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Posts Tagged ‘faith’

a mile of time

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 16, 2026| 5 Comments »

Jonah will be moving to his new group home in Ballston Spa on Thursday, January 22, 2026. He’s learned and lived at the Anderson Center for Autism since August 16, 2011, which is a total of 5,273 days.

A mile, interestingly enough, is almost the same exact number (5,280) of feet.

And so it’s been a mile of time.

A mile of memories, some of which I relish and some I’d give anything to forget. Mostly I feel so grateful to the Anderson Center for Autism and all the teachers, direct care workers, administrators, therapists, groundskeepers, cafeteria workers, doctors, nurses, med drivers…all of the people who have worked and loved and taught and cared for Jonah for nearly 15 years.

I’m having such a hard time with this move. Intellectually I understand the good of it, the necessity of the process, the change to this new life where he’ll be closer to me and to his dad and, ideally, a more integrated member of his community.

I don’t know what’s happening in me but honestly I simply struggle through the days, picking at my hangnails until my fingers are a shredded mess, breathing shallow, shaking, scared, distracting myself, staving off my feelings, taking long, cold walks in the mornings down the road to feel the air. I have a terrible time falling into sleep, and when I do I have nightmares of police and ambulances and sometimes monsters at the new house, of Jonah in the hospital or a psych ward somewhere, desperate and sobbing, lost in a new world he doesn’t understand. I lurch awake and feel it all just as if I’m him. I lie in the dark and chant Our Fathers and attempt to calm myself with music or audio books or sometimes klonopin. I tell myself it will be okay and other people tell me it will be okay but I just don’t believe it. I wish I could believe it. I hope I will come to believe it. I wish I knew how to calm the fuck down.

I did everything I could think of to make his transition successful – brought him up to visit three times, talked to other parents and OPWDD and the transition team, bought sensory toys, a blanket, new headphones, a weighted stuffed animal, some bongos, a big train decal for his wall, etc. Briana made a social story and a laminated calendar where she and Jonah mark a giant X through his last days there, counting down and talking about his exciting move to a new home.

She’s also putting together a big party for Boo the day before he leaves, so I’ll drive down and be there for that, stay overnight, and pick him up in the morning. She’ll come with us on the ride and to the house, where we can help set up his room and spend a little time before we leave him there. We will leave him there and we will drive away and somehow this will be the way it begins, his future. Dear God please don’t let him cry. Please don’t let him try to follow us out. Please don’t let him be afraid. I have such traumatic memories from the day we brought him to Anderson all those years ago, little Boo in the back seat of the car perceiving something huge, crying Home? Home? as we drive him farther and farther away.

I took Thursday the 22nd and the next day off from both my jobs but I’m so uncertain about how much to be present, how much time to spend with him in the beginning. There’s no guidebook for this, no manual. I don’t want to be overinvolved or smothering, and I don’t want to squash his independence, but all these questions push at me. Will he be able to sleep? Will he poop and smear it everywhere? What if they don’t understand him when he asks for something? What if he weeps in despair? What if they’re not nice to him? What if he attacks the staff, or tries to run off, or smashes a window, or hurts himself?

After all the loss and grief this year, through all of it I couldn’t cry or feel my feelings at all, steel spined and dry eyed at the funerals, but I sure am crying now. The tears rise, and they fall, and my eyes fill again and again, and it’s good in a way to finally have it happen, to have a human reaction to something sad. Is this ridiculous? Am I catastrophizing? I don’t know and I can’t help it so does it even really matter?

Today I took a mental health day because I can’t talk or think or do anything but write this and when I’m done writing this I’ll lay on the couch and watch Little House and try not to think about anything at all.

It will be so good if I can not think about anything at all.

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father david e noone

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on June 22, 2025| 4 Comments »

Father David E. Noone – pronounced “noon,” as in the apex of a day, passed away on June 15 at the age of 83; appropriately, I suppose, on Father’s Day. He was my priest, boss, mentor, and friend. I found out he died a few minutes before driving to another former boss & friend‘s funeral…bizarrely terrible timing.

He wrote his own beautiful obituary, but I had the wisdom not to read it until I was back home again, for I couldn’t have handled it just then.

For several years (my mid-20s to early 30s), I worked as church secretary at St. Francis de Sales Church (now called Christ Our Light) where he was the pastor. When I got the job, I think I was 25; he would have been 52 or 53. It was a parent-child age difference, so it made sense when eventually I came to love him almost as a daughter loves her dad.

We clicked right away. He was kind and curious, interested and interesting. We had the same sense of humor and laughed together a lot, and he managed the office and its workers well. He made me want to do a good job. I took care to deliver his phone messages quickly and always ensured he had Equal for his coffee. I attended weekly (sometimes daily) Mass, admittedly a lot more than if it had been any other priest presiding.

As a priest and a person Father Noone was welcoming, humble, God-loving, and moral. A man of integrity, he spoke thoughtfully and listened with real empathy. Every week he worked hard on insightful homilies, then delivered them with a storyteller’s skill.

I admired his spirituality and his diplomacy – the impressive way he interacted with all manner of people who crossed his path on any given day. Father saw people on the best and the worst days of their lives, but he showed up in a special way for the really hard stuff. Because he was so gifted at helping people through grief, they often called him immediately after a death – sometimes even before the police, coroner, or family members. More than once he was first on the scene, post-suicide. Tragic accident. Fatal heart attack. He never complained about what he witnessed or how it must have affected him, but I think it carved a tender place in his soul that ached sometimes.

He moved through this world like he truly cared about all its inhabitants, as evidenced by everything about him, all the lives he touched through his churches and his work with Friends of Fontaine, Unbound, and more ministries and work I never knew about. Work, probably, nobody ever knew about. He was never one to brag.

Father was one of the only people I ever truly confided in about a lot of things, and I was especially grateful he allowed me to open up raw and painful conversations about Jonah. He married Andy and me and baptized Boo, so he knew our story from its inception and he watched it all fall apart. He did not berate me for despairing, nor encourage me to look on the bright side, nor offer any platitudes. He knew when to be silent and when to speak, what I needed to hear and exactly how to say it.

And when we spoke for the last time about a month ago, it was only after he listened to my problems that he admitted his own. He knew he was probably dying, and he told me so. We both cried and we talked about all kinds of things, and I told him I loved him. “I love you too,” he said. I’m so grateful for that conversation.

I’m so grateful for his presence in my life.

Goodbye, dear Father. I will miss you always.

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