Calling C.S. Lewis

I profess faith in God and in his son, Jesus. This defines many of the boundaries and templates of my life and my perspective. Having just celebrated Easter--the Super Bowl of Christian tradition some might say--it is especially troubling to me that I am having such a difficult time witnessing the end of my friend's life after a long battle with cancer.

It's difficult for me to even articulate my difficulty.

I don't think it's anger about the injustice of her struggles with a buffet of chemotherapies.

I don't think it's frustration about the cycle of hope and despair I've seen her go through.

I don't think it's sorrow for the days she will not have ahead.

Although all of these things are catalogued in my emotions, these are not the root causes of my own pathos.

I think it's fear.

And, if I am fearful about my friend's transition from this side of eternity to the other side, what does that imply about my own inevitable transition?

C.S. Lewis said, "Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret?  There are better things ahead than any we leave behind."

The first time I read those words I believed them, I think.

But, these past two days give me pause.

One good quote deserves another, so here's another:  

I would rather be ashes than dust!  I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than should be stifled by dry-rot.  I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow than a sleepy and permanent planet.  The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.  I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.  I shall use my time.  (Jack London)

 

I am all for living and not simply prolonging. But, I wonder why I am seemingly unconvinced about the better things ahead just now.

I'm calling C.S. Lewis.  I'm using a spiritual shout-out on Christianity Cash-Cab.  I don't know the answer and time is running out.

Heaven

As has been noted, McDonalds is Wylie’s favorite eating establishment. The drive thru staff is well-acquainted with my car, my order, my children, my life. (In a small town, one can hardly be inconspicuous in a pink Cadillac when your McNuggets are one of the two food groups your son enjoys)! So, I greet the employees by name and smile and make the most of my “most favored customer” status at our local McDonalds. One day, while driving past the hallowed hall of the golden arches in our town, Wylie—out of the blue—says to me:

“Mom, why didn’t Jesus put our house where McDonalds is?”

Now, I’m a reasonably bright individual and am pretty quick on my feet when it comes to witty repartee, but this stumped me. I dug for more information.

“What do you mean, Wylie?”

“Our house could be anywhere, why didn’t Jesus put it there where McDonalds is?”

“Well” I began to explain, “our house was built as a part of the Chapman Heights neighborhood and …”

My answer went off on a tangent about planning commissions and developers and building codes. None of this really sufficiently answered the question for Wylie and it consistently came up over the next few months. Not only was he consumed with “why” Jesus put our house where it was and the McDonalds where it was, he was also particularly interested in what happens after we die. He had learned somewhere that, in his own words, we “turned to dust” and this was of great concern to him. His line of questioning began to diverge from locations of homes and restaurants to the locations of departed souls! And, all of this at the ripe old age of 7! (These conversations have formed the basis of what should follow under a separate cover for future publication: Judeo-Christian Thought According to Wylie. But, some of the most precious of these meditations bear repeating here, if only to give you some more insight into the depth of an Asperger child’s mental capacities).

So, our daily conversations during this theological period would range from addresses to the after-life. I found myself deconstructing the whole of what I have taken thirty years to understand spiritually into manageable parts for my son to digest. For the most part, Wylie consumed my offerings without objection. However, there was one course that proved most difficult for him and that had to do with my own eventual passing. This emerged over a period of a month or two when Wylie would whisper to me in the middle of cooking dinner or at a ball game, eyes glistening with sincere tears:

“Mom, I don’t want you to have any more birthdays.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to get old and turn to dust!”

Now, as a parent, you can go down the slippery-slope of denial and revert to the pat and untrue response of “that’s not going to happen…” But, out of honesty and integrity, I just could not take the road. So, I chose another path, most likely the one less traveled by.

“Wylie, I don’t want to turn to dust either, but do you understand that if I’m not here with you, I’ll be in heaven? And, heaven is a wonderful awesome place full of all the things we love the most. It’s like a party! And, I’ll be waiting there for you!”

This explanation was met with silence and a nod of acquiescence. But, the subject would come up several more times. Finally, in the kitchen one day after making chocolate chip cookies together (one of his favorite things to eat and to do!) Wylie emphatically said in a breaking voice:

“Mom, please don’t have any more birthdays. I don’t want to be here without you.”

