On Writing

"I don’t like to write, I like to have written." I don’t know where I heard that phrase, but I’ve thought of it ever since. Whether I agree with it entirely is a matter yet undecided. I know this sounds odd, but I think a lot about writing. Not just the words themselves, the language or the thoughts. But the act of pen on paper. The scratchy sound it makes. The flow of the ink and the shape of the characters. Curving line upon line of cursive script or stacking solid block print in rows and regiments. Even when what I’m writing is just a work-related list or some notes for a lesson, the penmanship can’t be too precise.

And the pen can’t be too perfect. Never mind those jewelry store status symbols, the true artist knows a good brush from an art store tourist’s souvenir. Some pens have the fluidity of a fleeting memory - they glide through the long strokes with aplomb and dive up into a crest as if caught by the wind. Some pens have an almost intimidating precision - they demand in their efficiency and consistency that you sit up straight while you write and order your thoughts with active verbs. Some pens have peculiar personality. The fountain nib that goes down and left like a washing ocean wave, but buckles and shakes when asked for anything else. Or the chain hotel monogrammed ballpoint that surprises you with its lust for the open page and boldness in the curves.

I also think about keyboards. The way the fingers can glide and dance over the keys. The clicking and tapping. The almost dangerous clacking of the mechanical keyboard. The barely perceptible ticking of the low-profile laptop. When I go into an electronics store I have to try the keyboards. I try the ones corded to the desktops, and I test the ones attached to the laptops, and I definitely take a turn on the display models hooked-up to nothing but the shelf. I have a sentence that I always type with only slight variations. That phrase is for me to know, but it’s nothing mystical or important. It’s like that quick-fox-brown-dog thing mixed with the spinning top from Inception - I know how a keyboard should feel.

When someone writes or types on TV I perk up and attend. I notice the housewife scrawling the thank you note with near calligraphy. I adore the antique scribe jotting with quill and well. I observe the technician on the generic keys pecking in some random corporate keystrokes. I relish the sights and sounds of the movie hacker cascading code and cryptic command-line sequences. I have favorite scenes from TV and movies simply for their depictions of letter formation and data entry.

So when the phrase states “I don't like to write,” I obviously don’t agree with that part. But I make a winking category error here. That’s not the kind of writing that is meant. I know that. That kind of writing - this kind of writing - is not as pleasurable. It is exhibitionism. One who writes like this with even the slightest chance that another may read takes an enormous risk. I can form a “j” in several ways, but I can only think a thought the way I know it. If you recognize the shape I make is an “a” then we communicate. But even if you see my idea as such, then you may yet reject it. I know how to spell and I know how to scroll the tail of an “o” into the waist of a “k,” but I don’t know the way to crop a thought so that it will bind in the mind of my reader.

I’ve decided then. I like to write, but I don’t like to have written. This explains all of my works merely begun and volumes closely held. Marvel at the curl of my “q,” but don’t think that I will invite you to turn up your nose at my notions.

-JV

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Woodland

A wise man once said, “it’s funny what a young man recollects.” I absolutely agree. Some of the things I remember from childhood were a formative watershed that reverberates in my life to this day. Some were a bellwether either troubling or promising, back to which I can trace a line of development. Some are just dumb things, and I can’t imagine why they stick with me. Come to think of it, that’s actually Forrest Gump I was quoting. Let’s move on.

Woodland Elementary was, as far as I know, a fairly typical small-town public school. It was brick with old-timey louvered windows and covered sidewalks. It had a main building where the principal worked in his office and two classroom wings where the children worked, hoping they would have no interaction with the principal. There were a couple of mobile classrooms out back. These served to provide additional classroom space and to provide recurring nightmares to the children who happened to be in one during a tornado watch. Or tornado warning. I’m not sure which is which, I just know the teacher was crying a little and we were all going to die.

The mobile classrooms were adjacent to the playground where the main draw was the swings. You may think you’ve swinged well, but you’ve not swung better than a Woodland swing. I recall the support legs looming many stories high with chains reaching above my head into low-level clouds. These were jumping swings. The seats were springy and the chains were smooth. The sand under each spot was wallowed-out perfectly for your feet to clear on the kick phase. I was never comfortable with the elbows-out exit maneuver, but I don’t think it hurt my distance too much.

The time would fail me to tell of the lunchroom with its slurpy Jello served in paper cups, or the library with its copy of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark that traumatized me. I faintly recollect the school secretary wearing a giant paperclip necklace. Also I recall the school nurse being casually dismissive of my fears of lead poisoning when my pencil tip broke off under my thumbnail. But by far the clearest memory I have of my time at Woodland was the day the television was wheeled-out for us to watch the Space Shuttle launch. The Challenger was taking a teacher into orbit and everyone was excited. Boy, that still chokes me up a little. I guess that’s one of those reverberating watersheds I mentioned earlier.

I’m grateful for my time at Woodland as a student. I’m even more grateful for a moment I spent there a decade and a half later. When I decided to ask Christy to marry me I felt burdened to imbue the moment with meaning. Not just to ring the doorbell of a new life together, but to match its tone to the echoes of the past. I craved continuity to undergird my ardor. So on Valentine’s evening she and I held hands and walked from the parking lot to the playground. We stood under the stars, not too far from the swings. Knee, ring, yes, kiss, done.

At some point later they tore the school down and built another one with the same name a couple of miles away. I’m sure it’s very nice, but I’m awfully glad I was there for the old Woodland.

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Garlic Bread*

What CAN'T Jeremy Be Grateful For?

On Tuesdays and Thursdays we're gonna answer the question, "How in the world can Jeremy be grateful for _______?" The blank is up to you to fill. Leave your suggestions in the comments below or find me on Instagram @nonconsecutive

I know how you probably function. If you see a delicious patty of beef then your hand instinctively goes for the ketchup. You’re gonna spread a bun, crown and heel, with mayo. Maybe you’ll squeeze some mustard and call it good. Maybe you like some salad in the mix. Lettuce, tomato, onions, you people are all the same. I know you’re thinking about bacon. You think I don’t know where you’re planning to put those crispy strips? All the same, I tell you.

What if there were another way? What if you gave the usual condiments the day off? What if you left the salad for the bunnies? Do this for me. Toast that bun. Not too much, just crispy not crunchy. Now grab the butter. Do you trust me or not? Slather the bun. Don’t spread it, slather it! Now find your garlic powder in the cupboard. Yes, garlic salt is fine. Shake it on both bun halves. More. Don’t be stingy with the garlic. Now put the delicious patty between those two buns. Yes you will, we’ve come too far to go back now. What do you mean, what else? That’s it, bun, butter, garlic, patty, done. You’re welcome.

It was a cool autumn day in the early ‘90s when we discovered the garlic bread burger. We didn’t call it that at the time. In fact, it wasn’t until I was describing it to a friend at work a few months ago that it dawned on me. Why, that’s just a burger with garlic bread for buns. Clearly I’m a little slow on the uptake.

