When I think of my life, sometimes I get the analogy of a boxer. There I am in the middle of the ring, swinging, dodging, doing my fancy footwork and, let’s face it, going down on occasion.

Then I’m off to the corner getting fixed up by my various support people. They stitch up my lip, wipe the blood away, massage my shoulders, and send me out for more.

In the boxing ring of life, I have both unofficial and official support people. The unofficial would be my friends and my family, but the official includes my chiropractor, my massage therapist (occasional), my naturopath, my ob-gyn, and my haircutter.

Your haircutter? I hear you ask. Yes, my haircutter. His name is Jeff, and we’ve had many self-disclosures in the years we’ve been together. He’s interesting as well because he’s somewhat spectrum-y. He swears that when he was young he was really autistic – completely lost in his own world. His abusive mother would get so annoyed at his unresponsiveness that she’d rear back and punch him, hard – so hard that he’d sometimes lose consciousness.

Now, all ethics aside, here’s the interesting part. He grew so afraid of her physical abuse that, for self-preservation, he forced himself to be more engaged with the world. To be less autistic. That, he claims, is how he was cured of autism.

I have totally digressed, but it is such a sad yet interesting story that I had to share it. Now, on to the real point of this post.

A couple of weeks ago, Joseph and I got to his school a few minutes early. It’s standard procedure for kids who get to school early to go to the blacktop, but it makes Joseph nervous, unsure of what to do with the extra time. So I walked with him and we stood there until we could pick out his classmates, who were intently engaged in a game of basketball. Joseph kissed me goodbye and ran off toward his friends.

I hid myself and watched,  interested in how Joseph would interact socially. What I saw was very difficult for me, as the mama. Joseph stood to the side of the basketball players and sort of ran in the same direction as them. If they ran toward the net, he ran that way but over on the side, and if they ran another way he did the same, but over on the side.

Forget my boxing analogy: to me this was an analogy for Joseph’s life. Always on the sidelines, unable to quite get, or fit in with, what was going on. Always the odd man out.

I left the school with that image burning in my mind. I felt so sad. So weary. So afraid for my Joseph, who will end up friendless and alone. I wiped away a few tears, blew my nose and drove over to Jeff’s salon for a hair appointment.

As always, the hair cutting and highlighting activity were pleasantly augmented with lively conversation. At some point we were talking about Joseph and his autism, and Jeff stopped what he was doing to turn and look me full on in the face.

“That,” he said, “is God’s work in you.” I told him about the basketball visual, with my poor boy running around on the sidelines. “That,” he said, “is also God’s work in you.”

He also said he has never been able to figure out basketball. He simply can’t understand it. And later, when I spoke about it to John, our RDI consultant, he said that basketball is the most fast-moving, dynamic sport there is, so no wonder Joseph can’t get it. This all made me feel much better.

But the concept of God’s work in me has stuck. I mean, it’s an old cliche that all the bad things that happen are meant to sculpt us, polish us, etc. But to think of the autism, and the pain from it, as God’s work in me has me shifting analogies (again). There is God, right there in my heart, chipping away at the hard coats of shellac. If I didn’t have my wounds, I most certainly wouldn’t have the compassion to feel another’s pain. And, without your wounds, neither would you.

While my hair was full of foils, Jeff put on a CD he wanted me to hear. It’s called The Heart of Healing and I can’t recommend it highly enough. I lay on the couch and heard Marianne Williamson say this:

Dear God,
I face that which scares me. I am frightened by that which lies ahead.
And so, I place this situation, and all related circumstances, in your hands.
Take this burden from me. As I place it in your hands, I ask that my thoughts be transformed:
From fear to confidence.
From fear to courage.
From fear to faith.

At this point, I lost it. I cried about all the fear my mind had created from watching a simple basketball scene. I cried about the concept of being afraid and then trustingly placing it all into God’s hands. I cried about being able to ask for help in such a clear, open way.

I cried about this work that is being done in me. This painful, heartbreaking, magnificent work that God is doing in me.

Eventually Jeff stitched up my lip, wiped the blood away, massaged my shoulders and sent me back out into the ring. And here I stand, swinging, dodging, doing my fancy footwork and, let’s face it, going down on occasion.

But now I do it all with a prayer in my heart. A prayer where I admit my fear and then put it, and all related circumstances, into God’s hands. A prayer where I ask for transformation. With trust. With faith. I do this if I awake in the middle of the night. I do this whenever the flames of fear lick at my inner peace.

I do it. A lot.

Rumi says, The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

God’s work in us.

Advertisements