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."

THE MAGIC SWORD

“Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Allen lays three of his swords on the rug in front of me. Like others who function on the autism spectrum, he has many collections of many things, but swords are his favorite. One sword is heavy and broad, one is short with a curved blade, and one is thin but strong with a fancy handle. It is the last one that is the newest, purchased just hours ago at Booth Corner's Farmer's Market for Allen's birthday.

"I need to put my consciousness into one of these swords," he says. "Which one do you think will be best?'

A million questions circle through my head, but I look at each sword and ask the one I think matters the most. "All of your consciousness," I ask, "or just part of it?"

It is the right question. "Just the bad things," Allen says. He sighs. "I'm tired of feeling bad about Dad. I'm tired of trying to make him come back. I know..." he gulps "that he's gone. I did everything I could but--" he holds his hands out in front of him--"none of it worked."

I nod in sympathy. In the fifteen weeks since Ron passed away quite peacefully in his easy chair, Allen's magical thinking has kept alive the hope that his father will one day conquer death and return. Almost every Saturday has found us on another quest for clues. About three weeks ago, the journeys stopped as Allen processed the finality of his father's death and struggled with his loss.

Allen stands up and takes a deep breath. "I don't want to feel bad about it anymore. I don't want to remember the bad things. Like how sick Dad was. And how much pain he was in. It was really sad and I don't like thinking about it."

"Neither do I," I say and fight back tears. The nineteen years since the car accident injured Ron have been difficult, but the past two years were particularly grueling, not  only for Ron but for our family.

"So," Allen continues, "I'm going to take the bad thoughts and I'm going to transfer them to a sword. And then I will only have the good thoughts about Dad. The fun things. The happy things."

"I think, " I say, " that is an excellent idea." I get down on the floor to examine each of the swords carefully. I am not at all alarmed by my son's idea. As an adult with Asperger's Syndrome (HFA), Allen needs tangible items to help with intangible ideas. Many therapists posit writing down your worries on a piece of paper, folding the paper up, and letting the paper handle the worries (PsychCentral). 1 Peter 5:7 suggests that we, "Cast all your worries on Him, because He cares for you." Harvard Health concludes that many people with Asperger's suffer from anxiety but find it difficult to address. I've let Allen do what he needed to do to come to terms with the finality of his father's recent death.

And it seems we have arrived. I study each sword and comment on its good points. Then I touch the one in the middle, the one just recently purchased. A "Three Musketeer Sword" the seller called it because if its fancy red and gold grip. "This one," I say. "And I have two reasons."

"I agree that's a good choice," said Allen. "But why?"



So I tell him. "This sword was not here when Dad was here. So it has no...previous print from Dad. It has no...memories of him, you know?" Allen nods. "And it's long and strong and made of steel. It will hold even your unhappiest memories."

"Okay," says Allen and gathers up his swords. He takes a deep breath. "Good bye to the bad memories!" he says and carried the swords up to his room.

"Good-bye," I whisper and turn back to my knitting. Upstairs I hear the sounds of Allen's footsteps, his door opening, then silence. I do not know how long it will take to transfer all Allen's bad feelings about his dad.

But it does not take long at all. In a few minutes he is back. "I did it!" he says. "Now, I don't need to feel bad about Dad anymore. They're all there in the sword. I don't need to carry them."

"Great," I say.

"But," and he grins at me with the smile that has charmed since childhood, "I kept the good memories." He touches his chest." I kept them all right here."

I nod and look down at my knitting, letting my tears fall. "I kept my good ones, too," I say. 

Voices from the Edge: Tale of a Haircut

My youngest child got his haircut yesterday, and as I sat watching the very patient hairdresser continually checking with him and asking if he was alright, I almost began to cry. Haircuts can be traumatic. But before you begin asking for photos of my bouncing baby boy, let me tell you that Allen is an adult on the autism spectrum and getting him to even consider a haircut --let alone actually allow someone to take a scissors to his treasured locks--was a process I began two weeks ago.

