Seashells and Shaving Cream

But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart. Luke 2:19

I  decide on coral and teal. If I cannot go to my happy place at the beach this year, I tell myself, I will bring the beach to me, beachy colors that will calm my soul every time I take a shower. Happily, I order a shower curtain and a window shade online. While I wait for the packages to arrive, I gather other items: new peach and white flowers for the washing pitcher that belonged to my grandmother, the little jar of seashells we bought in Bermuda, a pink candle I find in the downstairs cabinet. Amazon delivers on Thursday and on Friday, armed with cleaning supplies and a trash bag, I head up to the hall bathroom to refresh my soul with happy things.

I am delighted with the colors, glad that the light gray walls allow me to change the decor without major expense. I have even indulged in new curtain hooks in the shapes of seashells and starfish. I delve into the top drawer of the cabinet under the window. Time to clear out the clutter! I toss empty shampoo bottles, old toothbrushes, and a dried up jar of Vaseline with happy abandon. I reach into the very back of the cabinet and pull out a can.

And I stop and sink to the teal colored rug on the floor of the bathroom, holding a can of Barbisol shaving cream in my hand, and cry.

This was Ron's. The only kind he ever used, the kind that was put into his Christmas stocking by one of the kids every year and given on each Father's Day along with Old Spice aftershave. The can still emits the faint, clean scent of my late husband. Quickly, the memories come pouring into my mind: Ron on our honeymoon, carefully shaving while I watched, fascinated by the contours on my new husband's face. Ron on our trip to Jamaica, needing to buy a different brand of shaving cream at the gift shop--at an outrageous price--because he forgot to pack it. I probably said a few unkind words. Ron sitting in his wheelchair, no longer able to hold the razor, giving me instructions while I lathered his face and prayed I would not cut him. Ron in his hospital bed, the nursing aide using an electric razor to trim his bushy gray beard.

Memories, psychology tells us,  allow us to relive special moments in our lives, both good and bad (Psychology Today). And God designed memories so we could relive not only the grand moments of our lives, but the small and  intimate details that make up the years, the relationships. A marriage.

There on the bathroom rug, the shaving cream in my hand, I recall Luke 2:19, "But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart." I want to believe that these small moments--Jesus in his infancy and childhood, ordinary moments to anyone but a mother--are what gave her the courage she needed to bide him farewell.

It has been a year and a little since I bide Ron farewell. Not forever, but for now. I am learning to negotiate the path one step at a time, making a new life for myself and my autistic son, allowing myself to cry over a can of shaving cream and store up a few more treasures in my heart.

It was a long battle for us,  an uphill battle of many years and many illnesses. We learned in those years, Ron and I, to treasure the small moments of peace: a shared meal from a hospital tray, a day without surgery, a cup of tea after work drunk at his bedside. God was faithful on our upward climb. The road was often dark and treacherous, the path unknown.

The path led Ron to Heaven.

I walk alone now, on a new path of widowhood. I have not "moved on" from Ron, but I have "moved forward," twisting those many years of care taking--what was often back-breaking and soul-crushing--into my life. I hang coral colored curtains and seashell curtain rings. I cry over small things.

God is still faithful.

The tears are a healing balm. Soon I am able to get up from the rug in the middle of the bathroom floor and toss the empty can into the trash bag. I hang my new curtains, place my little memories around the room. I touch the seashell shaped curtain hooks one by one, each one a memory of a happy day. 

My husband is still here, in each action I take, each thought I think. Like the coral and the teal colors I have chosen, he calms my soul.

VOICES FROM THE EDGE: Waiting for Dad

"As it was in the beginning, now and ever shall been
world without end. Do we get more comfort than that?"
                                          
                                          Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

Allen jumps out of the car, excitement in his step. "The train's coming!" he says. "It worked!" And for a slice of one instant I am nonplussed: it can't be real. My son runs along the sidewalk next to the train track, rushing towards the station where a gray-haired woman waits with a suitcase.

