"Mom. Mom... Mom?? Wake up, Mom. I heard your alarm. Mom..."
"I was saying my morning prayers, Tommy."
"Oh- ok- mom... I've figured out immortality. How to do it scientifically."
"OK," I answer, looking over at my son- all 5 feet, several inches (he is in a growth spurt, so I'm not sure exactly how many inches- his head reaches the cabinet in the kitchen that the grown ups run into with their heads at least twice a year, provoking all sorts of anger and un-necessary language), "Shoot- let me hear it."
Why, (why, why) do I engage in these discussions? Why is he even up on a Saturday before 10 am? Why? Well, actually, simple curiosity- what fantastic way does one scientifically achieve immortality- and he was up because he had been up since 11 (me- as in, you were up all night? Tom- no, I told you, I woke up at 11- me, again, like 11 last night? Tom- in his 'duh, mom' voice- yes- but I wasn't up all night, I slept and woke up at 11. Sorry, I'm the slow one.).
"OK. So. OK. Well, if we can take out the brain while you're still alive, and put it in a jar with healthy stuff that keeps it alive, and, remember when you told me the brain can be active after death? and sometimes it has thought? So, see, you do it while you're alive, and keep it in this jar, with healthy stuff. See? Immortality! You just need someone to carry the jar. See? Immortality!"
pause... I'm looking at him... He'll be 16 in April. He reads college level reading material. He thinks it only costs 1000 dollars for a car, he is three feet tall, and we can move to Chicago to join a sword guild. I love Him. I fight for him. I try to reason with him. I thank God for him. I so wonder though, why did God think I was up to this task? I'm clueless.
"Mom. Did you hear me? Mom. See, if you take it out while it's still alive..."
"I heard you, Tom-Tom." I answer as neutral as possible.
"You see my point, don't you," He states.
"Ummmm, Buddy, the brain is, like, connected to the heart and lungs and circulation- it needs blood and oxygen. You can't do a brain transplant."
Silence. Flapping. Clearing his throat. Flapping.
"OH," he says, and turns around and leaves the room.
OK, so, what was that all about? I'm not sure, but I always try to answer his quest for immortality the same. We are immortal in Christ Jesus. This part is just a little part, this being human part. I always tell him I'm not into staying on Earth; it'll be so much better after Earth...
Tommy can't conceptualize that. He knows here. And now. Change is scary for him. He believes, he knows the promise of Christ; he just can't imagine what that looks like. I tell him that none of us really can because we haven't been there ourselves for a visit. He laughs at that.
I think the nature of autism, though, is just that: everything centers around the self and the here and now. It makes it hard to explain why the future is so important (the future is not right now). Why, thinking things out is important (this is now, this is important to me. now). Why it is so important to be kind and nice, and treat others the way you'd want to be treated (this sounds funny, now, I think it's funny, so it's ok, now, etc).
But... there is this: always a new perspective. There is always some meaning, somewhere, some how. Some things will make sense, eventually, if you think like an autistic brain:)
There is also immortality. Faith in knowing all things are working together for good. Knowing we are all created in His image. No mistakes. All beautiful.
Thank you, Lord, for your faith and trust in me. I'll keep trying, for sure. And please forgive my momentary lapses in memory when I forget that this is all part of your plan, and I get frustrated, and I worry, and I get angry, or scared- because I know that happens a lot- but I'll keep trying. And praying. And looking up and forward... to You.
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