Tornado

We drove through what remained of our small town where the F4 tornado engraved a ravine-like debris line through: interstate highways, aged trees, now capsized and dead from devouring winds, side roads, and homes.We drove through what remained of our small town where the F4 tornado engraved a ravine-like debris line through: interstate highways, aged trees, now capsized and dead from devouring winds, side roads, and homes. Fences were demolished. Apartment complexes hung open with couches dangling from remains of perilous second stories. Roofs were overturned, landing as post-Christmas yard ornaments. Christmas lights suspended over trees that were not in their original locations. Shingles, wood, and concrete slabs built the view that ended 2015. Heavy rains made it difficult for families to gather what personal items remained, as owners quickly tried to install blue tarps over gaping holes that flapped with sounds of grief.

In the shock, our town tried to rally. People gathered supplies and donations after first responders made it back to their homes 48 devastating hours later. Local shops offered free tire repairs from nail–impaled wheels. Chiropractors gave free adjustments to weary emergency workers. Churches opened doors wider and sang louder in an effort to bring healing to broken ground.

Our home and street experienced little damage. Some roofs had small blue patch work added as the days passed. Our creaky teetering fence didn’t fall as the freight train drove through leading us to run for cover in the laundry room. The roof still contained all 10,000 shingles, but inside, under the roof, the tornado was still spinning. Though we had been given the gift of sporadic eye contact, unsteady winds still swirled around us.

A significant portion of the revolving dross that slugged up our days and years was related to hygiene. It had always been a battle for us with Super. Most boys are apathetic when it comes to brushing teeth, taking baths, cutting nails, and going to the bathroom. They would rather build Lego castles and dirt piles, caring little about how much mud was stuck below their finger nails. Dirt was more like polish instead of a parasite burrow. But in his brain dirt was made to stay there.

Past the age of 2, few parents enjoy these hygienic “rites of passage”. They own them, as written on their parent ID card received at their child’s birth. (It’s written in the fine print somewhere, though, I’ve never read it.)

At age 5, these rites still involved our constant effort instead of mellow supervision. Love Bug–my calm husband–had been in charge of bath-time since Super was a baby. When two more boys were added, he was head of the deck, training more mates on how to splash, scrub, and clean. Squish, the middle child, loved bath-time. Super enjoyed it, but the longer he was in knee deep water the more his body revved up like a cyclone. The echo off the rectangular walls and splashing water made following simple instructions impossible. He couldn’t lather up his body, though, his 2-1/2 year old brother could. When it was time to wash shampoo out of his hair the phrases: “Be Brave!”, “You can do it!”, “Trust me!”, became the captain’s charge. We’d gingerly lean him back, hoping to convince him the three inches of water was not a deep aqueduct leading to his death. It was followed by instructions to dry off and get dressed. Megaphone sounds erupted from my sea captain voyage after voyage with no change. Calming Super down was difficult as his body went one direction and his brain the other, like his pin-ball eyes.

Evenings that required nail cutting necessitated battle armor, and a heavy duty grip to hold fingers and toes in the right positions. We had to prepare all of our hearts for this monstrous chore that created a wild animal out of our son. We tried preparing him in the morning for the cutting event in the evening–hoping time would help him choose a different result. We tried: warning him a few minutes before, no warnings, morning cutting, evening cutting, outside cutting, inside cutting, even brushing his body with calming sensory strokes. It never worked. He always aggressively slithered out of our grip fighting us at every clip. We eventually decided the best option was to strike fast and sing, “Jesus loves me! This I know, for the Bible tells me so; little ones to Him belong, they are weak, but He is strong.”, and get the job done. We’d leave the scene exasperated, stung, and limping ‘till the next engagement, forgetting to hug him because the battle was so fierce.

To be honest, it was hard to hug and hold him with gentle caresses–like a loving mother is supposed to do–before, during, and after these skirmishes. I wanted to run from him, not touch him. The times I did hold him (while taking breaks between exhausting events) meant more negotiations to slither out making the battle go on and on and on. These attempts to reason meant more fighting. They wore me down when I needed all of my mental faculties to complete the task. I struggled to draw near and asked God–who can always draw near–to come and be what I could not for my son. I couldn’t get to my son’s brain so I trusted the God who created it, could. Jesus loved him, this I knew, for the Bible told me so.

As he grew, it became physically harder for me to be in charge when an attack was on the horizon. At age 3, I could carry him in a bear hold up the stairs without fear, though, his body flapped in defiance. Age 4 required more effort, slinging him over my shoulders as his arms punched my back. By 4-1/2 any kind of hold to control his contorted body was impossible. Safety became an issue. Doors, gates, and railings became hazards for everyone. He could out maneuver me, and he knew it. When the red zone became the best option, because safety was more important, I knew this was not what the Lord intended for this boy or for our family.

Lest you think our home was out of control, he thrived in the predictable structure we had established–always warning us when something had been adjusted. Our day started at 8 am, followed by: breakfast, reading and learning time, play time, lunch, more play time, rest time (every day at 2 pm no matter what), Daddy time, dinner, and bed by 8:30 pm. Repeat. Our marriage was solid because Christ–the cornerstone–held us together. We prayed as a family and had fun as a family, but as time went on, it was clear Super wasn’t growing out of his obstacles.