I lower the window on the passenger side of my Nissan, letting the early autumn breeze carry in the sounds and scents of the incoming train. The lady smiles at my son.

"Waiting for someone?" I hear her ask.

"My dad," Allen says. He bounces from one foot to another.

"You must be excited to see him," she says. "Has he been away long?"

But Allen is suddenly bereft of words to explain, so he merely nods. As the train brakes with a screech, he moves away.

I watch him from the driver's seat of my car. Despite Allen's dedication the last eight weeks to the art of magical thinking, I know his father will not be on the train. I take three deep breaths, a calming strategy I have used often. I can't let myself get upset now; Allen will need me.

The train comes to a halt and a conductor jumps down, taking the suitcase from the gray-haired lady and helping her up the metal steps. Allen stands to the side, watching closely.

No one gets off the train.

"Help you, sir?" asks the conductor.

"I thought my dad would be on this train," Allen says in a rush. "We did everything right, Mom and me. This was the train."

The conductor looks up and down the length of the train. "Maybe he took another train," he says.

"He was supposed to be on the 906," says my son.

"Ah, that's the problem," says the conductor. "This is the 730."

Allen, dejected, hangs his head and saunters slowly back to the car. I take another deep breath. We have been back to Smedly Park to check the shirt Allen left hanging on a branch; we have found the biggest tree at Rosetree; we've found the strongest horse at Linvilla. In the eight weeks since Ron died--passing away peacefully in his easy chair--my youngest son, who has high functioning autism (Asperger's Syndrome) has handled a variety of "scrambled emotions" (Indiana University, 2019). He's had trouble sleeping, is vigilant about locks and dead bolts, and insists on wearing the same shirt he wore the night his father died. Each of my three children--Dennis, Bonnie, Allen--has had to find their own ways to grieve the loss of their father, but the issue for Allen is compounded by his brain's atypical function, making the finality of death hard to accept.

According to Dr. Tony Attwood, a noted expert on Asperger's Syndrome, an increase in spectrum behaviors helps the neuro-atypical keep calm and block negative thoughts. Allen's belief that his father will come back if he follows a certain procedure of carefully designed steps is called "magical thinking," a psychological concept that protects the thinker from the unthinkable. Writing in The Seven Laws of

Magical Thinking (2012), author Matthew Hutson contends that such thoughts provide an evolutionary advantage, encouraging us to be more participatory in life if we have some control over the outcomes.

At its most simplistic, "magical thinking" is a form of bargaining such as Audry Huff displayed during the 2010 World Series when he wore the same red underwear for every game, convinced it helped the San Francisco Giants win. Writer Joan Didion (2005) used magical thinking to recover from the sudden death of her husband, John Dunne. It took Didion two years to realize that any amount of bargaining would not bring her husband back. Life continues it's cycle. She learned to find comfort in that. 

For Allen, it's only been two months. He slides back into the car. "Wrong train," he says and sighs. "I'm doing everything I can to bring him back. I don't know why it's not working.

I speak carefully, aware that while I grieve for the man Ron was before the car accident stole so much from him 19 years ago, Allen grieves for the only father he's ever known. "Maybe he's not ready to come back," I say. "Maybe he has somewhere else to be."

"Why wouldn't he want to come back to us?" my son asks.

I shake my  head. "I don't know, Allen. But I know he was tired of being sick."

Allen nods and I know he is fighting back tears. I reach across the car console and touch his shoulder, expecting him to flinch. He does not. Then he starts to laugh.

"It would be just like Dad," he says, "to get on the wrong train." He says it without judgment. "He always needed you to tell him what to do."

I smile, conceding his point. "So, what now? Do we wait for another train?"

"No. We need to check again next week."

"Okay," I say and put the car in gear. Each Saturday brings another magical outing. We pull out onto Rose Valley Road. I venture another thought. "Maybe he's not coming back."

Allen's shoulders sag as he considers the possibility. "Maybe," he whispers. 

There is silence in the car. I take a few more deep breaths, telling myself that in time Allen will accept his father's death.

