Editor's note:  Ian is a second-year student at Huntington College, a small Christian liberal arts college in Indiana.  Ian writes a regular column for the college's student newspaper, on issues big and small.  These columns were written during Ian's first year.  In a future issue of the

Digest,

we will print more of Ian's columns.

Sometimes I am just not able to contain my actions and myself.  90 percent of an autistic person's efforts while in public are spent trying to avoid inappropriate behaviors that "normal" people seem to be able to easily suppress.  One place where I had a terrible time trying to sit still and not make noise was in the small theater watching the play The Diviners.

I didn't have a terrible time at the play, quite the contrary.  In fact, I loved this play.  Deep into the drama, I relaxed my guard and was soon a noisy, rocking back and forth in my seat, spectator.  Good things don't often cause this reaction, so we might say that the Ian Wetherbee behavior-o-meter registered a four star reading for The Diviners and its excellent  cast..

In this play, Buddy Layman was a young man who had suffered brain damage during a near drowning.  Nick Vickrey's portrayal of Buddy was just excellent.  Irrational actions laced with unexplainable abilities. Insightful observations woven with innocent naivete.  Enthusiastic expeditions knit with irrational fears.  That was Nick's Buddy, who always referred to himself in the third person.

Aside from Buddy's role, I found fascinating the reactions of the rest of the cast to Buddy.  They were awed by his ability to find water.  At the same time, they seemed to consider him to be a simpleton.  Even though he was at least seventeen, since his younger sister was sixteen, he didn't even know where babies came from.  He had never heard of angels and didn't know that his mom was dead.  In the play, C.C. Showers was a friend of Buddy's. All through the play, C.C. had the chance to solve these enigmas for Buddy. C.C. was very nice to Buddy, but each time Buddy asked about such mysteries, C.C. spouted the same kind of platitudes we use with little kids.

The worst thing about this attitude toward Buddy was that when he asked about Jesus and heaven, no one explained to him about who Jesus was and why he died for us.  I think that someone with the beauty of soul like Buddy had would have easily understood about who Jesus was.

From the time of his near drowning, Buddy wouldn't touch bath water because he thought water kept him from breathing.  Sometimes all of us have fears that we don't completely conquer in our lives.  We let them affect our decisions and our actions.  Buddy needed help with his fear of water. Instead, Buddy was allowed to be dirty and infected with ringworm.  Probably this failure to help Buddy further reflected people's view of his ability to understand and learn.  They wouldn't have let anyone else live like that, but they must have felt that there was no way that Buddy would ever understand that his fear was irrational or that water could help him.

Ironically, when C.C. did help Buddy overcome his fear of water, Buddy drowned.  Perhaps he should have been allowed to stay fearful and dirty.  I think not.  He died just at the point when he was about to show the rest of the community that he could beat his fear.  Unfortunately, instead of seeing the marvelous victory Buddy was winning, their own fears and ignorance lead them to expect a different kind of victory, a miraculous healing.  It was a mistake that lead to Buddy's death.

Just as Buddy needed help, we all need help.  I vow to look for the potential beneath the outer shell of all my friends.  I vow to look for the real victories in people's lives.

December is a tough month to travel in.  This isn't because of icy road conditions or deep snowdrifts.  It's because of the heavy coat I have to wear.  Only someone who needs assistance in the restroom can fully appreciate why that is.

Without getting specific, I need some help when I go to the bathroom. Somebody, sometimes my brother Todd, but usually my dad, has to be with me during the whole operation.  Between my dad and I, we probably weigh 500 pounds and stand thirteen feet high.  We need lots of room!

Thanks be to God for the handicapped stalls found in most public bathrooms today in America, which have room for both my helper and me.    Let me tell you of our five hundred pound adventures, experienced in bathrooms everywhere.

Under the door of a toilet stall can usually be seen one pair of feet.  In my stall are seen four feet.  Heads are normally only seen briefly above a stall's walls.  My helper's head is always seen above my stall's walls while waiting to assist me and my head joins the view at the start and end of each visit.  I sometimes make strange noises, not by design but by accident, due to my autism.  These out of the ordinary restroom sights and sounds catch people's attention.

In an empty (except for my dad and I) highway rest stop in Pennsylvania, I was peacefully sitting and doing my business in the handicapped stall while Dad stood patiently, waiting for me to finish.  His head could clearly be seen above the wall of the stall, which was furthest from the restroom door. I saw Dad look towards the door.  He had a puzzled expression.  Finally, I saw a male face appear over the wall of the next door stall.  When this man saw me sitting there, total shock swept over his face.  He ran back out of the restroom door.  Dad gradually realized what that man had hoped to see instead of me.  His face got very red.

Another time my dad's face grew red was on the campus of Anderson University.  We were attending the Anderson Church of God state youth convention.  This time we were in the handicapped stall of a very busy restroom in Reardon Auditorium.  I yelled out a strange noise as I often do. Soon, a security man was knocking on the door of our stall, demanding to know what was happening in there.  We came out and Dad tried to explain. The more he said, the more skeptical the security man grew, the more interested the people around us turned, the more red Dad's face became and the more autistic I acted.  In the end our accuser retreated in confusion, and later, realizing his mistake,  came and visited me for a chat.

Funny now, but not funny then, are some of the experiences we have had because someone else was already using the handicapped stall.  Squeezing both of us into one normal sized stall is next to impossible.  Men's rooms are usually crowded at highway rest stops, providing lots of curious eyes when unusual things happen.  My antics can often catch people's attention.

Once, the door to our too small stall had a broken latch.  Every time Dad tried to help me, his derriere would bump the door and it would pop open, leaving me open to everyone's perusal.  Dad would yank the door shut, but it would soon happen again.  By the time I was done, it seemed like half of the guys in the rest room had had a view of the inside of my stall.

