“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.

Reading Henri Nouwen’s book, Here and Now: Living in the Present, I am pierced by his use of the wagon wheel as a metaphor for our life with God. He writes, “These wheels help me to understand the importance of a life lived from the center. When I move along the rim, I can reach one spoke after the other, but when I stay at the hub, I am in touch with all the spokes at once.”

Henri’s words touch a tender, sore spot within my heart this morning. As I read and re-read his words, I feel like I’m probing a bruise. Have you ever done that? You gently prod and probe, asking, “How did this happen? How long before it fades away?” Exhausted from a deluge of events—some good, some bad—that have washed over me this spring, I am suddenly and keenly aware that this bruised, fatigued feeling is the result of traveling so far from the center.

It began with a mission trip to Rome. Two weeks on the mountaintop, walking the streets of an ancient city in prayer, led by the Holy Spirit, in the company of good friends—brothers and sisters in Christ. Life doesn’t get much better than this. Coming home, re-entry jolted me to the core. How I missed the intensity of the prayer times together with the team, and my friends, who live so far away. Phone calls don’t do justice to friendships of the soul.

Then, the publication of my newest book, Autism & Alleluias. Another mountaintop! Next, the work of marketing—speaking events, interviews, guest blog posts. For an introvert who prefers the shadows, the trip down the mountain was immediate, leaving me, once again, muscle-sore and fatigued.

And then, out of nowhere, my brother Dave’s death. Nothing prepares a person for the sudden death of a loved one. And yet, one must hold it together, for awhile at least, and go forward with the work of putting a body to rest, of calling forth the beauty and purpose of the lost one’s life.

Then, there’s my mother, struggling with memory and aging issues. Trying to convince her that she will be happier in a retirement community, surrounded by new friends, her mind engaged by activities and classes. Accompanying her to therapy appointments, while she comes to terms with the realities of aging. Readying her house for sale, still trying to convince her that this is the best solution.

And then, there’s our son Joel, now 25, on the cusp of adulthood—moving out of the only home he’s ever known, into a “place of his own.” Because he has autism, and will never be able to truly live on his own, we’ve chosen Safe Haven Farms, a “community of choice for adults with autism” (www.safehavenfarms.org). He moves next week. So much to do–paper work as we change counties, new friendships to form, furniture to buy, a room to decorate, social stories to put together to help Joel with the transition. Years of dreaming and praying and discerning the Lord’s plan for Joel’s life have led us to this place, this time, this decision. My excitement is running high, but my grief is deep and fresh.

Reading Henri’s words, meditating on the image of a many-spoked wheel, I see myself running around the perimeter of that wheel like a hamster in a cage, each event of the past six months a separate spoke. I run from one to another, giving it my energy, my thoughts, my prayers, my time. Today I’ll deal with Mom, tomorrow, Joel. Next week I’ll do some marketing on my book, on Saturday I’ll grieve for my brother. Sunday I’ll call my brother’s sons and see how they’re doing. On Monday I’ll check in with my brother and sister and see how they’re dealing with their grief. Oh no, I have several appointments regarding Joel’s moves next week—I’ll have to put the grief work aside. Oh no! If we don’t get Mom’s house on the market this summer, we’ll lose potential customers who want to be settled in their new home before school starts. And still, there’s my other two sons and daughter-in-law, my friends, the brothers and sisters in my small group, and on and on and on…

I’m stuck on this revolving wheel, running ’round and ’round, faster and faster, trying to keep my balance, my heart pounding, chest heaving, legs wobbling, trying to make it from one spoke to the next.

No wonder I am so exhausted. No wonder my heart is tender and bruised. In all the busyness, all the emotional and physical juggling, I’ve forgotten to go to the center each day. The hub of the wheel, where God abides. The hub, where God’s power and wisdom and energy reside.

I re-read Henri’s words and sit in silence. Be still and know that I am God. I repeat these words over and over, a mantra to calm my chaotic monkey-mind. Be still and know that I am God. Be still and know that I am God.

Slowly, inexorably, the wheel slows, the momentum is lost, I lose my balance and instead of speeding up, allow myself to slide down a spoke of the wheel.

