Living Hazzardously

Little pieces of our journey with Jesus

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The day I got a scar so big that I wept.

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The day I got a scar so big that I wept. 

 There comes a day in a man’s life when he takes a look at the “fork in the road”, mine is from a few years ago. Maybe it was the wrong fork? I don’t think so! … The fork in the road for me led me to this very day. I could live regretful and feel sorry, or I can look at it as a painful opportunity that led me to a prosperous life…  The reality is twofold… 

1st: The fork in my road was not a choice, it was a closed road in one direction and a rocky path in the other direction. 

2nd: Prosperity takes many forms, this form is Autism..

It’s no secret my divorce was a grueling and terrible experience, it truly does defeat a man in short order. BUT… it also brought me a new life. It’s not something I “wanted”, it’s not something I was seeking out and it’s certainly not something I would want for one of my boys. But there it is, the boys and I became scar covered and battered. Yet we dug in and overcame… I tell them “It’s just what Hazzards do!”

I did my best in those trying times, we gave up cable tv, we had no options for broadcast tv. I maintained an internet connection for the boys to help them with schoolwork. We ate rice and beans more times than I can count! We asked the county for help with food, to no avail. We didn’t “qualify” because we didn’t have disconnect notices for gas, electric or water. I was doing what I needed to do to meet the financial demands of those days, that means… rice and beans. It’s what Hazzards do, we survive.

My loyal dog never went hungry either, I just worked harder and longer. When the boys were away to visit their mother every other weekend, I would work, go for bike rides, walk the town and do whatever I could to stay sane… me and the boys did everything together, all the time… to be apart for even a few hours was a challenge, weekends were “our times”… camping, exploring, doing, building and everything, we lived for the days we didn’t go to school or work..

What does this have to do with Autism? Well, the good Lord was preparing my three sons and myself for a future challenge, a challenge we knew nothing about. And so, our stubbornness was at its apex, and it was found to be insufficient. I had finally learned how to live in the hope that God provides. Because I had nothing left, I was finally broken, not defeated, just fully dependent on my God, after all, HE is bigger than my problems. 

Fast forward to the summer or maybe the fall of 2014, I happened to be at church choir practice at the same time as the “catalyst” to my new life was also there, her name is Jessica. She too had a life of difficult years and together we became a force to be reckoned with! That was 2015. The start to a story I was not anticipating. A life that makes me question everything I have done and everything I plan to do.

Over the next few weeks, I hope to blog about what it’s like to become a stepfather to a son with autism. I hope to share our challenges and victories as well as sharing in our defeats. I want to share this in a way that is respectful and honest. I want to share this with all the emotions we have had, but not go too crazy. I want to share the scars and defeats as well as the major victories and the little wins. 

We hope this Blog finds you well today, LIvinghazzardously.

Dear Mr Cellophane, Please refrain, Mr Cellophane.

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Dear Mr Cellophane, Please refrain, Mr Cellophane.

Her scream pierced the night as if it were a tornado siren!  Shattering the silent calm with shrieks of terror. The puppeteer, now in full control, reaping, claiming & taking over her very will, leaving nothing untouched. Like a tornado when it hits a small town. TERROR ON EVERY SIDE. Quick! Everyone hide! Head to the basement! Under the stairs! Into a closet! Into safety…  But today, there is no place to hide, no safe place to be. As if we sat in a vast open field. We sat on the edge of our bed, so horribly unprotected, the “siren” wails, we can’t run, we can’t hide, we can only sit here as the storm devours us. It swallows our life in one large gulp, one devastating statement, “He didn’t make it”. That scream was only one word, yet it said all there was to say. That word will forever haunt my memories…. “WHAT”.  

I watched a woman cry out in pain on tv after she had the truth revealed to her in real time about her beloved child and I too cried. I was there when my father died and I watched my mother cry out in pain when my sister died in a tragic crash. I was with my mother the day she passed away. I sang at the funeral of my niece who was murdered. Death is real and it is inevitable! So why do we react the way we do? Everyone is going to “Kick the bucket”. Is it a surprise?

When death enters the life of a friend or relative, how should we react? Should we offer long statements of how we know what you are going through? Perhaps we should simply connect at the beginning with hugs and attention and slowly drift back to a settled life we had before this event? Maybe we should just do our best to ignore It and not even acknowledge the situation? What is the best way to react? What is the proper way to connect? Is there a wrong way? I personally think this is a much more complicated question and it depends greatly on the relationship.

When my step son Sam passed away that August night, I started on a journey that was “unfamiliar” to me. I had previously experienced plenty of death in my life, I knew the attention I should expect. The responses people give in different situations can vary more than the East is from the West… BUT I did not expect this : “Dear Mr Cellophane, Please refrain, Mr Cellophane”. I experienced a form of disconnect or perhaps a better description is invisibleness in the months that followed. It was as if the expectation others  had were more like I had lost a distant third cousin that I only met once about 20 years ago. This not only surprised me, it made me feel like my relationship with Sam was insignificant and meant little to nothing. I could only assume this was simply because I am his “step father”. 

In the months to come I heard statements like “Ohh this must be so hard on Jess and Al, do you know how his father is doing?” or “Wow, this must be so hard, How is Jess handling this?” or maybe “I remember when(insert a favorite memory) happened, Does Jess need anything? You know we are always here to help, whatever Jess and Al need, just let us know!” I started to feel invisible and I started to feel like I didn’t experience the death of a child, now granted, he was not my blood child, and I don’t want to downplay that role. I am also adopted into a family, the family of God and God thinks of me no less than his “blood” child. 