"I just can't stop trying yet," says Allen. "Not yet. It's too soon." And it is too soon,

only eight weeks into the rest of our lives without Ron. 

"Okay," I say.

We drive down Rose Valley Road, past the college where Allen-despite having special needs--earned an associates degree in technology and Ron proudly clapped as his son received his degree.  I spy Hedgerow Theater where Ron and I saw "A Christmas Carol" and "Noises Off" and "Our Town." I make a right onto Brookhaven Road and we drive by the house where Ron grew up. We are all the way to Bridgewater when Allen speaks again.

"I just want him to know much much we miss him," he says with a sigh.

"He knows," I tell Allen. "I tell him every morning and every night."

"Me, too," whispers my son. And this time he is the one who reaches across the console and pats my shoulder. 

VOICES FROM THE EDGE: THE HERO SAYS GOOD BYE

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:3

I'd seen her on Sunday, asleep on a pile of laundry in the basement, but she failed to show up for morning milk on Monday. Butterscotch, Bonnie's orange cat who still lives with us even though his owner has married and moved, jumped up onto the table and lapped up the milk.

"Did Sugar sleep late this morning and leave all the milk to you?" I asked the cat. He gave me a mournful meow. I patted him on the top of his head and chucked him under his furry chin, in a hurry to get Ron's breakfast and medications doled out before I headed off to work. I wasn't worried; Sugar was an adventurous little cat, often exploring boxes in the basement and too busy playing to come to meals.

But she did not show up the next morning, either. Gently, I suggested to Allen that we look around for her. Perhaps she had gotten trapped in a box of Christmas garland and couldn't get out. He gave it a half-hearted attempt, going down the basement steps and calling her name for a few minutes. He came back up and shrugged. "She's not answering me," he said.

I began to worry, not only about our missing cat but about her owner, my son who lives on the upper edges of the ASD spectrum and has a difficult time processing emotions. Often, the reality of the world is incomprehensible to him. How could I tell him I feared his cat had died?

Butterscotch kept up his mournful morning meow while devouring the bowl of milk, and I tried to suggest to Allen that Sugar might not be coming back. By Wednesday, my son convinced himself that Sugar had somehow gotten out of the house. With the influx of medical personnel who cared for my husband while I was at work, it was a possibility. We began to search in the bushes and under the deck, shaking a bag of her favorite treats to tempt her out. We left food and water outside, just in case.

There was still no Sugar on Thursday, and I did a little Google searching on the habits of cats. I was comforted to know that cats have no knowledge, and therefore no fear, of death. If, as I suspected, Sugar was now over the Rainbow Bridge with my little Cocker spaniel, Taffy, she was happy and content. There was nothing I could do for her. My job would be moving Allen past the loss of his beloved pet.

Like others on the ASD spectrum, Allen finds social situations stressful. He has only a few friends, and comes home from work each day exhausted from functioning in an environment he only partly understands. His cat, Sugar, has been his companion into adulthood, serving as his confidante. If he had a tough day, Sugar could be counted on to simply curl up on his lap. Patiently, she tried to learn the tricks he thought she should know. She, unlike humans in his life, simply accepted him for who he was.

Friday there was still no sign of Sugar, but I had managed to help Allen accept three possibilities: she was hiding in the basement and only came out for food and water at night, she had fallen asleep in the basement and passed quietly away, or she had gotten out of the house and gone to join the alley cats at the fire house. The last possibility was Allen's suggestion.

On Saturday, armed with flashlights, he agreed we should conduct a full-out search. And it did not take long to find her, huddled around the heater in a dark corner of the basement. Sadly, we wrapped her in a quilt and put her in a plastic box. I carried the box to the back deck and weighted the top down with bricks.

I took a deep breath and asked Allen what he wanted to do. Bury her? Cremate her?

But Allen was still holding out slim hope. "I don't think that's Sugar," he said. "I think it's another cat who took her place."

"Okay," I said. "But we still need to take care of her."