The reason I’m most grateful for garlic bread is it’s accessibility. If you’re having a bread-in-hand kind of meal and you’ve poorly planned then there’s hope where there’s garlic. You’re going to be hard pressed to whip up a mess of biscuits before the pasta cools. You don’t even have the pan seasoned right for cornbread. Does anyone actually know how to make yeast rolls? I think there’s a special machine. Short of pulling a fistful of 7-grain from the sack (which I’ve seen done) you’re going breadless. But not if you've got garlic and butter, my friend.

Imagine the gulf between the expert and the novice. Your home-made lasagna is barely Stouffer's, so how would it ever pass muster at a restaurant with no crayons on the table? But your made-in-your-robe garlic bread could compete in the finest haute cuisine ristorante.

My favorite, for sentimental reasons, is the long, frozen loaf sold in the cooking foil. It has center pieces that are like sponge cake and ends that will require a dunk in the gravy just to make chewable. C'est magnifique! I can live peaceably with the the garlic sticks and knots. I understand the pressures of marketplace and fashion, but thanks for staying the course. My utmost respect goes to the garlic toast. Wherever there is even a rudimentarily provisioned kitchen, there awaits garlic toast. Nothing could be easier and nothing more delicious. We could all learn a lot from a slice of garlic toast.

This idea is based on the book 14,000 things to be happy about by Barbara Ann Kipfer

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Nicknames

The word “nickname” comes to us from the Middle English reference to “an eke name,” where “eke” means additional. So now you know that, and if you’re like me then you will now always pronounce it like “neekname.”

Obviously a lot of nicknames are just shortened versions of the given name:

Jim, Tim, Tom.

Will, Bill.

Bob, Rob.

Don, Ron, Jon.

They’re dean’s list in simplicity, but are flunking in creativity. They’re considerately efficient nicknames, not wanting to waste a moment of the name caller’s time. It’s commendable, though one wonders about some examples of the simple shortening. Like Steve for Steven or Pete for Peter. Are we really saving any time dropping that one letter?

There are some that shorten yet make up their own rules. Elizabeth spawns Liza, Beth, and Betty. I think we all support that. But the guy on the radio who shortens Jonathan to Than? I hate that guy. Margaret breaks into Maggie, Meg, and amazingly Peggy. Google that if you don’t believe me. I have an aunt Martha that we call Mott. It’s short AND creative. Will and Ron, are you paying attention?

Some nicknames are creative, but at the expense of efficiency. Or sanity for that matter. Sally is short for Sarah, and Molly is short for Mary. What? Of course, they seem perfectly reasonable compared to Jack being short for John. There’s actually a fascinating reason for it that involves the Dutch practice of using “-kins” for terms of endearment, like lambkins. As I said, Google it.

Some nicknames are short to the point of laziness. D.J. and J.R. have always annoyed me. Extra points to you if you thought Tanner and Ewing. J.R. is cool if it’s short for so-and-so junior. It has a country authenticity bordering on hipster chic. I don’t follow sports much, but you have to feel bad for guys called L.T. or A.Rod. You know they’ve heard of The Fridge, Pistol Pete, and The Yankee Clipper. What would you rather be called, A.I. or Clyde the Glide?

There are nickname niches. Less-common sub-genres. The ones that misdirect like the XXL dude called “Tiny.” The ones that may tell a little too much like “Digger.” The ones that don’t flatter one's character like “Slick.” The throw-aways for when you (clearly) don’t know the person’s name like “chief’ or “pal.” There’s even group nicknames like “folks” and “fam.”

You can believe it or not, but when I was a kid I was given the nickname “Rock.” Not “The Rock,” you understand, just a “Rock.” Only a couple of people used it when I was little, but I sure tried to get it going again in my teens. You can’t pick your own. I know a guy who absolutely insists on being called T-Bird. The more he corrects me, the less I want to do it.

Not picking you own nickname is especially true when it comes to trucker handles and pilot callsigns. You’re given it by your peers and you hope for a good one.

“Maverick, Bandit, Hollywood”. Nice.

“Goose, Toad, Braindead.” Meh.

The best nicknames that you don’t get to pick yourself are the ones you get from the Secret Service when you achieve high political office. Barack and Michelle were “Renegade” and “Renaissance.” Donald and Melania are “Mogul” and “Muse.” Awesome, right? The protective detail called Joe Biden “Celtic,” but I’m not sure if it was with the hard-k like the famous knot or the s-sound like the basketball team. The best Secret Service name ever bestowed was on Al Gore’s daughter Karenna. Are you ready? “Smurfette.” Once again, Google it.

I’m grateful for nicknames because sometimes they rise above convenience or humor. Sometimes they can reveal someone in a different light. I have a friend that I respect greatly who is a serious guy with a serious name but is called “Buddy” by his family. When I found that out, I saw a facet of him that made me appreciate him even more. I had an uncle called “Plow,” and just typing that evokes deep feelings of love and loss. Many people knew him as Shannon. I’m grateful that I knew him as “Plow.” My Uncle “Huey” is the same way, as is my honorary Uncle “Snugs.”

What’s in a name? Sometimes not much. But sometimes a whole lot.

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Gary V.

I tried to write a poem the other day at work. I say tried to write. I wrote some. It was a sentimental enterprise about a feeling I was having. It was a carving in a tree along a path that I feared I may never travel again. I was thinking a lot about the form of it. I even Googled iambic pentameter to make sure that I was remembering it correctly. For years I’ve had this notion of writing what appears to be prose, but is unceremoniously a sonnet. This thing I wrote on the buck-slip that had been in my pocket was not that. It was just a few lines, a cobbled-together overarching metaphor, and some slant rhymes. It left me fairly spent of the feeling that had inspired it. And it left me with that old feeling that poetry is a dead art form. So why am I writing this about that? As a place holder. I watched a YouTube video the other day. It’s a show with hot questions and even hotter chicken wings. I love the show, but I wasn’t sure that I had ever heard of the guest, Gary V-something-or-nother. I normally skip episodes that don’t include people that I’m already pretty familiar with. But not this time for some reason. And this guy was pure inspiration. All energy. Positive mojo oozing from simmering dynamite. I was blown away by him. And at the end of the most amazing appearance I’ve ever seen on the show, he was given the customary opportunity to plug a current project. He didn’t. He took the moment to look the audience in the eye and say, “suffocate your [baloney] excuses and go do something. Forget about what I’m doing. Go do something. It’s time." Mind blown. Half a tear in one eye. Inspiration. How grateful should we be for those who inspire us? I’m so thankful for that show having Gary V. on the show. I’m so psyched that he keeps it real and doesn’t let people off the hook for how they phone-in their lives. Thank you for the motivation. Thank you for the incitement to get up and get going. Thank you for riling the inner drive to create. So this is what I’m doing. I write. I aspire to write. My ideal self is a writer. Maybe I’ve misapprehended this fact. Maybe I’m more of a talker who hasn’t realized his opportunity. But I talk way too much junk off the top of my head to be a professional. At least with writing I can proofread for dumb mistakes and untenable philosophical positions. Having started and stopped a million new things, I claim this thing to be nothing but this one thing. I would love to look back on this as a turning point where I stopped being a passive-voice consumer of culture and became a force in my own right. But this is at least a tree carving that will be here the next time I come this way.

