I know you hear me say it every day, but I really mean it. "How'd
you get to be so lovable? Did God ever make any one easier to love?"
Yes, and then we snuggle and press face.
I'm writing to you today, sweetheart, believing that some day you'll
be able to read this. You are so smart, so very smart. Daddy and I
are trying to open the world of words for you. You already know your
letters, don't you.
Every day for almost a year I'd work with you on recognizing your
letters. Your favorite way was when I'd take the brightly colored
sheet from your Touch 'n Tell game, move your finger to each letter
and I'd say the word, just as if we were using the electronic base.
You didn't like the computerized voice, so we just did the touch part
on paper and I'd do the 'n Tell. I wondered and wondered if I was
wasting my time.
When we'd
go through the routine, I was certain you were visiting another galaxy
while I was doing it all. But I'd pray to God and ask for patience,
and God would supply. Yet, my sweet, you know how weak Mommy is. I'd
get tired and forget to do it some times with you. But we worked.
Then when I was wondering about the wisdom of forcing you through
this exercise, one night, one glorious night . . . I started to put
the card away and unlike every other night, this time you reached
for it and pulled me back down to sit. You looked at me and took my
hand and made a finger. You made my hand, just as I had made yours,
point to each letter and you said, "g, r, i, t, l, z ...."
You said everyone of them perfectly and in random order, not by rout
sequence. It was the first time you had voiced any letter or even
actively participated.
The first
time you gave me any response, and you gave it to me 100%. You're
an amazing little boy, Trent. The Lord worked through you to teach
me that night. I learned that many times our work seems futile to
us. I had "nobly" felt like Noah toiling on his ark for
years without any converts to show for it, and yet, the Lord was working
His work all along, and the floods came all at once. So often, my
love, you are the same way. We work and work and it seems we get nowhere,
and then, like a mighty switch, it comes flooding out.
So, yes, you'll read some day. And if I know you, you'll seemingly
jump overnight from "Look, look," to the encyclopedia. We're
praying for that "night." Because there is this book I want
you to read that means all the world to me - it's the B-i-b-l-e.
I want more than anything in the world for you to know God. Yet, sweetheart,
I feel you know Him more than I do even now. Sometimes you see things
so much more clearly than I do. It's as if God has removed many of
the burdens of this world from you so that you can respond to Him
more readily and surely.
God loves us so much, Trent. It is awesome. It boggles my mind to
think that God, the creator of the universe, Almighty God, would care
about you and me. And yet, He does. In big ways, like making gravity
and oxygen, and in little ways, like making you blonde and preparing
our hearts.
When God was still forming you in my womb, He was preparing my heart
for you. I can't put my finger on it, but somehow I knew you'd be
such a special blessing. Your delivery was extraordinary. You tried
so many times to greet us. Six weeks before your due date you gave
us the first sign, the plug from my world to yours opened. Our doctor
was so sure that you'd come early, she told us "any day now."
Magah and Papa drove in for the big event. But you stayed tight. Then
about two weeks later labor started. Since you are my third son, I
knew real labor, and once the contractions became serious, we headed
to the hospital.
We made
progress and then it stopped. I went home to wait. You waited for
several more weeks and we went through the whole process again. Waiting
again. The doctor was concerned and scheduled a C-section on your
"due date."
That day, September 20, 1988, as Daddy was getting ready to go to
work, I felt ill. I made it to the bathroom, but passed out. It was
scary for us. I was hemorrhaging and the pain was indescribable. Your
father tried to rush me to the hospital, but we got caught by the
longest train in American history. To this day I'm convinced it had
more than a trillion cars. As each car rolled slowly by, I pleaded
with God to protect you.
We made
it to the hospital and you delivered "normally." I braced
myself, knowing the trauma you'd been through - part of the placenta
delivered before you did. Darling, that isn't the way it's supposed
to be. But almost instantly, I held you and you were so gorgeous.