It wasn’t until months, well actually about a year later that I found a man who also was ‘Mr Cellophane”, he too was the step father to a child that ran ahead into heaven… and he actually knew what I felt. For the first time since Sam passed away, I understood I was not crazy in this area and the feelings I felt were very similar to his… he had raised this boy of his from a very early age… he too was invisible.

I am not looking for “pity” and I certainly don’t want attention but I did find it was hard and for a brief moment in time I think I can understand a bit of how God may feel. When God is not given the credit due him for being our Father. Ohh I know, it’s different, I’m not saying I am God or that I know what it’s like.. But it got me thinking… Do I give God the attention he deserves for stepping into my life and being my step father? Do I recognize the commitment and dedication he has given freely to me? How about you? Do you need to take a second and credit God what is due to God for being your GOOD STEP DAD? 

May God bring you peace today

Livinghazzardously for God.

Dark places, triggers and time

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“YOU G$&@$? KIDS ARE THE WORST $@!:;)$&@ THING TO EVER HAPPEN TO ME”

This statement was one of my fathers favorites. Colorful expletives, horrible names and physical beatings were a daily occurrence for my siblings and I growing up.

My first traumatic memory was in the big house in South Minneapolis, I’m not sure what year it was, we moved in my kindergarten year, so it was before that. I had done some “horrible deed” that my father determined was nearly a capital offense. The punishment was banishment.

The big house was a duplex with “druggies” upstairs. I got the bed in the bay window, basically a foam pad shoved into a window opening. I don’t remember much of that house now. Between my fathers cigarette smoke and the constant inflow of marijuana smoke from upstairs, I was either being made strong or it was a sure thing what my future held.

This is where I started in the “Jonny jump-up” and grew up until my “all day kindergarten” class at Greely elementary a couple blocks away. We lived on 24th and 12th, on the Southside of Minneapolis, the house we lived in was torn down many years ago. It was a horrible place in a horrible neighborhood.

Our basement was right out of a horror movie, big stone walls, musty and dark, junk filled every turn and every damp corner. IT WAS A SCARY PLACE.

My punishment must fit the crime, and at less than 6yo, banishment into the basement was the only solution to my rehabilitation. As the lights were turned off at the switch located above me, I watched the trap door being lowered over my head until the last flicker of light was extinguished and the horror of every noise, every imagination and every nightmare played out in my young mind at full intensity. I remember screaming, crying and begging for help. My mind began to play out how I would be devoured in this dark hole. I curled up on the steps and literally screamed until I was horse, until I could scream no longer…. this was my father’s cue that I was fully reformed and my banishment was fulfilled.

We moved to 35th and Sheridan on the north side, a big, nice home. Two fireplaces, finished basement, two stories, separate bedrooms for boys and girls. We had a play area upstairs and the big bedroom was just for us three boys. My two sisters had the pretty bedroom next to us. I got my own bed, the upper bunk, my little brother got the lower and my older brother was in a single bed by the window. Life was “good” and I was finishing k-grade in Penn elementary. I was making friends when I could but usually I was at home “working” on my fathers projects. Going the the store to buys smokes and Pepsi for dad was my most common job in the evening. Two packs of smokes for the next day and an 8-pack of returnable bottles that my father would share with us on occasion. He didn’t mind sharing the Pepsi after it went flat, but to me it was liquid heaven.

The year was 1976, I was now 9 years old. My siblings and I had worked all day cleaning the house, top to bottom! We had expectations of our efforts to be rewarded by letting us invite our friends over for a “BICENTENNIAL PARTY”…. this would be a rare experience, to have friends over? It was unheard of, at least not in the house…. that’s not allowed! Maybe outside but never in the house. As I hid under the dining room table to covertly capture the surprise and delight that would surely flow from my father as the obvious labors over the coarse of our day were to be revealed as the man I called dad traversed the interior of our home.

Yes this was it! Here he comes! The door swung open, the footsteps approached, the hacking cough…. “clomp, clomp, clomp”…. he couldn’t see me, I was hidden well, table over the top, between the wall and the radiator. I heard the plastic wrap from the new pack of smokes… “crackle, pop” watching with joy and pride… The plastic cigarette wrapper and the foil top hit the floor…. moments apart…. landing like cluster bombs in my mind. Smashing into pieces the days labor…. the dusting of pictures, the cleaning of windows, the scrubbing of floors all became ashes of a war zone. The clean floor, dashed into pieces with the plastic wrapper of a cigarette pack.

Something changed for me that day, never to return, I no longer wanted to clean the house, I no longer wanted to invite friends into my home, my fathers actions had “triggered” a new perspective, and even today, it brings back memory’s of deep sadness, 43 years later!

I really enjoyed growing up in that house, but like most things in life, time changes…. in 6th grade, things really got bad, but that’s another day, a different blog post.

The balance of marriage, family, extended family and friends is delicate at best and can be destroyed in seconds. It’s not one that comes easy for me. In the great words of the country song “life’s a dance, you learn as you go….”

I think back to my childhood and I remember the trauma of my youth….. But I can’t stay there…. I’m a dad, a stepdad, a husband, a friend, a business owner, a man! I need to find a way to rise above my past, to step into the rolls of my life. My boys deserve more than the sum of my past. My bride deserves more than my brokenness. But how? How can I be this man that God has called me to be? “I” can not! But with Jesus, I can do God’s will, I can be more than the sum of my past, I can be a man! A man after God’s own heart, I’m not perfect and my wife has an abundance of forgiveness, she was blessed with being able to see beyond my hard exterior and keeps forgiving me every day, sometimes more… but she never quits on me.

Life gives lumps, hard trials but Jesus gave more than we can ever imagine and that’s the hope I’m living in. That’s how I get up and do what he has for me. Greater are His plans and blessings than anything I can do alone. His grace is sufficient.