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Prayer for Parents of Special Needs Children

August 21, 2015

Berk Ferry Have you ever had a nightmare; and when you woke up, you kept telling yourself, “It wasn’t real?”  You kept saying, “Everything is ok!” But you could not seem to shake the awful feeling because in the nightmare it WAS so real, and you were terrified.

That is the emotion my parents lived through Wednesday evening when Berkeley disappeared – didn’t make it home from work. Only this was not a dream, and no one could locate him. Phone calls flew back and forth. The hour grew later, and the company responsible for his transportation did a city wide search of their vehicles. Berkeley wasn’t on any of the busses. He wasn’t at his job site.  The transportation department called my parents once more. They asked for a description of the clothes he wore that day. “We need it for the missing person’s report,” they told my parents.   At that moment, every worst case scenario ran through their heads.

Safeguards had been in place, but they had obviously failed. Helpless does not begin to describe the feeling.

Berkeley was eventually located – safe and unharmed. His bus had never come to pick him up – he saw a different bus – a shuttle bus that looked a lot like his bus. He got on it, but when it didn’t take him home, he got off of it and on to another. We don’t know how many times he changed shuttles. We just know he somehow made it from Issaquah to Redmond.

Most people cannot understand Berkeley when he speaks; so he had to just keep going on alone. Finally, a kind and observant woman realized something was wrong. Berkeley was struggling with his phone. He couldn’t remember how to make an outgoing call, and it had somehow been turned to silent so he couldn’t hear it ring. This woman called my parents and kept Berkeley safe while they rushed to pick him up. Berkeley hasn’t been able to stop hugging them ever since.

I’ve seen a lot of Facebook posts these last few days.  They are posts of parents dropping their kids off at college – grieving because their babies have grown up much, much too fast. AND what a legitimate emotion that is, but it is not something some parents, my parents, ever got to do. On Wednesday, it slammed home in a way that is so very real.  Berkeley will NEVER grow up, and he will ALWAYS need extra care.

As a family we have always seen Berkeley as a special gift from God. We wouldn’t trade him away for anything or anybody because he has made our lives better in so many ways.  But this is what I am wanting to say, the parenting never ends.  I am asking you to remember to pray for the moms and dads whose babies never really grow up.


Snowflake Wonder

January 13, 2014

My Pictures

Tiny, and I mean tiny snowflakes were drifting out of the sky and landing softly on my black shirt.  I looked down, and on my shoulder was a perfect snowflake.  Even without a magnifying glass, I could see the six perfect arms of that miniscule flake. 

I was freezing cold, but all I could think was that I wished I did have a way to more closely examine this one tiny creation.  I looked up and wondered how many millions of different formations were falling all around me.  I marveled at my God who created them and right at that very moment was aware that I was thinking of Him and snowflakes.  Then I imagined the snowflakes were the prayers that God was hearing – repetitive, pleading, sorrowful, thankful, and some full of agony – millions and millions of them every minute.

Just as God made each flake unique, He treats every single prayer with that same care. 

If we had to listen to most of our prayers repeated back to us, we’d yawn and squirm in our chairs – so boring; but God, His power beyond our comprehension, does not complain.  He patiently listens and answers and comforts.

We don’t need the remarkable snowflake to show us God’s greatness, but for me, it was just one more reminder of the awesomeness of God. 

My God, who crafts the snowflakes and makes them fall from the sky, is so personal that He cares about every minute detail of what makes me into who I am.

Hello Kitty

October 31, 2012

Photo courtesy of Stephen Scheuerman

While I hung our jackets in the hall closet, Berkeley was supposed to be settling into his room. Instead I heard him slump heavily onto the bed and give a little whimper of distress.

Poking my head into the guest room, I saw that his head had dropped forward on his chest.

“What’s wrong, Honey?” I asked him.

“Nutting,” he replied.

Guilt washed over me. I’d been so caught up in my own thoughts and worries that I’d mostly ignored his questions and chatter in the car ride to my house.

I sat on the bed beside him and took his hand in mine. “Are you worried about Daddy?” I asked.

Yes,” he said.

I felt so tired. I was worried too.

“Do you want to pray for Daddy?”


So we closed our eyes, and Berkeley let go of my hand and prayed.

