The Heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. (Psalm 19:1)
A VAST UNIVERSE
Allen adjusts the lens of his new telescope. “Heaven must be up there somewhere,” he tells me as I lay back on our front lawn and look up at the night sky. “If we can see it, we’ll know where Dad is!” Since his father’s death seven weeks ago, much of my adult autistic son’s energy has been spent in attempting to locate Ron’s whereabouts.
My heart aches for my son, who cannot yet accept the finality of his dad’s passing. Like many on the autism spectrum, the world is a vastly confusing place to Allen, full of noises and sights and things that overload and confuse his neuro-atypical brain. He is most comfortable in a concrete world with things he can control. If he can see it, he reasons, he can exercise control over it. The vastness of the universe overwhelms him.
THE COMFORT OF STARS
King David, too, found himself overwhelmed by God’s creation. He describes the glory of God displayed in the blue sky of morning and the dark expanse of night, the careful placement of the planets and the stars and the clouds as a declaration of “the Glory of God ” (Psalm 19:1). The creation speaks to our senses; in the Hebrew text, the image is of a gushing spring pouring forth sweet water.
The psalmist poetically describes the heavens as a tabernacle for the sun which God has placed to provide both light and heat for his created beings. The stars, too, provide comfort in the night. Without the stars, David Guznik states in his commentary on Psalm 19, the blackness of the night would close in around us and we would see the blank sky empty, evidence of our aloneness in the great expanse of space.
I recall the words of C.S. Lewis as I survey the bright diamonds God has spread across the velvet night: “The Psalm reflects, more than any other, the beauty and splendor of the Hebrew poetry found in the Psalter.” It is beauty; it is perfection; it is love.
LOOKING FOR DAD
But to my son, still adjusting the lens and repositioning his telescope, it is staggering. In the billions of miles of all creation, where is his father? How can he find him?
“Do you think Heaven is in just one spot?” Allen asks me. “I read somewhere that scientists think there is this great big empty space near the North Star.”
I rise up from the lawn and join him at his telescope, peering into the lens in the direction he’s indicated. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “God has made an infinite universe because He’s an infinite God. But I know God has made a place for Dad.”
Allen’s shoulders slump. I give him a quick hug. “I just wish I could see where Dad is. So I can know for sure that he’s okay. That he’s happy.”
“We can know it,” I tell him. I reach my arms out towards the heavens. “The God who made all of this so carefully and perfectly would also take great care with Dad. As much as we love Dad, God loves him even more.”
“I guess,” Allen says. He continues to scan the skies, looking for concrete evidence of Heaven’s existence and his father’s residency. He sighs. “Well, at least there’s a lot of space if some people in Heaven want to play baseball. I think Dad would like it if he could play baseball again. He missed playing when he got sick.” He grins. “Like that movie he liked, Field Of Dreams.”
“I think he’d like that, too,” I say. “Let’s just stand here for a moment and think about Dad rounding the bases up in Heaven.”
We stand under the night sky, my arm around Allen. My son’s acceptance of his father’s death and his promotion to Heaven grows slowly. But God is not only capable of infinite creation, but of infinite patience.
He’ll wait until Allen is ready.
This event was part of the grief process of an autistic adult. To read more about the faith journey Dr. Linda Cobourn took with her son, Allen, after the death of her husband, visit her blog: Quirky: Because we’re all a little different at lindaca1.substack.com.
