The Joy of Openly-displayed Knives

This time last year, I was bemoaning my broken house. I lived on subfloor, my washer had died, the guest bathroom leaked, and I hadn't had hot water in three months. None of that is true now. How that happened is another story, but my house is no longer broken.

Elizabeth has been mostly stable, and she has not been hospitalized in over four years. She graduated with a diploma and a graduation party, which was far more important to her than the diploma. She comes home every Saturday and goes back to her AFL home on Sunday. She has full days of volunteering, she takes a hip-hop class, and she works her paying job on Sunday mornings.

One of the gifts of her stability is that I have revived my hobby of plant parenthood. Now I get to see them as plants and no longer as projectiles. Occasionally a pot gets broken, but that's usually the fault of the cats and not the kid. I love leaves as others love birds; each one seems so different and miraculous in their variegation and texture.

But the big news is that I got a knife rack. It's magnetic and I have it on the side of the refrigerator, with all my knives openly displayed. The knives aren't the sharpest, but I no longer have to go through the drawers to find one. They are there right out in the open.

This may not seem like a big thing to you, but it is to me. When you have a child hospitalized for mental illness and they are sending you home without help or hope, the thing that they always tell you is to be sure to lock up the knives. I dutifully did that because it was something to do, even though it wasn't really what was needed.

I am inordinately proud of my knife rack. And I know, as you do, that it's not really about the knife rack. But it's a gift of grace, nonetheless, and I think I'll go look at it again.

Semper Fi

Thomas Edwin McDonough was born April 2, 1931, to Thomas E. McDonough Sr. and Ophelia Jakes McDonough in Richmond, Kentucky. At a young age, his family moved to Decatur, Georgia, for his father’s job as Physical Education department head at Emory University. Tom graduated from North Druid Hills High School, where he was named most flirtatious. During that time he was active in Boy Scouts and attained Eagle Scout. He was a rockstar swimmer for the Atlanta Swim Association, setting numerous records. He attended Emory, where he was a member of Sigma Nu fraternity and where he met his future wife, a young nursing student and crack pool player. Tom swam the breaststroke and relays for Emory and in the HavAtlanta games, an annual event between athletes of Atlanta and Havana, Cuba. He earned both his BA and his MA from Emory. He married Claire Tompkins in 1953, and their first child arrived a year later.

He joined the Marine Corps and was stationed at Camp LeJeune in North Carolina, reaching the rank of 1st Lieutenant. While his active duty time was short, his Marine Corps training and service was one of the defining periods of his life and started his transformation into a pacifist. In 1958, following the birth of his second child, Tom and his family moved to Englewood, Florida, where he was a teacher and then principal of Englewood Elementary; among other accomplishments there, he started a special ed class of sorts, that served those who were experiencing failure in school. He drove around town in his blue Austen-Healy Sprite with a Playboy sticker on the window and all four kids in the passenger seat. He took his children to spend nights at an often-vandalized construction site for an African-American family who was trying to build a home. Claire’s and Tom’s house was open to all who needed it and their hospitality was often accepted. He was also principal of Gulf Gate Elementary, Venice High, and Nokomis Elementary. He was a co-founder of Ekistia, a private school in Osprey, Florida. He and Claire made legendary annual Easter camping trips to Marathon in the Florida Keys, with their kids and dozens of their kids’ friends.

In 1975, the McDonoughs moved to Boone, North Carolina, where he worked for Upward Bound. He returned to school for his degree in X-ray technology, and then moved with Claire to Georgia where he taught X-ray at Griffin Tech. They moved back to Boone upon retirement, at which point he worked for Mast Store. The Episcopal Church, especially Holy Cross in Valle Crucis, was important to him. He served on the Executive Committee of the Diocese of Western NC, and was five times Senior Warden of various churches, twice at Holy Cross. There were many organizations whose work he supported: The Lung Association, North Carolina International Dyslexia Association, Oasis, the NAACP.