You checked out and, God be praised, you were perfect. You even recognized
Daddy on your first day.
I quickly forgot all the "foreboding" I had had about you
being a special-needs child. I must have misread the signs because
you were turning into a wonder-child. You turned your head at day
one, focused your eyes on day three, rolled over on day seven, turned
to sound on day eight and smiled before one month. In fact, you had
checked-off on all the developmental hurdles of a seven-month old
by the time you were only two months old. You slept through the night
at one month. No mother ever had a sweeter child, except Mary. You
continued to develop wonderfully, speaking, running - all was going
well.
When you sister was born, you were almost two years old and we had
started to see some lack of development, or rather some slow down
in your developmental racing. We attributed it to the lack of work
I could do with you during that pregnancy. When sister was born, I
became very sick and almost went home to Jesus.
Once I
was released from the hospital, I was bed-ridden with hundreds of
blood clots and destined to live from a wheel-chair. My situation
was so critical that I wasn't able to hold you for days and you needed
me. It took so long to get better and I felt you suffered so. At age
two, most children need minute-by-minute-mommies to answer all your
ten thousand questions. I wasn't there for you. So, when you started
losing language and started acting oddly I thought it was me, or rather
a lack of me.
As soon as I was well, I'd make up for the year "the locust had
eaten" and do triple duty with you. You'd regain it all back
and then some. But darling, you didn't. You seemed to lose more. Our
prayers were constant.
After a full year of intensive work with you, Bethany was passing
you developmentally. We were baffled. You accidentally hurt your nose
one day, and we had to take you the emergency room. The doctor asked
Daddy if you were autistic.
"What's
that?"
Daddy and I began reading all we could get our hands on about autism.
Part of me rejoiced that we might have an answer. You weren't the
only one with these strange behaviors. We weren't alone. We weren't
crazy. You weren't demon-possessed or something. The road was charted.
Yet, part of me wept because there was something not right. Some of
the material we read was dramatically frightening. Much of it was
hopeless. Much of it bordered on preposterous.
We made our own diagnosis, but knew we'd need official back-up. Through
some Christian friends we "found" a Christian doctor who
was not only homeschooling his own autistic son, but was practicing
in another county. (We do not "trust" the local county officials
with our son. We have never taken one cent of government money, nor
one minute of the county's time with Trent.) The diagnosis was clear:
autism.
I cried for all of thirty seconds. I thought of all the things you
wouldn't be able to do. But those tears dried quickly as I realized
that God was in control and that for some reason He permitted this
to happen. I grasped just a portion of that love He has for you and
realized that this situation was given to praise His name forever.
Today I can't prove it. Yet, I have this gut feeling. Perhaps someday
a test will be conclusive. But darling, I strongly feel that what
happened to make you autistic was the vaccine shots I allowed you
to have. I've learned so much since then. Your development had been
wonderful. If you had had brain damage at birth, we would have seen
signs immediately. But your history is so similar to other children
who have "caught" autism from vaccines. Since then we haven't
subjected you (or any of your siblings) to immunizations.
We'd been trusting God for your care since day one with you, and why
should anything be different now. We sought God for solutions and
He's been supplying them.
The End-of-My Strength Day
Darling,
you certainly can make some messes. One day you made such a mess in
your room . . . . We put Bethany in her room and I bathed you. Big
brothers started on your room and we scrubbed walls, toys, the ceiling
fan, you name it. How could one little boy make such a mess. Big brothers
were exhausted. My arms ached as I scrubbed the carpeting and we still
had so much more to clean. I prayed. Then I did something I've never
done before.
I picked
up the phone to call Daddy to ask him to come home early. I couldn't
handle it anymore. As I was dialing his office, I heard keys in the
front door. God knew. Daddy's boss had taken the staff out for dinner
and then let them have the afternoon off (it has happened only once).