“Wylie, I’m probably going to be here with you for a very long time, but if I get old and die I will go to heaven and wait for you. And, remember, heaven is a wonderful”---but, Wylie cut me off.

“Mom, our house is heaven to me.”


And, now my own eyes were instantly wet with tears. The layers of meaning in this one statement from my little theologian were as numerous as the chocolate chips in the cookie dough we had just made. All I could do was hug him.

“I love our home, too, Wylie. Let’s do our best to not be afraid of the other heaven, ok? It will be just like our home…only better! If you get there first, you look for me and if I get there first, I’ll look for you, deal?” With a hug and a cookie to seal the deal, he didn’t mention it again. However, this was only the beginning of a conversation that will no doubt continue as long as I’m… not dust.

Who is Her Teacher There?

Wylie experienced kindergarten in a special day class taught by Miss Dana. She was another gifted Speech and Language therapist that would make such a difference in Wylie’s life. Educational services for children like Wylie were initially provided by the county in our area; therefore, this particular class had children with various diagnoses ranging from high functioning autism spectrum disorders to Downs Syndrome, to other physically limiting cases. One of the highlights of that year was the class play. It was a classic retelling of “The Three Little Pigs”. Wylie was cast as the Big Bad Wolf.

The costumes were adorable and included color-dyed t-shirts with the name of the character stamped on them (Wylie’s was brown with the letters “w-o-l-f” in black) and little ears glued to headbands. A program was distributed with the featured actors and everyone’s photo and credits. Picture this: a dramatic play starring kids who, for the most part, don’t maintain eye contact nor speak clearly and are given to outburst, tantrums, or emotional come-aparts. As I think of it, that sounds just about right for Hollywood! The props were excellent: card board boxes big enough for the “pigs” to hide in painted to resemble straw, sticks, and bricks. The curtain was two sheets painted with whimsical designs. What a delight this experience was for us and for Wylie. He nailed his performance, “Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in!” and then, “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff...” never before were the lines uttered with such precision and character. It was a milestone for Wylie and the other children.

One of the other children in this class had struggled with a weakened heart most of her life. Although I don’t know her exact diagnosis, the heart problem had caused her other difficulties and she obviously could not learn in a traditional environment. Her name was Hayleigh. Over Christmas break, Hayleigh was to have an operation (not the first) and the children were aware she might miss a bit of school. Tragically, she would not return. Her body was not strong enough to survive the surgery. Everyone was struck with grief. The teachers thoughtfully sent a letter home so we could prepare our child for Hayliegh’s noticeable absence once they returned to class. I considered the subject carefully before approaching Wylie.

In our family, we believe children go to heaven when they die and have taught our own kids that Jesus loves the little children…just like the song. I decided to be pragmatic when I began the conversation with Wylie.

“Wylie, you know Hayleigh, your friend from school” I said as gently as I could.

“Yeah”.

“She won’t be coming to school anymore” I explained.

Wylie asked “Is she staying home?”

I said “No”.

Wylie asked “Where is she going to school then?”

I said “In heaven.”

Without missing a beat Wylie says

“Oh, who is her teacher there?”

This opened the door for a thoughtful conversation about Hayleigh’s “change of school”. I could tell Wylie was a bit sad she was no longer going to be in his class, however the full realization of heaven and what happens to us when we die was not on his radar…yet. It was (and is) a subject he would come back to in the future. This was one of many examples of Wylie’s literal thinking and speaking.

Though these children live in their private imaginary worlds most of the day, they sometimes refuse to enter yours. This makes irony and joke-telling relatively useless and can lead to situations where typical parent-child roles are reversed. For example, that same holiday season after the “Three Little Pigs”, our neighbors built an elaborate display of Santa and his reindeer in their front yard complete with a stuffed Santa and Mrs. Claus riding shot gun in the sleigh. One morning, pulling out of our drive, I observed Mrs. Claus was missing. I commented on her absence and wondered aloud if she was up at the north pole helping Santa with the toys. Wylie stopped smoking long enough to clue-me-in: “Mom-Mom, they are just plush toys”. After a pause and quick glance in the rearview mirror at McKenna, the car erupted in laughter. We often find ourselves as a family entertained by Wylie’s wit, quips and questions. It is one of the delightful zigzags of the Asperger mind.