But through and through he was a Marine, and that permeated all he did. Although he never saw combat, he was a patriot who believed in defending his country by standing up for justice and peace. He talked often about the comfort that came from knowing that the Marines never left a man behind. And in his life, he constantly worked to make sure none WERE left behind. Whether it was a child at school or in Upward Bound, a foster child or just one of the many runaways that were dropped off by police at the McDonough house, those with learning disabilities, the hungry, or those who had suffered domestic abuse, he was an advocate and a spokesperson for the lost and forgotten. He went with Witness for Peace to Nicaragua. In 2014, he was arrested at the NCGA Legislative Building for standing up for voting rights and education. He wore a Marine Corps cap, and as he was led away in handcuffs, he could hear police officers whispering as he passed, “Semper Fi.”

In later years, much of his advocacy centered around those Marines and their families who were vulnerable to several ailments due to water poisoning at Camp LeJeune from 1953 to 1985. His son Scott, who was in utero at the time of Tom’s service, developed Multiple Myeloma, one of the diseases caused by chemicals dumped into groundwater. Both Tom and Scott became advocates, attending meetings and conferences designed to educate and gain services for those affected. Recently Tom was diagnosed with both Myleodysplasic Syndrome and Non-Hodgkins lymphoma, both Camp LeJeune-caused diseases. He decided to fight the illnesses because he did not want to leave his son and wife behind to fight for this cause on their own. Ultimately the diseases proved too much for him and he died peacefully at Watauga Medical Center on June 9, 2017, with his beloved family by his side.

He is survived by his wife of 63 years, Claire Tompkins McDonough; his four children Linda Ree, Scott, Randy (Andrea), and Leslie (Scott Sharpe); his grandchildren Brett (Meredith), Lindsay, Tom (Allison), Molly (Garrett), Josh, and Brianna; his brother Robert (Lisa); and his dog Ginger. His funeral service will be at Holy Cross Episcopal Church in Valle Crucis, Saturday, June 17, at 11:00 am. Memorials may go to Holy Cross or the Hunger Coalition (https://www.hungerandhealthcoalition.com).

Semper Fi, Dad.

stuffed bears in a bar

The summer of my British Isles trip, I took a train as far north as I could, and then took a boat to the Orkney Islands. I arrived on the summer solstice, which meant there was only about two hours of darkness each night. There were midnight golf tournaments and concerts and day trips to Skara Brae. I settled in at Mrs. Brown's Youth Hostel and prepared to take advantage of all of them.

I arrived late at night, too late to meet any of my fellow hostelers. When morning came, I made my way down to the communal kitchen and prepared to cook my breakfast. Two burly and bitter men from Glasgow were there at the stove frying eggs, bread, and tomatoes. They were on a work program where they paid 25 pounds and were sent to some out-of-the way part of Great Britain to work on building bridges or foot paths. They weren't paid but their expenses were covered and they felt it was better than sitting at home on the dole. One explained that they were red brick university grads, which apparently prepared them to do not much of anything.

While we were talking, another of their group came in the kitchen and sat down at the table. He began arranging various stuffed animals and a blow-up penguin in the surrounding chairs. The Glasgow guys got very still and watched me out of the corner of their eyes. The young man introduced himself to me as Ian and introduced the animals as well. I'm southern and I know how to be polite even under the most unusual of circumstances, but I have to say, my skills were tested as I passed the marmalade as each bear requested it in turn, translated by Ian. My rearing prevailed though and I could see the Glasgow guys relaxing, only to stiffen anew each time a new guest walked in.

Ian explained he had also gone to a red brick university, graduating with a degree in biochemistry. There were no jobs though, so he and his bears and the blow-up penguin traveled England and Scotland working on different manual labor jobs. "They like seeing a bit of the country," he explained. I asked how many traveled with him, and he thought it was about twenty this trip. "I try to take different ones each time. I don't need clothes; I just fill my rucksack with them."

