A Little about Why Math is the Worst

I cannot be absolutely certain, but I don’t think that knowing facts has ever really caused me to change much in my life.

This is possibly the root of why I hate Math and love History.

There is no story to Math.  It is all logic and a thoroughly confusing marriage of letters and numbers and boring.  Honestly Math, pick a side already.

In History, it is all story and arch and nuance and drama.  Nations rise and fall and ordinary people change the world for good or wrong.  I love it, not just because it is exciting, but in the stories we see ourselves.  There are things which, regardless of time or context, are innately true of all people.

I think this is why the Bible is full of so many stories.  In the stories, we find us.  In the pages, we see the way God acts through all of time.  For them and for us.

A friend of mine once told me, as I held my days old daughter in my arms, that now as a parent, I would understand the love of God in a completely new way.  I had little idea what he meant at the time, but as each year closes in our family’s life, the wisdom of those words grows for me.

I wonder if it is because not many things slice hearts like children.

I can be in a thoroughly foul mood with all the world, and then, with a simple hug or calling of my name, I am undone.  When I walk in the door to giggles and laughter that fills my house-at times until it seems the walls will burst- no matter what has gone right or wrong in a day, there is healing in its pitch.  In the hard times and the cuddles at night before they drift to sleep, God speaks to my heart.  Now imagine My love Joel, now imagine My heart for you…

One day last week, I was making lunch for the kids and at the same time trying to help Sheri as she worked with our son Jack on resisting one of his ticks.

It was not a terrible one, but, as his team of therapists encourage us often, calling our son out on his Autistic ticks with consistency is one of the best ways we can help him.  The only hard part is that, for Jack at least, they change at random and appear almost overnight.  There is no reason to them and Jack is never actually aware of them.  They are just a part of his Autism.  There is a reason the awareness symbol for Autism is a puzzle piece…

During our lunch, we told Jack repeatedly to stop doing his tick.  It came to a point where, to get my point across, I had to gently hold one of his hands down on the table he was sitting at.

He did not protest, but began to shift his gaze between Sheri and I as he softly sniffled.  Kneeling beside him, I watched as he looked down at his hand and silent tears began running down his face.

I looked in those blue eyes, and for a brief moment, I saw him.  The real Jack.

As he looked us straight in our own eyes (something he never does), the clouds of Autism seemed to break.  My Jack came out, my son came out and though he said nothing, through the sniffles his blurry eyes made one plea:

I am trying daddy…I promise I am trying to fight it.

We sat there for several moments as he alternated between our eyes and long looks at his tiny hand engulfed lovingly in mine.  His strong, quiet sniffles coming soft and steady.

It was as if our hearts were shot straight through.  The love for him was so intense and our sorrow so deep.  I could barely breathe, as Sheri began to whisper:

     It’s okay Jack

     You got this bud

There are certain moments that no one can ever prepare you for in life.  There are no books or enough 12 step plans to teach you the right thing to do or say.  It is just how it is.

Jack looked at me, and it was one of those moments where I just knew, You Joel, you must speak…

So I whispered to him over and over,

      I am right here, look at my eyes Jack. 

     You got this bud. 

     You can fight it.  

     Focus on dad…focus on me…

It laid Sheri and I bare.  Those eyes, the long tears and the hurt.

There are many areas of life in which Jack and I will never be able to relate.  There are parts of him that will stay locked, hopefully not forever, but at least for this season.  There, on my knees, the real Jack came out, and in that moment, in his pain I saw my own.

That deep down hurt.

That longing to be free.

That feeling of trying so hard, yet always feeling as though we are slowly going back.  Prisoners in our own bodies.

I feel like in that moment, I understood a sliver of the love that God feels.

So many times I have blown it.  I miss the mark so often, and as I get sucked down, I call out to God for help.   I don’t want to be this man!  I want to be free of the anger and sin and pride, I promise I am trying, I really am.  I just can’t do this, I am so…stuck.

It would seem as though I get in this trap, this awful trap of thinking that God is up there, above the stratosphere, with arms perpetually crossed and glaring down at me while muttering about how disappointed He is.

I wonder though if maybe, just maybe, while I am looking up into the sky, the reality is that Jesus is right there on His knees, hand engulfing my own while softly whispering…

      I see you.

      I know you.

      I love you. 

      You got this Bud. 

      Focus on Dad…Focus on me…