Daddy appraised the situation, sent me to go lay down and he finished
the clean-up. God knows just how much we can each handle. He taught
me that day that nothing is going to happen to us that is more than
we can bear. He is able to furnish us a way out. Even before I asked
(finished dialing Daddy's number), God had sent Daddy home to help.
I know now that we, as a team, can handle any situation.
I Think It's Broken
You woke
up early one morning and came in to snuggle. Daddy had already left
for work and your siblings were still sleeping. It was so nice. I
praised the Lord that you like to snuggle. Some autistic children
don't. For some reason, you quickly sat up and then dropped back down.
Your granite-hard
head ricocheted off my nose. Bless your heart, you didn't even realize
you'd hurt me. I couldn't even talk, I was blinded by the pain. Yes,
it was broken. Obviously, from just looking at my face the doctors
could tell. Darling, I realize you didn't mean to hurt me. It was
an odd accident that could have happened with any of you children.
But do you know the Lord even blessed that?
In the
process of repairing the broken nose, the doctors found that I was
on the verge of an abscess to the brain. I had five different surgical
procedures done (including a "nose job"). God uses you in
mysterious ways, Trent.
Realization
You and
I started the morning with a "routine" physical therapy
time for about an hour. Then I had to get going with breakfast and
other chores, so I let you wander.
I walked by your bedroom and heard sobbing. You were crying the most
horrible cry - like someone who has experienced deep sorrow - a mourning
-type of cry. This is the cry no mother ever wants to hear from her
child. I rushed to you and tried to find out what was wrong. I pleaded
with God for help.
I know all your cries. There's the "You moved the baskets around"
cry, the "I'm not getting my way" cry, the "I'm scared"
cry, the "I'm terrified" cry, and dozens of other cries.
This was so very different. This was the cry of anguish, sorrow, of
deep lost. I'd imagine this to be the cry of a man who has watched
his wife killed before his eyes.
I quickly questioned your brothers. Had they done something to you?
"No, Mom, we don't know what's going on."
I continued to work with you, checking you over from head to toe,
in case you were seriously hurt. Nothing. Then you looked at me and
tried to speak:
"I . . . , I . . ., I . . ." part of me wanted to rejoice
because you had never used the personal pronoun "I" before.
Never!
Then as I continued to "mother" you, you sat bold upright
and gave me a look like you had the wisdom of the ages and said very
distinctly:
"LONELY OUT THERE!"
and you
continued to weep.
I was a mixed bag of emotions and questions. I held you tightly and
assured you that you weren't alone, Jesus is always with you. (More
for my comfort than yours.)
I feel it was another breakthrough. You realized that you are different.
I was amazed that you even knew the correct words to express what
you were feeling. Your world is lonely and you wanted help.
I wonder if, like an alcoholic, realization of the situation plays
a major role in dealing with the condition. I didn't want you to suffer.
I felt, with your heavy sobbing, the pain you must feel, the loneliness,
the isolation. We do all we can to include you in everything we do.
But now you know you're different.
We all held you and comforted you. Then I had to go to Bethany for
a minute and you grabbed Stuart, like a drowning man for a life-preserver,
and said,
"Brother, come to my house. Come to my house."
As if
you wanted us to come visit you in your world. It was as if you were
crying out for us to understand you and see your world with you.
I am awed at how, with your simple language, you stated such an awesome
concept. How as a five-year-old boy you could understand your situation
so well.
And then the pain you felt for the knowing.
You wept on and off for several hours. We stayed right there with
you.
Unawares
One Wednesday,
you and I were in the "baby room" at church and I had to
leave you for a few seconds to signal the audio-tech about the sound
level. I came back into the room and there was a young lady "loving
up" on you. You were responding to her in a manner which I've
only seen you do with me, Daddy, Reed, Stuart, or Bethany.
You were
so comfortable with her. I was amazed at how you related to her. She
seemed instinctively to know just what to do to minister to you. We
talked for a few minutes. She thought you were wonderful! She even
said how "neat" it must be to have a child like you. It
was one of the most encouraging conversations I've ever had. What
impressed me was that she was saying things which I have said about
you being a blessing, but she had only been around you for a few minutes.