After he left the kitchen, one of the Glaswegians lingered for a moment. "Thanks for not laughing at Ian," he said. "He's okay. Those damn bears though . . . "

While we went our separate ways during the days, we came back together during the long light evenings, when we compared lives and played cards. The other guests came to accept the stuffed animals as well, and the bears in particular were often dealt a hand too. One evening the suggestion was made to go to the pub; we got our things and prepared to leave. But Ian was dithering. Which animals should go? Even the Glasgow boys were shuffling their feet in frustration as the time ticked away. Finally I asked which animals were old enough to drink. Ian brightened. Only four of them were and he could carry them easily.

The whole hostel, all eight of us and the four stuffed animals, settled in at a booth and ordered pints all around. We were a varied lot: two Americans, one from Korea, one from Germany, one from France, and three from Glasgow. The Korean and the German spoke no English; the Glaswegians and the Americans doubted what the other spoke counted as English. The French kid spoke it badly. Conversation was difficult, but as the night went on and more pints were ordered, our attention turned to Ian's animals and what they said in various languages. We roared and ribbeted and meowed and barked in our respective tongues until we were howling with laughter. We staggered back to the hostel about 2:00 am, just as the sun was setting.

I was leaving the next day and I had become very fond of Ian and his animals. I asked if I could take a picture of him. "May my animals be in it?" he asked. "I'll only get my very favorites." He posed for me and when I was through snapping the shot, he asked he could give me a bear. "He's not one of my best, but I'd like you to have him." I was touched and accepted him, the white one on the far left. He traveled the rest of my trip in my backpack and sat on a bookshelf for several years after that until my dog got him and chewed his eyes off. I grieved his demise.

I didn't know much about autism then and even less about Aspergers. It was several years later before I realized that Ian was most likely my first meaningful experience with someone on the spectrum. That was a gift; when autism entered my life in a bigger way, the learning curve was shorter because I already understood that those on the spectrum could go to college and be independent and be social. I wonder sometimes what happened to him; he'd be middle-aged now and his animals not much younger. Perhaps he has new ones. Perhaps he tired of them, although that makes me a little sad to think about. Wherever he is, I hope he has meaningful work, protectors surrounding him, and friends that accept him, his stuffed animals, and should he still be around, the blow-up penguin.

Homemaking

When I first bought my little condo, I had a five month old baby and big plans. Friends helped me paint before I moved in. I was so happy to have a place of my own, and I painted other rooms, took down wallpaper, and furnished it almost entirely from thrift stores. Baby number two came along, but I still had an interest in keeping up with things. I loved entertaining and one of my favorite events of the year was our annual St. Clare's celebration in honor of Claire's name saint.

As Elizabeth's mental illness became more obvious and more acute, there was less time and energy to devote to homemaking. Still, friends helped me paint and lay new flooring. One summer, I sent the girls to my parents, and an amazing number of friends participated in doing a room makeover for them. Someone sewed pillows, someone else made a valance, people painted walls and ceilings, and several helped with new flooring. There was new art and new bunkbeds, with new comforters and sheets. When I'd put Claire to bed at night, she'd look around and ask me to remind her who did what. It was community at its best, and their room was a happy and safe place, at least for a bit.

But a home doesn't remain happy and safe when a family member has mental illness, especially one that causes such violence. It's one of the most isolating things about mental illness. The toll it takes on family members is mirrored by the toll it takes on the house, and I stopped inviting people over out of embarrassment and shame. Elizabeth threw furniture and ripped doors out of their frames. Anything could become a weapon and often was. During her rages she pulled books off the shelves, emptied boxes of papers, threw plants, and pushed over bookshelves. I gave up having houseplants, always a source of enjoyment for me. When the water heater started leaking, I had neither time nor money to deal with it and so I ignored it. A rug covered the buckling and peeling laminate. The broken house seemed to be a fitting metaphor for our broken family.