Even when I am done and out of the stall, I can be a source of entertainment.  Any hot air hand dryer is irresistible to me.  I'll hit the button and enjoy the hot air on my hands.  If I can, I'll turn on every dryer in the room at once, so I can also enjoy their combined noise.  If Dad doesn't watch me closely enough and the row of urinals are parallel to the stalls and close to them also, I may dash along the row of urinals, nudging each user into the urinal as I pass.  As Dad apologizes to the angry and wet bathroom clients, they show little willingness to come around to the understanding that I didn't mean to do bump them, but was just running around.

Changing back from embarrassing moments to my first statement about winter clothes, even in a handicapped stall, two bundled up people don't fit very well.  The choice is between leaving the coats in the car while dashing to the rest stop or not fitting in the stall.  We usually choose the cold.  If only I could also choose to always have an empty bathroom except for my helper and me, maybe I could avoid all of these other complications too.

They politely stepped back and said "You first."  My parents and I got on the elevator and they waited for the next one.

Among the last people to enter the theater, we were ushered into the front row, the best seats in the house.  When we left the theater, everyone thoughtfully made room for us to pass.

The line to get on to the tour bus was so long that it doubled back on itself several times.  We were shown directly to the front of the line and allowed to board before anyone else.

Sometimes these kinds of episodes happen to me anyhow.  My family and I get early boarding privileges on airplanes or special seats at a play.  I am allowed extra time to take exams.  Now I'm ending my taking these favors for granted.  I'm not going to refuse them, because I do mostly need them. However, I am going to see them clearer, as if from other people's eyes.

The experiences that I described at the top of this column happened during spring break.  My parents and I visited the space center at Cape Canaveral in Florida.  When I have to stand in one spot, because I stand on my tiptoes, my calves get sore.  My dad saw the long line for the tour bus and he knew my legs would cramp up if I had to stand long in line and that I would bump into other people in line.  He asked a security person if I had to wait in line.  That's how it all began. The security man took us right to the front.  A tour guide then asked me if I wanted a wheel chair.  At first I thought, "No, I can walk by myself." But then I remembered the times in the past when some tour really caused my legs to ache.  For example, touring the Smithsonian Museums in Washington, D.C. meant hours of walking with frequent stops and without much chance to sit down.   So I said yes.

For the next four hours I rode around the Space Center in a wheel chair. When we got on the bus, we were given the seats with the most legroom. Never was I treated so royally.  My legs quit aching and felt great.  When the day ended, however, I was even more relieved than after we had finished touring the Smithsonian.   It's said that only after walking in another person's shoes can someone understand what their life is actually like.  I rode in the wheels, I guess, instead of walking in the shoes of a person who is wheelchair bound.  Still, I got a real dose of what the wheelchair bound life is like.

Even though everyone was so nice, many problems arose.  The only table we could reach at the snack bar was on the outer edge.  If the only empty table came in the center area, too bad, no snack.  When in a standing crowd listening to a speaker, forget seeing the speaker.  When wanting to look through a rental telescope (it costs a quarter) at a missile launch site that's out of range of the naked eye, save the quarter for something more possible to reach.

Most surprising, however, were the reactions of other people to me.  Most very carefully looked the other way when I passed in my chair.  When someone did look at me, they smiled kindly, leaving me with the impression that they felt great pity for me.  Little kids were now at my eye level, so that when they stared openly, I couldn't miss seeing them.  After a while, I found myself riding with my head down so that I didn't have to see these reactions.

Maybe some day I'll save my legs again by riding in a wheel chair.  Probably not.

I am nearly through my first year at Huntington College.  Though determined to be a good student, when I entered the classroom on that first day of classes, I was petrified with fear.  While it only takes another exam to resurrect that fear, I'm starting to relax about being a college student. Without the help of some special friends, however, I would never have finished this school year.

Nothing would happen right if my mother weren't on top of the task of orchestrating my schedule and the day's activities.  Without my dad's excellent facilitation, my essays, columns and papers wouldn't get from my mind to the computer file or test paper.  If God hadn't provided me with two faithful facilitators, one for each semester, then school would have been over for me.  Rhonda and Rich, neither really having known me before, had to have the dedication each day to bear up under my unusual autistic actions and still believe in me.  Kris Chafin also did a lot behind the scenes to help my first year work and always encourages me.  My professors are great teachers who are friendly and also patient.

In my case, the role played by others in making my year a success is easy to recognize.  My areas of need are visible to everyone.  My strengths aren't so visible.  Rarely can I display them publicly.  For most of my fellow freshmen, the opposite would be the case.  Most people are able to present themselves in a favorable light, concealing their insufficiencies from the casual observer.

I would ask my classmates the following question, "Who are the friends who helped make your first year a success?"  I know you were just as scared as I was on that first day.  Who helped you to believe that you could make it?

Did you experience test anxiety?  Did someone give you support as you struggled with your problem.

Were dorms a daunting change from that safe bedroom at home, your castle? Who became you family away from home?

Did leaving your family behind and taking responsibility for all of your own choices in life pose a challenge to your self-discipline?  What new friends showed you by example how to organize your day?

Has your faith been challenged or have you become willing to forget God? Maybe your darkest moment came before the dawn of a friendship that led you back to God.

My parents get to see me each day.  Yours probably don't get to see you very often.  I know from the days when my brother went to college that you are never far from your parent's thoughts.  Do you take them for granted?

Fun, play and social concerns have kept us busy this year.  Perhaps the time is now here to stop for a moment and assess where our first year has taken us.  Perhaps we need to question just how self-reliant we really are. Everyone depends on others in some fashion and to some degree.  Honestly search your life for those persons and tell them thank you.

I thank each of you who have taken time to read my columns.  It's been fun.