I am writing from Cloudland, our (sort of) new house in the country. Actually, we bought this five acre mini-farm last spring, and obtained occupancy one year ago this month. Not wanting to sell our house of the last 20 years until Joel settled into his new home, we’ve been spending available weekends (which has not been nearly enough) at Cloudland for a year now.

I am so ready to only have one home!

Many of us dream of a vacation home. That idyllic place we can go on weekends, or for entire weeks during the summer or holidays. A place that says, as you pull up to the front door, relax, baby, you’ve been working too hard. It’s time to let your hair frizz, take a break from your makeup, put your feet up and drink a big glass of wine.

Sounds good. But the reality is that two homes means twice the work. Two times the yard work. Two times the housework. Two times the maintenance. Two times the bills to pay. Two times the taxes.

After a rocky start, Joel is finally enjoying his new home, Safe Haven Farms. The daily reports have been awesome for three weeks now. He’s smiling, giggling, singing, dancing, and raising his eyebrows in his trademark Groucho Marx grin.

Oh, the relief! I can’t say I’m quite that happy myself yet, but I’m getting there. It’s hard to walk away from thirty-three years of parenting, twenty-five of them heavy-duty years of care-giving, without feeling out of kilter. It’s like wandering around the grocery store, forgetting what you came in to buy. Or, like walking upstairs to get something, and not having a clue when you get to the top of the steps what you needed. It’s been a groggy, spacey, not-quite-woken-up feeling I’ve been walking around with the past eight weeks.

But getting these daily and weekly reports of Joel’s progress are gradually healing me. The stress is lessening. The smiles are coming more readily. The mind is clearing.

One thing I know with crystal clear clarity. I love Cloudland. This place is a gift from God. I love the view from the front porch, and the way the morning light hits the soybean fields across the street. I love the song of the red-winged blackbirds and the cry of the red tailed hawk. I love the cool green hosta garden that greets me as I walk in and out of the screened-porch. I love the maple trees that shade this 100-year-old house. I love my new kitchen, granny smith green, with its full wall of windows.

I am so ready to move from Cincinnati to Cloudland. To live an undivided life. To cut the work and stress in two, and multiply the joy.

“Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert…for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, the people whom I formed for myself that they might declare my praise.”

I praise you, Lord, for all the new things you are doing in Joel’s life and mine.

Last cup of coffee on the deck at Silver Lake. Time to pack up, clean out the refrigerator, and wash the sheets and towels before leaving. This is a beautiful place, full of the grandeur of God. The silvered surface of the lake when it is calm. The dunes rising up out of the lake. Lake Michigan, just over the dunes, a fresh-water ocean, crisp and clear and oh-so-refreshing.

Oh Lord, our Lord, how majestic is thy name in all the earth!

I will remember this vacation for both its beauty and my sadness. The two will always be inextricably tied together in my memory. I fought the sadness before I realized: it’s okay to be sad. Sadness is part of what it means to be human. Our youngest son has flown the nest. The one I never thought would live on his own. The one who took every ounce of energy and strength and creativity I possessed. The one who gave love so freely. His brothers have been long gone, but Joel’s leaving makes their absence all the more real. Suddenly, we’ve gone from a house full of boys to an empty house. An empty vacation cabin. An empty heart.

In my head I know that is not true. None of these things are truly empty. But this week it’s felt that way. And so, sitting on this deck, looking at this beautiful view, I let myself sit with the sadness. The words of the Lord, spoken to me in prayer years ago, surface.

Wholeness is your emptiness filled with me.

It is in emptying that we are filled.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

A storm is blowing in over the lake, and the wind is picking up. The clouds are black and menacing. But I know they are blown by the wind of the Spirit. The same wind that’s been cleansing me all week long.

I hold onto the truth. Jesus walks with me in the midst of my sadness. He has a hope and a future plan for me, for my marriage, and for my sons.