It's been a good year. Elizabeth has spent the last sixteen months stable and productive. It's been a long time since we've had an entire year with no hospitalizations and no police calls. She lives in an alternative family living home, with a kind couple and two other developmentally disabled children, but she comes home almost every weekend. Elizabeth does well in school, so well that school staff look puzzled when I talk about her past difficulties. She turned 18 this year and I've applied for guardianship so I can manage her finances, talk to her doctors, and help keep this vulnerable young woman safe. We go before the clerk of court next week.

Claire is doing well. She is getting married in March and her fiancé meets with my unqualified approval. She continues to teach at JRA. I enjoy the many facets that our relationship holds, and I love that she lives just down the street.

This has been a good year for me too, one in which I've been able to address and correct many of my own health issues. I've resumed walking and light weight-lifting. I've improved my diet and cut out the sugar. I feel the best I've felt in years.

I'm not sure it's a politically correct thing to say, but I like the empty nest. As much as I love my girls, I love that they have their own lives that make them happy. I love that my house is once again my own. This year I decided to make my house a more accurate metaphor for my calmer life. I started by hiring a handyman to rip out and replace the damaged flooring in the hall. He and his sons began working as I read in the kitchen. I couldn't understand the words, but I began to sense that there was a problem. Finally the one who spoke the best English came apologetically to explain. The problem wasn't just with the flooring. It was with the supporting beams. In the words of a friend, it was house cancer.

He covered it up with plywood and left, refusing to charge me for anything but the wood. I talked to the contractor who does our work at school and he fit me into his schedule, replacing the rotted beams. He charged me far less than the market rate, but it still was expensive and there was nothing left for the flooring. But I no longer worry about falling through the hall floor, and he repaired the guest bathroom plumbing while he was there.

2017's big project will be a new heat pump. The floor will need to wait a bit longer. In the meantime I'm working on smaller projects. The school contractor has made me a great offer to tile the guest bathroom floor. I have items to repair: a lamp, a drawer, the washer, some furniture. I'm going to paint all the rooms. And I've attacked the clutter with a vengeance. So far this week alone I've taken three loads to the thrift store and gone through a whole box of trash bags. There is NOTHING under my bed, except a cat exploring this unfamiliar territory. And I'm slowly bringing the houseplants back.

It's a source of joy, this reclaiming of my life and my house, all the better because it's so unexpected. I thought my life would always reflect the chaos of mental illness, and the peace of healthy children and a calm home is such a gift. I don't mind that the house reclaiming is a slow process; I enjoy the puttering and planning. I hope 2017 will be the year I allow people to visit my home, at least the ones who don't mind a plywood floor. It feels safe and happy here once again.

Triduum

Maundy Thursday: The first service of the Triduum begins. As always, we begin in the remembered light of Palm Sunday, proceed to washing feet, continue in darkness as the altar is stripped, and end in silence. As a three year old, Claire dissolved into tears as the service ended: "Why is our church so sad!?" It's a service that invites introspection tinged by grief and it does again tonight.

Tonight I sit by myself, my children absent, which makes it a little more melancholy. Many of those I raised babies with are similarly alone or with spouses only. My friend Leslie, also without her kids tonight, washes my feet and I hers; she hauls me up from where I kneel because it's harder now I'm older. I feel no shame about this in front of her, as she's seen me at my worst and this is hardly it. We have logged many years together; she was one of the first people who greeted me when I visited Holy Family for the first time in 1989. She was the first one I showed my positive pregnancy test to. She called me when I was in labor, asking, "Have you not had that baby YET?!" I was a witness when she was married in front of the justice of the peace. I went to her mother's funeral. She's hosted birthday parties for me and is Claire's godmother. I have no doubt there will come a time when we compare adult diaper brands. This friendship is repeated many times, mine and others, as I look around the nave.

