The Best Part

They say there's a place where dreams have all gone
They never said where, but I think I know
Its miles through the night just over the dawn
On the road that will take me home

 " I talked to Dennis for about an hour last night," my daughter says, "and we both agreed that often, Dad was the voice of reason."

    I smile from the passenger seat of her red Civic. When the various illnesses that plagued my husband rose to the surface, he could be anything BUT reasonable, but this is something I shielded my children from for two decades. I wanted them to see their father for his heart.

"It wasn't so much that he would say anything, " Bonnie continues, "it was just that he was there. Listening to us. Solid. Big. Like he had all the time in the world just to listen." She sighs. "I'd walk  in the house and he'd say, 'There she is! There's my girl and her beautiful smile!' and it was like nothing else mattered. Everything would be okay. You know?"

I know. While I have not missed the various nursing duties or the back breaking labor that fell on my shoulders during Ron's last years, I have everyday missed his solid presence. I miss coming home from school each day and telling him about my high school students and their struggles to learn English, the interesting characters I see on my train ride, or the latest idea I have for a story.

"The boys and I realize," she says as she makes a right turn into the drive, "that he wasn't always that calm. That when we were there it was different than when it was just you. We know there was a lot of..." she searches for a word,"...disquiet."

And when I pass by, don't lead me astray don't try and stop me, don't stand in my way
I'm bound for the hills where the cool waters flow
On the road that will take me home

I nod as we drive up the gentle slope of Lawncroft Cemetery. The bells of the carillon--a sound my husband loved--are playing.  I think back to a conversation I had with my oldest son, Dennis, years ago when Ron was in a crisis center.

"We all know," he said, "that you often throw yourself on the live grenade that is Dad to protect us. You let us still have, well, Dad."

It had been a conscious decision I'd made early on when bipolar disorder and manic episodes ruled our days. I told myself that while I could do little to keep the illness from affecting Ron, I could do my darnest to make sure it did not affect our children or their love for their father.

"Look!" says Bonnie and gestures to a family of deer standing deer a grove of trees. "How pretty!" The doe and three fawns stand motionless on the hillside while the bells of the carillon echo in the air.

I take a deep breath. Sometimes the ache is so deep and raw that I need a few moments to recover. My daughter understands. We watch the deer for a moment and listen to the fading music, then pull around the curve at the top of the hill. She stops her car next to the bent oak tree.

Love waits for me round the bend, leads me endlessly on
Surely sorrows shall find their end
And all our troubles will be gone

I reach into the back and gather up the poinsettias as Bonnie surveys the area. "It's quiet up here," she says. "Even though the highway is right over there. It's a good spot for Daddy. He liked to be near the action!"

Silently we walk towards Ron's final resting place. In the last sixteen months, the grass has grown over the burial mound. Bonnie stoops and brushes dried leaves and grass from her father's marker, tracing his name with her finger. Ronald A. Cobourn. 1951-2019. We remove the fall flowers from the holder and struggle with the poinsettias, arranging and rearranging until she is satisfied. We kneel there for a few moments, our memories thick. She takes my hand as we walk back to the car.

I know in my bones, I've been here before
The ground feels the same, tho the land's been torn
I've a long way to go, the stars tell me so
On this road that will take me home.

"I don't come here often," she says. "He's not really here."

"Just what Allen says," I reply, thinking of my youngest child whose autism made acceptance of his father's death difficult. "Allen says it's just Dad's old broken body that he doesn't need anymore."

"He's right," she says and she pops the locks on the car doors. We slide in. "Daddy's in heaven now. He's not sick anymore." She puts the key in the ignition and turns to me. "Thanks," she says quietly.

"For what?"

"For giving Dennis and Allen and me the best part of Daddy. For letting us have that part." She puts the car in gear and sighs. "We know it wasn't easy." She pulls away from the grave site and slowly drives down the hill.  

I touch my hand to my heart. "But I kept the best part, too," I say. 

Bonnie smiles and we exit the cemetery
as the bells begin to play again.

And I know what I've lost and all that I've won
When the road finally takes me home
I'm going home, I'm going home, I'm going home

Story of a Chair

 There are hot tears running down my cheeks when I wake up a full hour before my alarm is set to go off. I lay quietly for a moment, assessing my feelings: I am unsettled and sorrowful. The last few days have brought many reasons for unrest into my soul; there have been shootings, racial unrest, and lootings near the city high school where I teach. But this feels more private, a personal grief. I fling my arm across to my husband's side of the bed and grab his pillow, bringing it close.