She said she had to go. The service started and later I looked for
her. In the four months we were visiting that church in Texas, I could
never find her and no one knew her or of her (and it was a relatively
small church). I wonder....
Pain Relief
It was
a bad day. I was under attack but fighting the good fight, so to speak.
I was preparing for a writing class I would be teaching the next day.
My copier had crashed. It was not going to allow me to make copies
of the class materials. No problem, I could just print the material
off of the laser printer. It would cost five times as much, but I'd
have something for the children the next day. Then, it happened. The
electricity, city-wide, went out for several minutes. No, no, no.
The computer crashed. All my work. All my writings. All those names
and addresses. I started a "reconstruct" program to save
the files. It started up. That was a good sign. It was on 3% of stage
1 of 6 stages.
I was having a migraine. I hadn't had a migraine in years. This was
one of those headaches that when you bend over you hold your head
because you know blood is going to come out. It was throbbing. It
was nauseating. It was the type of headache that affects your whole
body. I didn't need this.
I haven't even told you about the major remodeling operation that
our landlord was doing to fix the shower. Plumbing work, carpentry,
tile work---it was a noisy, dirty mess.
I stopped in the middle of the living room and sat down, Indian style,
leaned over with my head in my hands, and prayed.
I felt a small hand on my back. A boy's voice said, "Mommy, are
you all right?" TRENT, it was you!
What headache? What problems? Everything vanished as I twisted and
hugged you. This was you, the same boy who a year before had broken
my nose and was totally oblivious to the emergency situation. You
had no idea you had hurt me then, that I was reeling in pain so intense
I can't think of a strong enough adjective to describe it, or that
I couldn't hold you right then.
Now, one year later, you see me, the food-machine (at times I used
to think that was all I was to you), on the floor holding my head
in my hands. Even my sensitive ten-year-old didn't notice I was troubled.
But you, Trent, not only noticed and was conscious of someone else's
situation (other than your own), but you followed through with appropriate
behavior. You patted me on the back. You found the right words in
your beautiful, but strangely ordered, mind, "Mommy, are you
all right?"
Trent, at that time I equated that "breakthrough" to Joni
Erickson-Tada winning a gold medal in ice skating.
I'm so glad God allowed me to have a headache so I could experience
that moment with Trent.
Sea Life
Trent,
I've always been amazed at your ability to see life in ways I miss.
You were being auditioned for the Full Circle Program at the Clearwater
Marine Center (popularly know as "Dolphin Therapy.") We
passed through the gates and were allowed to crawl down the ladder
to the sea turtle tanks. The program manager, talked to you gently.
She gave you some lettuce to feed the sea turtle and told you her
name was Bailey. You took the lettuce and threw it in the tank and
said, "Bailey, Come." That was so amazing because you usually
take years to learn someone's name and to respond to situations. And
you know what, my love, Bailey came and you fed her.
Bible Homing Beacon
I'm often
asked if you are a savant. People are naturally curious and want to
know if you have some "superhuman" gift or talent. They've
seen "Rainman" and want to know if you're a walking calculator.
I answer them honestly because I don't know, darling. But I do know
that you do have an uncanny talent for finding and loving God's Word.
You've done this dozens of times.
As early
as I can remember, you'd chose your little Bible for your "toy."
Just as some children have teddy bears, you'd love, hug, cuddle, pet,
and sleep with your little blue Bible. You finally wore it out and
we've replaced it with several other Bibles. You can find Bibles,
too. We've told friends about this and they've "hidden"
their Bibles. Sure enough, you home right in on it. Remember how you
found Mr. Hodge's Bible under his bed? You went straight to it. Could
you smell the leather? Do you remember the time you stood in front
of a bookcase filled with hymnals. Among those hymnals was one pew
Bible with the identical binding.