Tonight, as the altar is stripped, we sing the Taizé hymn "Stay with me," a meditation on Jesus's plea for the disciples to keep him company during that dark night. They failed miserably. I must say that we do better than they did. I look around the room and realize how many people there stayed with me through the years of Elizabeth's mental illness, how many of us stayed with Ed's family as he died and after, how many divorces, deaths, remarriages, kids' drug problems, spouses' and kids' illnesses, job losses, and moments of despair are represented in that room. Our friends and former parishioners Laura and Thomas and their kids came from Miami to be with us for Holy Week, still reeling from Thomas's recent cancer diagnosis, all of us knowing this is where they need to be. Staying is the ultimate act of love when things are hard.

As the service ended, the young woman in front of me fainted. It was hot and she hadn't eaten much. The nearest medical professional came and attended. I stayed because she is my friend's daughter and because I have known and loved her from birth. As I looked around the nave, I realized most people had stayed to make sure she was okay, even those who did not know her. That's what we do.

Good Friday: I was working so I could not go to the noonday service, but that evening, Lisa and Jim host a party for Laura and Thomas. Yes, it's Good Friday and there is some concern about the impropriety of a party on that solemn day. I am surprised at my lack of consternation as I tend towards the pietistical in my celebration of liturgical seasons. Part of my rigidity comes from working with the children at church for so many years; when teaching young ones, all you have is symbol and so we DID NOT sing Christmas carols during Advent and we DID NOT have Easter egg hunts during Lent and Good Friday IS a solemn and fasting day. But in examining this feeling, I have a clear vision of Jesus turning the water into wine (and scotch and Fullsteam beer, because Jesus doesn't truck with the bad stuff) and commanding us to love this family with every ounce of our being. And so we do and it turns out to be my most theologically meaningful Good Friday ever.

Such a party! Small children running through groups of adults, screeching in excitement, whacking each other with badminton rackets, trying to help themselves to the keg, playing with dry ice and glow sticks, muddy, wet messes, giddy with the joy of being together. There were so many years it was my children at that house doing those same things, but now I get to look on indulgently, although I do redirect the four year old from the keg to the lemonade. Fish tacos and vats of guacamole, homemade salsa, ice cream sundaes with the Rays' special caramel sauce. At the end of the night we pen messages of love and hope for Thomas and send them into the air on mini-hot air balloons. We gather for a picture that he can take back to Miami with him, a sacramental reminder that we will stay with you.

As the evening progresses, Thomas and his friend pull out instruments and the singing begins. At first it's just them, but others join them and, after a glass of scotch, I do as well. We sing as if Thomas's life depends on it, and maybe it does. I found myself wondering how cancer could stand a chance in the face of such music and such love. And the truth is, it doesn't. We all die, and sometimes we die earlier or more tragically than we hoped for. But on this night, this Good Friday, we stand here flinging joy and love like weapons at death, knowing we'll ultimately win. Thomas is His and ours, and death cannot take him from us, even though he may die sooner than we'd like.

Easter Vigil: Tonight I have both of my girls and because none of her little kids are there, Elizabeth actually sits with me. Five years ago I sat in this same pew at this same service and cried much of the night; she sat in a hospital psych unit and there was no hope. None. It got to where there was just no point in it. But life is funny and surprising even in its predicability; spring does come. It finally stops raining. People are healed. There is resurrection, not just in the empty tomb sense, but in things made new and transformation and grace that pushes its way in when it's least expected. Elizabeth and Claire decide to get dressed for church together tonight, and Claire helps Elizabeth apply makeup. They text me pictures to see if I approve. That would be a small thing for most families but that few moments of sibling time together along with the fact that we are spending five days as a family without calling the police is a miracle. Resurrection, y'all!

Tonight we begin in the dark with candles and the readings of salvation history, singing a song paired with the reading after each. After the first, particularly lovely song, a small child shouts, "Yay!" We chuckle in approval, feeling the joy trickling back in, there in the dark, not even able to wait for the Easter shout. We baptize the small shouter; we confirm several others. We shake our keys and hug one another. It's so familiar and as always, so new.

