Category: Blog

A cold coming we had of it, just the worst time of year for a journey.

TS Eliot’s journey to faith began with doubt. Just as many hardships challenged the Magi, many difficulties assailed Eliot as he attempted to leave his past life behind and seek spiritual truth. Eliot’s earlier works, such as “The Hollow Men”, refer to the afterlife as “death’s other kingdom” and imply that we are all living meaningless lives. But after converting to Christianity, Eliot’s works took on a more hopeful tone. “The Four Quartets” has been cited as being “overtly religious” while “Journey of the Magi” centers on the Birth of Christ and the meaning it gives to humanity.

Eliot always contended that he had no “conversion experience” but quietly became a believer.

REFLECT: While he considered his salvation a very private matter and kept this conversion secret, it had such an impact on him that he wrote a poem as an allegory. How do you honor and recall your own salvation?

It was Communion Sunday, the first Sunday of the month, and on this day in June I was preoccupied with the end of the school year—my last—and the many plans I had both for the summer and retirement. My autistic adult son sat beside me quietly, waiting until the usher approached our pew and motioned us to the altar, where Pastor Amy waited with the bread and wine. I slid into the aisle first, Allen immediately behind me. He held his hand in front of the cup of wine, indicating to Tom that he did not want intinction. Tom nodded and Allen returned to his seat.

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And then it hit me: the grace with which Allen took communion and all its sensory parts had become commonplace to me. But it was just a little over a year ago when the act of walking up to the altar and accepting communion from someone’s hand was a challenge for Allen.https://lindaca1.substack.com/p/the-texture-of-communion?utm_source=publication-search

“The Texture of Communion”, written in May of 2023,  detailed the way in which Allen had to prepare himself to partake of this important ritual in the Christian faith.

My heart swelled with joy; my son was fully able to experience this moment, this fellowship, this reminder of the sacrifice of Jesus. Here, Allen belonged.

As an adult on the autism spectrum, Allen does not easily connect with things he cannot see or feel. While he and his siblings were raised to go to church and Sunday School, Allen attended more out of parental expectation than belief. According to a 2018 study done at Boston University, individuals on the spectrum were 20% less likely to identify with a church or religion. The reasons cited are not just a lack of intellectual understanding of the concept of God, but the social demands of church. Often, religious environments do not accommodate the sensory and learning needs of children and adults with diverse needs. Allen has, in fact, been known to walk out of a service if the sensory overload becomes too much.

In his book, Disability and the Church, Pastor Lamar Hardwick, an adult on the autism spectrum, speaks about the minority community of the disabled, a group anyone can join if they are differently-abled in any way. It is the way the church should seek to greet everyone, says Hardwick, being observant and considerate to those with diverse needs. Some people, Hardwick states, do not need fanfare to welcome them to the church; they just need quiet acceptance.

Here, at this little church in Claymont where Allen and I sought comfort and refuge after the death of my husband, Allen belongs. He is accepted. He is loved. He embraces the older ladies who tell him, “You give the best hugs.” He high-fives the men. He helps set up and take down the coffee for the fellowship between services and he assists with any dinner or picnic.

Here, he is not seen as autistic. Here, he is just Allen.

He turns to me in the pew, the taste of the Communion bread still on his lips, and whispers, “I never know what to do with the napkin.” Then he slides it into his pocket.

And this small act brings tears to my eyes because he did not hand it to me.

He took care of it himself.

Have you ever realized how difficult Communion might be for those that have sensory issues or are differently abled? How does your church welcome and support those who might be different?

Deuteronomy 10:18: “He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing.”

This is a sad but true fact: 97% of married women become widows. According to Gitnux Market Date Reports 2024, 7000,000 American women become widows each year. Widows are 30% more likely to die within six months of losing a spouse. And 50% of widows report a decrease in social support within three months of widowhood. Sobering facts when we consider what the Bible has to say about widows:

• Deuteronomy 10:18: “He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing.”
• Psalm 68:5: “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.”
• James 1:27: “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”
• Isaiah 1:17: “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow.

   

  

But just WHO is looking after the widows and their children? The US Census Department reports that the median income of widows over the age of 65 is $17,000 annually. Many women stopped working to look after a family and now face a life of near poverty without social support.

Wow.

I was widowed at 65 but couldn’t receive widow benefits until I was 66. Luckily, I had a job as a teacher and while the first few months were a financial strain, my son and I survived. But it was the lack of social support that was the hardest to accept. The church my husband and I had attended and served at for most of our marriage had a lovely funeral and luncheon. And then? Well, nothing. Oh, the occasional, “How are you doing?” but no real support. I found myself sitting alone in the sanctuary, Sunday after Sunday. My best friend moved away. I made attempts to approach other women. I even set up an appointment with the head of women’s ministries to talk about the plight of widows.