I wish you could experience prayer with Berkeley because it’s quite unlike anyone else’s prayers. Berkeley, my youngest brother who has Down Syndrome, does not speak in complete sentences, and he uses his hands while he prays. I’ve been his big sister for all of his 34 years; so I knew what he meant when he started his prayer by saying, “Laura and Berkeley” first pointing at me and then himself. He was telling God that Laura and Berkeley were right there in the room, and we wanted to tell Him something.

When Mercedes, the cat, walked in, Berkeley didn’t worry about God thinking he was being irreverent. He just interrupted his prayer to say, “Hello, Kitty” and to stroke her back. Then he started again, “Laura, Berkeley, and Mercedes,” and then his voice got so serious. He held his hand over his heart and told God that “Dad, heart, broken.” Then he prayed, “Dad, hospital, doctor fix heart. Amen.”

Such a simple, simple prayer but every single word meant.

Then I prayed. I prayed God would guide the surgeon’s hands while he performed the double bypass and heart valve replacement, I prayed Dad would heal well, and that there would be no complications. My prayer was a lot longer, and I meant all of my prayer too. However, I did not interrupt my prayer to say hello to the cat.

When we were done, Berkeley kissed my hand and then busied himself putting his things away.

Over the next few days, my prayers became more like Berkeley’s. As fatigue began to take over from the anxious waiting and waiting, my brain had trouble completing sentences. My prayers were less formal and often interrupted, but they were not less meaningful. I was comforted to know that God knew what was in my heart even though my mind was having a hard time focusing on the specifics. As the anxiety subsided, and I could thank God for a successful outcome, I also began to thank Him for the wonderful gift He has given us in prayer.

“Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groaning which cannot be uttered.” Romans 8:26

When we don’t know how to pray, God understands what we cannot even say.

PS  In case you’re wondering, my dad is one week post, open heart surgery.  He’s home from the hospital, and thanks to the prayers of so many people to our powerful God and the wonderful care he received at Overlake Hospital, he is healing well.

The $12 Bowl of Lettuce

October 27, 2012

Photo courtesy of Autumn Davis

In fascination I watched as my coworkers ordered their salads under the careful instruction of their leader who was experienced in the way of diets.  “It’s ok,” she said, “to ask for your salad to be made the way you want it.”

Amazing to me was that no one had the salad made the way they really wanted it.  Equally mystifying was why they bothered to choose any particular salad since they proceeded to have every item that would have made it appetizing or satisfying withheld.

“Hmm, let’s see, the Cobb looks good.” This was accompanied by an anxious glance at the chief weight watcher.  Encouraged by a nod of approval, she continued.  “Yes, I’ll have the Cobb.”

“Excellent,” responded the waitress.

“I’m on a diet though; so please hold the bacon and cheese.”  At this point, my colleague cast a timid glance in the direction of the principal dieter in time to see a frown and slight shake of the head.  With a sigh of resignation she said, “Hold the egg as well, and I’ll have the vinaigrette on the side.”

The server took surprisingly few notes.

In bewilderment, I watched four ladies order four different salads – each without seeds, nuts, cheese, or meat of any kind and all with vinaigrette on the side.   “See,” the lead dieter said with pride.  “You can ask for your salad exactly as you want it.”

The waitress was waiting on me, her pencil poised. 

“I’ll have the Cajun chicken salad, blue cheese on the side.” 

I snapped my menu shut, and she looked at me with one eyebrow slightly raised.  “Is that it?”

“Yes, thank you.”  I felt the corners of my mouth stretch into a grin.  At the same time, her right eye dipped slightly, and I was sure she was winking at me.  She thought it was as ridiculous as I did. 

How well I remember that silly lunch.  The four ladies yummed and commented repeatedly on how their salads were exactly as they had ordered them.   It would have been difficult to mess them up.   All four were exactly the same – a bowl of plain greens with a diet dressing on the side.

Envious looks landed on my delicious salad, and I knew they were secretly wishing they hadn’t spent $12 on a bowl of lettuce.

Of course nobody could eat that way forever; and in a couple months, they were back to ordering the Oriental Crispy Chicken salad or the Steak and Blue Cheese smothered in dressing. 

Except for the very most special occasions, I stuck to my grilled chicken salads with a dressing I loved on the side.  I had chosen a diet I could keep.

When I was 11 years old, my pastor encouraged a group of us youngsters to have personal devotions. 

