Burn the Fleet


I’m anxiously pacing down the hallway with Cailyn’s hand firmly grasping mine. Sometimes she’s excited, prancing beside me and giggling uncontrollably. She may also be upset and need comfort, begging me to hold her in my arms and pat her back. Cailyn’s mood, however, is as fragile as it is pronounced…and her mood for the rest of the day may be dictated by the next few moments. It’s a regular trip that I anticipate and often dread…the moment when I discover who will be watching my daughter.

Sometimes, we’re blessed with individuals who have a passion for Autism and Cailyn. These people (you know who you are) have impacted our lives and brought us joy, that we can never fully express. Other times (especially in new places) we’re met with confusion as we try to summarize the complexities of Cailyn’s particular spin on Autism, into a 2 minute conversation…all while a dozen other children are racing around playing in the background.

“Ok…are you planning on any loud sessions? If so, she’s going to freak out and need to be away from the others.”

(Blank stare)

“Here is a brief summary of words that you may not understand from her, but may be the difference in her being manageable or screaming and hitting herself the entire time…Snacks are in her backpack with the diapers. Did we mention she isn’t potty trained?”

(Eyes widen)

“Here are some signs that she may be starting to melt down…If any of these begin, she might ask you to hold her. She uses closeness and touch to calm herself down. Are you by yourself, today?”

(Mouth now beginning to hang open)

“Please come get us if there are problems.”

It’s a “no win” situation. Cailyn naturally has a more difficult time with the unfamiliar. Unfamiliar kids, unfamiliar teacher, unfamiliar classroom, unfamiliar time…all can trigger extreme anxiety in her mind, which manifests itself in behavior that an unfamiliar teacher doesn’t often know how to manage in a five year old. It isn’t fair to any party in the transaction and the results are often very similar. I’ll walk back to the class and Cailyn will be in the corner all alone, while the other kids are engaged in activity with the teacher. She’ll already have her coat on (who knows for how long) and her diaper will be soaked almost through. She runs to me, wants to be held, and can only say a few words…

“Car Seat. Please. Bye Bye.”

We can’t maintain a lot of friendships. Most people grow tired of the overhead that comes with family time. We don’t do ANYTHING on a whim because the benefit of joy in any last-minute activity will be negated by the price we pay for a lack of preparation and forethought. Most houses aren’t Cailyn-proof, so going to other people’s homes can be a tedious exercise of head-swivel and saying “No. Don’t touch.” It’s just not worth it. Such is the life of a family with a young, special needs child. We’re separated from the norms of everyone else.

So, the next time we’re a little too quick to correct our children, it’s not that we’re “high strung.” When we don’t make an effort to get together, it’s not because we think we’re better than anyone else. If we get overwhelmed by the thought of last second plans and opt-out, it isn’t that we’re aloof or “no fun.” When we don’t go to events, whether private, charity, or church…it’s not a flippant decision to be separate. It’s a calculated sacrifice to hold onto the last beacon of sanity in our lives. What everyone else sees is nothing more than a fleeting glimpse into every moment of our new lives.

While you may be encouraged by gathering with others and singing a song, remember that I just dropped off a person I love (much, much more than myself) into the hands of people who don’t understand her; Into a place where she may be sad, scared, neglected, unwanted, and confused. Then, with that knowledge, I’m asked to stand, sing, and praise the God that permits it to be. Fellowship and community can be a supplement, but just as easily a barrier to faith.

I’m not targeting anyone, but speaking about our general state of mind and the existence of some families battling Autism. Over three years ago, our lives set out on an entirely different path. We’re no longer citizens of your land. We’ve embarked on a lifelong journey, the perils of which have no basis for explanation in your tongue. We wake under a different sky, fall asleep to a more ominous moon, and each moment in between somehow feels different because Autism can reach up and pull the rug out from any moment of serenity. In spite of this, we press forward because the love for our daughter overwhelmed our desire for normalcy. We set our sails ablaze…and here we will remain.

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Autism Awareness


Wednesday, September 22, 2010 at 7:40pm EDT
Craig Holbrook updated his status.
Peace, be still.

This was the day; the moment that I knew that my life would never be the same. It was at this time that I KNEW that my daughter, Cailyn, had Autism. In an instant, I set out on a journey of ever increasing awareness for a cause which, just days earlier, didn’t even register in my consciousness. We all do it, to an extent. If our minds weren’t able to filter out the ever-present white noise of pain surrounding us, we’d all just stay in bed. That is why we have “awareness” days. It’s not to burden everyone with a cause, but to plant a seed of remembrance into your mind…so when the situation arises, you are equipped to bring a moment of peace into the life of someone in turmoil.

Sometimes, I feel like we all are guilty of glamorizing the journey. We sensationalize the miraculous woman with Autism, who has a doctorate and is wildly successful. We celebrate the news feature about the non-verbal girl, who writes novels. We watch American Idol, a national anthem, or an ESPN video of a person with Autism, root for them and shed a tear…so we’ve done our part for the day. We’re a nation of armchair advocates, living blissfully unaware of the real lives of others. The fact of the matter is that estimates now place one in every sixty-eight children on the Autism spectrum…and most of their parents will never see their child’s daily victories go “viral.”

“There is no true despair without hope.”

Many reading this blog have been privy to the wonderful things that Cailyn has done. She’s truly made progress beyond what we were told to ever expect. I feel blessed for that. I’m grateful to have been given the opportunity to guide her, love her, and protect her. What you haven’t seen, or haven’t been told, is the day-to-day fight of having a child with “moderate-to-severe” Autism. No one wants to hear the story about a five-year old child that can’t be left alone, because she’ll poop herself and smear it all over her room and eat it. No one wants to think about a child that can’t put herself back to sleep, so she wakes up in the middle of the night, every night, for months on end. It makes you uncomfortable to read about a girl hitting herself, banging her head against a wall, and scratching her face when we ask her to say her name or restrict her iPad time. We avoid going to homes of other people, because we’ll do nothing but try to keep Cailyn from hurting herself or breaking things. We can do very little as a full family, because Dalton’s presence alone often throws Cailyn into a spiral of screaming and crying. We limit trips to stores and almost never go to restaurants, because we get looks and comments from people, who don’t think Cailyn “looks Autistic”…whatever that means.

