Self Control or Patience? I'll Take an Order of Both, Please!

I took Jon to Wendy’s fast food restaurant the other day…well…let’s say, I tried.

He emerged from his room in the early afternoon, around 1pm, desperately needing a shower, shave and change of clothes and headed for the garage to get in the car; his signal that, ” I’d like to go someplace now.”

I told him there would be no going anywhere looking like he just crawled out from under a rock. He frowned and shuffled back inside to the bathroom.

By the time we got in the car, Jon had showered, put on clean clothes and it was almost 7:30 pm. 

He was also wearing a plastic headband with paper Mickey Mouse ears taped to it, garden gloves and a flowered belt from my closet. Random items were tucked between the belt and his waist, a plastic sword, a drumstick, a long glow stick with a bright red heart on the end and several other unidentified objects.

He handed me a note and I stared at the scrawled print trying to figure out what it said. Considering the way he was decorated, I had a feeling I already knew.

I deciphered the words, DISENI and MIKEY MOSE and realized I was correct. He wanted to go to Disney. 

Problem number one, it was already late and we don’t live in Kissimmee anymore. From there, Disney was a fifteen minute drive. Now that we’re located thirty miles north of Orlando, Disney is an hour away, maybe more depending on interstate traffic.

Problem number two, our Disney passes expired several years ago and Jon doesn’t understand it costs a bundle to get in the park and is barely worth the price when you’re staying all day. Forget it if you’re showing up an hour or two before it closes. 

I handed the note back, “Sorry Dude, it’s too late to go to Disney now. You took so long getting ready we don’t have much time to go anywhere. How about Wendy’s or McDonalds. They’re both open late.”

He scowled as he took the note back and turned it over. I waited another ten minutes until he finally wrote WEDYS on the back. By the time we pulled into Wendy’s parking lot it was 8:05pm.

I shut off the car and told him that his costume was pretty impressive but “If you don’t want people staring at you all night then you better take all that stuff off and leave it in the car.”

Sometimes he cares about that, other times, not. He carefully took everything off except the flowered belt. 

I got out of the car and walked over to wait for him near the door. It was now 8:30. 

Jon stayed in the car at least another ten minutes trying to decide what he wanted to bring inside. Finally the door opened and another five minutes passed, then two legs appeared beneath. 

After several minutes went by he stood up. He remained statue still in that spot for about five minutes. 

He finally shut the door and stayed next to the car for nearly ten minutes, pushing buttons on an imaginary keypad under the door handle. 

I pulled out my remote and hit the lock button. The horn beeped. Jon frowned. 

It took him another eight minutes to walk from the car to the sidewalk curb. Once he was actually on the sidewalk that led to the entrance, I went inside, sat down at a table near the window and continued to watch his slow progress toward the door.

While I watched, a woman who had passed me thirty minutes prior, as I waited on the sidewalk, finished eating and came back by me to leave. She glanced out the window at Jon, who was slowly making his way to the door in intermittent starts and pauses.

“Are you with him?” She asked.

“Yes.” I forced a smile. 

I was hungry and tired of waiting. Honestly, I really wanted to go outside and give my kid a big boot in the behind with my foot to get him moving. It took every ounce of self control I had and a lot of Jesus talking to stay in that chair and keep waiting. 

I also realized if someone saw me do that, I’d probably be in handcuffs for assaulting a disabled person in Wendy’s parking lot. So I stayed put and prayed for more patience and grace and tried to put my thoughts on something other than my snail slow child.

“Is he your son?” the woman asked, not waiting for an answer. “I’m a special ed teacher in Orlando,” she continued.”It sure takes a lot of patience sometimes doesn’t it?”

Sometimes?!!?

 

“Yes it does,” I replied, “And I think I’m about to run out if he doesn’t get in here pretty soon.”

I smiled again, hoping she wouldn’t think worse of me for what I’d just said. She was trying to complement me after all.

Her preschool size grandson was pulling on her, stretching her arm so far he slid sideways to the floor. He was ready to go and I found myself wishing Jon was like him; wishing I could be over the agonizing amount of waiting that happens whenever I take Jon any place. 

The woman smiled back. “You are a very patient person,” she said. 

I was thankful what I was really feeling wasn’t showing on the outside.

I realized then that we easily confuse self control with patience. I was anything BUT patient right then. My ability, by God’s grace, to control myself when I wanted to do anything but had been perceived as patience.

“Thank You God, for self control,” I said out loud to God and myself as she turned to leave.  

Self control isn’t a popular topic in our impatient culture but it’s such a crucial foundation to the other character qualities we need. Love, peace, endurance, tolerance, kindness, gentleness, patience all start with putting self aside for the good of another.

Proverbs 25:28 states, “A man without self-control is like a city broken into and left without walls.” Sounds to me like a place left defenseless. Without self control, all boundaries are gone and every destructive thing has access to our life.

My outing with Jon didn’t end any better than it started. He came through the restaurant door at 9:25pm. We ordered by 9:40 and I sat back down while Jon took his time at the soda machine and condiment counter. 

I ate quickly and was booting up my laptop, relaxing into a few hours of writing time, when the manager walked back to let me know they were closing. 

We had to leave.

“At 10 o’clock?” I asked in disbelief. Hadn’t I seen advertisements, posters and billboards announcing Wendy’s late night hours all over the place? 

Jon hadn’t even sat down yet. He was still pumping ketchup into little paper cups.