You paused
in front of the bookcase, something had caught your eye. Then within
seconds you pulled out the Bible and started hugging and loving it.
It didn't smell any differently from the hymnals, yet you knew it
was different. How do you do it? And how can we all cherish God's
Word like you do? Thanks, darling, for the constant reminder.
My letters to Trent go on and on with stories of how he's enriched
our lives and drawn us all closer to the Lord. I'm convinced that
he's not disabled at all. He's enabled by God.
Through my international ministries, I'm asked many questions about
Trent, autism, and home educating a special child. Here are some of
my answers:
Does your church help you?
We've had our share of situations where others have "seen fit"
to treat Trent as less than a gift. It is to their suffering. There
is a very interesting verse in Lev 19:14 - Thou shalt, not, curse
the deaf, nor put a stumbling block before the blind, but shalt, fear
thy God: I am the LORD.
I wonder
how many churches (and individuals) are "calling a curse"
upon themselves by not ministering to our special children.
We had just moved to a new town and were "auditioning" churches.
We first visited one church which was supposed to be the most Spirit-filled
church in the area - so blessed that the pastor had a daily radio
show. We had always kept Trent with us in service but they refused
and demanded he be taken to "children's church." They came
back a few minutes later saying we had to do something - Trent wouldn't
sit up straight in his chair. I was pleased they got him in a chair.
We left.
We are so blessed with the church we are in now. They love Trent and
hire workers or recruit volunteers to work one-on-one with Trent for
any service or study we want to attend. They consult with me on a
regular basis so that they complement his therapy. This church is
a true blessing.
Yet I regularly talk to families who haven't found a loving church
home. Dad goes one Sunday and Mom the next. Their child isn't welcome.
I know. We started the new year of our local home school support group
drama club. The previous year had been wonderful with my eldest son
having the lead part in the musical. This year it was going to be
very different. Some parents were concerned that Trent would be a
negative impact on their children. I wonder what these parents teach
their children. If two hours a week being around a special needs child
will undo all the "discipline" they instill the other 166
hours, what are they doing at home? What message are they giving their
children?
Only "perfect"
people should be allowed in public? Only "perfect" children
should praise the Lord, be in a choir, attend Bible study? I wonder.
We just stayed home. I don't like controversy. When my friends asked
why I wasn't attending the drama group any more, I told them that
the leader was getting complaints. My friends said that the complainers
should be the ones asked not to attend and I should go. I know in
my heart that if Jesus were there He wouldn't chastise me for bringing
Trent. He wouldn't say, "He'll disturb the flow of the service,
you should keep him at home." No, I'm sure my Saviour would smile
reach out His arms and put Trent right on His lap. Because autism
isn't contagious, Love is.
Potty-training?
I know that question well. I've heard it dozens of times and I asked
it many times myself. We tried every method, system, trick we heard
or read about. Nothing worked. Then all of a sudden one day it "clicked."
Trent was six. How'd it come about? I have a theory:
I had to get over my predilection about this and lay it at God's throne.
I had felt it was too basal to talk to God about. As indelicate as
this subject is, and I'm not one to talk about such things in polite
society, I was desperate and asked hundreds of friends and relatives
to pray about Trent's training. It worked. I learned nothing is too
indiscreet for God to handle.
Do you have
a curriculum for autistic children?
I've learned to answer this one carefully. If I immediately say, "No"
the caller says, "Thank you" and hangs up - not giving me
a chance to explain. PREACCH is a ministry, not a curriculum supplier.
We publish a newsletter to forum ideas, prayer requests, and methods.
We don't purport to be educational consultants.
I wouldn't trust any so-called curriculum for autistic children. I
think it would be absolutely impossible to write one. There may be
some immature attempts out there. I can't imagine anyone being so
ignorant of the condition of autism as to propose that they knew what
to teach them all. Autism is not a universal-type condition. Every
autistic child is unique. He each has his own characteristics or "combination"
of sensory functions and "mal-functions." Whereas Trent
(hypotactile) responds positively to rough tactile stimulation, the
same treatment would be abusive to a child who is hypertactile.