He shrugged. "I don't care," he said. "Do what you want."

What I wanted was to have someone else handle this, but since that never works out, I called the Royal Pet Crematorium, the place that had helped me deal with Taffy's loss. I arranged to bring her down on Sunday and carried the box to my car.

Around 9 PM Saturday night, I was attempting to read--but continually thinking about the little cat that had been our friend for so long--when Allen crept quietly into the room and sat down beside me. 

"I want her ashes," he said. 

"Okay."

"And a little cylinder with some ashes, like you have for Taffy."

"Okay."

He buried his head into my shoulder. "She was a good cat," he said.

"Yes," I said. "She was."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "She was MY cat."

And our arms around each other, we cried. 

WEDNESDAY WORDS: MEMBERS ONLY

Romans 12:4-5

⁴ For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, ⁵ so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.

I am visiting Ron at the hospital when my cell phone rings. “I’m quitting Planet Fitness,” Allen says. His voice through my phone sounds upset. “Things are just not right at that place.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Allen has been a member of Planet Fitness for exactly three days. They were supposedly a “No judgement” zone, a fact I emphasized when I signed Allen up.  What had happened to disturb the work-out of my autistic son?

“I’m locked out of the machines,” he says. “I guess they don’t want me in their club.”

“Okay,” I tell Allen. “I’ll be home soon and we’ll talk about it then.” My mother’s heart hurts for my son, whose learning differences and challenges locked him out of many groups during his school years. Allen is, in a word, “quirky”, but he is also sweet and moral and kind. It takes some work to get through the quirkiness and the lack of social cues that characterizes young adults like Allen who are on the autism spectrum, but I was hopeful that the physical activity and interaction with others at the gym would be good for Allen, whose own social outlets are limited.

I turn towards home when I leave the hospital, but change my mind part-way and head to Planet Fitness. A mother protects her children, no matter how old they are. If the gym has in anyway made my son feel that he is not welcome in their club, they will have me to deal with.

I think Jesus Himself knew a thing or two about being ousted from the popular lunch table. We need only to look at those He chose as his close companions—several common fishermen, a Zealot, a tax collector, and a thief—to know that Jesus was not hanging out with the Beautiful People. As He left Earth for Heaven, He desired for there to be unity among the believers.

Unity is never an easy feat. While Romans 12:4-5 acknowledges that the members of the Church have many functions yet belong to one unit, the concept can be difficult to grasp. The Book of Acts is full of challenges that faced the early church: changes in leadership (Acts 1:19), immorality (Acts 5:1-10), complaints (Act 6:1), false teaching (Acts 15:1), and diversity (I Thessalonians 19:11). Jesus’ command to “keep the unity of the Spirit in the bonds of peace” (Ephesians 4:3) was a tough act!

We’d like to think we’ve all evolved past the point of looking down on someone because of their job or the color of their skin, or where they live or how they comb their hair. Or in the case of my son, how adept he is at social cues. Despite our differences, I Corinthians 12:18 clearly tells us that each member has a specific value. All are important to God.

I am mumbling under my breath the part in Ephesians 4:16 about building each other up in love when I arrive at the parking lot of Planet Fitness. I compose myself, say a quick prayer, and calmly walk into the gym and ask to speak with the manager. She is kind in every way, mentions she saw Allen in earlier in the day and wondered why he had left so quickly without saying anything if there had been a problem.

“He wouldn’t have complained,” I tell her. “He would have just walked quietly away.” With the help of another employee, we figure out that Allen had been working on a machine that was glitching. The trainer offers to help Allen with the machines if he would come back. I promise to try and convince him to give it another try. I am glad, I tell the manager, that they are what they advertise: Judgement Free.

As I drive home, though, I remember my years as a middle school teacher, where cliques ran wild and those who, like Allen, were a bit different often found themselves hanging out with the teachers at recess. To be examples of Christ and to uphold the unity of the Church and our own common humanity, we should always strive to live in the Judgement Free Zone.

Let's all just sit at the same lunch table.