For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven…a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

It’s okay to be sad. Wally and I will be dancing before I know it

I’m sitting on the deck of an A-frame cottage on the shores of Silver Lake, Michigan. It is windy, and it’s a good thing the orange sun umbrella on the edge of the deck is tied down tight. It twists and turns in the stiff breeze, looking as if wants nothing more than to fly away. The lake is true to its name today, silver, dotted with frothy white waves. It shimmers and shakes, a little lake dance.

The dunes rise up out of the lake to my right; mammoth dunes, feminine and powerful. Yesterday I watched cloud shadows play tag over their surface. No clouds today—the wind has blown them all away. Directly across the lake, and curving around the shoreline to my left, are pine trees. Too far away to see them dip and sway in this wind, but how could they possibly stand still?

I watch a young woman battle her wind-surfer. She cannot, for the life of her, keep the sail up. She pulls against it with all of her strength, and time after time the wind rips it away from her grasp, pulling her down into the water. Gamely, she climbs back on board again and again, determined to make it to the opposite shore. How do I know she is young? Because of her determination and strength.

I am neither determined or strong today, and I am certainly no longer young. I feel old and weak and defenseless in this beautiful spot. The forces of nature, like this mighty wind, conspire against me. Age and its accompanying physical ailments track me like tasty prey. While everyone else is off playing I sit here, struck down by exhaustion. I don’t know how much of it is physical and how much is emotional. I would guess it’s a combination of both that has laid me low on the 2nd day of this much-anticipated vacation.

I miss my son, Joel. That’s the truth of the matter. I miss my sons Matt and Justin as well. We won this week’s vacation in a fundraiser, bidding the highest price (which was actually a major bargain) back in March for a vacation in August. The plan was to get Joel moved into Safe Haven Farms in June, and then gather at this cottage and spend some great family time together several weeks later.

Life is what happens when you’re making plans. Not that we shouldn’t make plans, but still…

As I’ve blogged here before, Joel’s adjustment to the farm has been a roller coaster ride for everyone involved—Joel, me, Wally, and the farm staff and residents. All the old behaviors have resurfaced. Hairpulling, hitting, cussing, and peeing outside. Some of this is stuff we haven’t seen in years! I don’t know why I’m surprised. Transitions have always been really difficult for Joel. And this one was a doozy.

Think about it. Let’s take away EVERYTHING you know—your family, your house, your neighborhood, your bus to work, your work place, your work colleagues, your usual after-work and weekend activities—and introduce you to a new family, a new house, a new neighborhood, a new work place filled with new work colleagues. And while we’re at it, let’s give you a whole new constellation of fun-filled weeknight and weekend adventures.

Are we having fun yet?

Because the transition was so difficult, we were bringing Joel home on weekends. Just Saturday and Sunday, but enough to give him a dose of familiarity in the middle of the unfamiliar landscape in which he found himself (and don’t get me wrong—it’s an absolutely beautiful landscape at Safe Haven Farms. We believe it is an answer-to-prayer landscape!).

But you see, the weekend plan didn’t work. It actually made transition harder. Joel was confused. Which place is home? The place he had always lived, or Safe Haven Farms, the place everyone else keeps telling him is home? And so, Monday and Tuesdays were filled with the old behaviors. Behaviors we had worked for years to overcome.

And so, the request from Safe Haven. “Please consider leaving Joel at the farm for a period of time without a home visit. We really believe this will help him with the transition.”

Okay. I was willing to try that. I missed him that first weekend, but I was willing to do anything to help calm his anxiety; help make life more manageable. I can deal with my own transition issues. It hurts, yes, but I have the intellectual capacity to reason my way through it. To breathe deeply. To meditate. To unburden my feelings with my husband and friends. To write about it here.

Joel? Joel depends on those of us who know him well to make the right decisions for him. And this decision, several weeks without a home visit, felt right. Hopefully, it will help him, knowing that each day will be seamless; waking up at the farm, working and playing at the farm, eating in his new house’s dining room with his new friends and family at the farm, and going to bed in his beautiful new bedroom at the farm. And, of course, Mom and Dad and other family members visiting him in his new home on a regular basis.