“Every day,” he said, “you need to read your Bible and pray.”  Then he gave me some revolutionary advice.  Everyone else told me I should read my Bible for 30 minutes and pray for at least 15.  I knew I couldn’t do it.  I knew it would be great if I did, but at 11 years old, I could barely sit still for 45 minutes let alone study and pray that long. 

Commit to reading at least five verses and praying for five minutes every single day.  Hopefully your time will increase, but commit to that much no matter what.”

I felt so much freedom when he gave us that instruction.  I knew I could do it.  With his wise advice to guide me, I’ve almost never missed a day since then. 

Yes my Bible time did grow, but it was because I didn’t dread a regimen I couldn’t stick to. 

My dieting friends had the best of intentions, but they had failed before they’d begun.  Many people want to be faithful to their personal time with God, but they honestly can’t fathom clearing a big chunk of time and staying focused on God.  Guilt takes over, and that isn’t a pleasant feeling either; so they never even start. 

If you’re not spending time with God on a daily basis, I challenge you to begin today.  Start in Psalms or Proverbs and read five verses a day, or pick an interesting book like Job, Judges, or Ruth and read a chapter a day.  Then pray and don’t let yourself go to bed until you’ve done at least that much.  Before you know it, you’ll have established a routine.  Soon you won’t be satisfied with five verses; your time with God will expand.

I started the diet 30 years ago, and I’m still sticking to it because I’ve found I simply can’t get along without it.

“For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.”  Hebrews 4:12

Flight #2736

October 11, 2012

The captain stood in the aisle with his head drooping in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “I just can’t believe this is happening to you all.”

My day had started with what was supposed to be a very early flight out of the Seattle Tacoma Airport. The slight delay while a bad fuse was replaced didn’t bother me much; I had a sizeable layover and knew I’d make my connection. Then we arrived in Dallas and boarded at gate B-17.

I’d barely settled in and clipped my seat belt before the captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Folks, we had a little problem with the landing gear. Thought it was fixed, but it’s still giving us some trouble. We want to do this right; so we’re going to move you to another plane.”

Everyone gathered their bags and pulled kindles and laptops out of the seat pockets in front of them. We stood in the waiting area until we were told to go to gate B-15.

“This is really a drill,” I said to the guys behind me. “They’re studying us to see how quickly we can learn to board.” Camaraderie was forming between the passengers, and we laughed and made jokes.

I hadn’t had time to buckle my seat belt before the captain’s voice again crackled overhead. “Really sorry folks, but safety is our first concern. We’ve had our back-up panel go out on us; and again, we have to put safety first. Our first priority is to get you safely to your destination.”

So we found ourselves milling around outside the gate until we heard we’d been moved to B-13. We boarded for the third time.

As I stashed my bag in the overhead bin, I asked the guy behind me, “Do you think there’s a camera on board and they’re just waiting for one of us to crack so they can have some good footage for that show, ‘What would you do?’”

“Maybe,” he responded, “or it’s some kind of a psychology test.”

The hiss and pop of the intercom being activated interrupted our conversation, and we listened to the captain’s voice. “We weren’t expecting to take this plane to Knoxville; so we need a few hundred more pounds of fuel. We’ll get the plane fueled up and then we’ll take off.”

Passengers made nervous clucking sounds in the backs of their throats, but everyone stayed seated and calm. We waited. We waited some more.

When the captain emerged from the cockpit, his head hung low. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “I just can’t believe this is happening to you all. We’ve discovered an oil leak, and we can’t take off. I’m so sorry. I’m just so, so sorry.”

Bets were taken on whether they’d move us to B-11 or back to B-17. “They should have had time to fix our first plane by now,” someone offered. At last we boarded for the fourth time, back at B-11, and successfully took off and, more importantly, we safely landed at our destination.

What impressed me about the entire ordeal was how pleasant the travelers stayed. I’ve been on flights where people have been crazy rude to the flight attendants for virtually no reason at all. Here we had over a hundred people all happy and joking even while they were being terribly inconvenienced for hours on end. Add the psychological strain of having one plane after another declared unfit, and you had a recipe for some real drama.

I wish I would always be like I was on Flight #2736 – saying the right thing and remaining pleasant, but sadly I’m not. The following verses remind me that the wise choose their words carefully and that God observes all we do no matter what is going on around us.

“A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. The tongue of the wise uses knowledge rightly, but the mouth of fools pours forth foolishness. The eyes of the Lord are in every place keeping watch on the evil and the good.” Proverbs 15:1-3

I Jumped off Poo Poo Point!