Maybe I’m too freaking sensitive. Then again, maybe you’d be on edge too, if you dealt with your child running off in public, knowing full-well that she couldn’t even call for you or tell someone her name. Maybe you’d get a little testy every time someone tried to suggest one of her challenges are similar to that of all children. Maybe you’d be paranoid if you had recurring dreams about having someone watch/teach/care for your demanding child, only to have the person you trust harm or neglect her…and she can’t even tell you. Maybe you’d hate yourself…just a little…if you felt jealous seeing another man having a good time, talking with his little girl.

I can only now bring all of this up, because many of these are ghosts of our past. We’ve found ways to cope with the challenges, Cailyn is making wonderful progress, and Amber and I act as each other’s therapists…each one strong, when the other is weak. We constantly see hope in Cailyn’s achievements and those of others in the community, for whom we sincerely rejoice. Simultaneously, we are humbled by our blessings, as we’re confronted daily with families, who have it far worse.

I know Cailyn. I love her. I see things that many of you could never see. That is why I can never go back to being an armchair advocate. I balance husband, father, employee, and many other roles, but I’ll count myself blessed to be known as Cailyn’s dad. There are millions of parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, and families of children with Autism, who feel the same way. They don’t buy a colorful light once a year and forget. They live a life where disappointment, frustration, and despair hit like the drip of a leaking faucet but the love for another overwhelms their desire to quit…so they limp to the next day.

You can make a difference in the lives of these people by:

  1. Knowing the signs of Autism and having difficult conversations with people you love when you suspect there may be an issue. Early intervention is the key.
  2. Staying informed of Autism-related legislation and taking the time to write or call in support.
  3. Donate your time and resources to local special needs organizations or reputable research and advocacy foundations.
  4. Support frustrated parents of children acting out in public, when you encounter them. Take a moment to empathize and make them feel human, instead of an annoyance.
  5. Sharing this information with your family and especially with your children, so that they have a foundation of treating those who are “different” with respect, love, and kindness. If there is one thing I’ve found, it’s that none of us will “defeat” Autism. With a little awareness, however, you may just be able to bring some hope to the day of an exhausted parent or frustrated child.

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…In The Way They Should Go


“Hmmmmm…”

Dalton pursed his lips and tapped them with the index finger on his hand. You could almost see the gears in his head spinning. He tightly held a quarter at his fingertips, moving it back and forth between the slots of two porcelain banks.

He had recently watched “Monsters University” with Amber, at the movie theatre. This sparked a new fascination with “Monsters Inc.” which he repeatedly asks to watch at home. Now, he was talking about monsters all the time. He wanted Monster books, Monster clothes, Monster action figures…Monster EVERYTHING. That is, until he was walking with his mom through the store and saw a large Monster stuffed animal. THAT was what he wanted.

Amber and I started to work with Dalton on the concept of accruing small rewards to a long-term end. We had utilized a sticker system with great success, but felt that this may be a good time to introduce money and the concept of saving for a goal. Dalton began officially saving to get a Monster. The rules were simple but following them wasn’t quite so easy. I would come home from work everyday and ask Amber if Dalton had been listening “the first time” that day. This was a subjective call, but her answer was the difference in him getting a quarter or having a stern discussion with daddy. He also had the opportunity to earn pennies, nickles, and dimes by going “above and beyond” in various ways throughout the day. You’ve never seen a child as happy as him, when he would get a quarter and put it in his monkey bank for storage. Soon, he claimed, he was going to buy a monster.

—————–

Before Dalton was born, expectations for him were set irrationally high. We only had Cailyn at the time and were focusing on how good it would be for her to have a brother. Amber and I discussed how having a (hopefully) typical child around the house could assist in modeling for Cailyn. We hoped he would help her become more social and that he would take an interest in being a friend and eventually an advocate for his sister. These, in hindsight, were lofty goals for a fetus.

After he was born and not long before his dedication ceremony, my dad asked me what I wanted for Dalton’s life. After writing all of my thoughts down, I read back through them, lowered my head in shame and erased it all. I realized that I was asking him to live his life for his sister. I preseted my thoughts to Amber before changing my approach. We decided that we most wanted Dalton to be independent and “not to be bound by our expectations.” My prayer was that my son would be free of obligations, but that he would have a sincere heart and allow himself to be led by that.

…And independent he would become. Dalton challenged us on nearly everything we asked of him. Many times, he refused to do things simply because we told him to do it. He’d scream, fight, and rebel over commands that seemed minute. He’d also obsess over completing tasks without help, trying fruitlessly for long periods to perform actions that were well out of expectations for his age. What was worse, we were struggling to find a good way to make an impact in discipline.

That is, until we took his stuffed dog away from him. We quickly learned that Dalton would get upset when we put his dog in the closet, because that meant the “Dog was sad.” We started getting a better reaction from him when we expressed sadness instead of anger as a disciplinary response. We also found that we could nicely ask him for almost anything he had and he would give it to us. Dalton’s independence, it would seem, was only surpassed by his empathy for others.

One day, Dalton and I had a very adult conversation about his sister, as we rode through in the car. I remember that he screamed at me for not giving him exactly what he wanted.

“Dalton,” I said “I’m not going to give you what you want when you scream. No screaming.”

“Sissy screams too.” Was his retort.

“Dalton. Sissy is different. She isn’t like other kids and she has different rules, sometimes. She is sensitive and when people scream, it makes her very sad. Do you understand?”

He subtly nodded his head and then looked out the window for a few minutes, before piping back up.

“Daddy, I scream and sissy cry. I want sissy happy.”

Dalton would come to learn and recognize many ways in which sissy was “different.” When she became upset, he discovered that she would respond better to him hugging her than to playing or talking. He began to freely give toys to her if she was crying or when she tried to grab for them. He patiently played her games, even when they didn’t always make sense. One day, I asked him if he was daddy’s boy and he calmly responded “I sissy’s boy.”

