everyday, ordinary hope

three stories about losing, finding, and almost missing hope

On Monday we lit our first advent candle–a day late. I try not to be a perfectionist about religious practices, but the high liturgical seasons are my favorite and I feel more grounded when I “do them right”. Of course, being a day late on lighting the candle for hope is not doing things right or wrong. It just is. But I still felt sad that I missed a day to watch the candle flicker and remind me to be hopeful.

But this is a Substack about paying attention so late or not, I didn’t have to go looking for hope because, naturally, hope found me. 

story one: therapy
On Wednesday, Sam and I journeyed out in newly studded snow tires to his second ever occupational therapy appointment. We had attended only one before and it was a nightmare. We were seeing a therapist who was not going to be our regular therapist and the longer the session went on, the more apparent it was that she had not read our file. At one point she even asked if Sam had had any trauma during his birth, to which I said, “I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh, are you ‘adoptive’ mom?”
Yes sweetie. I sure as hell am. 

I could have burst into flames. We left the session 20 minutes early because both Sam and I were dysregulated and I really didn’t want to go to jail for assault. Needless to say I was holding my breath when we walked into the waiting room on Wednesday. We were greeted by who was going to be our regular therapist and within minutes she had Sam doing more than the last therapist could accomplish in a half hour. She spoke with authority, compassion, and humor. She met us where we were and pushed Sam when she saw he could handle it, and backed off when she could tell he was frustrated.

We left therapy lighter than when we walked in. While I had told Sam I was proud of him, I could tell that he was proud of himself. We left and got a muffin at a favorite local haunt and I watched my boy devour it, fully in his own skin. And for a moment, I felt hopeful for the future. I’m pretty sure there’s a part of my soul that still lives in that coffee shop, in that moment, watching a crumb-crusted Sam live his best life.

Sam discovers the magic of the Christmas tree (and some prickles as well), 2023

story two: walking
Once a week I have the privilege to walk a cyclical path at a local park with a friend. The street encircles a treed area and the outside road is lined by historic homes that have (mostly) been kept in their pristine original condition. Years ago, this road was a horse track and the uppercrust of Spokane owned these now-historic homes and could watch horses run just outside their windows. 

When we started these walks, the weather was still warm and we named our early morning walks the “Friday Furlongs” and were able to chat and walk under the shade of big maple trees. Now that the weather has turned, we bundle in coats, hats, gloves, and stuff tissues in our pockets so that when our noses and eyes inevitably begin to run, we’re prepared.

Today, much like most walks, we talked about work, kids, the season, and general life stuff. My friend is a medical professional whose mind works in ways that astound me and I never tire of her pragmatic and incredibly thoughtful point of view. I, however, am a ball of emotion and today was no different. Near the end of our walk I was unpacking how 2024 was looking for us. I outlined the practitioners I had lined up for Sam, what we were already doing, what I was hoping to do next, how I planned to advocate for him, and finally, how I was desperate to find a particular therapist for myself so that I could be a more regulated and compassionate mother.

“2024 sounds really hopeful.”

There it was. I was exhausted outlining all the things I needed to do, was already doing, needed to do, but she was right. Everything I had unpacked for her were steps towards advocating for the health of my son, myself, my family. I’m still tired, but now, I’m also hopeful. 

story three: crying and crucifixes
Having a son with complex trauma means having to bob and weave where most people get to rest and digest. Case in point: the dinner table. Right now, we’re in a season where Sam can’t be nourished unless we are actively reading him a stack of books or if he is watching a show on the iPad. We live by our routines in order to keep Sam out of fight or flight (which is the state he is in at least 50% of his waking hours), so our pride has to take the backburner at the dinner table.

However, every routine is shattered and every piece of humble pie we have already swallowed is caustically regurgitated when our dinner table grows. Over Thanksgiving we had some of our dearest friends join us and Sam’s body betrayed him. He was so overwhelmed with the change (even the good change) that before dinner even started he was kicking and screaming in the floor and my nervous system was shot.

This weekend, my side of the family came into town for an early Christmas and the same level of panic ensued. Finally, I took Sam outside in the 32 degree chill and sat with him in our adirondack chairs. He was barefoot, wearing only a tshirt and thin pants. He curled his body up into mine and screamed. Then he leaned back and looked straight into my eyes.

“Hey buddy, how does your body feel?”
*Screech*
“I know you’re frustrated. I know you want to go back inside, but we can’t yet. How about we take some deep breaths together?”
*Screech*

He collapsed back into me, but this time I could feel his body release just a bit. He leaned back again.

“Hey, how about we sing a song together? And then maybe we can breathe a little and then go back inside?
“Can I open presents now??”
“Not quite yet, but soon–I have to wrap a couple more, but I’ll be done soon.”

He growls at this, but then smiles and begins to sing a song he learned almost a year ago in music class in Portland. We sway and sing, giggling, putting our family members' names in the song. He leans into my right arm and relaxes–I can feel him coming back into his body.

“Hey buddy, are you ready for some deep breaths now?”
He nods and we smell the flower and blow out the candle and both of us, hand in hand, walk back into the house, nervous systems intact.

Shortly after Sam’s meltdown we open presents. Sam is excited about new trucks, new books, new snowmen wrapping paper. Finally, I open a small but weighty box from my dad and pull out a beautiful golden crucifix. I was touched and confused–my dad, a lapsed Catholic but devoted Evangelical, is quick to tell me he “gave up Catholicism for lent”. I have watched him, more than once, squirm in his chair when visiting our old Anglican church in Portland, so obviously, this gift needed some explanation.

“This was your great grandmother’s and I know you like these things, so…”

I was tickled that he couldn’t find the word crucifix at that moment. Moments later we were looking up and discussing the origins of the IHS scrolled behind Christ’s head as well as the meaning of the INRI banner above him. I know there is weight my father feels about his Catholic upbringing–I assume it is similar to the disappointment I feel in my Baptist upbringing. These past discussions have been awkward, so this moment, with my great grandmother’s crucifix in my hands, felt like a bridge. Maybe a rope suspension bridge, but a bridge nonetheless.

And all the while, Sam rolled his new Duplo trucks through his kinetic sand. We had all reached a new level of equilibrium. I was so proud of Sam, I was so touched by my dad’s gift, and I was blessed to bear witness to it all.

…

I am what feels like an eternal pessimist. The other shoe is going to drop, the sky is falling, and I am forever being punished (and never forgiven) for my sins. I have asked God for a burning bush so many times in my life it has started to feel like I’m yelling at a bricked in ceiling. But hope keeps finding me. Two steps forward, three back, and then two more forward. If I keep doing this dance I might just be able to cross the finish line. Not that it’s a race. Not that any other candles need to be lit. Not that God doesn’t see me in my hopelessness. Because it’s true:

All shall be well.
All shall be well.
All manner of things shall be well.

Always,
Emily

Real life moment: this was typed, in full, in one sitting, with the only light emanating from our Christmas tree. I’m basically Louisa May Alcott.