I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
August 11, 2009
>I wasn’t planning on telling Punky about Miss Linda for at least a few more weeks.
But yesterday, we began talking about her recent visit with her grandparents to the Atlanta Zoo. I asked Punky what she had seen at the zoo, and told her about Willie B, the uber-popular gorilla that lived there when I was a kid.
“Well, what happened to him?” she asked.
“Oh, he died,” I said. “He was very old, though. He lived a long time.”
“What happened to him when he died?” she said, her brow furrowed.
“I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully. “But I know what happens when we die. We go to Heaven.”
“With God?” Punky asked. She had heard about Heaven before, of course. “When do we die?”
“Usually, people don’t die until they’re very old,” I said. “Or sometimes people get so sick that they just can’t get well again, and instead they die and go to Heaven.”
And suddenly, the opportunity presented itself. Just like that.
“Like, you know how Miss Linda was very sick?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said. I went and sat down beside her on her bed, where she was playing.
“Well, Miss Linda’s not sick anymore,” I said. “Because she died and went to Heaven.”
Punky stopped playing. Her jaw dropped. “Miss Linda died?”
“She died,” I said. “And she’s with God now, and she’s happy.”
“She’s in Heaven?” Punky repeated in dismay. “And so I’ll never see her again?”
“Not until you go to Heaven,” I said, “and that won’t be for a very long time. And that’s why we cry when people we love go to Heaven, because we’ll miss seeing them for a while.”
Punky’s face crumpled. “Miss Linda will never teach me ballet again?!” she whimpered. It was a hard thought for her to take. Punky hates change with a passion, and clings to routine.
“Well, you would have had a new teacher this fall anyway,” I said weakly. Punky was unconsoled.
“Why can’t I go to Heaven and see her?” Punky demanded tearfully.
“We don’t take our bodies with us to Heaven,” I said. “We don’t need them anymore.”
She looked at me in horror and clutched herself. “But I love my body,” she whispered. “I don’t want to leave it!”
“It won’t happen for a long time,” I said. I tried to look sincere. Instead of horrified. Which I was.
“I want to keep my body forever!” she said.
“Look, Punky,” I told her. “Your body is great right now, but in years and years and years, you’ll get old and your body will feel achy and weak. It won’t be as much fun. And that’s when you can just leave it behind and go to Heaven and be with God and all the people you love who are already there.”
“But what will I look like without my body?”
“Well, you know how we read that story about Adam and Eve, and it said that God made them to look like Him?” I said, thinking quickly.
She nodded.
“I think you will look in Heaven just like you look now, because you are made in God’s image.” I said. “Only it’s Heaven, where everything is perfect, so you will be the very best you that you could possibly be.”
She looked slightly relieved.
But me? I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Despite all the great advice you guys gave me, I botched the death talk. HOW DID I BOTCH THE DEATH TALK?! My mind raced through all the scenarios that would result from this botched death talk. Punky, crying in her bed in the middle of the night. Punky, waking up from nightmares about dying. Punky, breaking down in ballet class. Punky, feeling inordinate despair each time an ant was smushed or a character in a movie came to an untimely end.
“Mommy?” Punky asked softly.
“Yes?” I said, preparing myself for the inevitable hysterics that were to follow.
“Can I have some ice cream?”
I looked at her for a moment. Ice cream generally didn’t precede hysterics. “Yes,” I said cautiously.
“Yay! YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY!” she squealed, bounding down from her bed and off to the kitchen.
I smiled and stood up, lifting my chin proudly as I followed her. That death talk thing? I could totally handle it. Totally.
At least, until she brings it up the next time.
Hold me.
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