I sit in silence at the hub. Henri’s words echo in my mind. “When I stay at the hub, I am in touch with all the spokes at once.”

Here, at the hub, I am in touch with the presence of God. Here, at the hub, I can live my life with the power and energy and wisdom of the Spirit. Here, at the hub, Jesus holds me up, infuses me with the energy I need to be in touch with all the spokes of my life today.

Here at the hub, I am loved.

My brother Dave died six weeks ago. It feels so weird to type the words in black and white. The shock of the initial news, quickly followed by the surrealistic task of choosing a casket and cemetery plot, followed by the bizarre ritual of the funeral itself, left me as limp and sour as a used dishrag. I’m wondering when this numb and flat-out exhausted feeling will go away.

Something is not right about dying at the age of 53. He may have outlived our father by four years (our dad passed away at the age of 49 after receiving a heart transplant in 1979), but Dave was still way too young to die. 6’2” and movie-star-handsome (Mom always said he could be Tom Sellek’s twin), Dave was blessed with an intelligence that put my meager little brain to shame. Dave was also a rebel, a boundary-breaker, rule-breaker, and system-bucker. And yet, he won forgiveness for every broken rule with his heart-throb smile and laid-back drawl.

It was impossible not to love Dave, no matter how much he got under your skin.

Any family that lives with an alcoholic knows that addiction is a family affair. Every member of the family plays a role in the disease. As with most alcoholics, Dave played the Scapegoat in our family. If only Dave would come to his senses and stop drinking, everything would be fine…life would be better…everyone would be happy. Mom wore the Enabler’s hat, and found herself sucked even more deeply into that role after our dad died. As the oldest sibling I made myself and wore a Hero’s costume. In my case, the Hero played out as Peacemaker. I learned that smoothing the choppy waves of family life was the way to happiness. If I worked really hard at being a mediator, maybe my family could be “normal.” My little sister and youngest brother played their own roles. We did this for years. It became second nature, unconscious, seemingly unchangeable.

Our family system hit a towering wall of waves the day Dave died. Our carefully crafted system started taking on water the moment we received the news. I no longer had the stomach to play Hero, so I threw my toys into a lifeboat and rowed myself home before the ship sunk. My brother and sister escaped in separate lifeboats. As for Mom, I keep praying that she can keep her head above water. What happens to an Enabler when the person she depended on for symbiosis is no longer there? Can you swim on your own—create a whole new identity for yourself—at the age of 79?

Physically, my brother Dave is gone. I will not see him again until we meet in heaven. He leaves behind two sons, ages 19 and 17; young men who are tall, handsome and intelligent, just like their dad; young men who will suffer without a father, just as my siblings and I suffered without ours.

But even so, beyond the numbness and fatigue, I hear a still, small voice calling. It is a voice that will be heard. It speaks a truth that trumps the savage consequences of addiction; the dysfunctional family dynamics that kept us afloat for so long.

The truth is this: God is love. God loves Dave and drew him to Himself. God loves me. God loves my mother, my sister, my remaining brother, and Dave’s beautiful boys. God has stopped the merry-go-round. “Step off,” he says in a soft and gentle voice. “You don’t need to play these roles any longer. I created you for a purpose. Take time to learn what that purpose is. Don’t let anything stand in your way. Not addiction, or co-dependence, low self-esteem or anxiety, denial, fear, guilt, grief, or people who treat you as if you have no value….

“For I want you to know, down to the deepest part of you, down to your very bones, that you are who I created you to be. Your very footprint was fashioned by me, and in my book are written all the days of your life.”

I have no doubt you’re in a better place, Dave. Soak up all of that unconditional love. I’ll try to do the same. And save me a place at the table, bro’. We have a lot of catching up to do.

We watch the moon rise, Mommy and me.

Outside, she saw it coming. She crashed through the screen door to fetch me, grabbing my hand and hurrying me up Benton Avenue for a better view.

It hangs at the end of the street, a giant peach in the night sky, bigger than a house—bigger than two houses!

The man in the moon looks down on me, and I stare back at him. I reach out my hand to touch him, to pluck him from the sky, thinking maybe I can take him home to play.

