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."