A Ladybird Crossing Your Path Brings Hope

Why "Ladybird Crossing"?

Among my many memories of Grandma’s house, two come to mind most readily . . . one good and one bad. The bad is of a teaspoon of olive oil every night before bedtime. “For your own good,” she would say. But oh my! It did not taste good! The second memory, the pleasant one, is of ladybirds. I remember waking up in the high poster, maple bed with the fluffy, down comforter hearing the sounds of Grandma in the kitchen. There were pots and pans clanging and wood being poked down into the belly of the big, black cook stove upon which Grandma cooked what I thought were burned pancakes. Still in my mind I hear the sharp, hard thud of the heavy metal lid hiding the fire as it slid into its place over the orange flames of the burning wood. Every morning I awoke to the strains of Grandma’s silvery voice. The words of her song floated through the air into my early morning consciousness. "Ladybird, ladybird fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are all gone. All but one and that's little Anne, for she crept under the frying pan. Ladybird, ladybird fly away home,” she sang.

Later in the day my sister and I would play in Grandma’s “messy” gardens. Grandma’s gardens were not the formal, well-tended composition of organized annuals gardens. Grandma’s gardens were the “fall all over” arrangements of unkempt perennial beds, the perfect kind of gardens for little granddaughters to play in on warm, sunny days at Grandma’s house in the rural Idaho countryside. Out came the dull, school scissors and the empty ketchup bottles rinsed clean. Out into the balmy summer air we danced, armed with permission from Grandma to “go cut yourselves a bouquet, little girls.” We lost ourselves in the cornflower blue of bachelor buttons, the bold orange of poppies, the soft lilac and purple hues of phlox, and the white petals and buttery yellow centers of shasta daisies.

We cut and stuffed stiff stems as tightly as we could into our bottles. Although a florist may not have been impressed, I was. And so was Grandma. She and I knew that my sister and I were creators of beautiful bouquets. On most every bouquet-arranging day in Grandma’s gardens, once or twice, a beautiful, small, bright, red bug with tiny black dots would cross my path among the sweet blossoms and green leaves. I knew instinctively that this was not a scary bug; this was a friendly bug. I coaxed and gently pushed this bug onto my finger and ran to Grandma to show my prize. And each time, Grandma would smile and fuss, saying, “Oh, Cheri, lucky you! You’ve found our ladybird. Cheri, did you know a ladybird crossing your path brings hope?”

In the stillness of this night many years later, with a heart full of fear and heavy with a dark, empty, foreboding kind of apprehension I have never known before I lie quietly, watching my fair-haired, beautiful little boy resting beside me. . . . finally slumbering. Suddenly a ladybird of summer lights upon my skin. The tiny red creature slowly crawls up my arm which rests across my little one’s small body. As I watch, it inches across his shoulder. Suddenly a faint memory deeply stirs and washes through my awareness, creating small bright holes of light in the palpable, uneasy darkness that pervades my being. As I watch the small, red insect traverse my son’s shoulder, it is my Grandma’s voice I hear; her words coming back through the years to give me strength. “Oh, Cheri, lucky you! You’ve found our ladybird! Cheri, did you know a ladybird crossing your path brings hope?”

I feel my spirit rise with the memory of my Grandmother’s song. It is as if Alex is my "little Anne" and he has crawled under the frying pan and now I must fly away home to find him and bring him out. Tonight this ladybird has found us. This ladybird has crossed our path, my little son’s and mine . . . . my little son newly diagnosed with autism. This ladybird has come, reminding me of “hope”. I reach out from my most inner parts to gather up and embrace this hope, bringing it close to my heart, determining in that moment that I will not let go of the hope the ladybird brings. For in that hope I know I will find strength . . . . strength for the journey, strength for the challenges I know lie ahead each coming day, strength for the defeats and struggles, and strength to rise above them and achieve victories.

Now as more years have passed and many more parents struggle, we at Ladybird Crossing wish for each parent beleaguered by the challenge of autism, their own ladybird, their own sense of hope. To every parent of a child with autism, we share our hope and invite them to make it their own. For hope is what every parent needs, what every parent must have if they are to wage this battle for their child.

Although "cure" or "recovery" is a worthy hope for which we must seek, it is not only hope for a cure or recovery that we seek to bring at Ladybird Crossing, but rather it is also hope for the child for whom cure does not come, for thus far cure does not come for all. There are many for whom, despite our best efforts, cure is not the outcome. Our hope is for that child, the child who does not wholly recover and become “typical”. Our hope is that the gifts, the potential, and the fullness of the life that child can attain will be recognized, understood, sought for, achieved and celebrated. We seek to bring to light the strategies, practices, and systems of support that can bring a fullness of life to all children and their families. Indeed for every child there is hope; hope for a good life, a happy life, a contributing and fulfilling life. For every child there is hope for a life in the real world even when recovery does not occur. This is the hope that comes from “a ladybird crossing your path." Ladybird Crossing strives to bring this hope to the families and educators of children who have autism.

                                                                                  ~ ~ ~ ~ Cheryl Fisher

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