The pillow no longer has Ron's scent. I burrow my face into it, will my heart to continue beating, and the reason for my early morning sadness becomes clear.

The chair.

Last night, my son and I heaved and shoved and pushed my husband's heavy lift chair out to the porch, down the steps, and onto the front lawn where our town's heavy trash truck will pick it up in the morning. Weighing 168 pounds, it was not an easy feat. I clutch Ron's pillow to my chest and remind myself it was equally hard to bring it in.

I'd been looking for a lift chair for my disabled husband for months, but the price tag always made me shudder. The week before Ron's 68th birthday, I saw an ad on Facebook Marketplace: "Lift chair, maroon, good condition, $200." I called the number and arranged to drive down to Kennet Square on Saturday to look at it. My son and I left the house early, telling Ron's hospice nurse we'd be back by noon.

The chair was ugly, but serviceable. We lashed it onto the back of my Nissan with bungee cords and I eased back up Route 1 with my flashers on while Allen kept an eagle eye on the chair. Once home, my strong son managed to push the chair up the hill in front of our house, bully it up the steps, and squeeze it through the doorway. We put it by the fireplace, in perfect line with the television, and made a sign for the seat: Happy Birthday!

I'd wanted the chair to soothe the physical problems of Ron's hurt body; I still had hope that he'd improve. I envisioned the possibility of a future for us, the trip to Hawaii we wanted to take, golden years spent together. 

The first week we had the chair,  Ron pulled on the remote too hard and snapped the wires; I ordered a new one on Amazon. The second week, Ron pushed his weight against the arm and it pulled away from the frame of the chair; Allen turned the chair on its side and hammered the arm in place. The third week, Ron fell against the foot rest and bent the frame; Allen used a hammer to straighten it out. The fourth week, Ron ripped the pocket on the side; I took a tapestry needle and carpet thread and sewed it back. The fifth week, the electrical cord shorted out: Allen went to the hardware store and bought a new one.

By the sixth week, we had no need of a lift chair.

As faint morning light begins to lighten my bedroom, I wrap my arms around Ron's pillow and hug it. There is a light tap at my door. "Mom?" says Allen. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," I say, sitting up in bed. "Come in."

Allen's 6 foot 6 inch frame fills the doorway. 

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask.

"Thinking."

"Me, too." I pat the space on the bed next to me and he sits down, leaning his head against my shoulder. Allen's life on the autism spectrum made accepting his father's death particularly difficult. 

"I know it was time to get rid of Dad's chair," he says. "No one but the cat sat in it now. And I know it made you sad to see it everyday. But it feels like there's a...hole, you know?" He puts his hand on his heart. "Like an empty space." 

I nod. "But it won't always be empty. We'll fill it with new memories and put Dad into them."

He sighs. We sit there, our heads bowed together, and we hear the rumble of the trash truck as it pulls up to our house and squeals to a stop. Allen makes a move to rise; I put a hand on his knee and he slumps back onto the bed.

        "We need to let it go," I whisper and he nods. There are voices, faint and low, drifting across the front         lawn.  Truck doors slam. We hear the rev of the engine as the truck moves away from the  house.

        Allen rises and looks out my bedroom window. "It's gone," he says. "Dad's chair is gone." I join him         at the window, and for a few more moments we gaze out at the empty front yard. Our arms around             each other, we cry.

 

 

Voices from the Edge: God, Dad, and the Fortress of Solitude

“All of us need a private space. Autistic children need their secret places too in which they can hide and retreat to their own world. After all autism is a withinness disability and autistic children need the security of their own hideaways. I had mine, it was a place for me to think and recharge myself.” Temple Grandin

FedEx:Delivered 07/23 at 5:23 PM.

"Allen," I call into the dining room where Allen is playing a game on my computer. "I just got a text that your tent was delivered!"

"Really?" my son shouts back to me. "I thought it was going to be late!" I hear the chair scrape across the

floor and the sliding door Allen keeps shut to block out the game noises is opened. Excitedly, he rushes to the front door, eager to retrieve the package we ordered two weeks ago. I settle back into my rocking chair and pick up my knitting. A lot of preparation has gone into this event. We have put up a shed, sorted through Allen's collections of salvaged items stored for the last year under a tarp on the patio, and engaged in long conversations about the usefulness--or not--of certain things. The patio is now clear and ready for the tent--a pop-up gazebo--that will provide a space for Allen to work on his projects.