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - The Prospect of Learning*

What CAN'T Jeremy Be Grateful For?

On Tuesdays and Thursdays we're gonna answer the question, "How in the world can Jeremy be grateful for _______?" The blank is up to you to fill. Leave your suggestions in the comments below or find me on Instagram @nonconsecutive

There’s a certain feeling that I’ve felt. It’s anticipation ringed with curiosity. It’s very close to the sensation of holding a gift that you’re just about to unwrap. It’s the brink of discovery. There comes a new electricity to the brain and a liveliness to the fingers. The brain may be grappling with the presents possibilities while the fingers pry around the edges of the wrap. It’s the feeling of the lecture hall when the mind is pondering potentials and the hand steadies the pen for the note paper. It’s the hum of the church auditorium when the soul leans-in and the thumb presses the Bible’s pages. You’re about to know something that you didn’t know.

These are the immediate examples, and they are lodged in so many crannies of life. It’s what keeps us turning the pages of a novel. It’s what makes us start the next episode when we’re already up past bedtime. It’s the taste of the new recipe when it’s still a little too hot. It’s walking up to the door for a party when you’ve never been to the house before. It’s a blind date, a how-to video, a letter with a hand-written envelope, and the first day of school. You’re about to find out something that has been essentially a secret.

There’s a slower moving and more nebulous variant. It’s how you know that you’ll get better at billiards if you keep playing. It’s buying a used boat and knowing that you’ll figure out it’s idiosyncrasies. It’s learning the vocabulary and conjugation of a foreign language with the potential to someday be fluent. It’s planting a tree, or planning a vacation, or following a new Instagram account, or buying the cookbook that will eventually lead to the aforementioned singed lips. You’re embarking on a journey that will lead to a revelation.

My wife and I decided to adopt a baby a few years ago. Once the die was cast there was no possibility in our minds of relenting. We didn’t know how long the journey would last or who was waiting for us at the end. We nervously fluttered on the backs of butterflies and we dreamily soared on the wings of eagles. We knew everything we wanted and nothing of what would be. Having agreed to take on a difficult-to-place baby, we had more specifics than one might with a pregnancy. This only provided us more fodder for particular hopes and intentions.

Then the day came. We walked hand in hand up the sidewalk to the agency’s front door. We waited breathlessly on the sofa in the lobby. We walked toward the room with our hearts pounding in our ears. What would we see when we saw him for the first time? And then in an instant the prospect of learning all of these things became the actual knowledge of a tiny beautiful angel. I’m so thankful for the journey of discovery that began and I still have so much curiosity about where we’ll go from here. We live and we learn.

This idea is based on the book 14,000 things to be happy about by Barbara Ann Kipfer

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Remote Controls

Being grateful for remote controls should probably be easy for anyone. Anyone over the age of 30 that is.

The first TV that I remember is sketchy on detail like make and model, but I remember exactly where it was placed. We can’t have been the only family to have a great big nonfunctioning wooden console TV in the living room. And if that’s true then we certainly can’t have been the only ones to place the new TV right on top of the old one. But how many of y’all had a nice lace doily between them? The point is that there was no remote control for either one of them. So it’s time to chillax and you’ve gotten the rabbit ears situated. You’ve burrowed deep into the corner of the couch. And you realize after a long commercial break that Knots Landing doesn’t come on this channel. Oh, the humanity!

Of course, once you got up and stumbled over to the TV set(s) at least you only had three or maybe four channels to try before you found your choice in programming. Now re-adjust the rabbit ears. Tweak the vertical hold knob. And then burrow back into the couch with a blanket in your hand and hope in your heart. At this point fate would decide your further viewing. If this wasn’t the channel that Carson came on then you would just watch Arsenio. And heaven help if the volume wasn’t high enough. Y’all can just strain your ears ‘cause I ain’t getting back up.

The next TV we bought was a very sweet Panasonic with cool clicky chrome buttons. But it didn’t have a remote either. This one got some of that cable-vision hooked up to it. This was a good thing in the sense that there was more to watch, but a decidedly bad thing in that by this time I was old enough to stand beside it and tap the chrome “Channel +” button until something was declared good. They don’t make TV’s that solid anymore. It kept humming along in our frugal household until well after remote controls had become commonplace. It was still in the living room when I left for college. No kidding.

Fast forward to the present and everything from the ceiling fan down has a remote. When we moved into our first house we had a TV, satellite receiver, DVD player, and VCR all hooked up together. The four remotes were lined up on the coffee table like little entertainment soldiers, aimed and ready to fire. We went from controller poverty to an embarrassment of remote riches. But our story doesn’t end here.

Behold the universal remote! Now this is a thing for which to be thankful. Especially in a house with something like six children or so. When they lose the remote, it’s never to be found again. If I had to track down a manufacturer replacement remote then there would be trouble. The trouble being that I am as frugal as my parents were. So we would have no remote and my kids would get to learn what my childhood was like.

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Shower Thoughts

You know what shower thoughts are. Maybe you haven’t thought of them this way, but if you shower and you think, then you’re having shower thoughts. It’s the mind wandering in the midst of a routine task. Shower thoughts aren’t entirely different from driving thoughts or dishwashing thoughts. But there’s more privacy and less distraction. This ramps up the profundity.

Many shower thoughts are to-do’s that you recognize the need for, but that you will forget before you dry off. Some of them are things you should’ve said. There in the steam you will hone the words knowing that you actually wouldn’t have said them. Some of them are reminiscences with running commentary. Some are skillful legal arguments to excuse a regret. Some of them are profound in a dumb way. Like this one from Redditor Gpig16:

“Jerky is more like an animal cracker than animal crackers are.”

Well, maybe that’s actually dumb in a profound way. I’m only speaking for myself here, but I am at least three notches funnier in the shower than in real life. I’ve concocted stage-ready comedy routines about the shampoo ingredients. I had myself plumb tickled with a bit I invented about the lonely useless decorative bathroom towel. Other times I explain things to imaginary shower audiences. Maybe it’s a way of processing things that I’m learning. Maybe I just like to hear myself think.

And I’ve spent tons of lottery money in the shower but way more while driving. There’s no Mega Millions billboards in my shower after all. I don’t play the lottery, but if I ever were to win, then I’ve got a lot of the tough decisions already made. I’ve held a lot of high-level negotiations in the shower too. Often my singular expertise are needed by the highest echelons of state and corporate leadership. This may be straying from shower thought into make believe, but it’s nonetheless instructive.

Is it possible that the cultural fact (and subreddit for that matter) of shower thoughts is owing to the fact that the shower is the only place that any of us get any peace and quiet? Is this the kind of thinking that people did all the time before the invention of the car radio? We can’t even absent-mindedly watch TV anymore because of smartphones. I bet the Amish still have just a constant procession of shower-type contemplations.

