Millions of Rooms!

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God[a]; believe also in me. 2 My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am."  John 14:1-3

We are enjoying the flickering flames from our new electric fireplace log when Allen, sitting on the couch with his father's hospital blanket around him, says, "I need to talk about Dad. But I need to find my words."

"Okay," I say and settle back into my chair. I ask no questions; I have learned to wait until Allen is ready to talk.

My son picks up a metal rod and begins to roll it between his palms, a technique that helps him to calm down. For a few moments, there is only the realistic sound of a crackling fire from the hearth. "The thing is," says Allen, " I know that Dad's not really over at the firehouse. I just  like to tell myself he is because that means he's still close to us."

I nod. Allen, an adult with high-functioning autism, has come to terms with his father's recent death by using magical thinking, an anthropological concept that allowed him time to believe in his father's return until he was ready to accept the finality of death. We no longer look for Ron in parks or on baseball fields, but when Allen feels the need, he asks for a "Dad moment."

Allen continues."I know we're doing okay, you and me. We've found a way to live without...Dad." He gulps. "We're even happy. Right?"

"As Dad would want us to be," I say.

Allen agrees. "Yeah. So we're okay. But is Dad okay? Wherever he is and whatever he's doing, is he okay? Does he miss us? Is he sad?"

I want to reassure my son, this tall adult with a child-like faith, that of course his father is happy and well. But I struggle with my own words for a moment. What do I really KNOW about Heaven, the place my husband now resides?

Allen continues to roll the metal rod in his hands and I think back to the Last Supper. The disciples had come to celebrate the Passover with their Rabbi and were suddenly told that one of them would betray Him! And if that wasn't bad enough, Jesus would then leave them and go to a place where they could not follow (John 13:35), the same place where Allen cannot follow his father. I can well imagine the heart-sickness of the disciples. I remember the feeling when I knew Ron had gone on ahead of me to a place I could not yet go. 

The words of John 14:1-3 were spoken, no doubt, to comfort the faithful friends of Jesus, to let them know that while he would be absent from them for a while, they would ultimately join Him. "Let not your heart be troubled," Jesus told them even though trouble was quickly approaching. How puzzled they must have been!

Perhaps as puzzled as my son, who sits with his father's hospital blanket wrapped around him, looking to me for answers that are both concrete and tangible, rolling a metal rod between his palms.  I think of the many rooms Jesus spoke of, and I begin slowly.

"Tell me about your room," I tell Allen. "What do you keep in your room?"

He shrugs and looks at me quizzically, probably thinking I am changing the subject. Yet he responds. "Things that are important to me. Things I like. My swords. My games." His voice catches. "Dad's blanket. It's my place."

I nod. "And remember when Dennis would come home from college and take over your room? What happened then?"

Allen grins. "Dennis would put my stuff out in the hallway. I'd have to drag my sleeping bag into Bonnie's room. I didn't have a special place anymore."

"Exactly, " I say. "Remember last year when Dad couldn't climb the steps anymore and we had to put the hospital bed in the dining room?" Allen nods. "And we couldn't move everything Dad liked into the dining room. It wasn't really Dad's room."

"No. I guess not. The dining room stuff was still there. Poor Dad."

Allen has stopped rolling the rod between his hands and seems to be following my thinking, so I continue. "But there's a verse in John 14 that says in Heaven--the place where Dad lives now--there are lots and lots of rooms."

"Like at PopPop's house?"

"Even bigger," I say. "Millions of rooms. One for every person ever born."

My son's blue eyes widen. "Wow! So is there a special room there, just for Dad?"

"Absolutely. And God knew just what Dad would need in his special room to feel like it was his. God had it all ready for Dad when he left us in July. And when Dad got to Heaven, it was filled with things he loved. The verse goes on to say, 'I go to prepare a place for you.' Unlike the dining room, it was just for Dad."

Allen considers this for a moment and pulls the blanket closer. "I'm glad Dad has his own room now. But doesn't he miss us? Does he know we're okay?"

Those are hard questions. I only know what some scholars, such as Henry Aford and Billy Graham say. Hebrew 12:1 says "Since we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight and sin which clings so closely, and then let us run with endurance the race that is set before us." I imagine the people in Heaven--my mother, my grandparents, my husband--cheering for us.

I tell Allen, "Yes. Dad knows we are doing well. He sees us all the time. And he doesn't miss us because he knows we will come to him. Time in Heaven is not like time here on earth. Dad is watching us and wanting us to live the best lives we can."