I sighed, put my laptop away and readied myself for the struggle coming to get him back out the door he had just come through.

Thank God for self control. 

Like my good friend Glee always says, “Just ‘cause self control is last on the list doesn’t mean it’s not important,”

Galatians 5:22-23 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control..

If I'm So Special Why Don't I feel Like It?

I’ve heard the word ‘special’ directed toward me as a mother for many years, since our first child was born with Down syndrome then later developed autism. 

"God gives these special kids to special people like you because He's knows you can handle it.”

When you ask expectant parents whether they are hoping for a boy or girl the most common answer is, “I don’t care as long as the baby is healthy and normal.”  

 I have never heard anyone say, “Oh either is fine, but I’m really hoping we have a special child!”  

Other than the few amazing heroes who willingly adopt disabled children, no one really longs to have a disabled child. The irony that you are suddenly special if you get one has always puzzled me.

Regardless, I know people mean well and are trying to be kind and encouraging so I usually smile and move on with the conversation.  

On especially stressful Jon days, when I'm not much in a “Yahoo!” frame of mind, I've thought of asking (but have never done so) those who tell me how special I am, “Truthfully now, would you feel special if your child was born with ____________ (fill in the blank with any disability)?"

Our son, Jonathan, displays frequent resistant behaviors that can be challenging and one morning I remember, was particularly difficult. All directives and attempts to get Jon to school on time were met with opposition and finally resulted in Jon locking himself in the bathroom and refusing to open the door. 

I drove him to school everyday and by the time we arrived - late again - I was incredibly stressed and on the verge of tears.  

David, our youngest child, and a friend who was visiting from another state, accompanied me. We had made plans to spend the day at one of Central Florida’s theme parks, so after Jon was finally delivered to his classroom, we headed to the nearest store to purchase a few items and visit the ATM. 

I parked the car and the three of us were walking toward the store entrance when I saw him, a silver haired man wearing a bright orange vest and a big smile. He was holding a plastic container for the obvious purpose of taking donations. 

I was still revved up from my morning encounter with Jon, taking deep breaths and forcing my mind to move on to calmer thoughts and the fun day ahead.

As I walked past the orange-vested man he thrust the container toward me and in a most kind and gentle voice asked, “Maam, would you like to donate to the disabled this morning?” 

This unfortunate guy had no idea how poorly timed his inquiry was. He had no clue what I had just been through or what he was in for.  I stopped mid-stride, turned and glared at him.  

That simple question was the last straw, as the saying goes.  All the pent up frustration still swirling around inside exploded out of me like hot lava from an erupting volcano.  

Like some sort of lunatic, I yelled, “Oh sure! I’d just love to,” right in his face.

I ripped open my purse, clawed through my wallet, grabbed the first available paper bill I found and crammed five dollars inside that container so forcefully the surprised man almost dropped it on the sidewalk.  

Then I loudly declared, “There you go sir, something for the disabled.  Now what do you plan to do for their mothers?!" as I turned and stomped inside the store leaving him with his mouth hanging open and my free paper flower dangling from his fingers.

I didn’t feel very special that day. Still don’t for that matter.  If I am entirely honest, I often feel very inadequate and way too tired for this job. 
  

Jill Kelly, author and speaker, says sometimes God does give you more than you can handle so He can show Himself strong in and through you. 

In my weakness, He is made strong (2 Corinthians 12:9). 

So I've figured something out in the midst of all this. God is trying to make me into something special and this child is part of the plan, stamped indelibly into the blueprint of my life.  

This design wasn’t included in the life I had visualized when I looked ahead many years ago.  And there are times even now when I look forward and struggle with an overwhelming sense of fear and uncertainty for my son’s future.  

But this I am sure of, God can be trusted with every detail of life. If I continually lean into Him, He provides everything I need to press on.  

Keeping my focus on Jesus as I learn, in my weakness, to reflect Him to a hurting world, is the ultimate goal. How I reach that goal is often a blend of His grace and my endurance. 

I have come so far from the person I was at the beginning of this journey. I trust somewhere along the way or at least near the end of the road I will finally reach a resemblance of something special in God's eyes. 

Because in God’s kingdom, being His ‘special child’ is the highest compliment and honor! 

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”  Jeremiah 29:11 NLT

No Comparison (please!)

A passion of mine is to help people become better educated about adults with developmental

disabilities and occasionally, conversations with people evolve into the topic of our developmentally delayed son and some of his behaviors.

Some folks, with a little chuckle and smile, say, “O yeah, I know, all kids act that way sometimes. Mine sure does. It can really be frustrating.” 

Or something similar.

I know they mean well and I appreciate their desire to empathize, but telling me their three year old child, five year old grandson or ten year old nephew, does the exact same thing doesn’t make me feel better.

Because it’s really not the same - at all!

It hardly seems like a fair comparison when your “child” is thirty plus and you’re still dealing with these behaviors every day.

Their struggle with a childish behavior problem occurs because their kid is still a child.  Jon is not.

Their struggle with these behaviors will end as their child grows and matures. Mine has not.

Any individual who asks about and takes interest in our son, so they can understand him better is greatly appreciated. He’s a remarkable person and we love him very much but comparing him or any other disabled adult to a toddler, elementary age or pre-teen child troubles me.

I don’t begrudge those whose children develop normally and I’m not angry because Jon didn’t.
I’m simply in a constant state of living inside this reality.

Families and caregivers, who have put in years of loving and living with an adult with developmental delays are the ones who know…

It’s not the same at all!