I’ve learned that these unselfish and loving responses to Cailyn aren’t unique. I’ve had many awe inducing moments as I’ve observed other children interacting with my daughter. One time, we were at a 5k run and I was watching our kids as Amber ran. All the other children were out running and playing soccer when a young boy stopped, turned to Cailyn and asked her to come play with him. For nearly a half hour, he ignored all of his friends in favor of including and entertaining her…yet he was the one with the biggest smile. I know his family and recognized that this was the fruit of discussions they’ve had and lessons he had been taught.

Every Sunday as church is ending, I walk back to Cailyn’s class and peek through the window. I like to see how she interacts with others when I’m not around. One day, I watched as she quickly ate her fruit snacks and then threw a fit because she had no more. The teacher did exactly what I would have done and began to explain that she had eaten all of them. Just as she began to calm down, one of the other kids waived their arm.

“Here Cailyn!” the four year old child exclaimed. “You can have one of mine.”

This set off a chain reaction of children offering Cailyn one of their fruit snacks. She went around the circle, from one preschooler to another, grabbing fruit snacks and popping them in her mouth. I stood there, mouth agape, and probably tearing up. As I took Cailyn away from class, I heard the usual choruses of “Goodbye Cailyn!” and watched as another girl told her mom “That is Cailyn. She’s my friend.” I know that these weren’t spontaneous acts of kindness, but blossomed seeds planted by teachers, who understand Autism and have made a point to translate this complicated concept into the language of children.

Although there are personality traits at work with these acts of kindness, the action is anything but random. In life, habits are formed through practice. Proper execution in any given moment is governed by preparation for the situation. Every night, I tell Dalton a story (or three) before bed. One way I prepare him for life, is through these tales. One of the most common stories goes something like this.

“One day, sissy was outside playing and other kids were being mean to her. They laughed at her and made her very sad.” Dalton is noticeably distraught by this part.

“THEN Dalton comes outside.” He smiles because he knows what is coming next.

“Dalton says, ‘Hey, don’t laugh at sissy! I love sissy and God loves sissy.’ This made sissy very happy, because she knew Dalton loved her. The kids even stopped teasing her. Dalton came inside and mommy and daddy were so proud of him, because he did the right thing and took care of Cailyn, even when the other kids were all being mean. The end.”

It’s amazing how proud Dalton is, for an action he has not yet had need to perform.

—————–

On this day, however, Dalton is at a crisis point. He has just discovered Cailyn has a coin bank too. Although She had broken her first one when we were trying to teach her to put change in it, she still has a small pair of porcelain baby shoes. For the most part, this bank is empty. Dalton asks us to bring it down and immediately notices the rattle of just one or two coins. Compared to his giant coin laden monkey, it’s a pathetic site.

“Clank!” The unmistakable sound of a large coin hitting the bare bottom of a bank. I look down to see Dalton’s empty hand still hovering over a small porcelain pair of pink shoes.

“I give quarter to sissy.” Dalton says with a big grin on his face. He jumps up, runs down the hall yelling “Mommy! I give quarter to sissy! Mommy! I give quarter to sissy.”

I sat him down shortly after the excitement wore off and explained to him that, although I’m very proud of him, his mother and I have no expectation that he will give his money to his sister. He has earned that money and has every right to it. I’ve also told him that, when he gives it to her, that money does not help him buy a monster.

Every time he runs to his room to deposit money, Dalton now asks for Cailyn’s bank too. He doesn’t always make the same decision, but the war is ever present in his mind. We’ve never rewarded Dalton for giving his hard-earned quarter to his sister, in part because his smile is bigger on the days that Cailyn becomes twenty-five cents richer. Dalton has learned a lesson beyond his years: There is an irreproducible feeling of satisfaction gained in sacrificing yourself for someone you love.

I’ve learned a lot through being a husband and father, but I often summarize it in one sentence. Dalton will learn it, know it, recite it, and hopefully see it through me.

“Boys live and men sacrifice.”

…and a man shall he be.

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Lessons in the Wilderness


It was the first day after 2012 Spring Break. Cailyn was in her car seat singing and grinning from ear to ear. Amber pulled into the school and helped her out of the car. They made their way to the door, Cailyn clumsily skipped with her tiny Dora backpack dragging on the blacktop. Amber didn’t even get to say her customary goodbyes. As soon as the door opened, Cailyn darted off to class. Her happiness was a welcomed sight after a long week of temper tantrums and time-outs. With Dalton around, preschool and ABA therapy became a release for Cailyn. She loved the routine and structure and she seemed to be thriving when she was there.

If school time was Cailyn’s release, it was a parent’s life saver. Amber no longer had the time to give Cailyn eight hours of uninterrupted, individual attention each day. It wasn’t fair to Dalton, who turned out to be so much more demanding than his sister. As we attempted to spread our efforts and time equally, our daughter’s progress slipped. When she began school full-time, things started to change. She was making real, tangible progress. What’s more, we were seeing all her accomplishments laid out in a student binder that we reviewed every day. Instead of treading water, we suddenly felt like Cailyn was moving forward again…and then break hit.

It was a perfect storm of Dalton moving around the house a lot better, finding his voice, and Cailyn being home more. The net result was all day scream-fests, violent outbursts, and a lot of crying. Cailyn was unable to focus on anything but her brother and he loved whatever attention she would give him…even if it was the bad kind. She began hitting herself and putting her hand in her dirty diapers, again. Even her sleeping was worse. She was rebelling against the change. We weren’t responding much better. Patience had run short, discipline was in great supply, and we were flailing around in vain, trying to establish a class structure to get us through. I remember laying there one night, unable to sleep. I looked over at Amber, completely defeated, and asked “How are we going to make it through summer?”

Summer came, school ended and, predictably, Cailyn’s behavior changed for the worse. During this time, my relationship with her changed. Instead of pressing focused lesson plans and charting progress, I decided to just concentrate on making her happy and having fun together. I’d get home and tickle her, give horsey rides, play games and run around with her. This was not a selfless endeavor, but my resignation to a life of Autism. I no longer had the energy to play the role of Sisyphus on my daughter’s mountain. If the boulder was going to crush me anyway, I was determined to have some joy on the ride down. I no longer had faith that anything I did mattered, and so I quit trying.