Each autistic child needs her own custom curriculum. No "off
the shelf" text will work. I've meet many autistic children and
they are not cookie-cutters of the others. They have some similar
distinctives, but their ability to learn is reached through very different
gateways. In some cases a "normal" child's text will form
the base, but the approach to using the text will be completely different.
For instance, with a "normal" child you might have to tell
them the sound "a" makes a dozen times before they "own"
it, with Trent it will take a hundred dozen times and a variety of
styles of "telling."
There are helpful books available which can give ideas for reaching
these children. But, again, the methods have to be customized to the
child. Using a hyperauditory method with a child who is hypoauditory
would just heighten the problem.
Personally, we are thrilled with the NACD (National Academy of Child
Development) program. I know Bob Doman is a tool of God for children
like Trent. Quarterly, Bob evaluates Trent to see what progress we've
made. Considering many factors, he designs a new program for Trent.
NACD volunteers train Alan and me on how to do all the therapies and
methods. We work the program until the next evaluation. Trent's program
is Trent's program - customized for not only who he is, but where
he is developmentally. Trent is becoming less and less hypotactile.
He used to be a nightmare - he was so impervious to pain. He didn't
even cry when he received severe burns from placing his hand on a
hot skillet. He didn't feel the heat until it was too late. It only
took seconds while I was digging in the frig for something. He's doing
so much better now. We remember the first time he felt enough to have
goose-bumps. What a victory!
Bob Beninger, also has been a wonderful blessing to us. He can develop
a custom program for an autistic child.
What qualifies
you to teach Trent?
It might sound curt, but GOD DOES! He obviously is making me qualified
- I'm Trent's mother.
I don't have a Ph.D. from any university. I have a Ph.D. in Trent
from the Creator of the Universe. I know Trent. I know that look in
his eyes when he's opening a gate to his soul. I know when to push
and when to let it go. I know when to stand firm and when to hold
him tight. I know when he's too tired to go on and when he's bluffing.
I know when he can do more. I know Trent.
I live with Trent. (Amazing concept!) I can work with him 24-hours
a day (if necessary). What is the probability that Trent is ready
to learn numbers when some school teacher has it on her lesson plans?
I don't think so. Yet, sometimes Trent is teachable at 7:30 in the
morning or 7:30 at night. I can work with Trent at odd hours - at
the right time. I can be consistent with him. Much of his therapy
is done in small little chunks of time that need to be reinforced
throughout the day. I can do that because I'm with him all day.
I love Trent. And it takes love to go over something hundreds of times.
It takes love for Trent to feel safe. It takes love to ignore the
bruises (accidental as he tries to breakthrough his hypotactility).
You can't pay someone to love. It takes love to forego other activities
to do Trent's therapy. Yet, I feel the opportunity cost of other activities
is too costly. Trent is too valuable to put tennis lessons, more ladies
functions, worthy volunteering, another Bible study, or a career ahead
of him. He is my career.
I have help. The indwelling Spirit of God is the most power credential
I have. He infuses me with wisdom. He develops my patience. He gets
my feet moving in the middle of the night to check on Trent. He shows
me how He feels about Trent and my heart overflows as I look into
Trent's eyes.
I have help. God has blessed me with the most wonderful husband and
supportive children. Alan does much of Trent's therapy. Reed, Stuart,
and Bethany Kay all have routines they know how to do with Trent.
And they want to. They accept that our family is different and they
praise God for that difference: Trent.
Yes, God qualifies me to be Trent's teacher.
If you define professional as "state" help - my answer is
none. If you define professional as someone who has dedicated his
life to reaching autistic children - my answer is "very selective."