Like others who live on the autism spectrum, Allen needs his own personal space. It has not always been easy to attain in a small three-bedroom row house with siblings and a series of "lost boys" trooping in and out. A year ago, he claimed his now-married sister's abandoned room--once my office--as his project room, but I've lately been dropping hints about taking it back. Ordering the gazebo provided a space for Allen during the warmer months but also served as a prompt for him to clean off the patio. Win, win.

Or not. Allen comes in from the front yard, fists clenched together, struggling to control his breathing. "Let me see the text" he yells and grabs my phone. "Well, it says it was delivered but it was not! They are lying to me!"

I sense the beginning of a melt-down, something we struggle to avoid and have been managing well lately. I speak slowly and calmly; chances are, my son will follow my lead. "Hmmm," I say. I notice his breathing levels out. "Well, let's think about what we should do. Let's think about other things we've had delivered that didn't arrive."

Allen sits on the edge of the couch, my cell phone still in his hand. He stares at the text again. In a moment, he speaks. "We look in other places. Like neighbors' houses."

"Right!" I say, happy he is moving into problem solving. "So, let's go do that."

I abandon my knitting and my peaceful evening and we venture out into the summer night, heading in opposite directions as we check the porches and front stoops of neighbors. But, alas, the box is not to be found. I steel myself for what might happen.

But Allen remains calm. "There's that guy down the street with the dog," Allen says. "Sometimes we get packages for him and we have to drop them off. Maybe he got ours today."

"Good thought," I say so Allen grabs his car keys and takes a short drive to the mentioned house. I take the opportunity to call Fed Ex and reach a real live person, which is not an easy thing to do and may possibly cause me to have my own meltdown. I am told, politely, that the package was delivered but the driver will be contacted and someone will get back to me. I hang up knowing that no one will.

Allen returns and does a little bit of verbal stimming--grunts and groans--before he settles onto the couch again. "The thing is," he says, "I NEED the tent. It's, like, my space. My own personal space. I need it to work on my projects. I need it so you can have your office back." He eyes me. "You know, that, right?"

I assure him that I do know that and that I have called Fed -Ex. It is getting late now and there is not much more we can do tonight except wait, something Allen is not very good at.

He heaves a deep sigh. "There is one more thing we can do," he says. He gulps. "We can pray."

I am surprised to hear this as an option. It has been over a year, to my knowledge anyway, that Allen has prayed. I speak slowly, carefully. Allen is like a baby deer, sometimes, easily spooked. "Well," I say in my totally calm teacher voice, "that is a good idea. What made you think of such a good idea?"

He shrugs but I can tell he is pleased. "Well, Dad always liked my projects, right?" I nod. "But Dad is in Heaven with God now, right?" I nod again and try to keep tears from falling. "So I thought maybe Dad could talk to God about it, and let God know how much I NEED the tent. I think God will listen to Dad because, well, God's a dad, too."

I cannot argue with Allen's logic so together we bow our heads while Allen prays: "Dear God, if you have the time, could you go find my dad? He can tell you why I need the tent and how important it is to me. And if you talk to him, tell him Allen says 'hi'." My son finishes his prayer and looks up expectantly. "I'll check!" he says and goes to open the front door. "Nothing yet." He shuts the door again. "But there's a lot of people in Heaven. It might take God a while to find Dad."

I nod, not trusting my voice to speak.We watch an episode of Marvel: Agents of Shield. Allen prays again. And, after he has gone to bed, I add my own prayer. Fervently. On my knees.

The first thing Allen does the next morning is check for his package. It's also the second and the third thing he does. While he goes outside to move a few things into the shed, I make a phone call to the company that sold the tent. The woman I speak with, Jennifer, offers to send us a replacement or a refund. I tell her I will talk to Allen and let her know.

I am on my way outside, reluctant to damage Allen's fledgling faith, when I hear a thump at the front door. My heart pounding loudly, I go to the door and there, on the step, in all it's banged up and taped back together glory is a long heavy box. There is a picture of the gazebo tent on it.

"Thank you, God!" I shout as I rush through the kitchen and to the back door. "Allen!" I call across the yard. "It came! Your tent came!"