The metal rod remains set aside but something is still bothering Allen. I wait for him to speak again, content to be sitting in our cozy living room with the crackling sound of the electric fire.

"Well, I guess that's okay. I'm glad he has a room and all." Allen's voice holds disappointment. "I was just hoping that Dad was getting to do something exciting. Like being a fireman."

I smile. "Why would you think Dad would like to be a fireman?"

Allen shrugs. "Well, all Dad could do for the last couple of years was sit around and watch TV. Play Wii bowling with me once in a while when he was feeling okay. I think he was pretty bored. I'd like to think he had something exciting to do now."

I certainly do not know if there is a need for firemen in heaven, but I do know what the Book of Revelations says. "Heaven's not boring! The Bible says that we will have work to do and we will never get tired or bored of it. Just like God has a room for each of us, He has a job for each of us. I'm sure Dad is doing something fun and exciting."

My son nods. "Okay. Still think he'd like to be a fireman. Maybe there's a big campfire in Heaven. Dad always liked to be in charge of the fire when we went camping."


"He did that," I say. "And if there's a campfire in Heaven, I am sure it is spectacular!"

"Then I'm going to think that's what Dad is doing." He yawns. "I'm going up to bed."

"Me, too," I say. I check the lock on the front door and Allen uses the remote to turn off the fireplace.

"Dad would have loved the fireplace now," says Allen. I smile in agreement and together we walk up the stairs, the blanket still wrapped around my son's shoulders. He gives me a sideways hug. "Just one thing..."

"What?"

"Well, if Dad's in charge of the campfire, I sure hope God's got a whole lot of marshmallows. Dad LOVED to roast marshmallows. "

DAD'S COAT: A CHRISTMAS STORY

Matthew 25:40

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'

Allen and I are wrapping Christmas presents, enjoying a “Dad moment” as we remember the
crazy shapes Ron would wrap presents in so no one could guess the contents. Allen sticks a bow
onto a gift--just a plain old shirt box--and whispers to me conspiratorially. “I already knew what I was
getting Dad for Christmas,” he says. 

“Really?” I say in surprise. “Dad died in July. How could you already know what he needed?”

Allen sighs. I know he is processing the words that will make sense to both him and me. Reconciling
himself to his father’s death five months ago was not easy and my autistic son spent weeks
believing his father would come back again if only he could find the magic formula. “Well,” he begins,
“Back when I thought Dad was coming back..” his voice catches "...I was thinking that Dad
needed to be safe and protected. You know, from all the illnesses and stuff.” He looks at me for
confirmation and I nod. “So, I wanted to get him a big coat--like the firemen wear--to protect him.”

As always, I am touched by the heart of my youngest son whose concern for his ill father was a
focus of most of his life. It is a moment before I can trust my voice to answer. “I am sure Dad would
have appreciated that,” I say. “But you know, we gave Dad a new coat last year.” I swallow.
“He only wore it once.”

Allen does not reply. He picks up another gift to wrap. “I still wish I could give Dad something.”

So do I, I want to say. But a person who is living in the Heavenly Kingdom has no need of material
items. Still, how could we honor Ron and his life? I begin to recall the gifts of years past and the
many, many years when we had no money to give anything to each other and scraped together
Christmas for our kids. Then, a thought enters my mind.

“You know,” I say casually, “my school is collecting things to give to the homeless population in
Philadelphia. Every Tuesday, a group goes down to Center City and gives out hats and gloves and
scarves.” I take a moment to fight back tears. “How about if we give Dad’s coat away?”

Allen considers it. “We’re sure Dad won’t need it?”

I shake my head. “No. Dad has no need of a coat. You know where he is, Allen. You know he’s not
coming back.”

There is a sigh. Allen’s acceptance has been hard won and is still tenuous. “I know,” he whispers.
“Sometimes I just like to pretend he is.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay to pretend that. So, what do you think? Should we give Dad’s coat
away?” I go on wrapping presents as his atypical mind processes the information.

Finally, there is a nod. “Okay. Can I be the one to put it in a bag?”

“Of course,” I say.

The next morning, I pick up the bag Allen has left on the enclosed porch and carry it out to the car. Even though I was the one who suggested it, I am strangely reluctant to give the coat away. It seems so final. I bought the coat a year ago with hope: hope that Ron’s physical therapy would help him improve to the point where he might be able to leave the house; hope that with assistance  from his nursing aid and the elevator at church he might once again be able to join me at Sunday services; hope that a few small steps taken outside on the sidewalk might lead to a walk around the park, a Saturday in the spring sitting on a park bench watching the boats sail down the Delaware River, a family outing to a Phillies’ game. 

