LISTENING FOR FATHER'S VOICE

10 The Lord came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!”

Then Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”

I Samuel 3:10

"I don't think I can do this much longer," says Allen. He sits in a dining room chair, the image of discouragement; head down, elbows on knees, tall body leaning forward.

"Do what?" I ask. I am trying to remember if it is Chicago or Terbium that uses footnotes as I scan a new document. I turn in my own dining room chair to look at my son. My lack of energy to negotiate space in my office the past few weeks has moved my laptop and printer to a fold-out Ikea table in a corner of the room that was so recently Ron's. Allen now fights space aliens on the desktop HP upstairs.

 Maybe I'll take it back someday. Maybe I won't. Maybe I feel closer to my husband down here, where he spent his last nine months.

"You know," Allen shrugs. "Trying to get Dad back."

"Oh." I sigh. I remind myself many times a day that autism grief is not neuro-typical grief. In the last two months--almost three--Allen's magical thinking has kept the hope alive that his father will return from the dead. Even though he participated in the funeral and saw his father's body lowered into a grave, he continues to hold onto the possibility of a Bible type miracle.

"It's just not fair that I can't talk to him anymore," my son continues. "No matter WHAT"-- and he emphasizes the word by raising his hands up--"I could always talk to him." Tears form in the corners of his eyes.

He, like me, is remembering phone calls from hospital rooms when Ron would call to say "good-night," days he sat in his easy chair in the living room and called out a booming, "Hello!" to whoever entered the house. I hold back my own tears. I, too, miss my husband's voice.

My heart aches for my youngest child. Injured when Allen was young, Ron was never able to run and play with him the way he did with Bonnie and Dennis. The only father Allen has ever known has spent more time in hospital rooms than home.

But a Dad is still a Dad. 

"What do you think we should do?" I ask Allen, whose position on the upper end of the autism spectrum makes the finality of death a difficult concept to grasp. Almost every Saturday has found us engaged in another magical outing, gathering clues for his father's imminent return.

Allen sighs. "We'll try the train station one more time," he says without much hope. "Then maybe we can figure out a way to talk to him. Even if he can't come back, at least he'll be able to hear us."

"He hears us," I assure my son. "We can still talk to him.All the time. Anytime we want."

He nods. "I know. I do. But I would like to hear HIS voice." He pauses. "Do you have, like, an audio of Dad's voice anywhere?"

"Maybe," I say. Somewhere there are video tapes of family vacations. Do we still have a VCR? Does anyone? And there is a audio recording of our 25th anniversary service. Do I have a tape player?

Allen is now warming to a new project. "It would be so cool if we could just hear him! Just hear his voice sometimes. Then I would still feel like I had a Dad." A tear slides down his cheek. "I still need a Dad."

"We all do," I say. Then I recall a lesson at Wednesday Mission Possible, the story of young Samuel who heard the Lord calling. In 1 Samuel 3, the boy Samuel is serving at the Temple with the priest, Eli. When he hears a voice calling his name in the night, he assumes that it is Eli and runs to him. But Eli tells him it is God calling to him. Samuel learns to listen to the Lord.

Now, in this new season of my life, I, too, am waiting to hear from God. 

"You know," I say to Allen, "I'll bet that if you listen really closely, if you are really quiet, I'll bet you can hear Dad's voice."

My son is skeptical. "How would that work?"

I think quickly. "Well, let's remember what his voice was like."

"Loud!" says Allen. "But gentle, too. Like he was always happy to see us. Even when he was hurting."

"That's good," I say to Allen. "I remember the way he would hold up both his arms and say, "You're home!'"

"Yeah," says Allen. He smiles. "And then he'd say, 'There you are!' Like we'd been gone a really long time."

"Let's be really quiet for a moment," I tell him. "And we'll just listen for Dad's voice."

"Okay."

And for a few moments we sit in the dining room where Ron's hospital bed so recently stood, where a walker and a wheelchair were at the ready, where boxes of medical supplies usurped the room. And we listen. With all of the love we both still hold for Ron, with our memories of him close to the surface, we listen.

"I hear something," Allen whispers.

"So do I," I whisper back.

Allen smiles. "Maybe it's Dad," he says. "Or maybe it's God."

My heart swells. A Dad is still a Dad. 

 

Voices from the Edge: Change the World

We have just finished Sunday dinner--a succulent roast beef with rich gravy--when Allen pushes back his chair and announces, "I need to go to the Dollar Store."

"Okay," I say. I have given up asking my autistic adult son why he needs to do things, but he volunteers the information anyway.

"What I get is going to change the world."

Wow. Pretty tall order for something that can be bought at the Dollar Store. "See you when you get back," I say as I start to stack the dinner dishes. My mind begins to wonder, what can be had for only a dollar, but has the potential to change the world. Washing dishes, up to my elbows in soapsuds, I ponder what was going on in my son's mind. Living on the upper edge of Autism Spectrum Disorder, Allen functions well at his job and is responsible about his car and his cat. But his brain works differently than mine, and while I always attempt to find meaning in what he says and does, sometimes he is downright quirky.

Something that will change the world.

I recall small things that have made a big difference. Zippers. Velcro. Chocolate chip cookies. Those little plastic things--aglets--on the ends of shoe laces.

Dishes done, I sit down with a cup of tea and a book. A few minutes later, Allen bursts in the door, a bag in one hang. He stands in front of me with a grin and reaches into the bag. I am going to be included in changing the world. He pulls out the item and hands it to me.

Toothpicks. A round plastic container of toothpicks.

The world is changed.

Allen bounds upstairs to work on his new computer game and I stare at the plastic container. Toothpicks? How will toothpicks change the world? I know there is some connection in Allen's brain, something that makes sense to him.

About an hour later, Allen appears in the living room, dressed in his pajamas. He scoops up his cat and settles onto the love seat.

"About the toothpicks," I begin.

He gives me a bright smile. "They're for the WHOLE family," he says, obviously pleased with himself.

"Hmm," I say. "Thanks. But I don't really understand how toothpicks will change the world."

He spares me the duh, Mom, look. "Didn't you ever get something stuck in your teeth?" he asks.

"Well, sure," I say. "Happens to everyone."

"And isn't it annoying?"

"Yeah. Really annoying."

"Just think, Mom," he patiently explains, "if all the little things that annoy people went away. Then people wouldn't feel frustrated and get in fights. We could all get along and concentrate on other things."

Allen's brain may work differently, I think, but there is nothing wrong with it. This is deep.

"So, toothpicks?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Gotta start somewhere."

And that is how Allen will change the world.

One toothpick at a time.