As excited as any small boy on Christmas morning, Allen rushes to the front and pulls the purloined package into the house, unpacking it and laying the pieces out carefully. "Wow," he says time and again. "Wow. God heard me. He must have talked to Dad!"

We haul the pieces to the patio and, with some effort and muscle, manage to get the gazebo upright and stable. Allen walks around happily hammering the tent stakes in place and asking which of the deck chairs he can use. Any of them, I tell him. I am probably as happy as he is that his place, his fortress of solitude, is now up and ready. But in a moment, I am even happier.

Allen, my tall son who has lived all of his life on the edge of the autism spectrum, who has struggled to adapt to a world he does not understand, who has in the last year come to a peaceful acceptance of his father's death, stands in the middle of the tent, his arms open to encompass his own territory. "Every time I am in my work space," he says, " I will remember that Dad still loves me." He lowers his voice. "And, I guess, God does, too."

Voices from the Edge: Handle with Kid Gloves

It was the White Rabbit returning , splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, "Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!"

—Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, 1865

Allen has pulled a shopping cart from the corral and tied our market bags to it. He adjusts his face mask and prepares to push into the market. I stop him with a touch on his arm.

“Remember what I said about the gloves?” I nod to the heavy gloves he has been wearing for the last two days as we worked on the yard, clipping bushes and clearing up the debris from many winters of neglect.  

He shakes off my hand impatiently.  “What?”

I put on a smile. “I asked you not to wear those work gloves in the store because you’ve been using them in the yard. They are full of dirt. We don’t want to spread anything.”

His outburst is instantaneous. “Then I can’t go in!” he says loudly. A couple of people turn in our direction but after years of mothering this autistic adult, I know it best to just ignore them. “I need to protect my hands! The CDC says so because of the virus!”

I speak calmly, my mind exploring alternatives. “You could put plastic bags on your hands, the ones they have for the vegetables.”

But my son is adamant. “NO! I have to wear gloves! I have to!” I fear we are bordering on a meltdown, the last thing any mother wants in a public place. And at 6 foot 4 inches, Allen’s meltdowns can make others wary. 

“Okay,” I say to him. “We’ll just go home and get a clean pair of gloves.” He is mollified for a moment but becomes agitated once back in the car.

“I just have other things to do!” He says. “I don’t need this!” He is taking short breaths, hyperventilating, and begins a series of grunts and groans, verbal stims.

“I know,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot. “It’ll just take a few minutes.” I keep my tone light. No pressure. All is well. The more I believe it, the more Allen will, too. 

He is silent for a few minutes, slapping his hands against his thighs, but his breathing is becoming even. I can almost feel the fury leaving him as he sinks back against the seat.

We are two blocks from home when he speaks again, his voice quiet and regretful.  “I hate when the beast in me comes out. I don’t like it at all. I don’t like to act that way.”

“I know,” I tell him. “None of us like to get mad.” As Allen has gotten older, he has gained more control of his meltdowns. They are now few and far between.

“I really try to have good intentions,” he tells me. “Like helping you shop and do the yard work. But then things go wrong. And I feel like a beast. And I just want to roar and I feel  like I could just, like, eat the whole world.”

Lately, Allen has been able to verbalize his feelings more clearly and be open with them. I am proud of how hard he is working at it.  “But you knew how to control it,” I tell him. “ You knew what the problem was and you told me.”

“And you solved it,” he said.

“No,” I tell him. “You solved it. You knew what you needed and asked for it.” I shrug. “I just happened to be smart enough to buy several pairs of gloves.”

We pull up to the house. I take a moment to admire the work we have been doing. The overgrown rose

bushes are now trimmed, the ground beneath them covered with mulch. The bushes on the hill are sprouting the little yellow flowers that were hidden under dead leaves. It has been a long, long time--years--since I have had time to give to a garden. I wonder briefly what Ron would think of the outside now.  I go onto the porch to get a clean pair of work gloves, passing the little stone I have placed by the front steps. “ Goodbyes are not forever, goodbyes are not the end. They simply mean I’ll miss you, until we meet again. “ I return quickly  to the car and hand the gloves to Allen. He puts them on and seems happy with them. 

“You can use these for market gloves,” I tell him. “We’ll wash them each time.” He nods and turns his hands

over, stretching his fingers. Sensory issues are a problem sometimes, but the gloves seem to be passing

the test. 

PENNIES FROM HEAVEN

I found a penny today
Just laying on the ground.
But it's not just a penny
This little coin I've found.


