July 2018 – JasonHague.com: Faith * Fatherhood * Autism

Last month, I had one of those ugly self-revelations that was so obvious, I couldn’t believe I had never seen it before. It happened when I helping my wife with her duties as children’s pastor. I was running around playing keep-away with a gaggle of grade school boys and a nerf football (because I didn’t own a real one). There were fumbles and recoveries and overthrows and tackles that weren’t quite tackles (because I told them not to tackle, but they are boys, you see, and they can’t always help it). And there was so much laughter, it was clear they they were enjoying our game almost as much as I was.

Then, my own six year old son grabbed the ball, flashed his trademark grin, and took off running. And when he did, the revelation began, “man, Nathan’s pretty fast for his age.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked at my shaggy nine year old, Sam, and I saw he was fighting and clawing for the ball, hair flying in all directions. And that’s when the ugly truth hit me like a head-hunting free safety: all of this felt way too strange and novel.

That’s because I never play football with my sons. Ever.

I know, I know, who cares, right? Dads do all sorts of things with their sons. But see, this is different for me. Sam and Nathan are the youngest brothers. Their big brother Jack has severe autism, and when he first came along, I had all these giddy dad dreams about what our life together would be like. At the center of those dreams was sports. Football in particular. I grew up playing football every day with my brothers, and watching the Cowboys rise to greatness in the 1990’s. I was okay with the fact that my daughters didn’t care for sports, but I wanted to share that part of our family culture with my son.

Like all dads in my position, however, I had to let go of all that. I had to throw out the blueprints, because autism has ideas all its own. For years, I floundered, trying to adjust my expectations and figure out how to be a dad to my son. I wore sorrow like a cape in that season.

But eventually I came out of my malaise, thanks be to God, and I figured out how to love my boy in his own way. We don’t play football together, but we do go on scooter rides, run movie lines, throw dance parties (sort of), and play tag in the office. We even make movies and put them on the internet. We have a great thing going, Jack and I.

And now you see it, though, don’t you? Jack’s little brothers. What about them?

Here they are, all rough and tumble and hungry for roughhousing time with dad, so… why hadn’t we play sports together? How had I not realized Nathan was fast? How did we not own a football? Could we not be moved to establishing a regular schedule of sports despite all the sports broadcast on live TV we’ve been getting entertained with?

I’ve been circling these questions for the past month, and I still don’t understand them. Maybe I’ve been scared of betraying Jack–as if the bond of sports would inevitably bring the younger boys closer to me than he is. If I can’t share that connection with Jack, is it even fair that I would share it with his little brothers?

Forgive me if I sound a little melodramatic. I honestly don’t know my own heart, here. But this much is clear: my long chapter of sorrow, though it’s mostly closed now, still carries repercussions, especially for my sons. And it’s utterly unfair to them.

Despair is an equal opportunity thief, stealing joy not only from the one who is struggling, but from all those around him as well.

At first, when heartache strikes, there is almost no avoiding the pain. If you try to mute the sadness and pretend it’s not affecting you–if you grit your teeth and paint on a smile–you will end up muting all the good stuff too. It won’t help. You have to be honest about it. You have to deal with it. You have to be sad for a while. I don’t know if you can avoid that.

Indeed, we will always carry some sadness with us. But sorrow makes for a poor destination. It is supposed to be a wayside stop. A hostel, even. I stayed there for far too long. My wife paid the price for that already. Jack and my daughters did, too. Now, I find my younger sons might feel it.

I’ve been working to undo the damage since I recognized it. I’ve been intentional about spending more time with them. More FUN time. We’ve gone swimming and done laser tag, played monopoly and watched movies. And yes, we’ve played football, too. Finally. I bought a nice football. And we’re all loving it. Sam is learning to throw a good spiral, and Nathan does this hilarious thing where he points his left arm out straight before he throws the ball. “I’m aiming!” he said, as if he’s shooting a bee-bee gun. We’ve got some work to do, but boy, he makes us laugh.

Then, one morning, Sam and I went hiking by ourselves up through the foothills of the Cascade mountains. We walked four miles up and down a fantastic ridge (the same one we filmed the Aching Joy promo). We talked and laughed and took pictures and found a cool cave–which boys love above all things–and I kept thinking about all I’ve been missing.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” I told him just before we got back to our car. “I should have been doing this kind of thing with you a long time ago.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “You’re doing that kind of thing right now!”