…At least that was my original intention.

One day, Cailyn and I were outside playing. She was galloping down the sidewalk like a horse and I was jogging more slowly behind. Suddenly she stopped. She turned to me, grabbed my hand, looked me square in the eyes and said “Ready, Set, Go!” She bolted off, holding my hand just tightly enough to force me to put some leg into it. She giggled excitedly as she ran and repeated the pattern, despite my best effort to explain that daddy wasn’t quite so in shape. When we came inside, I told Amber the story. What followed has been a recurring conversation in our household.

“Where did she learn that?” Amber asks, often stunned.

“Oh, she and I play that together sometimes. She must have picked it up.”

“She always imitate the things you do!”

This is just one small example. We were seeing all sorts of these changes in Cailyn. It was as if all of our efforts to teach her had been creating stress and discord (in everyone) and the “quitting” approach was actually encouraging her to interact and be a part of her surroundings.

One particularly fun-filled night I sat on Cailyn’s bed, before she went to sleep. I prayed with her and then looked her in the eyes and I saw a different look in them. She seemed so much more aware. I began talking to her, just as I would another adult. I’ll never forget the conversation.

“Cailyn, there is a part of you inside that understands me. I know things are scary and don’t always make sense. I just want you to know that, when you’re ready to tell us what you’re going through, Daddy is here. You can come to me and I’ll protect you. I’ll listen to you and make sure that you have everything you need to feel safe. I love you so much and, even if I never hear you say another word, I’m so proud of you. You’re daddy’s girl and you’re absolutely perfect.”

She never broke eye contact and, when I finished, she grabbed my face and brought it into hers and rubbed our noses together. I knew then that we were going to be okay.

It’s been a year since I left the bondage of a life, wherein my sole purpose was to fix Cailyn. Looking back on it all, I see how far she’s come. She’s become more social and aware of others, craving interaction and praise. She is communicating needs, wants, and even her emotions. She engages in pretend play and has made great strides in receptive communication, following instructions better than we imagined possible at this age. The most gratifying part is that I don’t have to look on a chart to see all of this progress…I was a participant. I’m discovering that she has these capabilities within her and I’m convinced that one day the switch will flip and she’ll confound and amaze. Not because of any specific effort we’ve made, but because she sees that we are safe.

I’m somewhere between Egypt and Canaan, so far from where I was found and an immeasurable distance from the place I hope to be. Here, the discontent and restless venture in circles, only to have their footprints filled and their bodies buried in sand. I, on the other hand, have been set free to live each day new. While I still struggle with the weight of a journey, yet to come, I’ve come to learn that time is a commodity without price. A man with an uncertain destination will leave Earth with only regrets unless he learns to find beauty and joy in the scenery.

Who knows, someday, while we’re all enjoying our time together on Cailyn’s journey, the light may just…

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A Life Less Frightening


It was a beautiful fall Saturday. Amber was working and I decided to take Cailyn to the park before a full day of football. The park nearest our house has a huge play fort made of wood. The most fun parts of it are meant for children over three but we never paid attention to that. Although Cailyn was a bit too small to climb the stairs, I always held her hand and made sure no kids ran her over.

Once we made it to the top, she’d run around, smile, and squeal. That is, until she got to the bridge. Made of wood panels, held together by metal suspension cables, it is incredibly secure but designed to sag and sway when you run across. Cailyn would run up to it, look down as if to judge the risk, and run immediately in the opposite direction.

At first, I tried to be gentle and would walk with her up to the edge, encouraging her to take a step. She always cried and screamed, so I’d relent. After a few tries, I was tired of games. I knew that she’d be fine if she just tried it once. We watched other kids run over it a few times and I finally decided she was going to do it. I began to press up behind her and gave her no room to turn around. Finally, I gave her just a final little nudge. She went to step and was doing great, until her toe caught the edge of the platform. As she fell, she put her hands down to brace her fall and she pinched her finger in the bridge.

For two and a half years at work, I went to Subway and ordered the same sandwich for lunch. I would walk across the street each morning at 11:27 AM and would be spotted by the manager. My sub was ready by the time I walked through the door. Life mirrored my meal choices, as I avoided anything uncomfortable or uncharted.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted predictable, average, and safe. At a young age, I decided that my life’s dream was nothing more than a wife, two kids (hopefully a boy and girl), and a stable job to keep it all together. I recognized a career path that I thought suited me and I followed through, not because I was passionate about it, but because it seemed to maximize my potential for success. My senior year of high school, I had an assignment to write about what I would be doing in five years and it is unbelievable how closely it matched my eventual reality. Sometimes, I swear I was born for project management. When given the time, I’ll find and mitigate risk where others see smooth pavement. I’ll plan contingencies for my contingencies and find some way to control and deliver on exactly what I envisioned.

Except no one plans to have a child with Autism.

Cailyn laid on that bridge and bawled her eyes out. I’m sure some of it was the pain but the fear loomed larger. Being a father, I immediately scooped her up and held her to my chest. I insisted that she’d be fine and tried to soothe her, partially because I felt responsible in some way. As she started to calm down, I decided that there was no quitting. She had to move forward.

I don’t know the exact statistics but it sure seems like there are a lot of single parent homes impacted by Autism. The diagnosis comes with a degree of sacrifice, frustration, and fear unknown to those who haven’t dealt with it. Many times, it’s a life-long commitment. To be perfectly honest, I can’t even blame someone for being self-aware enough to know they can’t handle it. In my twenty-eighth year of life, it was the first thing to ever really and wholly “shake” me.

I remember lying in bed in the morning with my eyes closed. I’d concoct a scenario where some extent of my current existence was a dream. I’d begin to imagine that I was lying in the apartment and Amber would be beside me, still be pregnant with Cailyn. Sometimes, I’d wonder if I was still asleep on my old bachelor couch that sunk down to the floor. I’d talk myself into thinking that If I just counted to three and opened my eyes, that I could return to a different time and this dream as a way to mitigate the risk of my future…that I could hit the “reset” button. Instead, I’d see the recessed white ceiling of our bedroom.