I spied it there in the middle of the bathroom floor, a Lincoln head penny staring up at me from the tile. I picked it up and grinned at old Abe. I was getting ready for a Woman's Prayer breakfast at church, but I took the time to walk back into my bedroom and carefully place the penny in a china cup on my dresser. It clinked against the other coins in the cup, a pleasant reminder of just how many of these little treasures I have accumulated in the past few months.

I've been picking up coins off the floors for years. I used to rail at my husband and sons; the spillage from their pockets broke the belts on my vacuum cleaner, found their way into the crevices of my woodwork, and stuck to the wax on the kitchen floor. Coins lived in the couch cushions or the car seats or hid in the pockets of jeans that were carelessly thrown into the washer, rattling around in wild abandonment. 

My husband would just smile at me and shrug. "Pennies from heaven," he would say. "Means an angel is thinking of you." Then he would bend down and carefully pick the penny up and stick it in his pocket, heedless to the fact that it would likely end up on the floor again. I tried, with varying degrees of success, to accept a habit I couldn't change. I ordered vacuum cleaner belts in bulk. 

In the last few years, Ron was no longer able to bend and pick up the wayward coins, but he still delighted in finding them. "Look, Linda," he would shout, " a penny! Hurry and pick it up!" So I would, and he say, "A penny from heaven!" Once in a while I would ponder where all the pennies were coming from; Ron's pockets were mostly empty as he became more and more disabled and his wardrobe consisted of easy on, easy off clothing. The pennies found their way into a jar we kept on his dresser. Finding coins in unexpected places delighted him. 

Found pennies come from heaven
that's what my Grandma told me.
She said Angels tossed them down
Oh, how I loved that story!

Like the other items that resided in the room that became Ron's the last nine months, the jar was eventually moved. I took the contents to the change machine at the bank. I used the few dollars to buy flowers for his grave.

But a few days after Ron passed away, I found a penny, right there in the hallway where I had just vacuumed the day before. I told myself it must have come from Allen, even though I knew Allen was favoring athletic shorts with no pockets in the last days of summer and with the disregard for social conventions characteristic of adults with autism, kept his change in a plastic bag. I picked the penny up and put it on my dresser.



She said when an Angel misses you
They toss a penny down,
sometimes just to cheer you up
To make a smile out of your frown.

Coins kept showing up, sometimes in the hallway or the steps, once on the bedroom floor, a few times under the couch. The coins were mostly pennies, although the occasional dime or nickel would appear. I asked Allen if he was dropping money and he just shrugged. I took a cup my best friend had given me and started collecting the coins. And every time I found one, I thought of my husband. "Quick, Linda! Pick it  up! It's a penny from heaven!"

This morning's coin, I figured, was just one more reminder of my beloved Ron, perhaps a "have a good time at the woman's breakfast" or an "I'm thinking of you today" or a mere coincidence. It didn't matter to me. I hummed a couple of bars of that old Bing Crosby ditty, "Pennies from Heaven," and got ready to go out.

My daughter arrived a few minutes later and as we drove the short distance to the church, I told her about the penny. "That's Daddy," she agreed. "He was always dropping coins." After the breakfast was over, I asked her to drive by the cemetery.

"Dad's gravestone was supposed to be in last week," I said. "But it wasn't. I want to check." It had been hard to see the stone two weeks ago when it arrived at Lawncroft. It would be harder still to see it over his grave. If possible, I wanted my daughter with me.

So don't pass by that penny
When you're feeling blue.
It may be a penny from heaven
That an Angel's tossed to you.

Author: Copyright © 1998 C Mashburn

"I put roses there on Valentine's Day," I told my daughter as she parked the car and we walked the short distance across the ground. "I hope they're still there."

Bonnie stopped and grabbed my arm. "The roses are there, Mom. And the stone, " she said. "Daddy's marker. It's there."

And it was. The Indian red stone for his favorite color,  the flying eagle for his favorite football team, John 3:16 for his favorite Bible verse. And his name and dates: Ronald A. Cobourn, 1951-2019.

Bonnie and I stood for a moment, hugging each other. And I remembered that penny on the bathroom floor, that penny that maybe came from Ron, that penny that reminded me that while widowhood had some very rough moments, it also had some wonderful memories. 

Like all of those pennies I've collected in the china cup in the last seven months. 

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. "