God gave Trent to us, not the State. I don't feel the State has any
moral obligation to care for Trent anymore than it does for any citizen
(national defense, police services, etc.). I've met families who upon
hearing their child had a special needs immediately turned to the
government for help, money, guidance - instead of turning to God and
His Church. It is one thing to accept financial aide when the Church
has turned you down, it is another to look to government as your provider
and sustainer. We have been fortunate to not have to take one cent
of government aid or one word of their counsel. (More on finances
in question 6).
Professional A: Someone who has "dedicated" her life
to making money off special needs children. She is an expert. She
has spent hours studying our children behind two-way mirrors. She
has written a thesis. She wants to "prove" her theory out
on your child. If you'll just sign him over to her, she'll let you
know in twelve years whether her theory helped or not.
Professional B: Someone who has "dedicated" his life
to helping special needs children. He is an expert because he's spent
thousands of hours working with families face-to-face. He has written
thousands of programs and he has a proven theory. He doesn't want
you to sign your child over to him, he wants to teach you how to work
with your own child. He's here just to tell you some tools to help.
Professional C: Someone who has studied for twelve years how
to diagnosis symptoms and write prescriptions. He doesn't want to
cure your child, just to medicate him to make your life more enjoyable.
He has the mentality that the reason one gets a headache is because
one has a Tylenol deficiency. A child is hyperactive because he has
a Ritalin deficiency (yeah, right?). He charges you huge amounts of
money to turn your child into a drug dependent "pet."
Professional D: She is still studying "medicine"
and looks for ways to prevent symptoms instead of the old "drug
or cut" methodology. She looks at the whole family for lifestyle
changes, diet, exercise, family history. She suggests nutrients, vitamins,
and diets. She seeks ways to cure, not just treat.
We've
meet varieties of those four models. And some of them are scary with
their own language of "techniques" and "methods."
They have a vocabulary all their own. And some of them are refreshing
with their ability to communicate to us in terms we can identify and
use.
We spent a day with a "true expert." She was the head of
a special education department at a major university. Her life's work
was testing "these children" and her specialty was autism.
She was amazed at how much progress Trent had made. She commented
frequently that I had done more with him in a few months than "they"
could do in twelve years. She was impressed. Then immediately demanded
when I was going to turn him over to the professionals. I asked about
color-blindness. I was having a time trying to teach Trent his colors.
She laughed and said that her own son was totally color-blind and
they didn't find out until he went for his driver's license test!
Her own son! And she was the head of a university's special education
department. And she wanted me to turn my son over to her! I don't
think so.
I always warn parents to test experts. Certificates don't matter.
Plaques and diplomas don't matter. Our children do matter.
Follow the dollar signs. A Christian friend who is an elected official
told me that for each "normal" child in my county the school
system receives about $6,000 a year, but for Trent they'd get more
than $100,000. He suggested that we do all we can to not let them
know about Trent. He's not a precious child to them but a walking
meal-ticket.
Yes, I'm all for getting help where ever the Lord leads you. No, I'm
not for getting secular, worldly, un-Biblical advice. And we have
to seek His face to discern between the two.
How I pray for more answers. We trust God with all our finances. He's
provided in marvelous ways. We have committed not to make Trent another
"public assistance" case. That doesn't mean you're wrong
or evil if you accept Federal funds. You have to go as the Lord directs.
But we would be hypocrites if we decry the Federal budget and elect
those who would balance it and then we're on the dole ourselves. We
believe God's way is for families to wisely budget and the church
should fill in the gap. We also know that many churches don't fulfill
their obligations and some families have no choice but to submit to
government moneys (and requirements and intrusions). The Lord knows
your situation. He knows how you've tried. He knows how others have
failed Him. He'll deal with them. You just stay faithful to the doors
He's providing for you.
We live very "frugally" in some aspects of our life so we
can be "lavish" with Trent. It's a choice to eat and cook
differently (Dinner's in the Freezer!). It's a choice to live in a
simpler house and to drive two old, paid-for cars (both more than
140,000 miles). But then, many families are doing all this and still
ends don't meet.