She canceled the appointment and never rescheduled.

So, 18 months after Ron’s death, I left the church where we had raised our children and sought a new place for myself and my autistic son. I knew then that something was incredibly wrong with the way the church and society treated widows. But I was still too raw with grief, too new at widowhood, to be of help to anyone else.

And now? Now I am stronger. I have not only survived but thrived. I have found a new and wonderful life with my son and I look forward to the next season, which may well include writing for or helping widows.

This is one of my favorite websites for widows. A Widow’s Might: Daily Christian Devotion for Women (awidowsmight.org)

If you’ve been widowed or know someone who has, what did you want people to know? What did you need help with? For me, it’s not having someone who can advise me about who to hire for repairs!

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I yelled at Allen last week. I could blame the lack of sleep, the arm that ached from the latest COVID-19 shot, or my very full class schedule. But the truth is that I was out of patience with my autistic adult son. I’d explained innumerable times over the past two weeks why his car was in the shop. That I understood he wanted his car back. That I knew it bothered his routine that his car was not sitting out front. I was calm. I was aware of the synapses in his brain that took longer to process information because the rich club network had failed to pare down the pathways when he was young. I knew his inability to multi-task resulted in a dogged determination to hang onto one thing at a time.

 

But I was tired.

“When will my car be done?” he asked the minute I walked in the door from a long day at school.

“I don’t know. They’re waiting for a part.” I dropped my schoolbag in the dining room and headed up the steps to change.

“Why don’t you know?”

“Because I don’t. Because I have nothing to do with the part. Please, please, stop asking.”

He didn’t. “I just want to know when I’ll get my car back. It’s MY car. I should know that. Can’t you find out?”

I paused halfway up the steps. “No. I can’t find out. I’m busy all day. The mechanic will call when it’s done!” I finished my climb and, totally over it all, leaned over the banister and shouted, “Sometimes it’s really hard to be your mother!”

I saw the shock on Allen’s face: eyes wide, mouth open. I seldom yelled. I went into my room and, for good measure, slammed the door.

I needed a minute. One minute away from parenting this wonderful but challenging adult. Maybe two. I sat in the rocker in the corner of my room, kicked off my shoes, and rocked.

 

Here was where I’d rocked all my babies to sleep. Even Allen, my youngest. I remembered the feel of him in my arms, all 8 pounds and 15 ounces in a blue sleeper, snuggled against my shoulder. I closed my eyes, remembering his baby smell, sweet and powdery, the warmth of him as he slumbered.

I regretted slamming the door. His brain worked the way it did. It was just the way he was born.

I rocked a little more, each motion the memory of a hope I’d had for him. He’d been a docile baby, easy to pacify. He would have friends who would hang around the house and go to school dances together. He was long and tall. Perhaps he’d play basketball. I dreamed of a career for him, a girl who would fall in love with his beautiful blue eyes. Grandchildren I could rock in this chair.

Not this. Not still living with me at past thirty, only able to work part-time at Walmart because social activities and sensory issues fatigue him. Not a brain that worked differently and confused both of us. Not a father who’d died too soon. Tears fell onto my lap.

 

One more minute, I told myself. I’d go downstairs and apologize. I’d be grateful to God for who Allen was, not what he was not. The rocking soothed me. It would be alright.

There was a soft tap at my bedroom door.

“Come in,” I said quietly, continuing my gentle rock.

Allen slipped in, his large frame filling the doorway. His beautiful blue eyes glistened with tears.

“It’s NOT hard to be my mother,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

I continued rocking, remembering the early diagnosis of learning disabilities, the years of special education classes, and the later news of autism. “Sometimes it is,” I said. “Sometimes I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

He stepped into the room and sat on the edge of my bed, reaching out a hand and laying it on my knee. “You ARE good at it.”

I kept rocking, the door slam still echoing in my mind. “Sometimes I don’t  understand you.” I sighed.

He nodded and moved to the floor, where he rested his head on my lap. “I NEVER understand me,” he said. “At least you do sometimes. But you keep trying. That’s what a good mom does.”

We stayed where we were, rocking. He let me smooth his hair back from his forehead, accepting my touch. There’d been no rules to follow after the diagnosis of autism and my husband’s death. We did the best we could. We would just keep doing the best we could. There might be other slammed doors, other loud shouts, and other feelings of not being up to parenting this autistic adult.

But Allen and I are in this together. With his older siblings off to their own lives, and his father living in Heaven, we continue to function as a family of two.

With an occasional slamming door.