And as the moon rises, there is a rising in my chest, a peachy-pink moon rising inside of me, so big, so round, I can’t contain it. It rises and rises, at the end of the street and in my chest until my chest hurts—I can’t swallow—I’m sure I will burst like the peaches Mommy plunks in boiling water to remove their skins, the pulp underneath juicy and sweet for my favorite peach pie.

How can the moon hang in the sky, my five-year-old self wonders, yet be stuck in my throat, as if swallowed whole?

That giant peach of a moon, my mother’s greatest gift to me, is hidden yet inside of me. It rises when sunset paints the sky, when a heron rises up, great wings beating, when a baby giggles. It starts, this rising, with a pressure in the chest, a lump in the throat, followed by an explosion of joy.

Hot, sweet peaches bursting their skins.

Buffeted by ocean tumult
Crucified on timeless beach
Buried by storm and sand
Risen whole
Exposed by tide
Bleached by sun
Carried home as talisman
Lesson in adversity

Delicate
as baby’s breath
Brittle
as old woman’s bone
Weightless
as Christ’s presence
Powerful
as confessed weakness

Flawless flower
etched on orb
Hollow center
cradles dove
Strength in weakness
Christ in me
His grace
sufficient

Whenever I’m at my lowest, my most frustrated; when I feel close to defeat or despair, God gives me a gift. I’ve come to count on it. This particular day was no different. Losing the struggle to bring some clarification in my mind and my words to the theme of an article I was working on - embracing our brokenness - I finally threw everything aside for some fresh air, and hopefully, a fresh perspective.

A deep stillness hung over the woods as I walked, its peacefulness gradually permeating my spirit. My black lab, Poco, ran on ahead, nose to the ground, snuffling in the snow. A loud crackling and crashing in the underbrush to the right of the path broke the silence. I stopped. Leashing the dog, I listened, peering intently into the thicket from which the sound originated. It sounded like something big. Was it a deer? Perhaps a fox? Poco strained against the leash. A flash of red, a hint of gray - and a fat robin hopped out of the bushes, looked at me quizzically, and continued making a lot of racket in his search for something to eat. Definitely not what I’d expected. I smiled, said hello, and raised my eyes to walk on, only to have my gaze arrested by the large and luminous eyes of a doe.

She stood, still as a statue, maybe twenty feet away, her tawny coat blending perfectly into the brown and gray backdrop of beech trees and bare brush. Surrounded by mist rising from the melting snow, she appeared otherworldly. Only her eyes, wide and watching, witnessed to her lifeblood and vitality. Her beauty took my breath away.

A gift, freely given during this chance encounter in the woods. Jumbled thoughts fell into place. The suffering and pain that enters our lives is like the crashing and thrashing of that robin in the underbrush. It is the noise that stops us in our tracks. Pain, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, sends a loud message: Slow down! Pay attention! We’re forced to put everything else aside in our attempt to decipher the source of the noise; in our endeavor to make sense out of seemingly senseless suffering.

At first, our attention is focused on the brokenness. Where did it come from? Who is causing it? Why me? Why my loved one? How do I get rid of it? Gradually, when we stop struggling to find an answer, when we simply accept the fact that this broken place is now a part of our lives, we begin to sense a presence. Like the doe encountered on my walk, it is a presence of great calm, great beauty, great power and great mystery. Although we sense the presence, in order to see it we must turn our full attention; heart, soul, and mind; toward it. When we do so, we discover that it is Christ himself, waiting in the midst of our brokenness

Today is Good Friday. Some of us will use this time to reflect on Christ’s death on the cross, and what that means for us personally. But many of us, in our rush to get to Easter, will dash past Good Friday and that horrific image of Christ on the cross. After all, we think, we are a resurrection people. We want beautiful crosses; empty crosses of gold, burnished copper, polished walnut. We shield our eyes and spirits from the gruesome details of death by crucifixion.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes, “Our God is a suffering God.” Jesus’ suffering on the cross is central to understanding the character of God. A God who never gives up on us; who loves us, broken, disobedient and sinful people that we are. A God who loves us enough to send his Son into the world as a living, breathing, human being; a man who, although fully divine, experiences all that it means to be human, including the capacity to suffer. A God whose power is displayed through weakness.