Which leaves us here, on the shores of Silver Lake, Michigan, without him. Our friend Sarah, who we had lined up to come along to help out with Joel, is here with us, a fun companion, but at the same time a constant reminder of Joel’s absence. Our daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, whom I love dearly, came up for a few days, but our other two sons were unable to make it. It’s left me feeling woozy and off-center, like a major body part has just been amputated and I’ve come to a beautiful place to recover.

The wind is relentless today. It makes me tired, even though the sun is shining, the lake is glittering, and the towels are flapping to the bouncy rhythm of the umbrella’s dance. I scan the lake, looking for the young woiman on her uncooperative wind-surfer. No sign of her. She must have made it across the lake! The gray cloud hanging over my head lifts, just enough to let me reach into my mind’s memory and haul out some words that have comforted me in the past, spoken by the mystic, Dame Julian of Norwich: All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. I take a big breath in and blow it out, look up at the perfectly blue sky, and allow the wind to sweep me clean.

Have you ever given birth? Remember the stage of labor called “transition”?

Transition: “A period during childbirth that precedes the expulsive phase of labor, characterized by strong uterine contractions and nearly complete cervical dilation.”

Ouch!

I’m 57, soon to turn 58. It may be physically impossible, but here I am, in the throes of transition. No, I’m not birthing a baby. I am birthing new life. And guess what? It hurts!

Two years ago, in dream after dream, I was either pregnant, in the process of giving birth, or holding a beautiful baby girl. I’m no stranger to dream work. I knew the dreams meant big changes were coming. Just what those changes would be, I hadn’t a clue. I just knew something was about to change.

My husband felt it too, this whisper of new life. And so we began to prepare by praying, talking, dreaming, and planning together. Looking back, I see that it was a nesting time, sort of like the months that preceded my sons’ births: decorating the nursery; buying, washing, and folding baby clothes; finishing long-put-off house projects; getting the house ready for a new bundle of life.

Little by little, God’s plan began to unfold. Wally and I bought the house in the country we’ve prayed for and dreamed of for 15 years. We had prayed throughout Joel’s adolescence for the perfect place for him to live as an adult. Suddenly, it materialized, right in front of our eyes. We were able to get in on the ground floor of Safe Haven Farms, a brand new farm community for adults with autism, within an hour of our home. My third book, Autism & Alleluias , was accepted by Judson Press, opening new avenues in my work as a writer and speaker in the field of disability ministry.

Nesting began in earnest as we readied our inner and outer homes for new life.

Instead of taking natural childbirth classes, we practiced what it would be like once all of these changes were made. We found more time to pray together and visualize our future. Did some deep breathing in anticipation of the pain. Spent weekends at the new house (we’re not moving until Joel is well settled in his new home). Bought some new furniture and renovated the chicken coop into a prayer and meditation space. Marketed the new book and pursued speaking engagements.

Labor progressed, smoothly and inexorably. Then, out of the blue, transition hit. Sweet God in Heaven, the pain!

Joel moved six weeks ago. The doorway to his neat and tidy bedroom stares at me with reproach every morning. I’ve taken to closing the door to shush the lonely story told by its emptiness. I toss and turn at night, wondering how he is sleeping, who he enjoys being with, who bugs him, or, God forbid (my biggest fear), hurts him.

Our middle son, Justin, and his wife Elizabeth, just informed us that they’re moving to Montana this fall. Justin has worked with his dad in the family business for 7 years. Not only does this father/son team work together; they fish, ride motorcycles, and golf together. Elizabeth is my pedicure buddy, my movie companion. I can’t imagine life without them here.

Our oldest son, Matt, recently moved back to Ohio from Oregon and currently lives in our country retreat. Another transition awaits in the wings.

I have the opportunity to write another book, but first I have to write a bang-up proposal. There is grant-writing to do for Safe Haven Farms, workshops and speeches to prepare, a young adult novel to finish.

My mother is struggling with memory loss. We are soon to sell her house of 40-plus years, and help her move to a retirement community. It’s time to plant a for sale sign in front of our home of 20 years, so that we can move into our country retreat. Time to discover what God’s plans are for us as a couple, now that child-rearing is behind us, and our main focus is no longer raising a son with autism.