July 21, 2012

Watching someone else jump

Running fingers through my sweat dampened hair, I tried to smooth the locks before Eileen and I climbed the final hundred yards of the trail.  At last we ascended out of the trees and found ourselves on the paraglider’s launching pad on Tiger Mountain’s Poo Poo Point.  The two mile, 1,700 foot elevation gain left me a little breathless but so did the view.

A few minutes earlier we’d seen Mt. Rainier off to our right, and now the Issaquah Valley loomed in front of us.   Buff guys strode around prepping for the 20 yard run that would give them enough air to lift them into the expanse of nothingness.

I’d watched the landings from below but never seen anyone actually run and jump off the edge.  Fascinated, I watched the gliders’ chutes (they call them wings) fill with air and the pilots take a final step of no return and float away.

“Hey, there’s Mike.” I gestured toward our friend who drives the guys to the top of the mountain who don’t want to hike up with all of their equipment.

Mike spotted us and waved us over.

“Hey, Marc needs a passenger for his tandem harness,” Mike said.  “He’ll take you down at half price, Laura.”

Others getting ready to jump

I do like my bargains, and the wheels in my head were already turning.  Was this the adventure for me?  I began the pros and cons list in my head.

Injury is a distinct possibility.  On the other hand, I don’t have kids who will resent me for the rest of their lives if I do something foolish and get myself killed.   I do hate pain though, and if we crash on takeoff or landing, there’s bound to be pain.  But when am I ever going to just happen to be on top of a mountain with a friend in the business to negotiate a good deal for me.  Besides, I’m young; I’m independent; I’m single; and I should do this!

“Half price, Laura!  How can you not do it?” Eileen was practically levitating she was so excited.  “I did it once, and you just have to do it.”

“All right, I’ll do it,” I said.

They wrote my name on my hand so if I didn’t make it down all in one piece, they could identify the parts.

“Really, you will?” her voice had risen to a squeal.  “Yay! This is so exciting.”  As she began to jump up and down, a niggling of doubt found its way into my head.

A guy tried to launch off to my right, and at the last minute something went wrong.  Now he was stuck in a bunch of bushes trying to untangle himself before he could hike back up the side of the mountain.

In the meantime I’d been handed a form with a couple of pages of disclaimers.  “This is safe isn’t it?”  I nervously asked.  The instructor pulled out his smart phone and showed me a leg with the tibia sticking at least four inches out of the skin.  A little wave of nausea swept over me, But accidents happen when you’re walking down the street, right?  This really isn’t that dangerous, I told myself.   I really wanted to jump.

Me and the boys – the driver, the pilot, and the pilot’s lawyer.

I watched more takeoffs, and the instructor told me for the fifth time that when he said, run, I had to keep running no matter what.  “You have to keep your eyes on the lake in the far distance.  Do not look down, and keep running when I say ‘run.’”

Contemplating the launch

Then I was in the harness, and the instructor was yelling in my ear, “When I say run, you run with all you have and do not stop running.  If we are in the bushes, you keep running.  Do you understand?  Don’t look down, and you cannot stop running.”

Then he was counting down, “Three, two, one…RUN!”

I ran; I ran so hard.  I kept my eyes on the lake in the far distance and pushed.  Wind in the wing tried to drag us back, but the instructor yelled, “Long strides, NOW!”

No turning back

I kept running.  I felt the bushes hit my legs, and for an instant I thought I hadn’t run hard enough, but then we were weightless.  Every care I’d ever had was gone as we floated high above the world.  The instructor was telling me something, but I wasn’t listening anymore.  I gazed at the lakes, the trees, the sky, and the clouds starting to change color with the sinking sun.

I breathed deeply – happy and carefree.  After awhile, I started to pay attention to the instructor again, and he showed me how to turn the glider in a circle before he handed the controls to me.  I pulled the right brake toward me and leaned my left knee over my right leg.  Slowly we turned in a full circle.  As I loosened my pull and let my arm go up with the wing, we surged and then balanced out.

All too soon, I gave the controls back to Marc; and he guided us to the ground.  As we hit the landing pad, I ran four huge steps, and then we were done – except it really wasn’t over for me.  I had a memory for the rest of my life.