Although Amber and I were both in the house, for a short period of time, I’d quit. My commitment and love for Amber and the kids kept me present, however I’d abandoned all hope of change. I accepted a life without progress and just decided to go through motions of normalcy, to trick myself into believing that I hadn’t colored so far out of the lines. I would spend all day playing with Cailyn and not pressing her to do anything that could result in her acting out, I would hug her when she was having good moments, walk away when she’d hurt herself, and throw on headphones when she screamed. Meanwhile Amber was doing therapy and dealing with the stress all alone.

After a few weeks of this, I remember one specific day where we had just returned from vacation and I wanted Cailyn to do some simple activities with me. With almost no notice, she flipped into a rage, started screaming, and hitting me. She went on to biting herself and even hit herself in the head. After a vacation week with almost no structure or progress, the emotions of the previous year hit the surface. I ran across the room and flipped our coffee table into the wall, breaking the table and putting a hole in the drywall. I let out a yell that went until my voice cracked, began beating my fists into our front door as hard as I could until I had no more energy, and I just sunk with my face in the corner sobbing. Amber was on the other side of the room doing the same. She wasn’t scared. I think she knew I was back; That I was willing to risk heartache to fight for my family.

I was invested, again.

The following try, Cailyn didn’t step straight onto the bridge. She sat down and scooted to the first plank. She trembled as she stood up and began to walk. Every few seconds, she’d stumble and stop immediately with her arms out to balance. Fear draped over her, but she kept moving. I watched at a distance, knowing if I were closer, my instinct would compel me to catch her. She needed to make this trip alone for her own good. With each step, she became more confident and eventually she reached the incline on the other side. Then, she slipped.

Through no virtue of my own, I’ve stumbled to the place I am, today; My footing as uncertain as the day I first read the word “Autism” on a computer screen. Doubts are frequent, frustration is plentiful, and hope sometimes fleeting but if there is anything I’ve discovered, it is that the human experience wasn’t intended to be sterile. Instead, I feel reborn into the fullness of the life God intended because of my trials, not in spite of them. It is a bridge I was too stubborn to walk of my own volition.

When we settle for a life less frightening, we deprive ourselves of the highs as well as the lows. We trade an existence of impact and meaning, for one of comfort and imprisonment. Through the gift of Cailyn, I’ve learned to appreciate every milestone, achievement, moment of clarity, and word my children speak. I’ve discovered a previously impossible well of strength in myself, a flood of admiration for my wife, and an unconditional love for my children. I no longer only exist, I now live more abundantly.

Even more importantly, I’ve discovered there are other people who need us. Individuals who, without Cailyn, would see us as too contrived and clean for credibility.

I fought my every impulse to run and grab Cailyn, as she again picked herself off the wood. She was a little shaken but didn’t cry. This time, a little girl walked over to her and started talking.

“It’s okay. Watch me!” The girl said, as she jumped down onto the bridge, wobbling quite a bit, herself. With the added excitement and motion, Cailyn suddenly decided that walking across the bridge wasn’t nearly as fun as bouncing on it. She began to laugh and scream with excitement. The little girl eventually said goodbye and walked away, smiling. As I watched her leave, I couldn’t help but wonder if she had one day fallen and pinched her fingers, as well.

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On the Workbench


I sat down at the pharmacy bench to wait the last fifteen minutes until our prescription would be ready. I checked my phone for messages, sent out a text, and looked at the time again. Barely a minute had passed. Just then, I caught someone in my peripheral vision. It was a heavy-set balding man with a dirty t-shirt and crooked glasses. He came over, set right beside me, and I caught a wind of a musty smell. I’d seen this guy around town many times and knew him to be very “different.” Just then, came the moment I was dreading; He started talking to me.

I always had tactful exit strategies for moments like this. Usually, a fake telephone call, last-second purchase, or just simply pretending I didn’t hear the first sentence. It’s not that I’m a bad person, I just don’t prefer having conversations with a stranger. Especially one who didn’t seem to grasp typical social norms. I knew that, if I didn’t immediately extract myself from this situation, I’d be knee-deep in uncomfortable and inconvenient chit chat for the next few minutes.

Then something completely unexpected took place. I turned to look at the man and my mind immediately shifted to my daughter, Cailyn. Instead of picking up my phone, we talked. Apparently, this was just the opening that he needed. He shared stories about himself and his extended family. He told me about his week and pretty much everything short of what he ate for lunch. As the minutes moved along, it became apparent that this guy didn’t get the opportunity to engage with other people very often. I started to ask questions and share some stories of my own. In that moment, I began to get emotional. I pictured Cailyn sitting next to me and thought back to the prayers of a parent, just hoping God would keep their socially awkward child from being alone. In those few minutes, he wasn’t.

Like so many others, I’m a naturally a person of self-interest. I veer into the direction of the least inconvenience and tend to avoid problems that come with interacting with others. I’ve always been good at keeping my eyes ahead, pressing towards my goal, and tuning out the world in the process. It was far easier to clear my mind by passing a few bucks to charity than to give of my time and comfort. That was before Cailyn came along. Before I caught people whispering when she would scream and bite herself. Before I witnessed Cailyn jump around and babble to a woman, who walked directly by without even a smile. It was a time where I was oblivious to a world that will acknowledge me, but completely ignore my beautiful little girl because she gets too close and stems when she tries to talk. This new revelation was a box-cutter to the heart.

Conversely, there have been a few people in our life (and we remember every one) who immediately drop to a crouched position, at eye level with Cailyn to say “hi.” They press her for eye contact and wait patiently for a response. It was this type of interaction that inspired me to develop a new habit. Now, whenever I see someone that I would typically avoid, I picture Cailyn.

One day, this came in the form of bringing coffee and remembering the birthday of a man who sold newspapers outside of a building downtown. I decided that I’d want someone to make my daughter feel special on her special day. Another day, it was simply a smile and “hi” to an extremely awkward girl, who seemed disturbed and was staring at her feet, as she walked. She seemed surprised, but her demeanor shifted as she smiled back and returned the greeting. I remember saying a prayer that someone would take the time to smile and make Cailyn feel valued in a moment she was in that condition.