In the words of Paul , “…We preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God” (1Cor. 1:23-24). Jesus Christ, the power of God; Jesus Christ, the wisdom of God; God’s power and wisdom displayed through Jesus’ broken, crucified body. It is through Christ’s suffering and death on the cross that we can be assured not only that we live as a redeemed people, but that our God stands with us, cries with us, suffers with us, in the broken places of our lives.

Each Lenten season we are given a new opportunity to meet Christ at the cross. Find a time to sit in silence. Contemplate the suffering He took on for you. Share your broken places with Him. Cry out to Him. Cry with Him. Allow yourself to simply wait, with open hands. The Lord has a gift for you. He stands in the shadows. Do you see Him? His beauty will take your breath away. He is speaking through the pain. Will you take time to listen?

Lost
One diamond ring
25th anniversary gift
Antique filigree setting
Priceless

I feel naked
Vulnerable
Exposed
Out of sorts
Angry

I’m quick to blame
Joel, resident
Tidy-upper,
Tucker of found objects
Into hard-to-find places

On hands and knees
With flashlight I search
Under couches, beds, dressers,
In baskets, drawers, cupboards,
Behind wardrobes, desks, bookcases

Sadness bubbles up
Inexplicable grief,
As if I’ve lost
Part of myself, not
Simply a piece of jewelry

What’s this about? the Lord
Asks in a whisper
This ring isn’t priceless
Priceless is you, Wally, Joel,
Matt, Justin, Elizabeth

He names us
Sons and Daughters of God
Pearls beyond price
Jewels of His eye
Beloved

I find the ring
Later that day,
Under a pile of papers
on my desk. Rejoice
at who I am in Christ

In my Lenten reflections this morning, I came upon this strange passage from the book of Numbers:

“The people came to Moses and said, “We have sinned by speaking against the Lord and against you; pray to the Lord to take away the serpents from us.” So Moses prayed for the people. And the Lord said to Moses, “Make a poisonous serpent, and set it on a serpent of bronze, and put it upon a pole; and whenever a serpent bit someone, that person would look at the serpent of bronze and live.” Numbers 21:7-9

My reference book tells me that the Israelites have been “murmuring” in the desert—complaining there is not enough food, not enough water; they’re tired of eating manna, for goodness sakes! As punishment, God sends a host of poisonous snakes, and people who are bitten, die. The people quickly repent of their sin of sedition, and Moses prays for them. God tells Moses to make a fiery serpent and “set it on a serpent of bronze, and put it upon a pole.” From then on, whenever a poisonous serpent bit someone, they could look upon the serpent of bronze and live.

I learn in John 3:14 that this passage presages Jesus being lifted up upon the cross: “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”

I go into prayer, asking the Lord to show me the poisonous snakes that threaten my own life, hoping that once I identify them, I can more easily lift my eyes to Jesus and live. I’m tired this morning (the first Monday of Daylight Savings Time—ugh!), so I don’t expect any fireworks. Ha. I should know better.

The first serpent that rises up is the situation with my mom. She is in the first stages of memory loss, and we’re trying to help her make the decision to sell her big, four bedroom suburban home and move into a retirement community where she will not be so isolated. It’s not going well, to say the least. I love my mom, but the first word that comes to mind to describe her, other than loving, is stubborn. So, how am I handling the situation? I’m ranting and raving (in private, of course); my anxiety is giving me palpitations, and I want more than anything to run away and hide. Poisonous serpents, indeed! Okay, Lord, I get it. I lift my eyes to you. I can’t do this on my own. Help me remember to come to you in prayer instead of throwing a hissy fit when things don’t go the way I believe they should in this situation.

I wait. Sure enough, another den of writhing snakes appears. This time, it’s my anxiety over the speaking engagements coming up. I’ve struggled with performance anxiety for years. It doesn’t matter that I always get up and do my thing without mishap; that people seem to enjoy my talks; that no one has ever thrown rotten tomatoes at me. Whenever I have a speech or workshop to prepare, the anxiety wraps around me like a boa constrictor, threatening suffocation. Alright Lord, point well taken. I’m not the one in charge here. You are. I lift my eyes to you and rely on you to give me the words and courage I need.