For 9 months I used a small rectangular plastic brush to comb his skin, not his hair. We started each day brushing his arms, legs, and back with calming strokes 100 times to organize the sensory impulses in his mind. Some days the strokes were received well. Others brought the slither out of him. We ended the day with the same loving strokes and prayer. We added jumping, spinning, and sequential exercises during daylight hours to order chaotic synapses. Results varied from compliance to disarray. I stubbornly kept at it.

The chaos of his brain showed tremendous beauty. I taught him how to read at 3-1/2 because he was teaching himself. We started Math–pattern blocks, songs, designs, and addition–because he enjoyed it. His brain was the most calm during these activities, bringing delight to my weary soul. He wanted to learn so I provided the environment. Old encyclopedias handed down from my childhood were rest-time adventure novels. World and US maps tacked to his bedroom wall became expeditions he transcribed on paper labeled with cities, rivers, and interstate highways. His brain was on the move so I filled it with scripture and knowledge. The artistry I saw in our learning and reading times gave me hope to press on.

We started formal homeschooling at 4 years old, joining a community once a week for 3 hours. We decided the Classical Method of learning was the most effective and efficient for our goals and ideals. The focus was on memorizing facts about: history, geography, English, latin, science, math, and a timeline from creation to the present. He’d already memorized full Bible chapters and reading rules–taking the liberty to correct me when I misspoke. These three hours revealed more about his mind. By spring, he’d memorized 24 weeks of 24 facts over all 7 subjects including John 1 in latin. in principio erat Verbum et Verbum erat apud Deum et Deus erat Verbum.

That spring, our days were spent spinning and racing Matchbox cars down ramps while I quizzed him on his facts. I hadn’t planned to have him compete in the memory master challenge, but the information oozed out of his vocal cords day and night. Dinner time was a history sentence rap on constant repeat. I made myself available and drew the facts out while we played games. Before he turned 5, he achieved mastery in memorization. Memorization was Super’s gift, a talent given by God. I felt a responsibility to shepherd and invest in it. To him, Memory Master day was just another day in his brain. To me, it was God’s extravagance on display. I wept at His beauty.

One of the age-old adages you hear as a mom is that you shouldn’t compare your kids to one another. I’m not sure who wrote it, but I’d like to meet her kids. Of course I think there is some truth to it, but when Squish developed some basic skills that Super still struggled with, we realized that we were carrying more than a normal developmental load. The daily exhaustion and exasperation began to make more sense.

The winds of our home had increased after the addition of Caboose–the baby–and then towards the F4 level with my insomnia. There wasn’t enough of us to go around, but God was enough. We had tasted the seconds of eye contact and saw them begin to build into minutes. The honey was so sweet we wanted more minutes, which included the millions of other daily chaotic seconds. The tumultuous winds were a clear act of God moving us in a direction we would not have seen had He not torn us down to utter dependence and desperation.

On New Year’s Eve, Love Bug came downstairs after a bath skirmish and declared he’d had enough. We decided to change Super’s diet and accept the new lifestyle ahead instead of waiting. Our pantry was still half full of sugary snacks and gluten processed breads, but tomorrow there would be no peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. No high fructose corn syrup, no processed sugars, no soy products and no gluten–we were desperate to cast off the heavy burdens that loaded us down.

At breakfast that first morning we prepared Super with our changes. I don’t remember what I fed him to replace what the pantry hid, but by the end of the first day his body showed signs of discomfort. The next morning, his bowels unloaded. He couldn’t keep anything in. We called the doctor to see if this was normal. We were encouraged to proceed, checking back in a few days.

For three days, every bite of food was lost immediately upon consumption. His skin turned white, his lips chapped, but his eyes were sharp. He knew he was sick but he wasn’t afraid. After three days, the constant spinning motion that was part of his resting, playing, every day oscillation, stopped. We never saw it again.

We tried to keep our routine as consistent as possible as we turned our family upside down. We showed up to our homeschool community the first day with lunches of raw vegetables and protein. He devoured the food and showed self-control we had never seen from him before while learning along side his peers. The tornado under our roof faded, as we saw God do things no one would believe.

The apostle John who touched, saw, dined, and reclined with Jesus wrote in 1 John 1:1–4 to remind all believers that Jesus really did what he said he would do. John was an eyewitness testifying to everyone that Jesus was the Son of God.

That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands, concerning the word of life —the life was made manifest, and we have seen it, and I testify to it and proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and was made manifest to us —that which we have seen and heard we proclaim also to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; and indeed our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ. And we are writing these things so that our joy may be complete. (ESV)

Just as John saw Jesus raised from the dead, we saw God help our son with our own eyes. We touched it, lived it, rejoiced in it and now testify to it. The Savior wanted us to know He had the power to rescue our son’s brain and body from the path of disorder to order. By His grace He proved it with more stories to come as healing continued months later. To God be the glory. Soli Deo gloria.