I laughed, and swallowed back a tear, because my son is wiser than me. He understands the simple requirements of repentance. To repent of wallowing, we simply stop wallowing. We ask forgiveness and start again, this time in the other direction. But if we load ourselves up with unwieldy regrets–if we insist on crawling the steps of shame flight after flight–we will continue to miss all the moments we’ve regretted missing. And what a bitter irony that would be.

Was my season of sorrow inevitable? Probably. Did I stay too long? Absolutely. But even that mistake, however tragic, was not fatal. We live in a world where new forests grow after the fires come. Redemption lives here. That means there are still fly patterns to run and hills to tromp and jackpots waiting for us to land on Free Parking. Fresh joy with every sunrise.

What about you? Are you still sleeping in cheap motels of stale regret? I get it. Believe me, I do. But that place is not your home. The sun is coming up, and “His mercies are new every morning.”

It’s time to move out. It’s time begin again.

This summer marks six years since I fired up this little blog. I only did it because I wanted to build a platform for fiction. Yes, fiction. I am a storyteller at heart, and my plan was to start posting short stories, then move toward novels.

But soon, two unexpected things happened. First, I wrote a personal post about Jack, my autistic son, and discovered it felt good to do so. I have a high regard for journaling, and I like to tell other people they should journal, but for some reason, I never really did it. Ever since that first post, though, blogging become like my own public journal—a way for me to process my own thoughts and feelings about my son, and what it meant to be his dad.

The second surprise was this: people actually read those posts. They cared. At first, it was mostly just friends and family who wanted to understand what Sara and I were going through. But over time, more readers came, shared, and commented.

Soon enough, however, I grew tired of the controversies in and around the autism community. I wanted to tell my story, but I didn’t want to take sides in the squabbles over terminology, vaccines theories, or whether or not autism was a blessing in disguise, etc. I already had enough drama in my life, thank you very much, and I didn’t want more.

So I quit.
Then I un-quit.
Then I quit again.
“I don’t want to write about autism anymore,” I’d say.
“Okay, I guess I’ll do one more.” 

That went on until 2016, when my wife told me to open up my eyes and acknowledge that there was something valuable in our story. People were drawing strength from these posts. “God is in this,” she insisted.

So I listened to her, and two months later, I released a video called “A Reflection of Aching Joy.” I didn’t write that poem for the masses. It was for my boy. I wanted to express how I felt about him. But the masses saw it anyway. Tens of thousands of shares and three million views later, one sentiment rose above the rest: the video was sad, but it was hopeful, too. It was painful, but it was somehow joyful at the same time. It was raw, but it was also optimistic.

That bitter-sweet seed grew into the backbone of the book I never intended to write but am about to release. It’s called Aching Joy: Following God through the Land of Unanswered Prayer. This is not a book about autism, but about the co-mingling of pain and beauty. Those themes, I’ve found, are universal. We all experience hardship. We all feel the tug of despair now and again. But we also experience grace in the middle of it all.

Thankfully, I’ve learned a few things on my journey. I’ve found some treasures in my darkness, and I want to pass them along to you. Your situation is different than mine. You might be dealing with loss, sickness, or rejection. Wherever you are in that journey, I think this book can speak to you. I really do.

So, with all of this in mind, I’m opening up the Aching Joy Launch Team. I’m looking for people who are excited both about the message of the book, and about getting it into the hands of the public. I’m looking for people who want to read the book before it releases on October 2 (launch team members will get a free digital copy), and share some great online conversation in a closed Facebook group with me, my wife, and with other readers. This group isn’t just for autism parents; it’s for you, whatever you’re going through. We are in this together. We’ll process our thoughts with one another while we are reading. We’ll encourage each other on our own journeys. And then, we’ll spread the word to the rest of the world.

If that’s you, I’d like to invite you to click the link below, get the details, and apply to join this little community of pilgrims. Together, we will find joy in the midst of our aching.

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UPDATE 10/15/2018: The launch team was a great success. Thank you for those who jumped on board! Of course, since the book has released, the team is closed.