I’m grateful for shower thoughts or driving thoughts or mowing-the-grass thoughts because of their clarity. When you realize something important or maybe something troubling, you can’t run from it or distract yourself. You’ve got a head covered in shampoo and you’re gonna have to face facts. I’ve latched onto some pretty important spiritual realities this way. I’ve got a long commute and many times as the asphalt has droned underneath me, the heavens have opened above me. I’ve made life-changing resolutions while occupied with perfectly banal tasks. And other times I’ve had earth-shattering thoughts like:

If you think you miss the 80’s, try being a soulful saxophone soloist.

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Mowing the Grass*

What CAN'T Jeremy Be Grateful For?

On Tuesdays and Thursdays we're gonna answer the question, "How in the world can Jeremy be grateful for _______?" The blank is up to you to fill. Leave your suggestions in the comments below or find me on Instagram @nonconsecutive

Upon having a son some men rush to the sporting goods store for a mitt. Others purchase the junior-sized fishing pole and still others open a 529 college savings plan. I suppose all fathers have ambitions for their sons. Mine is getting the grass mowed. I don’t want to set the bar too high for the boy. It’s self-serving you say? What do you think, those other guys are playing baseball and fishing out of a sense of moral duty? Well, the 529 guy maybe.

Anyhow, we need to go back a ways. When I was getting on towards middle school, my family moved into a house with a half-acre yard. The mowing of this large yard would be my charge. It was essentially flat and basically square and completely fenced-in. The soil was rich and the grass was caterpillar. And the growing season felt like it was eleven and a half months of the year.

When I initially assumed my duties, the lawn tool I received was a self-propelled push mower. The bulky self-propelling mechanism on top of the machine didn’t actually work, but its added weight did make turning around at the end of each row more difficult. I grew strong of back and numb of hand mowing those heavy rows every Saturday. We acquired a rider by and by. It had a wide deck and a strong engine and, owing to some sort of collision, only turned left. It wouldn’t so much as veer to the right, but it was the industry’s first zero-turn left-hand mower. The battle was no less hard, but it had gone from infantry to strategy. Failure to plan would mean being stuck in a corner or having to double back on a row. Since I had very many much better things to be doing on Saturday there was no time to waste on re-work, and I became painstakingly tactical.

Years later I would move north and buy a house of my own with a half-acre yard. It was almost exactly the same except without the fence and with some sort of poison exuding from the soil. Whether it was a change in me or the change of locale I cannot say, but one thing was sure, I was suddenly and alarmingly allergic to grass. After a session of mowing it was like someone had taken a rubber mallet and beaten fiberglass insulation into all of my head holes. And I would be down for 20 hours at a clip.

So how can I be grateful for mowing the grass? Because it’s past tense. I’ve got some people in my life who show me great kindness lawn-wise. I hide inside, not even going near the doors or windows while I hear the mower running. As for my son, he will never feel the crushing pressure from his old man to achieve on the ball field. He will never get dragged out of bed while the stars are still twinkling to go shiver in a rowboat. And he will surely never have a funded 529 plan. My sole ambition for him is to get out there and get that grass knocked down.

Suggested by Jane LaTour

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Mrs. Mitchell

When I was in fourth grade I brought to school a discarded pair of my Grandpa’s Air Force issued eyeglasses. They were aviator style glasses - the ones without the customary curve to the earpiece. My Grandpa was not an aviator and I did not require corrective lenses, yet there I was sitting at my desk wearing aviator glasses and getting a headache. What could possess an elementary school boy to do such a thing? Duh, a girl.

Katie was the brown-haired kewpie doll that sat a couple of seats down from me. She and I were an item in the simplest, most innocent possible sense of the term. We liked each other. And Katie had been prescribed glasses halfway through the school year. I watched her awkwardly pry their case open and put them on, never raising her gaze from her lap. Maybe it was my heart aching that Katie was self-conscious or maybe it was just an attempt to score brownie points, but the next day I casually donned Grandpa’s aviators.

Mrs. Mitchell was our teacher. In the course of her duties she was walking amongst us, perhaps handing out worksheets or taking up homework. She got to me. She stood over my little desk, her hands busy with the papers. She had seen the glasses and I felt a slight twinge of embarrassment. She said that she didn’t know that I wore glasses. I gave a half-baked explanation as my ears warmed. She glanced over at Katie and then back at me and then continued passing out papers. Or maybe collecting papers, I don’t remember.

But I do remember the relief I felt. Not the relief in my eyes and forehead when I finally took the glasses off later. The relief that Mrs. Mitchell walked on wordlessly. I didn’t have the sophistication at the time to think of her perspective on it, I just knew she had walked on and that was that. Imagine what I must’ve looked like squinting through those 50’s era government-issued spectacles. Imagine the foolhardy audacity of my plot. But she just walked on. She could’ve crushed me with public correction. She could’ve scarred me with ridicule and derision. But she just walked on.

Later in the school year we came to the point in our science curriculum that would teach us about the universe springing uncaused from nothing and man’s ascent from lesser species by blind chance. She went over the details from the textbook. Then in the front of her public school classroom, sitting halfway on a barstool with one foot on the carpet, she made a modest declaration. She said that while this was the teaching approved by the administration, she didn’t hold to it personally. She said that she believed that God had created all that we know. I had been taught the same thing at home, so it only surprised me in the way that she said it. She, who dealt so gently with even preposterous ophthalmological assertions, was different somehow. She was bold, even if quietly so. She was mildly insurgent.

I’m so thankful for Mrs. Mitchell. The impact that she had on my life continues nearly thirty years later. Sometimes she walked on without a word and sometimes she took a stand.

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Gold Teeth*

What CAN'T Jeremy Be Grateful For?

On Tuesdays and Thursdays we're gonna answer the question, "How in the world can Jeremy be grateful for _______?" The blank is up to you to fill. Leave your suggestions in the comments below or find me on Instagram @nonconsecutive

Maybe it’s a generational thing, but my most immediate association of a gold tooth is Joe Pesci in Home Alone. I love the way the fabulous director, John Hughes, had light glint off of the tooth when Joe was in the cop uniform and smiling at Kevin. You’ve got to love the panicked way Pesci realizes it’s missing later. And how can you not love the way the beautiful Katherine O’Hara finds the tooth and visibly ponders what exactly she has found?

Do old school gold fronts count in the same way as Pesci’s tooth? You know fronts, AKA grills, those clip in tooth covers for adding bling and swag to your smile? I knew a guy once that bought some 14k fronts on a whim. I mean, how many among us have not heard the siren song of amateur cosmetic dentistry? He said that they fit in a technical sense, but that they became exceedingly uncomfortable after a few minutes. Imagine that. Certain hip-hop notables have gone around the bend with the gold teeth and are now sporting diamond encrustations. Braces caused my middle-school friends to have abrasions on their inner lips. What must princess cut stones do?

I might hazard a guess that at some point in dentistry’s past there was a more (legitimate) reason for gold in the mouth. Before it gave you street cred it gave you hygienic fillings. It sounds a little scammy, I know.

“So doc, ya say I’ve got holes in my teeth? What in the world can ya fill them holes with do ya reckon?”

“Uh, well . . . I’m not exactly . . . GOLD! Yeah, gold is uh . . . safer and . . . so forth.”