I’m not telling these stories to boast. In retrospect, my interaction with individuals less fortunate than myself had been nothing short of repulsive. My human nature is judgmental, narcissistic, and apathetic. The greatest tragedy is that it took my child being diagnosed with Autism to change it. Once I began to personalize a seemingly endless sea of faces, I was able to see from the perspective of a father and a God that created each of them with value. This was a gift of immeasurable value from my three year old angel. It is the antidote to one of my greatest personality flaws and exposed a sobering truth:

The entire time I’d been trying to repair Cailyn, I was the one lying broken on the workbench.

I still get caught up in my own situations. I react poorly and lose patience more easily on Cailyn’s severe days. When they hit one of us particularly hard, Amber and I say we’re having an “Autism” day. This began as a reflection of Cailyn’s behavior but is now an indicator that I’ve lost perspective. When these moments hit, I reflect back to my view from the workbench and my prayer begins to evolve from “God, make my daughter better.” to “God, make ME better.”

Thanks to Cailyn, the work has already begun.

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The Impact of a Father (Part 2)


Over the last week, I’ve been fascinated with the concept of hereditary rule. When I first began considering the subject, I immediately dismissed it as an archaic practice and a terrible basis for government. Being born to a king doesn’t make you a king, nor should it entitle you to a kingdom. The more I’ve thought about it, however, I’ve begun to see some interesting parallels and some redeeming qualities in the “royal blood” philosophy.

Just a few weeks ago, I spoke with a man who reminded me of myself. In fact, the similarities were alarming. We talked extensively and I found us to have many of the same interests. He was engaging, intelligent, and insightful. In spite of these similarities, our lives couldn’t have landed in more opposite locations. He never stuck with a career path and had been unable to find steady work, his marriage fell apart and he has very limited contact with his children, and he is admittedly without faith or long-term hope. As we talked and traced the trajectory of our lives, I finally realized one interesting difference between us. He came from a home without a father.

“Nature versus Nurture” is an age old question, which compares and contrasts two possible developmental catalysts. Those who would argue that nature is the primary consideration in development, would suggest that a life is a sum of genetics; That personality and traits can be traced back to DNA. Alternatively, the “nurture” crowd considers an individual’s environment and experiences to be a greater factor in the molding of an individual. Reasonable people agree that it is actually a combination of the two, but disagree on the proportions.

I have what I consider to be a unique perspective on the argument. I believe that nature is who you are, but nurture defines who you become. Humans enter this world completely self-centered and survivalist. Although innocent, we are essentially myopic narcissists. Basically evil. Through a lifetime of experiences and development, most are able to relate to others while gaining perspective and empathy; traits which lead to consideration for others. This same equation applies globally. Traits which are taught and exercised, like muscles, grow. In instances where a specific trait is not practiced, nature will prevail.

By relating this theory back to the conversation I detailed, above, it becomes obvious how the lack of a stable father could so drastically change the paths of two similar personalities. The life regrets the man in my conversation shared could have been avoided through experiencing my life. Namely the impact of my father. Alternatively, it is a sobering reminder of exactly where my nature could have led me, had I been born to someone else.

My dad set an example by working as hard as he could, in a job he didn’t enjoy. He passed this onto me, and my parents forced me to honor my commitments, usually at the expense of my own desire. He demonstrated love to my mom, treated her well, and praised her…even when she wasn’t around. He taught me how to treat a woman and has held me to these standards. My parents provided me with a safety net, in which failure wasn’t catastrophic. They encouraged me to be realistic, but allowed me the freedom to choose my own path without fear of abandonment. Lastly, they showed me faith; instilling a hope in me that God would always be the path to making my tomorrow better than my today.

Males are biologically wired to be fathers but not dads. Propelled by nature to procreate, yet to also remain strong, virulent, and independent. In my own life, I’ve struggled with giving up things I love. As a husband and father I watch far fewer sports, I rarely play video games, and I don’t often go out with friends. I remember watching a college football game one day, when Cailyn came to me with her shoes, which meant she wanted to go for a walk. My nature told me to hand her a cookie and make her wait, but I decided that it was a small but important exercise in our relationship. That day, I came up with a phrase which summarizes my dad and grandfather’s legacy. It is one I will teach to my children…

“Boys live. Men sacrifice.”

I’ve learned that we must continually practice the denial of our personal ambitions and instinct for the prosperity of our family. We must consciously seek to do that which is honorable, until it becomes our reformed instinct. We must teach in actions consistent with our words and live a life worth modeling. To do otherwise will simply continue the cycle of handicapping our children, as we fail to set an example of the man our boys should become and our daughters will someday look to marry. This is the impact of a father.

Thankfully, it’s never too late to be a dad. You may have had a poor example of a father or maybe even been one, but the opportunity still exists to reconcile and use your failures as an experience to make your children better than yourself.

Being born to royalty doesn’t necessarily make you a king…

Being trained by a king can.

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The Impact of a Father


I was sweaty, tired, and could barely see the rim as the night grew dark. The court was lit by a single flood light, but I wasn’t done just yet. I half-heartedly launched what I thought to be my final shot of the night. The ball bounced off the rim, down our gravel driveway and settled by our neighbors barbed wire fence. I’d just made one hundred layups on each side of the basket and I could barely summon the energy to go retrieve it.

“End on a good note.” Dad would always say.

He always demanded that we make our final shot and usually forced me to shoot from my previous miss. I can almost smell the crisp summer night air, filled with freshly cut grass. I still hear the crickets and the neighbors playing next door. This is a memory as vivid as the lunch I ate, today. If there were a single childhood moment I could relive, that would be it. To dad, it was just another night of mowing the lawn and sacrificing his free time to help me with my fundamentals. Little did he realize, these were the moments that would make an impact.