At one time in our lives, Trent was going through therapy which cost
$100 every other day. It had to do with his blood disorder: thrombocytosis.
We couldn't just "absorb" that out of the milk money. We
filed insurance, but was told it was impossible. Insurance had never
paid on such a claim. We prayed. We starting selling things. We realized
there wasn't a thing we owned that we wouldn't sell for our Trent.
We had friends who had garage sales for Trent.
During our own garage sale, I had marked our clothes. I hesitated
over my favorite dress. I had never worked so hard making a dress
before. It was beautiful and feminine, a rose print, almost Victorian,
with a lace collar. I offered it to God for my son. Do you know it
was the only article of clothing that sold that day. God showed me
something that day. I gave my best, my favorite dress. It was accepted.
A few days later, the doctor's office called. The insurance came through.
It was unheard of. They couldn't believe it. Insurance paid 80% of
the bill. And we were able to raise the other 20% through extraordinary
means.
There is hope in God. He does honor His principles in the Bible. Every
time we've followed his directions, it has worked. I hear your "but,
you don't know our situation . . ." "that's easy for you
to say . . ." "Yes, but..." I know, beloved. I've heard
hundreds of your stories. And I've heard many stories like our dress/insurance
story. All I can say is that with 100% accuracy God has honored Himself
in our lives. Without fail.
We've received a great deal of interest in the hyperbaric chamber
therapy program. The full answer would be thousands of words. In our
attempt to help Trent, we found an alternative healing doctor. Dr.
Parsons studied as a pathologist, but decided he liked working with
live patients. He analyzed Trent's blood at the cellular level. We
found out that more than 50% of Trent's blood cells are old. His body
has difficulty producing red blood cells. (I wonder if this is proof
of the vaccine connection?). Trent went through 25 sessions of 100%
oxygen (as opposed to 20% in air) given inside of a hyperbaric chamber
at 1.7 atmospheres of pressure. At first we didn't see any results
and felt it was a waste of time. But into the second week, Trent looked
at me. It was the first time since he'd started his decline (past
2 years old) that he'd really looked at me - person-to-person. I was
impressed. Each time in the chamber he was better and better. Because
of his size, Alan or I would accompany him in the chamber. During
the sessions he was "normal." It was amazing. We had conversations.
We sang together. But the effect didn't last out side of the chamber.
At first. Then it would last for a few minutes, then a few hours,
then a few days. He was never as "normal" out of the chamber
as in the chamber, but he was better. Even his Sunday School teachers
noticed the difference. It was a great start and well worth it.
Alan and I would rather forego some wonderful therapy if we feel a
click in our spirit. We feel that no "developmental" progress
is worth Spiritual danger. Trent's spirit-life is far more important
to us than any worldly achievement. We felt a spiritual peace about
this "new" therapy. There are "new" therapies
which we wouldn't let near our son (i.e. hypnosis, new-age-styled
behaviour modification, etc.). I didn't make the connection until
I heard a sermon reminding me of the giant hyperbaric chamber Dr.
Carl Baugh is building in Glen Rose, Texas. The world before the flood
was quite different than ours today. Basically, when we had Trent
in the chamber we were getting closer to what the pre-deluvian world
was theoretically like. Exciting concept.
If we could afford it, we'd turn our house into a giant hyperbaric
chamber. I started researching alternatives. I found one which we've
been experimenting with. I learned about it from some Mennonites.
Since then I've been reading about therapies using hydrogen peroxide
and how the chemical used to be in the food chain.
I printed my "formula" (everyone's calling Jill's
Gel) in one of issues of The Bondingtimes and have been receiving
many letters filled with positive results. I'm not a doctor. I'm just
a mom who is trying to do best by my children.
PREACCH is our international ministry to "Parents Rearing and
Educating Autistic Children in Christian Homes." We're a support
group of families who write to each other via the PREACCH letters.
We're "experts" because we live with or minister to a child
with autism (or related condition). We all love the Lord.