Monthly Archives: May 2016


I’ve sat down to write several times the last couple of weeks and I draw a blank.

It’s not that things aren’t happening. I think I am just better equipped to handle them when they do happen. I don’t take credit for this; my only skill is trying hard not to be obtuse when God is teaching me things. It’s a steep learning curve, and while I always haven’t been, I’m more open to listening these days.

My fear is gone, replaced with the molten core of peace. We have Jack’s behavior therapist, Junior, who is a game-changer in our ability to keep Jack and everybody else safe and happy. We have Jack’s summer day program so school’s end doesn’t ruin all our lives anymore #blessings.

Long holiday weekends are still long and difficult. Our lives are still bound by the constraints of disabilities. Sometimes I look at my autism-trashed house and want to curl up in a corner and rock back and forth. So I do. While eating chocolate in various forms.

But we are okay. We have the support we need to carry on.

I’m pretty sure this is all anybody in the whole world ever needed in their hardship: the right support.


Whipped Cream and Miracles


I went to high school with Nate Sharp, who is now an LDS bishop and a professor at Texas A&M. He emailed me recently and asked if I would write something about my faith. When people ask if I will talk about a) my life and b) God, I’m like “Duh. Yes.” Writing about hard things and the things I learn from God about the hard things is my thang. The resulting  piece is featured here:


It’s the second to last week of school and my children are so done with all of it. Morning has become a series of negotiations about getting on the bus. I should work in arbitration.

Summer’s imminence actually excites me, now that Jack has his summer day program, which we call “camp.” Mornings will be slightly less harried, with people potentially sleeping until 8:00 AM. It’s the definition of heaven.

Something about leafy green Cottonwoods outside my windows gets me pondering. May is lovely, fresh and full. When I was eighteen, I heard Gordon B. Hinckley speak at a devotional for young adults. It was May. He told us, “You are in the May of your lives. I am in the December of my life.”

That was twenty years ago. President Hinckley has been gone a long time. I suppose I am currently in my metaphorical July. Four kids live here now. I am filled up with growing, planting, nourishing, watering, caring. And long days.

July is when things flourish: plants, heat, insects, thunderstorms, daylight. It’s a hothouse month that produces.

It’s literally May but symbolically July.

Log Flume

This week I dreamed that Jack and I were on a steep, forested hillside. There were tall fir trees and a good amount of deadfall on the ground. Jack was inching on his backside down the mountain, and I struggled to climb over and around the fallen trees to keep up with him.

As we pushed our way downward, a huge log broke loose from the hillside and rolled to the river below. It splashed in the water and floated downstream.

Jack followed the log, jumping in the river. I jumped in, too, terrified. Jack doesn’t swim. Rivers are swift. I’m not strong enough to hold Jack and myself afloat.

I called out to Jeff, who was standing partway up the hill with the other boys, “Jack’s in the river! Help!”

He called back, unfazed, “Just get out.”

I looked ahead and saw an eddy dividing the swift part of the river on the left, from the quiet, protected shallows near the bank on the right. Jeff was right. It would be easy to get out.

Why hadn’t I thought of it?

The dream ended as I plotted how to grab Jack and pull him to the bank.


Good news is, I’m dreaming again.

Still, I don’t know exactly what to make of this dream.

I remember I stopped panicking when Jeff told me to get out the river with Jack. I could see a space to exit the water. But when the dream stopped, Jack and I were still in the rushing river. We hadn’t made it out yet.

As I typed the last sentence, I felt the meaning of the dream crystallize. I interpreted my own dream, people.

It isn’t over. We aren’t out of the river. We are still being pulled by the cold current.

But I know there is a way to climb to safety. There is hope.

Aren’t dreams lovely little allegories?