Yet another knot of snakes crawls into my mind’s eye. Joel’s upcoming move to Safe Haven Farms. This is one active den of vipers! My doubts and anxieties threaten to overwhelm my carefully-constructed vision of a wonderful future for my son. Three housemates? Too many! Healthy food? No way! Lessened anxiety? You’ve got to be kidding! Therapeutic horseback riding? We haven’t even started researching grants for this yet! Staff well-trained in autism? I’ve heard that before! It’s hard to pull my eyes away from the poisonous snakes that threaten to eat me alive. But I do. Lord, I lift my eyes to you. I know, if I do so, I will live, that Joel will live, that our future, planned out by God from the beginning of time, will blossom.

Yes, this was one weird Scripture I stumbled across this morning. But, as usual, it was just what I needed to read and reflect upon. I get it, Lord.

I choose life. I lift my eyes to you.

“And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, “This is the way, walk in it,” when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.” Isaiah 30:21

I sit with a cup of cappuccino and my computer on a balcony in Rome, overlooking Roma San Pietro. An occasional train speeds past, rattling the apartment’s foundation, drowning out the sounds of street traffic with a thunderous clatter. Wally and I are here on mission with Bridge for Peace, a healing ministry. We’re here to pray for priests and religious from around the world, many of them here in Rome from third-world countries, studying for licensure or doctoral degrees. Desperately in need of encouragement, these men and women are far from home, studying difficult courses in a language (Italian) they do not know. They are lonely, isolated in a foreign culture, eating strange foods, and struggling to get by with very little money.

Why has God called me to this particular mission? This question perplexed me as I prepared for this trip, and has cropped up even in the midst of the mission. You see, I’m not Catholic.

Even though I ask the question—why?—I know without a doubt that God has called me to this place, this week, this work, this team. I am here for a purpose. Could one of those purposes be that I have much to learn about listening for God’s voice?

It’s not that I don’t listen. As a contemplative, I am a listener by nature. I listen regularly for God’s voice in the Scriptures. I listen daily for the words “I love you,” “I have chosen you,”and “I am with you.” I listen to the sound of the Spirit in the words of others.

I listen first thing in the morning, when I hand my day over to God. But then I get caught up in forging my own path through the day. Meditation. Grocery shopping. Three hours working on an article or my book. Lunch with a friend. Pay the bills. Fix dinner. Time with Wally. Read a good book in bed before going to sleep.

This Thursday, on St. Peter’s Square, I experienced a paradigm shift. A shift as thunderous as the roar of the train clattering past my balcony.

Ed, my partner for the afternoon, and I stood under one of the porticos on the square and looked out over its vast expanse. We’d just finished eating a panini from one of the many venders outside the square, and were about to resume our prayer walk. The sun glinted off the water cascading down the fountain in front of us, turning it silver. Many people strode across the cobblestones with purpose, while others wielded cameras, posed for photos, or lounged against the columns, eating pizza. One young man tripped his girlfriend and made her fall, then jumped on top of her for a smooch. We must be in Rome, I thought with a smile.

Ed looked at me. “Which way do you feel led to go?” he asked.

Something tugged me to the right. “This way,” I said, stepping out. We walked slowly, eyes open for anyone the Lord might lead us to. Suddenly, there he was. A swarthy-skinned man in the brown robes of a Franciscan monk, a wooly yellow scarf wound ’round his neck.

I pulled on Ed’s coat sleeve. “There!” I whispered, as I walked toward the man.

When our paths intersected, I held out my hand. “Buon Giorno, Father.” I said. The man stopped and looked at me, his eyes brimming with curiousity.

“Hello Father!” Ed said, walking up behind me. “How have you been? It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you!”

It was my turn to be curious. Ed knew this priest?

“We met two years ago, right here on the square, when I asked you for directions. Do you remember, Father?” Ed asked.

The man nodded his head, a smile blooming on his face. He held out his hands to Ed, and then to me. Suddenly, we were old friends!

His name was Sarbed, and he was from Lebanon. We shared with him the reason for our visit to Rome—to pray for and encourage priests and religious people from around the world.

“How can we pray for you today, Father?” I asked.