Transition: “A period during childbirth that precedes the expulsive phase of labor, characterized by strong uterine contractions and nearly complete cervical dilation.”

I remember thinking I might die during that phase of labor (I went natural with all three of my boys). Three times, while in labor, I knew that life would never be the same. It’s true again today. Life will never be the same.

An old life is dying.

A new life, with God as labor coach, is being birthed…

If I can just make it through transition!

Boardwalk creaks and groans
under foot; lily pads await
their lilies while a red-winged
blackbird practices whistling.
Cat tails bend and bow
in homage as Spirit
wind parts the path
before me.

Swing awaits on higher ground.
River sparkles, holy water
to douse my troubles.
A gentle rhythm pumps
my legs; to and fro,
to and fro, to and fro,
whispering, rest now,
rest now, rest now.

Eyelids flutter when golden
glimmer under foot interrupts.
A dragonfly wing!
Gossamer thin, perfectly
formed for flight.
I sit, entranced, surrounded by
Fairy wings, scattered,
iridescent in the sun.

Do dragonflies come
here, like me, to unburden?
Discard what’s worn-out,
what’s no longer working?
Make room for new wings,
Spirit sprouts flash-
dancing in the sun,
to fly, even higher, tomorrow?

I sit on the deck, the morning sun warming the back of my head, and listen to a choir of birds and cicadas as I drink my cup of tea. My silk robe softly flaps around my legs as a cool breeze blows in from the east. The sky is summer blue, and wispy white clouds form a steppingstone path toward the sun.

Sheer heaven, after two weeks of an intense heat wave. For two weeks, every time I opened the door it felt as if I were stepping into a sauna. A soupy, polluted, stinking sauna! This is the first morning I’ve spent outdoors since the beginning of July. I’ve missed my morning quiet times on the deck. I drink in the morning, thirsty for more.

During the heat wave I’ve been holed up in my study, working on several projects, one of which is preparing a workshop on contemplative prayer. The feeling I have this morning, sitting on the deck, basking in this glorious morning, relieved beyond measure that the heat and humidity have dissipated, is much like the feeling that contemplative prayer brings.

Relief. Release. Burdens lifted. A feeling of coming home. An I-could-stay-here-forever feeling.

Sheer heaven.

I have absolutely no control over the weather. A hot front moves in from the southwest, bringing with it 90% humidity and a heat index in the 100’s, and there’s not a darn thing I can do to stop it. And so, I cope. I stay in the house, crank up the air-conditioning, and tend my desk instead of my garden. I take my mother to a movie. Go out to dinner with friends. All, of course, in restaurants with air-conditioning.

I wait for relief, release, burdens to be lifted; a feeling of coming home; an I-could-stay-here-forever feeling. I wait for a break in the weather; something totally beyond my control.

And yet, all I have to do is close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and call upon the name of the Lord.

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

Allow the pictures and thoughts flowing across the movie screen of my mind to keep on rolling, without paying attention to them; simply pulling my mind back to my centering words.

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

Allow the burdens to fall away, one by one.

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

Breathe deeply. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, until heart rate slows. And then, I simply wait. Wait for the undeniable, undescribable presence of the Lord to fill me from top to bottom. The glory of the Lord, warming, relaxing, renewing every cell in my body.

Relief. Release. Burdens lifted. A feeling of coming home. An I-could-stay-here-forever feeling.

Sheer heaven, no matter the weather.

I sit on the deck in the (relative) cool of the evening. 96 degrees has dipped to 89, and a hint of a breeze plays through the walnut’s leaves in the humid soup of air. I sit, limp and dejected. While the humidity has frizzed my hair, anxiety over Joel’s new placement at Safe Haven Farms has frizzed my mind and spirit. I can’t seem to find the words to pray, or the focus to meditate. I trudge through my days, sending e-mails, fielding phone calls, making appointments, driving back and forth to the farm—whatever I can do to exert some control over the situation.