It probably didn’t go down like that. There was probably some trial and error. Maybe even some deliberation. Perhaps a scholarly paper in a peer-reviewed journal of dentistry. The Benefits of Gold as an Elemental Filling and Coating for Cavities and Replacement: All That Glitters is Not Molar.

I’m not trying to blow my own whistle here, but I only have one filling. I’m a man of a certain age, and I’ve only had the need to have addressed one tiny pinhole in a noncritical tooth. I actually don’t know what tooth it’s in. My tooth health is so primo that I can’t even specify the one incisor that had the lone issue of my oral history. I’m grateful for a mouth devoid of decay. But I’m not sure the congratulations should go to my brushing technique. And I know that it can’t be the flossing. Because other than at the dentist and in the terrified 24 hours immediately following a visit, I have not flossed. I don’t gargle. I don’t mouthwash. You hate me, don’t you.

I’m of the opinion that tooth health has a huge genetic component. Some folks just have tooth enamel that’s harder than trigonometry. Some people have some baller enzyme action preventing the sugar bugs from wreaking their havoc. I don’t know what my dental advantage is, but I sure am grateful for it.

Nonconsecutive Gratitude - Dining Common

I didn’t come by my rotund figure by accident. I loves me some food. I know this doesn’t make me special amongst humankind, but it’s nevertheless true. There’s an art to getting your grub on. And please understand from the outset that I don’t practice this art in a strictly gourmet setting. I like fine dining just fine. But I like Hamburger Helper every bit as much. Y’all don’t know nothing about Tuna Tetrazzini. I’ve had caviar and sashimi, and they were both terrific. Can they keep up with the Double Whopper with cheese? Barely. And you may as well know that I am a chips and dip sommelier. Pair the barbecue Lays with straight-up sour cream and thank me later. The Quincy’s restaurant in the town where I grew up made a steak sandwich that haunts me after twenty years.

Suffice it to say, I’ve been known to munch a bunch. And when I think about really throwing down on some groceries, there’s one place that stands out: the University Dining Common.

Room and board included unlimited access to the Dining Common, and fortunately it was only open at traditional meal times. Who knows what dietary havoc could have been wrought otherwise. There was a salad bar where you could make the unhealthiest salads imaginable. My go-to was tons of chopped ham, shredded cheese, and boiled eggs with a dash of iceberg lettuce. Sometimes I would sprinkle in some julienned carrots. There were soda fountains and tea. But then there was chocolate milk. Yes, I was 19 years old, so what? One fall they accidentally mixed the chocolate milk with some egg nog. I drank enough to float a pontoon boat.

There were all manner of entrees from the plumb ordinary, like spaghetti with meat sauce, to the wildly esoteric, like Welsh Rarebit. There was a special buzz around campus when word got out that the famous fried chicken fingers would be served for Sunday lunch. It was shoulder to shoulder in the serving lines until the last tender was tendered. There were a variety of sandwiches at weekday lunch: cheeseburgers, chicken patties, and even a pulled-pork barbecue deal. It was those barbecue sammiches that my friend Jamey and I contended over once. I bested him by finishing five. What a day that was.

When it comes down to it, I’m not sure if it was the Dining Common that I was so thankful for. Looking back I realize that the real gift was a metabolism that could process such indulgences. Without so much as a jumping jack or calorie count I could consume bushels with apparent impunity. But it was more than just the food. I’m thankful for the friends that I gathered with there. I’m grateful for the University that comprised the common. And I’ll never stop counting my lucky stars for the fateful lunch date at the common when I met the woman who would become my wife.

Guess Who's Back!

-from Jeremy

A gap in communication is one of those things that vary in acceptance depending on the relationship. I can go for a long time without talking to a State Trooper and it doesn't bother me. If I go a few hours without talking to Christy, then I lose my bearings a little. I don't know where this blog ranks in those standings, but I think by any measure it's been too long.

Some of you may well ask why we have abandoned our post (tee hee, pun intended), and some of you may not have noticed at all. There is no one reason why the spigot of hilarity and reality was squelched - it's the conspiracy of the mundane. Everything in life can pile up on you at times, right? For us, the pile consists mostly of feces with some mental illness sprinkled on top.

So, if you're curious about the 2nd-grade-aged boy running around my backyard in nothing but the skin the good Lord gave him for covering, yes, that is one of my sons. If your mind is of the steel-trap variety and you clench onto the question of, "what happens if he poops?" then your answer would be, "familiar calamity." He doesn't like clothes. And since he has endured more pain and difficulty in his short 7 years than most of you have known in your entire family tree, he gets to be naked in the backyard if he wants. I assume in the preceding statement that your family tree doesn't comprise surviving genocide or multiple generations living under the same bridge.

Josiah occasionally poops in the yard. Yes, from time to time the unthinkable becomes reality. I actually prefer the carport poop to the grass by the fence poop, but opinions will vary. Christy will likely say that the grass provides a natural mechanism to bio-degradation, but I like to know where poop is in relation to my feet, and therefore prefer the concrete. The tricky one is the traveler. This is a road-trip of a poop that may start in the shady environs of the carport but then move through the driveway and end by the swing set.

If we get lucky, then we catch him in the act. He is never allowed to be alone, yet watching him jump and holler in the yard can wear on the senses, so some of his guards will distract themselves. Olivia is more bookish than even myself, and our shared downfall is the page-turner that becomes the turd-smeller. Christy loves her some social media on her iPhone, but often will get a friend request she wasn't expecting. Jack doesn't require outside influence to be distracted - he is perpetually distracted. Jack can be literally standing on the offensive element and not realize it's disposition. As I've told him many times, in that father voice I've learned to affect, "one day you're gonna get hit by a bus."

Why do we put up with it? Why don't we do something? Well, what? After you've chased him down and diapered him for the umpteenth time, you start to feel like a Republican Congressman and just give up. You tell yourself that he pooped earlier and maybe you'll get lucky. Such delusion. You become dulled by his repetitious activity and think he won't deviate. A fool's paradise. Then he gets still all at once and it's all over but the Clorox.

Listen closely, my beloved. He was gonna die. You heard me, the doctors at the prestigious university medical center had given us a small chance at him surviving. Yes, we had heard the same thing about his brother Jack a few years before, but one is not bold in these matters. He was in a tight spot, medically speaking. We were terrified. We trusted God. We prayed that our little boy not escape our grasp as soon as he fell into it. Just let him live, Lord. And he lived. And he is still living! He's a fruitcake with nuts for icing, but he's ours and he's an answer to prayer.

So I put the question to any of you with precious little ones that are the apple of your eye. Would you rather them be snatched from your life or poop in your yard? I think I know the answer.



*For those parents looking for tips on how to prevent fecal smearing, check out our post entitled Poo Diggers. These outfits have been tremendously helpful, but, in the heat of the summer, Josiah insists on stripping when outside. And for NOW....it's not worth the meltdown.

Happy 40th Dad and Mom!

-from Christy

I can't think of a better post to write than this one upon our return to the blog. We have had a long break for various reasons that will be explained in future posts, but today I want to focus on two people who make living with Autism a little easier every day.