From light to dark and back out to light again because that's the way life is. These three days offer me both solace and strength, allow myself fortification for whatever lies ahead, knowing whatever comes, these people will stay with me, believing in resurrection along with me.

Presence, joy, resurrection. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia! Alleluia!

gasping for light

It's been a pretty good year for the McDonough family. Elizabeth has enjoyed a level of success that she has not known since she was a toddler. Claire has recovered from a scary concussion and continues to be an outstanding teacher. I'm healthy and content. My family of origin thrives and likes each other. My job is one where my passion, joy, and need intersect, and we do good work.

Despite that, I don't rejoice. The world seems dark and scary, and I am not alone in feeling this. It's no coincidence that at this time of year we yearn for the solstice, which ushers in lengthening days. We rejoice in the coinciding of the full moon and Christmas, two great lights breaking into the darkness. We decorate our homes with twinkling lights and candles. The people who walk in darkness have always looked for a great light.

I can't not watch the news because I feel it's important to know what is happening in the world, but so much seems focused on the dark side. People shooting each other. Political snipping and fighting. Terrorists, both domestic and abroad, seem to rule. War. Racism. Hatred. None of this is new, but what does seem particularly strong is the level of hatred among some Americans for those different from us.

This has crystalized in the presidential candidacy of Donald Trump, who spews hatred, racism, and sexism under the guise of making America "great" again, like it's a contest we have to win, no matter the cost. He started out as a joke, a buffoon, a gift to Democrats. But the joke isn't funny anymore. It's not The Donald who's so scary, but the fact that there are so many people who plan to vote for  him. A Republican-leaning friend and I were talking about him at church the other day. "Who supports him?" he asked in disgust. "I don't know anyone that does. Who ARE these people?" Polls show that those who were fading into obscurity—white supremacists and angry white men in particular—feel revitalized and hopeful over a Trump presidency.

I can't not watch. Pretending this level of evil doesn't exist just allows it to continue. This isn't about politics; this is about human decency and compassion. I feel I must name it as evil, fight it, and even mock it, but it's exhausting. Residing in darkness turns us into something that hates the light, a thing with a shriveled soul, like Gollum. Plants that grow without light turn pasty white, and fish trapped in caves for eons evolve into blindness. This darkness is not healthy and it certainly doesn't engender compassion for those who need what we have too much of. Hate has been focused with a vengeance toward those who are refugees from unspeakable violence, who brave horrors we can only imagine in our nightmares in order to get to a place where many revile them.

I find myself feeling like a fish out of water, writhing and flopping and gasping, not for air, but for light.

This Advent and Christmas, just to survive, I determined to spend as much time as I could looking for light and regaining hope. It's there. It's found in unexpected places, and its sometimes gentle and sometimes brash glow illuminates and warms us if we'll let it. I am filled with admiration and hope by Brandon Stanton, who surely deserves the Nobel Peace Prize for his work; he began by photographing New Yorkers and telling their stories on his site, Humans of New York. He branched out into telling the stories of some of the Syrian refugees coming to the United States. In the process, we see them as more human and more like us, and they have been welcomed warmly with financial help as well as empathy and compassion.

The #Iwillprotectyou movement came about when veteran Kerri Peek responded to an American Muslim child's terror that she would be deported after hearing Trump's hateful rhetoric. Veterans and those in the armed forces stepped up to make it clear that Muslims are not the enemy and had nothing to fear from them. Light shone across the country, transmitted by Twitter and Facebook, and a child can once again sleep at night.

The Compassion Collective raised $1 million in three days, with no gift greater than $25. "Light won!" they posted. This money will go to strollers and slings for refugees walking long distances with babies. It provides floodlights to find drowning refugees trying to make it to shore, and blankets and heaters to help them make it through the winter in refugee camps. Glennon Doyle Melton, who describes herself as a recovering everything, has joined her nonprofit Together Rising with other writers to start a Love Revolution. "How do you find your purpose?" she asks. "What breaks your heart? There you go. There's your purpose."