None of which happened. I feel the weight of the lost hopes as I heft the bag into my car and drive to
school, my eyes smarting tears, my heart breaking. I carry it into the school and it sits behind my
desk, an accusation. Why did I continue to hope? Why did I continue to think things would get better?
Finally, I ask a student to carry the damning bag upstairs to Brother David. I can breathe easier
when it is gone. Back home, I only tell Allen I have given the coat to the school.

During the days up to Christmas, I struggle to maintain some Christmas cheer. I engage with my students and the Christmas traditions of a Catholic high school in the best ways I can: the Ugly Sweater Day, the cookie exchange, the Secret Santa pick. At home I collapse after supper, going to bed early and waking up still tired. I plod along, expending emotional energy at school and with Allen, and helping my two older children as much as I can. I pack away more of Ron’s clothing for the Good Will donations and I order his grave marker at the cemetery. I put up a small tree for Allen and me, I unpack decorations. I function.

It is the day before school breaks for Christmas and I am getting my classroom ready for the students
that arrive before the first bell, students who are still learning English and crave the warm safety of
my ESL room. I am humming “O Holy Night” and taking deep breaths whenever I think of my late
husband. Ron loved Christmas. Everyday, I swim through the thick memories to surface with my
students.

I am switching on the lights when Brother David appears at my door. “Merry Christmas,” he says and
I respond. “I wanted you to know,” he continues, “that your husband’s coat found a home yesterday.
We were able to give it to a homeless man who was very appreciative.”

My heart swells even as tears spring to my eyes. I can feel Ron’s warm smile bathing me. My husband had a generous heart.

"But it's funny how it happened," says Brother David. "We'd had the coat a few weeks, you know, but
we didn't meet anyone that needed a 4-X coat. Then, on Tuesday, a large man came by and said
he'd been looking for a coat but he could never find one to fit him. He said he didn't often come down
near City Hall, but someone he barely knew told him to come see us. In fact, he couldn't remember
ever seeing that person before. So he came down and there we were. And your husband's coat fit
him perfectly."

I nod but find I cannot speak.

"He said," Brother David continued, "that he'd been offered some construction work over the holidays
but he knew he needed something warm to wear. He'd just about given up finding a coat. He was
wearing a couple of sweat shirts, but that's all he had. When we gave him the coat, he cried. He said
it gave him hope that he could turn his life around."

I am crying right now, realizing that the hope I held for the coat I'd bought for Ron had been fulfilled
after all. Brother David reaches out and hugs me. All day, I hide this gift in my heart, thinking of how my son will react when I tell him his father’s coat is now protecting someone else.

Back home again, Allen has hot tea ready for me and I settle into my chair. “Dad’s coat found a home
today,” I tell him. I tell him the story from Brother David. Allen smiles, then is thoughtful for a moment.

"We should hang up Dad' stocking," he says. "Because it feels like Dad is still here."

"He still is," I say as Allen dives into the box of Christmas decorations to retrieve the stocking. "And he always will be."

Take a Moment...

"But I will look to the Lord; I will wait for the God of my salvation. My God will hear me." Micah 7:7

It is time, I tell my son. Time to clean out his dad's dresser. Time to give away clothing that other people might be able to use. The school where I teach has an outreach program to the homeless population; many are in need of the coats and scarves and sweatshirts Ron once wore. Allen nods at me and, resolutely, we begin to make piles.


Sweatpants.
Shorts.
Shirts.
Scarves. Not the Phillies' one, Bonnie has claimed that.
Hats. But not the Eagles' one, which needs to stay on his chair.
Sweatshirts.

The heavy blue coat Ron only wore twice.
Gloves.
Flannel pajama pants, never worn.
Fallen shirts. Not the gray one, which still carries scents of Ron's aftershave.

After a short time, Allen says to me, "I need a Dad moment."

"Okay," I say. Dad moments have become an integral part of our lives these last four months. Whenever we become overwhelmed by thoughts of Ron, we stop and share a memory. These are important to all of us, but most especially for Allen whose neuro-atypical brain would not let him easily process the finality of his father's death. In fact, Allen, who is an adult with Asperger's Syndrome, spent fourteen weeks convinced there was a magical formula that would bring his father back.

Autism grief is not typical grief. I needed to let Allen work it out for himself, joining him on his magical journeys to the parks and fields where he thought his father might leave clues, to the train station and the boat yard where his father might arrive, and finally to the tearful realization that his dad was not coming back.