With Allen, I have learned to take things one step at a time.



The Center for Disease Control (2012) estimates that caring for adults with autism costs the government between $175 and $196 billion per year. But this figure, high as it seems, only amounts to 7% of the total allotted to research and education for children on the spectrum. Research from Sweden indicates that this amount could be cut by 2/3s with early identification; while this makes sense, it is little help to those who, like my son, were not identified until adulthood. Currently, the Office of Autism Research Coordination (OOARC, 2019) states that only 1% of government expenditures for autism goes towards the care and needs of adults with ASD. That's depressing news for 2.7% of the adult population.

Meanwhile, those of us who are parenting an adult child on the spectrum are essentially flying without a net. We learn by doing, stepping back and forth in a dance with our offspring, figuring out what works and what doesn't. Then figuring it out all over again when the tried and true method fails.

In Allen's case, surprises are a no-no. Careful preparation is required for anything more than a change in dinner menu. If I need to address a new situation with Allen, I lie in wait like a mother lioness on the prowl, sniffing for clues that might allow me to broach a new topic.

Two weeks ago, as Allen stood at my dresser mirror, lamenting his thinning hair and the sad fact  that, "all men's haircare products lie," I saw my chance. I stowed the clue away in my brain and waited for an opening, which came a few days later when he and I were running errands and he ran his hands through his hair, expressing dismay at the tangles which had taken over his head.

"You know," I said casually, "Grandmom was a hairdresser.  And she always said that hair grew faster when you cut it. Just something to think about."

And he did. Two days later he approached me and said, "I remember Grandmom cutting my hair. But maybe that only applies to lady's hair."

My pulse quickened, but like the wise lioness, I kept my breathing steady. "Maybe," I said. "Maybe we could talk to someone who knows men's hair about it."

He shot me a suspicious look and I shrugged as if the outcome did not matter to me. "Okay," he said.

Then began the investigation to find a hair salon that worked with adults with special needs. Thanks fo Google, I found Benny's Hairstyling in Springfield. When I called and explained the situation, I was told to make an appointment with Sally. I did.

Next, I started my preparation of Allen, using all of my wily mother lioness skills. We're just talking. You don't have to get it cut if you don't want to. We'll go for lunch afterwards. Yes, anywhere you want.

As a complex development disability, Autism is a spectrum because it affects individuals differently. Allen's hot buttons are mostly sensory--heat, noise, bright lights--but also extend to social situations and the inability to discern non-verbal cues. When we arrived at Benny's, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Sally works in an area separate from the other stylists so noise is limited. Sally invited Allen into her chair, and he backed up with a frightened expression on his face.

Wisely, she took the hint. "We can sit over here," she said, "and just talk."

They did. After a few minutes, he was willing to sit in the barber chair. After a few more, he was agreeable to having his hair trimmed. A little more conversation, and the tangles and knots were falling onto the floor. Then--wonder of wonders--he agreed to let her wash his hair.

According to three different reports summarized on OpenMind.com, in another ten years, 3 out of every 100 adults will exist somewhere on the autism spectrum. And the $330,000 currently spent on researching the needs of adults just isn't--pardon the pun--going to cut it.

Zac Smith, writing for VOX, says this about his own adult diagnosis of autism: Autism  spectrum is a 
broad and constantly redefined space, a frontier of the mind that's still mostly wilderness. The revised definitions of it on the DSM 5--just a few years ago--are still controversial. It's still easier to diagnose aspects of the spectrum in people and more difficult to determine if a formal diagnosis is necessary, if it's even a problem.

Trust me on this, it's a problem and one that is likely to worsen until we recognize the need to explore the wilderness and remove the stigma that is often attached to "having autism."

And we need more people like Sally at Benny's Hairstyling, who treated Allen with the respect and kindness owed to every human being.

And now, since you waited so nicely, here is a picture of my bouncing baby boy. All 6 foot 6 inches of him.

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.