Slumped in a wicker chair I stare at the haze hanging over the woods behind the house, my brain free-falling into a mosquito-cloud of what-if’s. What if this placement doesn’t work? What if Joel gets lost on the farm? What if someone hurts him? What if he is bored? What if his behavior regresses? What if, what if, what if…

Mike, our next door neighbor, fires up his lawn mower, and my unfocused eyes swing toward the source of the noise. Focusing, they alight upon a flower basket hanging at the edge of the deck. Purple petunias, pink impatiens and vinca vine, just this morning gloriously full, are dried and dusty, withered and wilted.

It is one sad sight.

Sighing, I get up and walk down the steps to turn on the hose, still warm from the furnace of the day, and blast the flowers with a spray of tepid water. I have little hope that the flowers will survive.

The next morning I carry my cup of tea to the deck along with the morning paper, hoping to beat the heat. My eyes are met by the miraculous sight of a completely restored basket of flowers.

What was dead is now alive!

I sip my tea and soak in the sight of this beautiful plant until my eyes lose their focus. I let myself sink down into that place of prayer that has eluded me these past several days.

Twenty minutes later, I, too, am fully restored.

It is going to be another scorcher today. And yes, Joel will continue to have his difficult moments at Safe Haven Farms. But there is Joel’s good day yesterday to celebrate, God’s faithfulness to recall to memory, and a promise of rain by the weekend.

As Jesus said, only one thing is necessary.

Help me remember, Lord, that one thing you spoke of is spending time in your presence.

I am on a heron search. Ever since that day when a great blue heron rose through mist on the roadside pond, immense wings beating with a slow, steady rhythm, flew parallel to my window for several beats, then ascended with a powerful surge over the car, out of my line of vision.

Those few strong wing strokes fanned a spark – kindled a flame of desire in my heart to rise above the mundane details of daily life, to catch the glowing beauty all around me and store it in my jar of memory.

And so I’m on a heron search. He surprises me here and there, my heron friend; fishing, lakeside, as I walk the trail around Winton Woods; hiding in the reeds on the edge of the pond at Parky’s Farm; flying gracefully overhead in a cloud-swept sky. We’re getting well acquainted. Each time we meet I uncover a new lesson he’s come to teach me.

A study in meditation, he reminds me to slow down, to pay attention, to savor the moment, to live in the present. He tells me to practice patience, to study my surroundings, to walk softly ’round the pond, lest my footsteps disturb new life.

Rise above, heron tells me. Rise above petty details. Rise above binding worry. Rise above self. And when you come back to earth, walk in beauty, walk in grace, walk in watchful wonder.

We moved Joel in to Safe Haven Farms yesterday. He was fairly agitated the first 90 minutes, while Wally and I worked in his bedroom, making his bed, hanging pictures, putting away clothes, etc. With one of the staff, Laura, following him, Joel ran from the barn to the pond to the office, and back to his house, only to run the circuit again and again—barn, pond, office, house; barn, pond, office, house. Laura looked hot, flushed, and bedraggled by the time he finally tired out and came in the house. Thankfully, just before we left, Joel sat down to eat his dinner (everyone else had already eaten while he was circling the farm).

Wally and I entered the kitchen separately to say our goodbyes. Between mouthfuls Joel mumbled, “See you later, Mr. Wally” (a term of endearment for his dad) to his father. When Wally exited the kitchen I entered, leaning down to kiss Joel’s forehead. I said, “Have fun at camp, Joel” (We’ve been talking about how Safe Haven Farms was going to be sort of like camp—something he could relate to and has enjoyed in the past). “Have fun, Mom. Bye,” and continued chowing down. No fanfare, no tears, just “Bye!”

Mohamed called me at 11 pm to say that Joel had gone to bed without any problem, and was sound asleep when he left at 11. Our tears came later, when we went to bed. After a lot of sniffing and blowing of noses, Wally asked, “Why are we crying? We’re doing the right thing!”

“I think we’re crying for the end of an era. The era of Joel,” I answered between sniffs. Not that Joel is “gone” - he will be home to visit often—this weekend, in fact—but we truly have come to an end of our child-raising years. 30-plus years of them. Joel just happened to be the last of our boys, and the one who demanded the most of us, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. It’s quite the hole he is leaving in our home.