But, as Pastor Aaron reminded us in church this morning, we don't stop waiting for God to work We trust that God is about His business. We must be about ours. And my business was to let Allen have the time he needed to work it all out.

"I remember," I tell Allen as I straighten the piles of clothing before us, "how much Dad loved Christmas. How he always wanted everyone to have lots of presents, even when we had little money to buy them. "

Allen nods. "And I just want Dad to know," he says, "that if he ever gets tired of heaven, he can come back. There will always be room for Dad."

"Yes," I agree. I cannot imagine anyone ever wanting to leave the glory of heaven, but I am glad that Allen has finally accepted where his father now resides. We finish piling up the clothing and place it into bags I will take to school on Monday. Allen carries them out to my car.

"You know," he says when he returns, "I still miss Dad. I guess I always will. But I am really, really glad I had a Dad like him. And I think," and Allen's voice drops to a whisper, "I can still feel him loving me."

"So can I," I tell my son. "So can I."

FINDING DAD

1 Corinthians 2:9 But, as it is written, “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him."

The grass is beginning to grow and cover the earth. Beneath it, a few feet down, is my husband's casket. Only a flag and its holder, placed there three weeks ago, marks the spot. It is time, I tell myself, to order the grave marker, another step on my widow's walk.

I've asked the kids their opinions. Dennis had none, just names and dates. Bonnie wants John 3:16, Ron's favorite verse, and an eagle for Ron's favorite team. Allen, whose presence on the autism spectrum has made his father's death a difficult concept to grasp, has refused to respond. 

But that was three weeks ago. Allen and I have had a good--but busy--day. With a school holiday courtesy of All Saints Day, we have managed to make our way through a long list of errands. Allen even got his hair cut, a task that was daunting back in June but which he now takes in stride. He even accepted a different barber, telling Rachel how he wanted his hair cut and politely shaking her hand
and thanking her when she was done. 

We are driving past Long Croft Cemetery, our trunk full of groceries, the last of our errands completed. Allen, who finds social interactions taxing, is already half-asleep in the passenger seat. But it's been a good day--such a good day--and I feel I can push him just a little more.

"I'm going to order Dad's grave marker on Monday," I say and motion to the cemetery.

"I'm not coming," he murmurs. There is a sigh and a pause. "Why do people do that."

"Do what?"

"Put--you know--markers on people's graves. What's the point?"

Those on the ASD spectrum tend to think in terms of absolutes. What would be a concrete reason I can give? "Well," I say, "I think it's so families can find where their loved one is buried. So they can bring flowers. So they know where they are." I push a little more. "So we'll know where Dad is."

"Dad's not there," Allen says quietly. "Just his old, broken body is there."

I feel a lump in my throat. The fine art of magical thinking has convinced Allen that his father would come back if only he found the right formula. For thirteen weeks after Ron's death, Allen and I spent every Saturday hunting for clues, looking for Ron. We visited Linvilla Orchards and found the strongest horse, sprinkling a few hairs from Ron's brush along the path. We located the tallest tree at Rosetree Park, wrapping a ribbon around its trunk. We explored the oldest bridge at Smedley Park, leaving one of his father's shirts behind. Marking spots where Ron might return. We waited at the station for a train that never came and for two weeks used Google Earth to track the route of a ship on the Delaware with a mysterious symbol that, said Allen, "meant something."

Allen didn't find his father, but he found a way to the other side of his grief. Two weeks ago, the magical journeys ceased. Allen said he was transferring his "sad memories" about his father's last, painful year into his newest and strongest sword. He was done, he said, looking for Dad.

And it seems to have worked. In the last two weeks, any conversation about Ron has been happy: the way he loved to play board games but always cheated, his booming laugh and warm hugs, his crazy dance movements known in the family as "doing the Ronnie."

Autism grief is not neuro-typical grief. Allen has needed time to figure it out. I have tried to be wise enough to let him. We seemed to have arrived at a good place. But it's been a good day, a really good day, so I venture one more question.

"If Dad's not at the cemetery and he's not on the boat and he's not on the train, where is he?"

Autism grief is not neuro-typical grief. But with enough time, enough magic, enough faith, and enough love, we can all find what we need.

My son looks at me with tears in his eyes. "Well," he says, "sometimes I like to pretend he's across the street at the firehouse, talking to the guys. Because that helps me. But," and he lets a few tears fall, "I know he's in heaven. And I know he's okay."

And Allen, too, will be okay.