My Daddy and Mama started dating when he was in college and she was in high school. Mama's brother John Lee was my Daddy's roommate at Bob Jones University. Mama has often told me that she knew she wanted to marry my Daddy when she was just fifteen years old. Today marks their 40th year of marriage, but, in some ways, I bet they feel like it was just yesterday when he took her on his college dating outing.

I had a blessed childhood, and my parents made a home full of faith, love, and service. They argued infrequently, and, when they did disagree, they made up quickly. They taught my older brothers and me the importance of loving God, loving each other, and loving others. If someone was to ask me to pinpoint the single most influential lesson my parents taught me, it would be "to do my best in whatever God calls me to for the glory of God and the eternal good of others." My Daddy always says to Finish well.

Often I think about the fact that my parents are not just grandparents to children with special needs. They are also parents to a daughter and son-in-law who have some pretty unique needs. They have had to actively parent me far longer than they probably ever imagined, but they have done this in love without ever complaining. When we need them, they are always there. They choose to help us in practical ways that make a huge difference in our ability
to just keep going. My parents greatest desire is to see us Finish well.

How does all this relate to Autism? I thank God every day that my parents taught me to focus on eternity. This life is not all there is. God has a perfect plan for us and our children, and we can trust in that on good days and bad. My parents have a marriage that has stood the test of time and trials. They have experienced joy and sorrow together, and their example is one that gives me such confidence in God's sovereignty and love for His children. They are the best parents and grandparents I know. They give me an even greater desire to Finish well.

Dad and Mama thank you for your faith, love, and support. Thank you for still taking care of me, and for so sacrificially caring for my family! Happy 40th Anniversary!

Daddy and Mama with their 40th Anniversary present (pictures of all the grandkids)!

Every Life Has a Story

I heard it said that if you treat everyone as though they're hurting, then you will be right most of the time. It's true - you never know what's going on in the lives and minds of the people you encounter. Maybe a lot of people who see my family in public think that Josiah is undisciplined and rude, and that makes me wonder about the wrong assumptions I've made about other people and their kids. I can certainly afford to be more generous with my kindness.

http://youtu.be/2v0RhvZ3lvY

Looking Back and Pressing Forward

-from Christy

Josiah was almost eighteen months old. Jeremy and I had been thinking for a while that something was a little off, but we soothed our concerns with the idea that perhaps our sweet boy was just quirky. My Mama and Daddy had been suspicious too, but they waited a little while to say anything. My Grandmother was close to passing, and Mama knew it just wasn't the time to tell me that she was wondering about the possibility of Autism.

I remember sitting in the living room with Jeremy one evening. I'm not sure which of us pulled the website up with a list of warning signs for Autism, but there it was. We read the list, and we sat in disbelief. It was like reading Josiah's biography. It was undeniable. This was our boy. I cried in bed that night as we lay looking at each other with Josiah between us. We fell asleep wondering if this could be and what were we going to do.

I awoke the next morning on a mission. Mama suggested a few people to call, and those people suggested a few people to call, and then I talked to our pediatrician on the phone. Dr. Mertz has become a dear friend over the years. He has walked through many difficult trials with us, and I knew he trusted my mother's intuition. Dr. Mertz asked me what things were concerning me, and he agreed to make a referral to the Children's Developmental Services Agency for testing. Dr. Mertz and a few other precious friends gave me very clear direction those first few days. Our initial meetings with the CDSA confirmed our fears, and, by the age of two, Josiah received his official diagnosis of Autism. 

And so began the flurry of therapies. Speech, Occupational, and Educational. I researched and I made appointments with a neurologist and a developmental pediatrician. Josiah underwent an MRI with contrast and genetic testing. It was at our neurologists office that I first heard the term ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapy. The doctor assured us that the therapy is exceptionally costly, and he said that there were several other alternatives that would provide Josiah with every opportunity for development. He was right about ABA being expensive. Jeremy priced it, and, for one month of therapy, it would have taken our entire monthly income. It just wasn't a possibility. So I set out to learn about every therapy and early intervention we could get for Josiah. And we did them all. We drove to and sat through hours of therapy each week. I am thankful for those times because I now have the confidence that I did everything I could do. The therapies and therapists were good and so very supportive, but none of us had a clue just how severe Josiah's Autism truly was. 

Four and a half years later, our sweet boy has had almost no developmental gains. He now has the diagnosis of severe Autism and intellectual disability. We often hear from those working with him that he is one of the most severe children they have ever seen with this disorder. The Alamance Burlington School System (ABSS) just recently approved Josiah for homebound education, and they have brought in a well known ABA consultant to work with us. We are so thankful for this opportunity, but we are guardedly optimistic. We really like the consultant, and she understands and agrees with what we have been saying about Josiah for a long time. Our goals for him are the same, and she has given us many reasons for hope. Not hope like "maybe he will earn a PhD someday," but hope like "maybe he will potty train and maybe he will learn a few signs." Hope is a blessing! 

After our first few meetings, I was left thrilled about being hopeful, but heavyhearted that we were just getting access to ABA now. The therapy the consultant is using is actually a version of ABA called the Verbal Behavior Approach. The book we are reading makes so much sense. I have been left wondering why I have never been told about this book before. 

I know this is a lot of rambling to get to the point of this post, but here it is......To every Daddy and Mama out there wondering what to do, to every parent out there wishing they would have, and to every one asking what if, all you can do is your best today. God is in control. He gives us knowledge when He wants us to know. Our job is to do the best we can for our child with what God has given us. And so I am trying very hard to take my own advice right now. Stop what if-ing, Christy. Do all you can for this sweet boy today. Tomorrow will come, and God will give you the knowledge and strength for tomorrow. 

For all those Mama's looking for a way to start implementing ABA and Verbal Behavior techniques at home, here is the book you need. I am recommending it not because we have seen great gains yet, but because it is important to hope. Love and Blessings! 

     

from John Piper

Don't miss the Summary and Applications at the end. This is right where we live.

When Jesus Meets Disability: How a Christian Hedonist Handles Deep Disappointment

The Works of God Conference

God's Good Design in Disability

November 8, 2012 | by John Piper | Topic: Christian Hedonism | Conference: 2012 Works of God Conference

A Christian Hedonist believes that God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in him. As Jonathan Edwards says,

God is glorified not only by his glory’s being seen, but by its being rejoiced in.  When those that see it delight in it, God is more glorified than if they only see it.  His glory is then received by the whole soul, both by the understanding and by the heart.¹

Which means that we can never reduce God-glorifying obedience to the actions of our body or our reason. God-glorifying obedience always includes the state of the heart.

[As Paul said,] Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. (2 Corinthians 9:7)

We can never reduce the virtue of giving to the act of giving. God loves a “cheerful giver.” He is more honored by joyful, hearty giving than by constrained, begrudging giving. And so it is with all our acts of love.

If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. (1 Corinthians 13:3)

Physical actions alone, even the offering our bodies to be burned for others, are not glorifying to God where joy in him — treasuring him — is not the ground and goal of our actions.

