yesterday’s “Let’s put up the Christmas tree” undertaking (it took all day), I smile as I replay particular moments. Five-year-old Sofiia exclaiming that every single ornament she unwrapped was just bee-YOU-tee-ful! “Oh Pama, look at theese one!” It was a small, cheap plastic green candy cane. Couldn’t tell you where it came from, but in the eyes of this small child, it was lovely. The cats, as soon as the tree skirt was laid down, rushing in for their annual, “Hey, they brought us a tree again!” celebration. And of course, my husband Jan leaning close with his camera buried deep in the tree to capture that unique shot.

In my reverie, my eyes fix on one of my favorite adornments. It is a ceramic Native American angel, one of a set of three that my daughter Lisa gave me years ago. I always wait to put them up last because I want them displayed in just the right spots. Looking at her now, I remember pulling her from the box yesterday, and for a moment, thinking, “Oh, maybe I won’t put them up this year. I don’t want them to get broken”. Jan had the same knee-jerk reaction as a favorite ornament would be resurrected from its resting place. “We don’t need to put this one up if you don’t want to…..” Protect rather than offer beauty….

As I bask in the loveliness of our Christmas tree, I take special note of our most prized ornaments – the ones that display their beauty in the presence of inherent risk. For the first time, I acknowledge that I have had to release them to truly enjoy them. Their place of honor in the community of beauty and memories on our tree would sit stark and empty as a testament to fear and to the loss of true beauty that only comes in the face of risk.

And as always, the question comes back to me, “Am I willing to risk in order to offer the beauty of love in me? Risk rejection? Risk hurt? Risk misunderstanding? It is easy to put my heart in a box to ensure it will never get broken. It would be safe there. But my place in the world to which I have been asked to shine will sit stark and empty as a testament to fear. My true beauty, the beauty of Christ in me, will be never be offered. I think I will take the risk. I will offer my heart – the heart of God. My world, my family, my friends are worth it.

Shine.