When they involved my dad, the most trivial memories became etched in stone. On Wednesday nights, I remember him driving straight to church from work and meeting us there. I always wanted to ride home with him; by myself, if I could manage it. Every ride, I’d hear about how I had no idea how much he loved me. We’d listen to the radio and talk about the most random things. While listening to baseball scores, he once asked me if I knew what a “Philly” was. He burst into laughter when I informed him that a Philly was a pretty girl.

Dad taught me how to read a baseball score while having me run Reds updates to him while he was working on the mower. When games ended, he taught me about socket wrenches and just the right place to hold a light. He let me stay up late to watch the World Series with him on school nights and didn’t make me go to bed during the countless other games I’d sneak in to watch from behind the furniture, although I’m pretty sure he knew I was there. He took me to Buckeye basketball games and we’d stay long after most fans were gone, I remember dozing off in the back seat on the way home, listening to the post game with Big Bear commercials and Carmen Ohio dancing in my mind.

We all loved going places with dad, because he liked to “spoil” us. He once bought me a Giants jacket on a business trip to New York and it instantly became the coolest thing I owned. I wore it until I was so big that I could barely button it. Another time, he called before coming home from work and asked if there was anything I wanted. Much to mom’s chagrin, he walked in the door with a new box of Legos. Often, he’d get home from work with a new pack of basketball cards, open them with me, and would talk about the players and positions. Thanks to him, pictures of Mychal Thompson, Manute Bol, Jack Sikma, and Terry Porter are burned into my mind. I could go on for hours with these random memories, each as nostalgic and meaningful as the previous.

Mothers spend the most time with their children and are primarily responsible for development. They are unquestionably the most important and simultaneously under appreciated part of the household. Mothers are ever-present and their impact is molded into lives over the course of years through routine and tradition. They methodically sand away and refine our personalities. Fathers, on the other hand, appear less frequently and make a mark in meteoric blasts that, while far less graceful, leave impact marks for life. Ironically, we try so hard to manufacture these memories through special, planned events, only to discover that the lasting moments occur with almost complete spontaneity.

At five years old, I wanted to wake up when my dad was getting ready for work. I sat in the living room, adjacent to the bathroom where he was shaving and watched the news. Suddenly, I saw a headline and ran in to inform him that the stock market dropped over 100 points (the largest number any child can fathom) and closed. He just smiled and said “Craig, the stock market closes every day.”

Not all my memories with dad were so trivial. I remember him always keeping the +/- of the score whenever I was playing sports. He always found a way to build my confidence when I was down and, even with his work and travel schedule, he NEVER missed an event in which I participated. I remember him talking to me in fourth grade about whether or not we moved. He sat me down first to tell me that he had cancer, so that I could be strong for my siblings and my mom. My dad held me in his arms during some of the most traumatic moments of my life, and has been on the end of the phone when I could barely speak for crying. He taught me the importance of a man’s name, of hard work, integrity, and in the beauty of giving to someone who is incapable of paying you back. There have been numerous times at work when I use the phrase “my dad taught me.”

Being a father myself, I often wonder what memories I will etch into the minds of my children. It’s easy to get caught up in the frustration of everyday life and forget that there are two little people watching, admiring, and imitating you. Cailyn is beginning to approach the age where I was when my memory begins to take root. With this in mind, I try to make our moments together worth remembering. I desperately want her to remember times with me, the way I do with my father. Moments where the most powerful and important man in your world, made you the center of his.

There are a mountain of statistics that prove the importance of a father’s presence in the home. Even greater is the example that a present father sets. One of the most common explanations for a girl with questionable self-image is that she has “daddy issues.” If a woman wants to know how a man will treat them when they are married, the best indicator is to watch the man’s father. My wife often tells me that I act just like my father. Sometimes it’s in reference to some of my personality quirks, but more often she refers to the way I honor and praise her, just as my father with my mother, and my grandfather with my grandmother. It’s the greatest compliment she can pay me.

My dad may not remember many the moments I’ve recounted here. The importance of these events are not that they were as meaningful to him, but that he cared enough to have them with me. Now, my duty is to pass on he and my grandfathers’ legacy, by giving of myself so that my children will one day remind me of a relatively insignificant moment of my life that they will hold onto forever with a smile. That is the true and lasting impact of a father.

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21 Grams


21 grams. This is the purported “weight of the soul,” popularized by those seeking scientific evidence that we are built of more than carbon and oxygen. It is fueled by outdated research, which suggests the body loses a small but measurable amount of weight at the moment of death. I’m not sure whether these results are methodically sound or even accurate. They neither validate nor refute my belief, as I look at my daughter and see at least 21 grams of something unexplainable.

The nuances are discernable from birth. Each child is endowed with a distinct personality, often ranging in similarity to their parents, but with a subtle quality all their own. As they grow, the symptoms of this existence begin to erode as social norms and a preoccupation with acceptance begin to wear away at the edges of individuality. Sometimes, I catch myself in this battle between youthful exuberance and acceptable behavior. I may see a high ceiling at work and subdue the urge to jump and touch it. I sometimes have to rock my leg to focus and keep from drifting into thoughts of art, music, or video games. Other times, it’s a fleeting opportunity to show kindness to another person, missed only because I took the opportunity to pause and wonder if I would appear strange.

In many individuals with special needs, these battles seem much more one-sided. Cailyn shows no inhibition when she has an urge to jump in the store. Her excited scream doesn’t have a separate volume setting for a quiet restaurant. She clumsily sprints around the block with her head down, arms waving, and is repeatedly distracted by oddly shaped leaves on the ground. Society tends to turn up their noses at this atypical behavior. I’ve even been guilty of feeling the embarrassment of being the center of the(sometimes imagined) disgust of others. Lately, however, I’ve taken on new emotions.

I feel an overwhelming sense of pride that I “get” her. Although Cailyn cannot always communicate her inner thoughts and feelings, I’ve watched her grow. I know her quirks and love them in a way most individuals will never understand. I love how visibly excited she gets over the most simplistic things, not knowing enough to suppress emotion for the sake of looking cool. I love that she runs, not for competition or exercise, but for the joy of letting out her energy and feeling the wind blow through her hair. I love that she sees the world in a fresh way, with lenses that appreciate each subtle detail of intriguing and exciting things. I sometimes wonder if Autism really creates traits or if it simply removes the filter, allowing a more “pure” image of an individual to be seen. I envy that she lives in such a carefree, joyful world and it makes me sad that so many others will be too uncomfortable to appreciate her beautiful uniqueness.

