Micah and I sit in cushioned chairs in the church balcony, our backs against the wall. We’ve been coming to this spacious church for almost twenty years and have sat in this row most Sundays ever since Micah was a toddler. We are early, alone at the far end of our row (Todd is still […]
Dear Insulin Pump, I’m not going to give up on you. We’ve had a couple rough starts when you’ve frazzled my nerves and rattled my confidence. Nevertheless, I promise not to throw in the towel again like I did with the first pump we tried last year. It was Christmas Eve, and whether we had
I am on a walk. It’s very long and often lonely. Although I cry out to God for help throughout my journey, I still search for a blueprint, the footsteps of other special needs parents who have walked a similar path. How do I advocate? Am I doing it right in this situation? Am I
You sat down in the first brown pew on the right side of the church, your grandfather’s blond oak casket in front of you slightly to the left. You remained there even though we—Todd, Sammi, and I—were three rows back. You weren’t afraid, not like I would have been at age fifteen. Then again you
I sit on the back of a bumblebee-colored jet ski, the cushion long and bright yellow. Todd is up front, steering wheel in hand, Micah the hot dog in-between us. We are traveling at high speed over gray-blue water. I feel the wind rush at my face, my hair blow back. I inhale the glorious
I stand by the doorway of a small meeting room inside the Hjemkomst Center, a museum built around a wooden Viking ship, built in a nearby small town, that made a voyage to Norway in the 1980s. It is also the venue where Micah and his eleven castmates will perform the play, Little Shop of
At long last, we are in the final week of the “Little Shop of Horrors” theater camp. Only four more days until curtain time. Micah has all of his lines memorized and has delivered them with expression and gusto during rehearsals. He is still a little shaky on the choreography, but I think he’ll have
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“Is he going to behave like that while on stage?” The high school theater director, with his sparse crop of mussed brown hair, was referring to Micah who, as usual, had wandered away from me and now was at the other end of the fine arts wing corridor. The question was accompanied by a little
Micah has never liked having people sing the “Happy Birthday to You” song to him. No one has ever been able to finish the song in his presence; he has always firmly (and quite loudly) put a stop to what he considers an annoying infringement on his special day. On the other hand, he doesn’t
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Two weeks ago, Micah and I watched the 1986 movie, Little Shop of Horrors. I wanted to familiarize Micah with the story, the characters, and the music before his next theater camp featuring the play by the same name. We were both thoroughly entertained by this zany film, and afterward agreed that the next four
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