I received a brief e-mail tonight, from the parent of one of the staff. “Mike said he thought he was in pretty good shape,” Denny wrote, “but he’s not quite in “Joel shape.””

I had to laugh. Yes, Joel will require whoever works with him to be in the best shape of their lives. Not only physically, but emotionally and spiritually as well. You can’t help but grow in Joel’s presence.

I hope my growing years aren’t over, just because Joel has moved out!

“It’s can’t be much different than getting a kid ready to go to college!” I’ve heard that comment numerous times as I’ve prepared our 25-year-old son, Joel, for his move into his new home, Safe Haven Farms, a farming community for adults with autism located in Butler County.

Wrong. Sure, we all shed a few tears when we send a child off to college. But parents of children with disabilities deal with what’s called “chronic grief.” It’s not that we’re constantly grieving, but that we recycle through the grief process every time our kids hit a new developmental milestone. Moving away from the family nest is a huge milestone on this particular young man’s journey—and on this mom’s (and dad’s) journey as well.

In my grief it’s as if I’m reliving my life. One day I’m an infant, latching onto Joel’s arm so tightly that someone might have to pry my fingers off on move-in day. The next day I’m a two-year-old, who can’t make up her mind if she wants Joel to come or go. Hello! Goodbye! Hello! Goodbye! Next, I’m a teenager, chomping at the bit for a life of my own, then slinking back to ask for just a few more days with my son.

Don’t get me wrong. Safe Haven Farms is the answer to prayer. We’ve always believed our son would thrive in a farm community, and here it is, brand-spanking-new, right in our own backyard. Thanks, God! It’s a place Joel will call home for the rest of his life. He is not losing a family; he’s gaining one. He will share his beautiful new house with 3 other guys, and the farm with 16 other “farmers.”

Safe Haven is exactly what its name implies—a safe place, a serene place, with a big patch of sky and fluffy white clouds scudding along on the breeze. It is a place of acceptance and encouragement, with a staff well-trained in autism The “farmers” will be engaged in meaningful work—raising produce they will prepare for lunch and dinner, as well as sell at farmer’s markets; caring for the horses they will ride in a therapeutic riding program; feeding the sheep, alpaca and goats; getting sensory needs met in a state-of-the-art sensory room; and continuing their life-long education in the learning center. It doesn’t get much better than this!

So, why am I crying? No doubt the looming empty nest is part of my grieving. There will be a big hole left by this big lug of a guy who has required so much of our time, patience, and love. Another part of the sadness, however, is what we are leaving behind. As I mentioned earlier, Safe Haven Farms is in Butler County. For twenty-five years, Joel has received services through Hamilton County. We’ve made friends of a lifetime here.

How we will miss our friends at the Beckman Adult Center, run by the Hamilton County Board of Developmental Disabilities. Four years ago, as he neared graduation, Joel’s team didn’t think he would be capable of working without one-on-one support as an adult. Beckman proved them wrong! The top-notch staff at Beckman has played a huge role in raising Joel’s skills and confidence. Rhonda and Julius, I stand in awe!

How hard it is to say goodbye to Starfire, an awesome club for teens and adults with disabilities. Twice a month, for twelve years, Starfire has provided social and volunteer opportunities for Joel. That’s nearly 300 outings! Starfire has strengthened Joel’s social skills, introduced him to new friends, and gave him something to look forward to each and every month.

And how we will miss those Saturday mornings at Parky’s Farm, where Joel participates in Winton Wood’s therapeutic riding program. Joel has been a regular there for nearly 15 years. The volunteers in this program have done so much to raise Joel’s self-awareness, not to mention raising his joy level.

Saying goodbye is always difficult, even when what waits ahead is part of God’s plan for your life. Thanks, Rhonda, Julius, Duerk, Chris, Sandy, Gio, Tim, Lauren, Beth, Cowboy, Andrea, and all of the rest of you in Hamilton County who have played such a big part in Joel’s life and well-being over the past 25 years. Keep up the fantastic work of matching people with developmental disabilities with passionate, fun-loving, and devoted volunteers. You’ve enriched our lives beyond measure.