This battle with my daughter’s battle with Autism sometimes consumes me. I struggle with thoughts of regret, despair, and fear for Cailyn’s future. I’ve looked at her as afflicted for so long, that the mindset begins to taint my interaction with her. Although it sounds cliché, the more I experience the stress of a “typical” life, the more I become convinced that she has been given a gift. My purpose therefore, is not to force her to hide it for the sake of normalcy, but to teach her to use her gift to impact others and function in a world that doesn’t understand her the way I do…a world that has to be held to a flame to rediscover the 21 grams of unbridled childhood they painted over.

I know of the existence of the soul, not because a scale told me it leaves the body on death. It’s something I see every day; a quality for which chromosome rearrangement, mutation, and millennia of trial and error cannot fully account. It’s a moment of understanding in Cailyn’s eyes when we look at each other and I tell her “I love you.” It’s the suddenly confident smile on her face when I applaud an achievement. It’s the metaphysical, spiritual connection I feel when I pick my sleeping girl up, hold her heart to mine, and take her to her bed. These moments bring calm to all turmoil, speaking to my spirit that I was somehow meant for her and she for I.

I never know what challenges and emotions the next day will bring but I’m thankful for the opportunity to be the steward of such a beautiful soul. I wouldn’t have entrusted her 21 grams with anyone else.

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Flawed with Intention


I pulled my car into the campground, pulled out my bags, and began the trek to the dorm. I was now a working man and had missed previous day, so the grounds were already buzzing with people talking and playing. In the distance, I spotted a few friends and raised my arm to make sure they saw me. They began running in my direction. As they approached, it became clear that they wanted to tell me something.

“Did you hear about Ryan?”

My friend, Ryan was a rather large guy. I’m guessing about 6’6″ and probably about 235 pounds at the time. The previous night, he had been playing in a classic camp pick-up basketball game when he came down hard and rolled his ankle. Apparently, he was in massive amounts of pain and, as the swelling got worse, they decided to have someone go get a vehicle (he couldn’t walk) and drive him to the hospital.

As he laid on the bench in agony, our pastor’s son walked up to him and decided to fix the situation. He stretched his arm out to Ryan’s leg and prayed, in classic child-like fashion.

“God, make him all better…and give him some grape kool-aid.”

Although these details weren’t shared, I imagine the reaction from the group huddled around was a mixture of laughs and adoration. Everyone was probably wrapped up in that cute thing that they just saw, until something amazing happened. Ryan spoke.

“Guys…It doesn’t hurt, anymore.”

Ryan, being the practical joker that he is, would use any moment as an opportunity to get a laugh so everyone was naturally skeptical. Until, that is, he began to put weight on his foot. He stood up, walked around, and even jumped a few times before trying to restart the basketball game. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get his shoe back on over the swelling. Cooler heads prevailed, convincing him to go to the hospital, where they went through a series of tests and came out with the x-ray.

“Have you had any other problems like this, since the fracture?” the doctor asked?

Ryan looked at him, completely confused.

“I’ve never hurt this ankle, before.” he replied.

The doctor wasn’t exactly buying his story.

“That isn’t possible. I see evidence of an old fracture here. It had to have happened a while ago, because it’s healed over.”

The next day at lunch, the mess hall served grape kool-aid.

I continued going about my business as I listened to this story. I was mostly engaged, and although half sure that it was exaggerated, I was reasonably entertained. Just then, we arrived at the basketball court. I spotted a six and a half foot figure winning yet another unfair rebound battle over a smaller opponent and putting the ball back up and in. As he walked back, I noticed one foot had a sandal and sock on it instead of a tennis shoe. He caught sight of me and came jogging my way.

“Hey buddy!” Ryan called out “Did you hear the story? You’ve got to see this!”

He sat with one leg up on the bench and took off the sandal. As he began to unroll the sock, I cringed. It was horrifying. His ankle was swollen beyond recognition. I had never seen such a dark shade of purple occur naturally. Hearing about it was one thing, but the story was told when I saw him roll back up the sock and go back out to playing basketball.

Although years had gone by and the event was filed away in distant memory, the first time I heard the word “Autism” in the same sentence with my daughter’s name, I thought of Ryan’s ankle. The story kept recurring in my mind and Amber probably got tired of hearing it. For the longest time, I couldn’t make the parallel between this event and Cailyn’s struggle. Then it clicked.

It was the day Cailyn began to repeat things we said. She started saying all these words, which had seemingly come from nowhere. We were so happy, thinking we’d turned a corner. Still, I something bothered me. She couldn’t talk unless she waived her right hand up next to her face. Known as “Stemming,” this is one of a variety of repeated actions that many individuals with Autism perform to get stimulation or to concentrate on a task. In this achievement, just like every other in Cailyn’s journey, each ground-breaking success was met with another reminder that she still had a long way to go.

That is when I realized that Cailyn’s story may not involve Autism dissolving in a cloud of dust behind us. Although I would love to someday tell an entertaining tale about a girl, once diagnosed with severe Autism and then instantly completely “typical,” I’m not sure that’s our mission. I’ve reached a place of understanding, where the definition of “healed” has evolved beyond complete relief from symptoms, instead describing a process of unexplainable and supernatural conquest over them.

We are all made with scars; flawed with intention that when we succeed beyond our own capacity, our lives may have impact. The story of Ryan’s ankle would have only affected witnesses if not for the disgusting swelling and bruise. Now, it’s become a source of faith and hope for everyone who encountered him in the following weeks. Likewise, I believe Cailyn will continue to confound and amaze. She will excel in spite of her affliction but have lasting impact because of it.

Everyone has a story about their slow to talk, now completely normal relative who simply “grew out of it.” My little girl seems destined for a more powerful road and I’m okay with that.

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