But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles…” Isaiah 40:31

I looked down and wiped blood from my left leg wondering how I’d managed to scrape myself.  Then I realized my blood had little seeds in it.  I’d swept some berries in the bushes in that last millisecond before taking off.  Later, I’d learn that at the same time, the poor guy who’d been stuck in the bushes had finally untangled himself and had almost hiked back to the top when suddenly a 5’ 8” girl almost kicked him in the head as she hurled over the top of him.  He hit the ground for the second time that evening.

“You did great running,” Marc told me.  “I’ve had men look down, freak out at the last second, and then go into the fetal position.  It’s bad news when someone does that.  We both go down and you can get hurt pretty bad.”

Seemed to me that two things were key to a successful jump:  1) follow through – keep running; and 2) keep your eyes on the lake – don’t look down.  I started thinking about perseverance.  So many people are disappointed in their lives these days.  They’re constantly looking at what everyone else has and wishing for it instead of keeping their focus on God and pushing forward to claim their own lives, to be satisfied in what God has given them.

I wanted to jump and have that feeling of freedom, but I had to run first.  Even though the drag of the shoot pulled back at me, I pushed forward.  When the bushes hit my legs, I kept running, and I stayed focused on the lake.  My reward was totally worth the short run!

“Let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”  Hebrews 12: 1-2.

Righteousness and Peace Have Kissed Each Other

July 4, 2012

These words jumped off the page at me this morning as I read a short compilation of verses.

“Mercy and truth have met together; Righteousness and peace have kissed each other.”

So appropriate for the Fourth, I thought. So applicable to my life!

Curious about the context of the verse, I found it comes from Psalm 85 which is speaking about God’s dealing with the nation of Israel. (See I was right; a good reading for a day when we celebrate our nation’s independence.)

Of course the Bible is true and no parts are truer than others, but this phrase, “Righteousness and peace have kissed each other,” struck me. No one can have peace unless they also have righteousness. Peace may surround them, but internally peace cannot exist with wickedness.

On this day, when we remember the sacrifices of those who have gone before us to give us freedom, much could be said about the righteous founding of our nation and the peace we’ve enjoyed. Our wonderful country, however, does not continue to exist because of our forefathers. Each of us is responsible for the continuation of peace by living righteously.  Whether serving in the military or simply living in this greatest nation, we all have a responsibility for how we live individually.

Happy Birthday, United States of America! I love you, my country.

That Smells Bad!

June 20, 2012

“Are you going to put me in your book?” asked a guy way back in my college days.

“Everybody’s going to end up in my book one way or another,” I quipped. “So you’d better be nice to me.” Truthfully, I couldn’t imagine him doing anything remarkable enough, good or bad, to end up in my book – other than to ask me that question.

These days, it’s the blog. Some fear it, and others, I suspect, would like to be featured in it. What they don’t realize is that my stories, rather than painting people in glamorous situations, tend to find the absurd and unflattering.

Most recently, I was laughing with a friend over the day she came home and entered her house only to detect a terrible smell. She stomped into the living room and looked behind the couch. Not there. She went upstairs and looked in the bedroom, the walk-in closet, the bathroom, and everywhere she turned, the smell seemed to be just ahead of her. At last she looked down and saw a smudge on the carpet, not in front of her but behind her. Horrified, she turned clear around and saw another spot a little further back, and that’s when she examined her shoe.

Apparently, she’d stepped in it on the way into the house and had now tracked it all throughout her home. The afternoon was spent shampooing carpets.

With sides shaking I said, “Now that’s blog worthy.”

“Use it with my blessing,” she laughed. “Just don’t use my name.”

Generally, I’m pretty careful about the inclusion of names unless I’ve been given permission. Most people want to protect their names because they are essential to our identity. When the Nazis wanted to dehumanize their prisoners, they stopped using names and instead assigned numbers stripping them of the one thing a person owns from birth – their given name. 

The Bible places great importance on the reputation of a person’s name; so we should fight to protect it too. 

“A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.” Proverbs 22:1a

“A good name is better than precious ointment.” Ecclesiastes 7:1a

Many people don’t want anyone to know if they’ve done something silly but will easily tell how they cheated on a test, lied to an employer, deceived their parents, or got a deal by being dishonest. Few stop to think about how they’re marking their character, tainting their name, and developing a stinky reputation which will not only follow but will precede them.

Every Kid Should Be So Lucky…

June 14, 2012

Mom and Dad

…as to have parents like mine.