The Sorrow of Deep Disappointment

So this puts a very high premium on the state of our hearts. Which makes the issue of profound disappointment with all its sorrows especially urgent. How does a Christian Hedonist experience the sorrows of deep disappointment? The shock of a baby born with multiple disabilities? The jolt of an accident that leaves you paralyzed for life? The experience of growing up from birth to adulthood on a path of fifty surgeries? A marriage dominated by the never-ending vigilance over a child, then an adolescent, then an adult, who can’t care for himself? The onset of a disease that gradually takes away your muscles till all you can move is your eyelids?

I take it as a given that these things cause sorrow, grief, pain, heartache, groaning, frustration, and deep and long-term disappointment. The Bible has much to say about how to think about suffering, and how to deal with suffering. But the Bible never denies that there is suffering. It never denies that Christians experience the powerful emotional effects of suffering: we groan, and we hurt, and we weep.

So my question, then, becomes, how is all this sorrow and grief and pain and heartache and groaning and frustration and disappointment experienced by the Christian Hedonist? By the person who believes that God is glorified most in all of us when we are most satisfied in him?

The Preciousness of God's Sovereignty

So my focus in this message is mainly on the inner-workings of the Christian soul, not mainly on the theological foundations of God’s sovereignty. It is true that, without God’s sovereignty over disability, the inner-workings of the soul that I am going to talk about would be impossible. So I will say a word about it. But mainly I want to describe from the Bible the paradoxical emotional experience for disappointed saints who believe that God is most glorified in them when they are most satisfied in him.

The reason the inner-workings of the Christian soul are not possible without the sovereignty of God is that the strength of hope and peace and joy and contentment and gladness and satisfaction and delight in God that sustain the soul in sorrows of life-long disappointment are rooted in the confidence that God has the authority, the freedom, the wisdom, and the power to accomplish all the good he has promised to do for his embattled children. In other words, no obstacle in nature, no obstacle in Satan, no obstacle in the failures and sins of man can stop God from making all my experiences, all my brokenness, all my adversaries, serve my eternal wholeness and joy. If you listen carefully to that, you can hear that my exuberance for God's sovereignty rests not mainly on his causality in the past but mainly on his powerful capacities in the future. In other words, the main reason God's sovereignty is precious is that he has power to fulfill impossible promises to me in my seemingly hopeless condition. His ruling the past, including my brokenness, is simply a pre-condition of this hope-filled power.

So let me give a very brief glimpse at this sovereignty.

In His Hands

One of the most sweeping and foundational texts on the sovereignty of God deals directly with disabilities. In Exodus 4:11 God answers Moses’ fear that his eloquence is insufficient for the task, “The Lord said to him, ‘Who has made man’s mouth? Who makes him mute, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, the Lord?’” Disability of speech impediments, disability of deafness, disability of blindness — God says, are in his hands to give and to remove.

To which we may respond by asking: What about natural causes? What about Satan? What about the sins of others against us, or even our own sin? And the answer is that these are real, but that none is finally decisive. If any of these play a role in our disability — and they do — they do so within God’s sovereign plan.

For example, Romans 8:22–23 makes it clear that our physical groaning with disease and disability is owing to the fact that our bodies share in the fall of all nature into futility.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.

So one cause of our physical and mental brokenness is that we share with the whole creation in its subjection to futility. But that creation is under the detailed governance of God. Last Sunday I preached² on this and gave texts to show that the roll of the dice, the fall of a bird, the crawl of a worm, the movement of stars, the fall of snow, the blowing of wind, the loss of sight, the suffering of saints, and the death of every person are included in the word of God: “I will accomplish all my purpose” (Isaiah 46:10). And in the word “He works all things according to the counsel of his will” (Ephesians 1:11).

So yes, there are natural causes for our disabilities, but none of these natural causes is ultimate, none is finally decisive. God is.

Under God's Governance

So it is with Satan. He is real. And he is involved in damaging and hurting God’s people, including physically and mentally (Acts 10:38). But he is under God’s governance. In the book of Job Satan must come to God for permission to hurt Job (1:12; 2:6). And when he has done his work, striking Job with loathsome sores (2:7), Job says, “Shall we receive good from God, and shall we not receive evil?”(2:10). And the inspired author of the book says, “In all this Job did not sin with his lips” (2:10). And later said that Job was comforted “for all the evil that the Lord had brought upon him” (42:11).

So, yes, Satan is real and no doubt has a hand in causing many diseases and disabilities. But he can do nothing without God’s permission. And what God foreknows and permits, he plans. And what he plans for his children is always for their good.

Even Sin and Its Effects

And so it is with sins. We may smoke our way into emphysema, or we may lose a leg because a drunk driver crashes into us. But neither our sins nor the sins of another are finally decisive in what happens to us. God is. And the Christian may write over every attack of nature, Satan, or sin the words of Genesis 50:20, “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” And the reason we can say this, even though we are undeserving sinners, is that God said it first over all the sins that brought his son to the cross for us. Herod, Pilate, cruel soldiers, shouting crowds — you meant my son's execution for evil, but I meant it for good (Acts 4:27–28). That's the foundation of all the good God promises in and through our disabilities.

And the good God has in mind for his children is has an immeasurable number of layers. He means it for greater faith: 2 Corinthians 1:9, “We felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead.” He means it for greater righteousness: Hebrews 12:11, “For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness.” He means it for greater hope: Romans 5:3–4, “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” He means it for the greater experience of the glory of God: 2 Corinthians 4:17, “For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.”

You, Satan, you, natural causes, you, sinner — you all meant my disability for evil, but God meant it for good — the good of greater faith, the good of greater righteousness, the good of greater hope, the good of greater glory. Or, as John 9:3 says, don’t even consider secondary causes: “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him.”

Only God Is Decisive

So this conference is based on the conviction that even though nature and Satan and sin may have a hand in disability, and should be resisted with prayer and truth and medicine, nevertheless, they are not decisive. God is.

And therein lies, for us, not mainly a theological problem with the past, but an invincible hope for the future. If God is sovereign then nothing is too hard for him. And by the blood of his son he has promised infallibly: I will meet all your needs according to my riches in glory in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19). My power will be made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). I will strengthen you and help you and hold you up with my righteous right hand (Isaiah 41:10). “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5). I will not let any testing befall you for which I do not give you grace to bear (1 Corinthians 10:13).And I will take the sting away from your death with the blood of my son (1 Corinthians 15:55f). And I will raise you from the dead imperishable (1 Corinthians 15:52), and I will “transform your lowly body to be like my glorious body, by the power that enables me even to subject all things to myself” (Philippians 3:21).

And I will do this without fail because I am absolutely sovereign over everything and therefore, “I can do all things, and no purpose of mine can be thwarted” (Job 42:2). This is the foundation of our hope and the key to the inner-workings of the Christian soul. 

How Christian Hedonists Grieve

So that is what I turn to now: What is it like for a Christian Hedonist to experience the sorrows of deep, long-term disappointment in view of this kind of news? Or, more specifically, what is it like for a Christian Hedonist to grieve deeply, sorrow deeply, hurt deeply, and yet never relent from the conviction that God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in him?

