It Is Well With My Soul.

Over the past year I’ve witnessed the demise of many leaders; often pinnacles of faith who have fallen from grace, men and women who most assuredly began their careers with the noblest of intentions. Individuals who, through the passage of time, became enamored with self and blinded by fame & fortune; who lost perspective on their place within humanity because of a choice to turn from that still small voice.

I believe we each have the innate potential to fall far from grace; to perceive ourselves as better than we ought to. I know I do. Under different circumstances I could really embrace how special I think I am, hold on tightly to the perception that I’ve gotten this life thing figured out real good, lean into pride and her enticing offers & allow her to nibble away at my soul as she has with others who have climbed the ladder of success.

I think about all of this as I prepare to release a book and a documentary into the world.

Two creations that could potentially cast a pretty bright light on my life.

Perhaps.

I’m a first born, “me do it” Enneagram one who thrives on accomplishments and making a difference & these attributes are typically celebrated by society with lots of accolades and praise, & yes, this recognition is nice. I am human. It’s nice to be acknowledged for your achievements & even nicer still to have people perceive you as a good person; a person making positive strides in the steps of humanity; a respectful person with character. Of course it’s nice.

I’ve worked diligently & finished projects which might push me a little bit out of the shadows of anonymity & possibly into a world for which I am unprepared & yet –

I will continue to rise every morning
And diaper my 16 year old son
(which is as humility building as it gets some days)
And help him get dressed
And pour his juice into a sippy cup
And put socks upon his feet
And lace up his sneakers
And assist him to the car
And gently close the door but not until he says in his sweet sing song way –
“Bye! Have a good day!”
And I turn and walk away
With a smile on my face.
This is our routine
Me and my Luke
Every single day.

These monotonous actions serve as a reminder as they did with the apostle Paul – a prickly thorn that breathes humility into my swelling soul & deflates any pride that may try to sneak in; crushing it in an instant as my boy demands yet another round of –

“Paddy cake, paddy cake, bakers man, bake me a cake as fast as you can.”

And as his smile reaches for the stars, I lean into the understanding that he and I are created in the image of our Maker, one not better than the other, simply different with unique purposes & gifts, & the only attribute that makes us great is dutifully reacting in joyful obedience to the hard & holy tasks we’ve been called to accomplish.

Each staying faithful to the race we must run.

This uncomfortable road, this thorn of special needs & autism, this aching joy which serves as a gift – a gift that calls me to daily lay down my life & continuously keeps my head from ballooning & serves as a constant jab reminding me of who I am and who I am not by stripping away any pretenses. This gift which prepares a table before me in the presence of fame & fortune & pride; where Luke & I dine with the Shepherd feasting on humility & special needs & gulping down goblets of grace.

It is well with my soul.
It is well with Luke’s soul.
And that is enough.

Just keep livin

To My Son, I’m Sorry.

To my son with profound autism,

I’m sorry I didn’t try medication sooner.

I’m sorry that I was more concerned with side effects than possibilities.

I’m sorry you lived in an anxious mess of a mind for years because of my pride.

I’m sorry I assumed the worst and how it would affect you.

I’m sorry I hindered your abilities because of my inability to broaden my horizons.

I’m sorry I limited your communication when medication would have clarified your needs.

I’m sorry I restricted you from your siblings because the aggression, without meds, made you dangerous.

I’m sorry I sighed in resignation and helplessness over the thought of raising you forever when all you needed was a little help.

I’m sorry it took a global pandemic and a total shut down of the world as we knew it to set aside my pride & request something, anything, out of desperation.

I’m sorry for the years of progress I may have stolen from you because I was sure that medication would do more harm than good.

Son, I’m not suggesting that medication is always the answer or even your long term solution, but it has enabled your best life right here, right now & for that, I’m thankful.

From this day forward, I vow to be more open minded. I vow to continue learning & growing & expanding my ability to consider other possibilities & I vow to assume the best. I vow to never stop fighting for you.

I love you Lucas Aaron.

Mom ❤️

This was a difficult post to write & even more difficult to put out into the world, but I know there is a caregiver somewhere who needs to read these words. They need permission to look at options.

It’s Time To Go Home.

I’m a big believer in the number 7. Back in December 2019, when Luke was in ICU for a month I wrote –

“This morning, the 27th day of December, marks the 7th time I’ve sat in a room surrounded by soothing pastel paintings as I wait for news while a surgeon slices through a loved one’s head. In a few days we’ll flip our calendars to 2020 and that’ll mark seven years of our family living in Tennessee. Seven and Surrender. A word and a number now claim my thoughts.”