My memory flies back to when I was barely more than a toddler.  I see myself sitting up in bed with my parents standing over me.  “My legs hurt so bad,” I told them, tears hanging on every word.

Mom sits beside me and explains how my bones are growing so fast that the rest of my body can’t keep up.  She tells me about when she was a little girl and had growing pains too.  Dad disappears and then returns with a pile of books for me to look at.  Comforted, I’m asleep in minutes.

Years fly by and mom sits beside me.  I nervously pick at my hospital gown while the doctor inserts an IV and begins to feed the anesthetic into my veins.  When I wake up, she’s still there and takes me home – home to mom and dad’s house.  I haven’t lived there in years, but it will always be home because that’s where my parents are.

Three days go by in varying stages of discomfort.  They cater to me because my sinuses are packed with stints, tubes and gauze.  As bedtime approaches on the third day, nausea sweeps over me.  I close my eyes and concentrate on not throwing up.  I can take none of the normal preventative measures (breathe through your nose and put your head down) because my nose is swollen and literally stuffed full of synthetic materials.  I gulp air like a fish through my mouth and pray it won’t happen, but it does.  I feel like I’m suffocating and panic sweeps over me.

Afterwards I stand in the bathroom doorway with tears in my eyes.  They look at me sympathetically and cover me with blankets when I lie down on the couch.  “I’ll sit up with her,” dad tells mom.  “She shouldn’t be left alone.”

Lying so still, praying I won’t be sick again, I look at my dad in a recliner across the room.  The hours tick by as slowly the churning subsides.  You’re a very lucky girl, I tell myself.  Memorize this moment!  I close my eyes and try to block out the swimming stomach and concentrate on the image of my dad.  74 years old, and he sits up with me on the eve of my 42nd birthday because I am and always will be his little girl.

On Father’s Day the church bulletin will likely feature a picture of a man in a row boat with a young boy.  They have caught a huge fish and with wild smiles are reeling it into the boat.  On Mother’s Day a woman in a beautiful gown pushes her daughter on a wooden swing in the middle of a garden of lovely flowers.

These are the romance novels of parenting – not that these experiences don’t exist, but they are the one in a thousand moments mixed in with the mundane, the exhausting, and the weary times of parenting.  Show me a dad in the middle of the night holding his daughter’s hair back while she throws up; show me a mom with an umbrella and gloves on the edge of a soccer field in a soaking rain; show me a parent, tired from a long day of work, pouring over homework with their children, and I’ll know you’ve found a real parent.   I suppose it isn’t very glamorous, but good parents, those really extraordinary ones aren’t so full of glitz and glam.  Instead they have grit and determination; and maybe they don’t always say what you want to hear; but they try; and you never doubt their love for you because they sit with you when you are at your lowest.

 Every kid should be so lucky as to have parents like mine.

Socks Should Match

June 6, 2012

Berkeley – who thinks matching your socks to your outfit does matter.

“Honey, forgot black socks.”  Berkeley was standing in the hallway staring through the bathroom door at me while I brushed my teeth.

“Hmm?” I questioned him with a raised eyebrow and a mouth full of paste. I spit in the sink and restated. “What’s wrong sweetie? You forgot to pack dress socks?”

“Yes!” he answered, real distress in his voice. Berkeley, my 33 year old brother with Down Syndrome, is kind of a fashion bug. He’d spent the night at my house, and we were about to leave for church.

“Are you wearing any socks?” I questioned. Fearing he might have stuck bare feet directly into his cowboy boots, I could almost feel the blisters growing.

“Yes,” his voice short and taut as he pulled a boot off and a pant leg up to reveal a white sports sock. “Not right color,” he told me.

“Oh, it’s ok honey. Your boot will cover it up. Nobody will know, and you can wear black socks next week.”

He looked doubtful; but since I don’t keep a drawer full of men’s socks, he was stuck wearing the wrong color.

I knew those “not right color” socks would bug him all the way through church; and although not another soul would know, he’d be changing them THE moment he got home.

Later, about 30 seconds after I stopped by my parents house to drop Berkeley off, I heard his dresser drawer open.  Yep, he was changing those socks, and a thought occurred to me, Wouldn’t it be nice if we treated sin in our lives like Berkeley and his white socks inside cowboy boots? Even when invisible to others, sin should bug and nag at our insides until we can’t wait to get rid of it.

“This being so, I myself always strive to have a conscience without offense toward God and men.” Acts 24:16