One true and inadequate answer to the question of how the sorrow of disability relates to the pursuit of joy in God is that they are sequential. We move from sorrow into joy and from joy into sorrow. Each is real, and each occupies our heart and different times. For example,Psalm 30:5 says, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” So there is a season of sorrow followed by a season of joy. (See also John 16:22)

That’s true. There are seasons of weeping followed by seasons of great rejoicing. But if we stopped with that, it would be very superficial. It wouldn’t account for the deepest inner-workings of the Christian soul. The question would remain: During those times of weeping, can God be glorified also by a simultaneous (not sequential) experience of satisfaction in God, a simultaneous joy?

Simultaneous Rejoicing

That is the paradoxical emotional experience for disappointed saints that I want to point out from Scripture. The clearest expression of it is in 2 Corinthians 6:10 where Paul says, we are regarded as “sorrowful yet always rejoicing.” Which is followed by “as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything” (2 Corinthians 6:10). Paul really means it when he says that he is sorrowful. The word (lupeo and congnates) is used 18 times in 2 Corinthians. This is Paul’s most grieving letter.

And well should he sorrow when you read the list of his burdens:

We commend ourselves in every way: by great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities . . . imprisonments, riots, labors, sleepless nights, hunger” (2 Corinthians 6:4–5). “. . . with countless beatings, and often near death. 24 Five times I received at the hands of the Jews the forty lashes less one. 25 Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was stoned. Three times I was shipwrecked; a night and a day I was adrift at sea; 26 on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from robbers, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers; 27 in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, in hunger and thirst, often without food, in cold and exposure.” (2 Corinthians 11:23–27).

When he says in 2 Corinthians 6:10 “sorrowful yet always rejoicing,” he means real sorrow. Real grief. Real pain. Not physical pain, but the emotional effect of pain. This is a real psychological state of Paul which we usually consider the opposite of joy. Sorrow tarries for the night; joy comes in the morning.

But that is not what Paul says here. He says, “Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.” In other words, he really meant it in Philippians 4:4 when he wrote, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.” He meant it when he wrote in 1 Thessalonians 5:16, “Rejoicealways.”

A Paradox of Christian Experience

This is not a sequence of sorrow and joy. This is simultaneous sorrow and joy. Charles Hodge comments on this passage:

This is one of the paradoxes of Christian experience. The believer has more true joy in sorrow, than the world can every afford. The sense of the love of God, assurance of his support, confidence in future blessedness, and the persuasion that his present light afflictions shall work out for him a far more exceeding and and eternal weight of glory mingled with his sorrows, and give the suffering child of God a peace that passes all understanding. He would not exchange his lot with that of the most prosperous of the children of this world. (Commentary on 2 Corinthians, 164)

“Sorrowful yet always rejoicing” — this is the paradoxical emotional experience for disappointed saints. Paul is testifying that sorrow and joy are both possible at the same time in the same soul.

Same Time, Same Heart

Here is another example of it. This hits very close to home for any of us who may have family members or people we care about very deeply who are not saved. Paul says inRomans 9:1-3

I am speaking the truth in Christ—I am not lying; my conscience bears me witness in the Holy Spirit— that I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. 3 For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my brothers, my kinsmen according to the flesh.

“I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish.” Has Paul forgotten what he wrote: "Rejoice always, and again I says rejoice!" There is no reason to think he has. If you asked him, I do not doubt that what he would say is: “Anguished, yet always rejoicing.” Unceasing anguish. Unceasing joy. Not sequential, but simultaneous.

From a different angle he says the same thing in Romans 12:15, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” You might think that this can be sequential. But not really. The more people you know, and the more you care, the less sequential this can be. Right now you can probably think of someone you care about who is grieving. And you can think of someone you care about who is rejoicing. Paul’s testimony is that we can have deeply felt empathy for both of these people at the same time, in the same heart.

Discipline and Delight

This paradoxical experience of the Christian soul is less surprising when you realize that in the Scripture God himself is pictured as having this same capacity for paradoxical emotions. Consider Proverbs 3:11–12 which is quoted in Hebrews 12:5–6,

My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline or be weary of his reproof, 12 for the Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights.

It’s the word “delights” that captures our attention. Because it’s in tension with “the Lord reproves him.” It won’t work to say that he is reproving the behavior and delighting in the person. No, he is reproving the person and delighting in the person. God can and does delight in us because of Christ and because of evidences of his own grace in our lives. But he also sees our defects and does not delight in them. God has pleasure in me, and displeasure in me at the same time. In fact, I would say, it is his pleasure in me because of Christ, that keeps his displeasure from being contempt, and makes it healing.

So let me draw the pieces together in a conclusion and then give you five applications.

A Summary Statement

God is so sovereign over the disasters and disappointments of our lives that he is able to make everyone of them serve our everlasting joy in him. This sovereign grace is the ground of our joy in the sorrows of deep disappointment. Not merely the ground of our joy after the sorrows of disappointment (as true as that is), but in the sorrows of disappointment. The Christian Hedonist does not merely pursue joy after sorrow. He pursues it in sorrow, in disappointment. His watchword in this life is 2 Corinthians 6:10, “Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.”

Five Applications

1. If you experience this paradox of emotions (sorrowful yet always rejoicing) you will never have to pretend. Your sorrow will be real. And your joy will be real. You won’t ever have to be ashamed of saying, “I am very sad,” because it will not contradict, “I am very glad.”
2. If you experience this paradox of emotions (sorrowful, yet always rejoicing), you will be able to bear the weight of sorrow that is inevitable in a world of so much sin and brokenness. The joy you know, in the very moment of heavy sorrow, will keep that sorrow from crushing you. It doesn’t make your sorrow less weighty. But it does make your sorrow less destructive.
3. If you experience this paradox of emotions (sorrowful, yet always rejoicing), your sorrow will not ruin the joy of others, and your joy will not offend the sorrow of others. Your joy will be deep with its roots in the springs of God’s grace — the very same grace that sorrowing souls need. And your sorrow will not be morose or gloomy or self-pitying. It will have real love in it that cares for the good of others, and will not ruin anyone’s party.
4. If you experience this paradox of emotions (sorrowful, yet always rejoicing), the ministries of your church — from the worship service, to the youth group, to the ministry of disability — will be free from silliness and trifling, and will have the aroma of Christ, with his wonderful paradoxes. The aroma of Christ who wept over Jerusalem: “Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes” (Luke 19:41–42). Yet who “rejoiced in the Holy Spirit and said, ‘I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children’” (Luke 10:21). He wept and he rejoiced over the same city in the same condition. The spirit that will pervade your church will be a joyful seriousness, and a serious joyfulness.
5. If you experience this paradox of emotions (sorrowful, yet always rejoicing), the beauty and worth of Christ will always be exalted — because you are always rejoicing in him (and he is most glorified in you when you are most satisfied in him) — and the ugliness of sin and all its effects will be shown for they are — because your glad and healthy heart is made sorrowful by it.

Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. May the Lord work this paradox — this miracle — in our lives.

By John Piper. ©2012 Desiring God Foundation. Website: desiringGod.org

http://www.desiringgod.org/resource-library/conference-messages/when-jesus-meets-disability-how-a-christian-hedonist-handles-deep-disappointment