Glimpses of hope: Muslim women protected Christian women on a bus in Kenya from terrorists. Pope Francis. Bloom County. Musicians. Augustine Literacy Project tutors, over 1000 of them now trained, teach low-income children to read. Foster parents. Artists. Teachers. Healers. Dr. Jim Withers roams the streets of Pittsburgh, bringing healthcare to the city's homeless population. Tomás Alvarez, a California social worker, reaches out to traumatized teens of color and provides hip-hop therapy, through his nonprofit Beats Rhymes and Life. Confederate flags came down. Same-sex marriage became legal. The US government is retiring all research chimps. Julie and Steve Bailey turned away from unspeakable evil when their mentally ill son was murdered, turning their broken hearts to the work of founding Josh's Hope, which provides light and job training to mentally ill young adults. It's there. What breaks your heart? That broken place is where the light can enter.

Let's join, we broken-hearted people, to usher in the light this time of darkness. Please use the comments to tell us of other groups and people who are light-bearers. Let's name THEM instead of those who stand on the side of hate and darkness.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.

Grateful

This Thanksgiving was the first in three years that the police weren't involved. This is a big deal for us. Elizabeth was home for two nights. I mostly enjoyed it, but I was still very tense and a little relieved when she went back tonight. I've gotten pretty good at the police thing, but normal is something I'm still learning.

Elizabeth has spent most of the last two years in the hospital, either UNC, Strategic Behavioral Health, or Central Regional. There was a brief stint when she was in an alternate family living home, but she wasn't ready to go and the foster parents were ill-prepared for her needs; unfortunately, funding issues made it imperative that she be discharged, even if she failed. Which she did, spectacularly. So back she went for another eight months.

I have liked most of her docs at Central Regional. The one during the last stay was a prize, as was the social worker and her psychologist. There is a drug of last resort and the doc felt it was time to try it. It's a high-risk, high-gain drug, dangerous enough that they had to convene a hospital board to approve it, and she has to have weekly blood draws. It's not ideal. But it sure has been a game changer.

She has been out four months, again in an alternate family living home, and there has been no act of aggression. Not one. She follows directions. She is making A's and B's in the occupational program at Wake County's Sanderson High. We are having trouble keeping her IEP accommodations because they have seen no misbehavior. They don't understand why I'm so adamant.

And she's not drugged out, either. The comment I get most about her is, "She's back." Or "There's someone behind the eyes again." Is she perfect? Not at all. But the problems are so different. They are more normal teen things, and we have to remember not to make everything pathological. When I take her back, she often goes to her room and cries. This freaked out her foster parents and me, until we remembered that homesick people do cry sometimes. In the past, she threw things or hit or pulled hair. We are readjusting our idea of normal Elizabeth behavior.

A lot of credit goes to the foster parents. They have three kids in their home, two of whom are nonverbal. Elizabeth loves helping with them. And she loves the fact that there are often four generations in the home, including what may be the world's cutest one-year-old. This is their full-time job. They don't yell. They are problem-solvers. And they tell her daily they love her.

While I'm being grateful, I have to say I'm thankful for where Claire is as well. She lives across the street from me with the boyfriend, whom I'm pretty crazy about, but don't tell him. We have a deal that we call before we drop by, and we've done well living so close. They hosted Thanksgiving dinner this year. It was a veritable feast, with both sets of parents, one grandparent, and all the siblings, good china, place cards, and silver.

Claire teaches for me as well. She swore she never wanted to be a teacher, that she wasn't a teacher. She was wrong. Autism is her thing and she is phenomenal. She is still recovering from a concussion a student gave her earlier in the year, but does well most days. I love working with her.

So there we were Thanksgiving, acting like a normal family. It's going to take some practice to get used to it, but I'm willing to put in the work.

So grateful.