And each of these concepts – Seven and Surrender – have been continuous reverberations since that day in late December. I knew when we flipped the calendar to 2020 that something was about to change and possibly come to fruition although I wasn’t entirely sure what it was going to look like at the time.

In Biblical history, the number 7 is drenched in meaning and represented completion, rest, and victory. The completion of creation which culminated in rest on the 7th day, every 7th year was set aside for God’s chosen people as a year of rest and jubilee, and Joshua’s march around Jericho which resulted in victory on the 7th day.

On that gut wrenching day in late December when I sent my son off for brain surgery yet again, I chose to surrender to a will higher than my own and 2020 did unravel – for sure! – into a complete ridiculous reality in many ways: Ryan’s surgery, my broken foot, quarantined with 8 children, loss of income and lots of despair and questions, but it also brought blessings: a book deal, a podcast, a documentary project, healing for Ryan and Luke, the sale of two houses; a breakthrough with Luke’s communication, and clarity over what is important for us in life, particularly the importance of being immersed within the community of friends and family. Last summer, our 7th year in Tennessee, that clarity resulted in a decision to purchase land and build a house in Michigan. Yes, we are moving back to my home town.

Our hearts have been slowly accepting this move for over a year and included whispers of “Should we? Could we?” And after Luke’s (and then Ryan’s) surgeries, we knew that “Yes, we had to.” We had to move back home for resources and support. We could no longer do this immensely chaotic and exhausting life on our own, and if we attempted to, it might destroy us. We needed help. We need options when something goes off kilter, we need people to surround us when the unexpected occurs, and this became crystal clear after months of rehabilitation for Luke and Ryan.

We purchased land in July, the 7th month of 2020, and we are going home to build a beautiful accessible ranch for our family with a big sensory room for Luke and the kids; a home with a bike path straight to the Lake – Lake Michigan! – right outside our front door; a bike path that will bring immense enjoyment with Luke’s new accessible bike trailer; a path that leads to a playground less than a mile away. It’s time to stop putting our faith in the government for resources and time to put our faith in those who know and love us well. It’s time to rejoin the feast of community.

Yes, this decision was made largely with Luke in mind as Tennessee (and the South overall) lacks in resources as children like him age, and Michigan offers more possibilities including year round school until he’s 26 years old. That’s huge! Summers without any structure or anyone who will help with him have becoming overwhelmingly exhausting. We’ve also had the opportunity to tour a residential facility we would be very open to considering in the future; a beautiful place brimming with loving, Godly people who serve the least of these with their whole hearts. We are preparing for a future where our children have families of their own, and we want to have a plan in place to provide the time and energy needed for all our kid’s lives. This has been a heart wrenching decision, but we feel an immense peace that it is time. Our years in Tennessee were needed to bring our newly blended family together, a beautiful time away from distractions that melded us together which you will get to read about in my book Blended with Grit and Grace releasing this June, but now it’s time to say goodbye. It’s time to go home.

And as always, we continue to surrender – not really knowing what the future has in store but having faith that He will provide. When the cloud moves, we move. Moment by moment and step by step – walking in obedience into what he has next for the Ronne family in this 43rd year of life (4+3 = 7) and Luke’s 16th year (1+6=7). I surrender, and I believe that the next 7 years are going to be a time of rest and victory.

And, of course, I’ll document our progress which has already had its share of joys and trials as will life until the day I die, I suppose. Ryan and I usually travel to Mexico in January or February, and this year we went to Michigan where we spent the week clearing our property. Mexico, Michigan, pretty similar, right? The tentative plan includes a move this summer and living in a rental property while our house is being built. Crazy? A little, but a good crazy. It feels right. And it’s going to be quite the journey.

Stay tuned.

Just keep livin.

Don’t Tell Me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t tell me
It’s not severe
When it’s my story
To tell.

Don’t tell me
It’s not severe
When I daily live
A version of hell.

Don’t tell me
It’s not severe
When all you got
Is something to sell.

Don’t tell me
It’s not severe
When there are holes
Where he fell.

Don’t tell me
It’s not severe
When the curve dips low
On the Herrnstein bell.

Maybe the word is harsh?
Or profound or extreme?
Critical or grave?
Or perhaps just plain mean?

Do those options please you?
Allow sleep at night?
Like sweet nectar on the tongue
That burns with delight.

You can polish it up nice
Make it shine like brass
Ensure it’s real pretty
As translucent as glass.

Like the neighboring house
We all know the one
With the rocks quickly buried
Beneath the setting sun.

We each have our story
Some mild, some not
I speak for my truth
A belief that begot

A hope that spurs forth
Change and reform
Awareness and resources
For those out of the norm.

Ignorance is not bliss
Hear me loud; hear me clear
To pretend everything’s fine,
When autism CAN be severe.

#seemetoo
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