His eyes, hooded and burning, stared intently into mine for a moment. “Can I trust you?” they seemed to ask. I smiled at him. “Over 1500 people from around the world will be praying for your intentions, Father.”

Sharbed closed his eyes for a moment, and then shared with us all that he would like us to lift up to God on his behalf. Prayers for country, family, and other priests, as well as for himself.

And then this beautiful man of God took both of my hands in his. Again, those dark eyes, full of Holy Spirit fire, looked deeply into my own. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for your prayers. I will pray also for you.”

Like the train that thunders past our apartment building hundreds of times a day, the wind of the Holy Spirit blew past, rattling my frame, breaking like thunder in my ears.

My being on this mission has nothing to do with being Catholic or Protestant. It has everything to do with listening to and obeying God.

“…(Jesus) said to Simon, “Push out into deep water and let your nets out for a catch.” Simon said, “Master, we’ve been fishing hard all night and haven’t caught even a minnow. But if you say so, I’ll let out the nets.” It was no sooner said than done—a huge haul of fish, straining the nets past capacity. They waved to their partners in the other boat to come help them. They filled both boats, nearly swamping them with the catch. Simon Peter, when he saw it, fell to his knees before Jesus. “Master, leave. I’m a sinner and can’t handle this holiness. Leave me to myself.” When they pulled in that catch of fish, awe overwhelmed Simon and everyone with him. It was the same with James and John, Zebedee’s sons, coworkers with Simon. Jesus said to Simon, “There is nothing to fear. From now on you’ll be fishing for men and women.” They pulled their boats up on the beach, left them, nets and all, and followed him.” Luke 5:4-11, The Message.

Last week, as I meditated on this Scripture, I received a valuable piece of advice from a friend: “Name what you don’t want,” she said, “and once you’ve done so, move on to name what you do want. Then, feel the energy move from what you’re afraid of to what is possible.”

Since the main issue of anxiety cluttering my mind right now is Joel’s move to Safe Haven Farms, I decided to spend my meditation time practicing possibility:

I don’t want to be consumed with fears and anxieties about moving Joel into Safe Haven Farms.

I don’t want to worry that this isn’t going to work.

I want to walk forward in trust, trusting that God is at the heart of this plan; that He led us here, and that He will continue to lead us.

I want to be in on the ground floor of building something grand.

I want to play a part in making it happen.

I want to be 100% involved, not hanging out on the periphery.

I want to get to know the other Safe Haven parents and begin building community with them.

I want to believe that Joel is going to love his new home.

I want to believe that Joel has gifts that have not yet been discovered, and that Safe Haven Farms will bring them to the surface.

I want to foster independence in Joel

I want to foster new friendships for Joel.

I want to believe that his new housemates will be the exact right match.

I want Joel to live in an atmosphere of fresh air, physical labor, plenty of exercise, and healthy food choices.

I want to remember, when I start feeling lonely, that Joel can come home for overnights or for dinner anytime—that we can take him on vacations with us as often as we desire.

I want to remember that Safe Haven Farms will be a place where we can volunteer our time and treasure, knowing that those gifts will be multiplied many times over in the lives of its residents.

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As I meditate on the Scripture above, I realize that Simon was afraid of the abundance that Jesus offered to him. “Get away from me Lord!” he says in fear. It’s always easier to stay with what is familiar. Why venture into deep water with our nets when we’re tired—when we feel like we’ve been fishing all day to no avail. Pull in the nets and go home, get a good night’s sleep, and do the same old same old tomorrow. Isn’t that what I’m doing when I hold onto my fear of letting Joel go? Gee, Lord, it’s taken 25 years to get comfortable with this autism stuff - to understand exactly what makes Joel happy, what sets him off - to get our routines down, to know what’s going to happen tomorrow. And you’re asking me to risk it all on something unfamiliar?

“Yes, Kathy,” He answers. “That’s what I’m asking of you. Throw in your nets. Throw your nets into this venture called Safe Haven Farms. Trust the abundance of the catch that is waiting there for Joel, that’s waiting there for you and Wally—abundance beyond your wildest imaginings. And know that as you live into that abundance, you will become contagious with joy, with trust, with love.

“Then, when you’ve done that, drop everything and follow me.”