the clothing wars

Fresh from the shower on an 80-degree day that feels thick with the promise of Summer, Adam spins–literally–into the kitchen wearing flannel pajama pants–buffalo check–and a salt-washed long-sleeved t-shirt as blue as his eyes. I wonder how he doesn’t instantly feel that sticky prickle of after-shower sweat at the base of the neck and the peak of the forehead, how his cheeks stay unflushed. I touch his face and throat lightly with the back of my hands, baffled because he feels as cool as a breeze. Of course, I’m cooking and the kitchen feels oven-warm, simmering saucy, and on a day like today, I’ve little perspective on the temperature. Even on a crisp day, I’d have already shed my long sleeves and my socks. But Adam has notorious reluctance when it comes to changing seasons; it takes every day of Fall and sometimes half the winter for us to convince him that long sleeves and jackets and socks would really be more comfortable. It will take us all of Spring and half of Summer to get him to wear a pair of shorts. I will waver between “not a battle worth fighting,” and “don’t be ridiculous, son,” and every time I suggest that he wear something different, we’ll have a mostly one-sided argument with me listing–because I know he understands–the reasons his clothing isn’t seasonally appropriate, and him politely telling me “no, thank you,” and, when I won’t relent, trying to negotiate around wearing his Winter-wear “later,” meaning when he gets home from school or after his shower.

This morning I thought of Adam and his reluctance about changing his clothes when I read Paul’s encouragement for the Colossian church. Put on the new self, Paul urged. As God’s chosen, holy, dearly loved people, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, gentleness, humility, and patience (Colossians 3:10,12, paraphrased). So much of sanctification, which is a big word that just covers the spiritual process by which God draws us closer, allows us to know more of Him, and makes us like Himself, comes down, at least metaphorically, to a change in wardrobe. God changes our clothes, like he does Joshua’s in Zechariah’s prophetic vision (Zechariah 3:3,4), taking away our filthy-ragged righteousness (Isaiah 64:6) and dressing us in Christ (Galatians 3:27). Jesus warns the people to wear the right garments to the wedding feast and tells just-raised Lazarus to take off his grave clothes, and so also the New Testament writers keep trying to teach us how to dress appropriately for the new life we have. And like my Adam, it takes us a while to understand this and a while longer to leave comfort behind and follow through.

Always working toward independence and maturity, I once made Adam a chart using Boardmaker, which is picture communication software most Autism parents use as readily as baby food and diapers, hoping this would make it easier for Adam to determine what to wear. What’s the weather? the chart asked, in that perky way such questions appear on Sesame Street, and below it I had included picture-symbols for all of the conditions I could imagine. I had paired each weather picture with a picture of appropriate clothing items. I included temperature notations and showed the kids how to look online for the forecast. But of course, since my Autistic children are complete opposites, this strategy backfired. Riley became dogmatic about the chart and made a verbal and physical ritual out of checking the weather and selecting her clothing, and on cloudy Spring days when technically warmer temps actually felt chilly, she showed no intuition of inclination to depart from the directives of my chart, even when goosebumps rose on her bare arms. Adam ignored the chart completely in favor of the same thing he’d finally gotten comfortable wearing. In other words, he chose an entirely different expression of rigidness. My own children taught me that legalism and traditionalism are not the same thing.

Admittedly, in the early days of the clothing wars, some of this diligent effort on my part arose from a desire to avoid the perception that I must be a neglectful parent, since my son never seemed to wear anything on his arms when the weather turned cold, and on the thick, buzzing days just before school adjourned for the summer, he sweated through recess in jeans and a jacket. In addition to these obvious eccentricities, one of the darker comedies of Autism is that it often hides quietly behind handsome, seemingly typical faces. I had friends who always wore snarky Autism t-shirts in public places after having to explain Autistic tantrums one-too-many-times in grocery stores and restaurants, while other people murmured softly about parents who “can’t control their kids.” I ordered a few of these t-shirts–some of the less snarky ones–for Adam.

I wonder if sometimes, when we fall apart or ridiculously dress again in our old-self ways, God wants to point a majestic, parental finger toward the loud truth that yes, we’re spiritually-challenged, and yes, He’s still proud of us. But I know that unlike me, God feels no need to prove himself.

Way back then, Riley, who tossed aside every ounce of polish I tried to apply to our lives, eventually taught me to receive grace and season life with a little more humor. One morning, so preoccupied was I with Adam’s wardrobe challenges that I rushed the kids out the door and into the minivan without noticing that Riley had chosen a pair of plastic Barbie shoes, complete with faux fur and rhinestones and short, baby heels, to complement her shorts and t-shirt. She clomped out of the car and headed into the building, and the assistant principal, who happened to be supervising carpool that morning, tapped on my window, leaning in to mention that Riley was wearing “her special shoes” today, and could I please bring some more appropriate ones? I remember that the assistant principal’s eyes sparkled, that she smiled wide with grace. So over time, I developed a shrug and a smile of my own and learned to admit that whatever ducks I have are actually running away from me in opposite directions. While I taught my kids what to wear, they taught me to be real. While God teaches us what to wear, the world begins to see that He’s real, that He loves real people. Sometimes I remember what that assistant principal said that day and it reminds me to handle “wardrobe malfunctions” with a bit more grace. Oh, she’s wearing “her special shoes” today, and God, who always was the only perfect parent, is really the only one who can save the day with better clothes from home.

And what of Adam now, twirling forwards and backwards through the hot kitchen in his flannels?

Well, like I said, it’s going to take a while for him to come around.