WEDNESDAY WORDS: THE GIANT ROBOT MISSION

We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves. ² Each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them up. ³ For even Christ did not please himself but, as it is written: “The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.”^[a] 4 For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide we might have hope. Romans 15:1-7

I knew it had to happen. For 18 months, the "robot" creature in the backyard grew to gigantic proportions. While it could be hidden inside a tent or a tarp, I didn't mind so much. It was Allen's project and it kept him occupied. But when the thing outgrew its tent, I knew we were in for trouble.

To no one but Allen would the jumble of aluminum cans, metal pieces, wooden pallets, and wheels resemble a robot. I saw a pile of junk; he saw a creation that would one day move and function. Anytime I was tempted to complain, I reminded myself of just what the project meant to Allen.

Our neighbors were not as understanding. Notes were shoved under my door demanding the demise of the monstrosity. One woman loudly complained that I was a “terrible mother” to allow my son his collection of Frankenstein-esque parts.

It became clear that to maintain harmony with my neighbors, the Giant Robot would have to go.

Honestly, I don’t always agree with what my neighbors do, either. I get tired of the little dog that barks anytime I get out of my car, and the kids in the back who jump on their trampoline at all hours of the night. But in Romans 15:1-7, the Apostle Paul encourages us to “please our neighbors”, particularly those of us who are mature Christians.

Let’s take a moment and think back to the time of Jesus. The leaders of the nation of Israel were instructed to serve the people and protect the helpless, but they failed miserably in their mission. Obviously, their own mission did not coincide with God’s. Jesus rebuked those who abused their power. In Matthew 23:2-4, Jesus says, “The teachers of the law and the Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat. ³ So you must be careful to do everything they tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach. ⁴ They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.”

Ouch. Strong words from God’s Son, who was clear what His own mission on earth was. Jesus wanted His disciples to use their power to serve others. In Mark 10:44-45, He told them that they must serve others, not themselves. 

Allen had been clear in his own mission. It began in April of 2015 when Ron was hospitalized—again—with clinical depression and heart issues. Coincidentally, Allen had just been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. While my son began job training with Occupational Vocational Rehabilitation, he was not allowed to work. And my kids, all three of them, are workaholics. Allen had time on his hands. I did not. With Ron in the hospital for six weeks, and me working three jobs, Allen was left to his own devices. Enter the Mission to Build a Giant Robot.

According to SAMHSA (2016), adults on the autism spectrum disorder tend to be introverted and often look for ways to self-medicate in order to avoid a sense of anxiety and stress. While genetics play a part in ASD, a chemical imbalance in the brain contributes to developmental delays and problems with thought-processing and neural stimulation. 7.9 million Americans with a mental disorder self-medicate with drugs or alcohol.

I did not want Allen to be one of them. While he went for job-training and dealt with physical and mental testing requirements, he built his robot. I bought a bigger tent.

Alas, one Sunday afternoon we took the Giant Robot down piece by piece and hauled it away to the junk yard in a rental truck from Home Depot. For the sake of our mission to win our neighbors to Christ, the robot had to go. Its own scrappy mission—keeping Allen occupied-- was over.

Accept one another, Paul advises us in Romans 15:7. I might wish that my neighbors and those who encounter Allen might recognize the uniqueness that lies beneath his quirks. I might wish that the poster of Romans 12:18 that hung in my long-ago college dormitory room would hang in everyone’s home.

I can only, as much as possible, live at peace with everyone.

And have Allen confine his robot projects to the basement.

Voices from the Edge: If I Had a Hammer

If I had a hammer,
I'd hammer in the morning,
I'd hammer in the evening,
All over this land,

Ever since Allen had put on a new doorknob two weeks ago--all by himself, I might add--the front door had not shut properly. Every night, he slammed and banged to get the door to shut and lock, and every morning it took all my strength to pull it open. But it wasn't until Friday that I realized the doorframe had pulled away from the porch wall; all of our banging and tugging was only pushing the frame farther away from the supporting wall.

"We need a hammer," I told Allen. "So we can pound the frame back in place."

He thought for a moment and I, with the wisdom gained from years of parenting this adult who lives on the upper ends of the autism spectrum, waited. And waited. "Well, maybe," he said. "I'll see if I can find the hammer."

Progress. We have a variety of tools, but I have given up on bringing any order to the basement while Allen works on his robot project, so tools that I need frequently--such as hammers and screwdrivers--are kept in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. It wasn't long before Allen returned with the smallest hammer he could possibly find, a ball peen probably snatched from his metal work downstairs.

"I really think it's too small," I said. "Nah," he said and shrugged. "A hammer's a hammer."

Okay. I guess. So Allen and I went outside and I showed him just where he needed to pound the doorframe back into place. He gave it a few whacks. Nothing happened.

"Harder," I said. "Put some muscle into it!" Again, he gave it a few whacks. Nothing.

"Not going to work," my son told me. " If I hammer any harder, the top of the frame will break. See?" and he points to the top where I can see absolutely no discernible cracks. "You'll have to hire someone," he said sadly.

I'd hammer out danger,
I'd hammer out a warning,

Once Allen has his mind made up, it is very difficult to change. But I was determined to try. Anyone who knows me knows that I really hate to hire someone to do something that Allen or I can do ourselves. My father, a whiz with any hand tool known to man, taught me to change the oil and the tires on a car, rewire an outlet, and hammer without hitting my thumbs.

"Come on," I told my son. "We just need a bigger hammer."

He hesitated. "Well, there is my sledgehammer. But it will probably break the door. Then you'll really be mad! Sorry." and with that he was off to the basement, where the various parts of his robot currently live.

I studied the situation a few more minutes. I wasn't really strong enough to push the frame back in myself, but a sledgehammer packs a wallop. I'd last seen it on the back deck. Resolutely, I dragged it around to the front. If I could manage to lift it, it just might work.

And it did. It took a few whacks and a few tries before I hit my mark, but I accomplished the task and the frame was solidly back in place. I wished, not for the first time since Ron's car accident, that I had a husband that could do these things and didn't need to figure out so many things on my own. I wished there was someone around to be a mentor to my son, someone to show him the things a dad should teach a son. But, at the same time, I was grateful to my dad who'd taught me basic home maintenance skills, and my youngest son who did his best to help when he could.

The frame was in place and I was preparing to drag the sledge hammer around back when Allen reappeared.

"I thought it over," he said. "And I think you're right. We just need a bigger hammer." Allen's delayed response is not at all unusual for those on the spectrum. Since his brain has developed differently, the cells are packed tighter and the stems are shorter. It takes longer for him to process things.

"Too late," I told him  and was sorry I hadn't waited a while longer. I did a Vanna White pose, pointing out the fixed doorframe.

He spied the sledgehammer at my feet. "You used my sledgehammer?"

I nodded. "Yep. And it worked." For a moment, I could not read his expression. Was he upset I'd gone ahead without him? Mad I'd used his tool?

Finally, he grinned his special Allen smile. "So," he said, "since you used MY sledgehammer"--and the emphasis is his--"it's like I fixed it. And I want the credit for it." With that he easily hefted the item and carried it away.

I'd hammer out the love between
My brother and my sister
Ah uh, all over the world.

If you are keeping score here--and I guess Allen is--it's five him, three me. But at least my door is fixed. And Allen, who maybe only had a minor contribution to the event, has defied the odds by being in the minority--only 6%, according to recent government data--of autistic adults who hold a fulltime  job.

Heck, let's put another one in the Alen column. And maybe one for me as well. We're doing okay.