As I’ve watched the news about Newtown, Connecticut and read the articles and editorials in the aftermath, I’ve been struck over and over by the thought “how does a parent explain death to a child?”

I am a parent.  Our son is just 16 months old, too young to fully comprehend this issue.  But soon — too soon — he will be old enough to understand.  And, I do not look forward to having to deal with this with him.

Yet, I know, that every parent at some point has to explain death to their child.  A pet dies or a relative or a loved one.  Your child becomes consumed with grief, and you have to explain it.  But first, you have to decide  what you believe and then how much of that can you explain without the conversation getting hopelessly bogged down.

 

Does the person go to heaven?  Does just their soul go to heaven?  Is the body just a wrapper that wears out and then the soul goes to heaven?

 

In my mind’s eye, this is how that conversation — which I hope I will handle with grace and in a way that doesn’t leave him fearful — might unfold:

 

Me: Yes, son, it’s like you’re a piece of chewing gum.  God just uses up the wrapper and—

 

Son: Gum doesn’t have a wrapper.

 

Me: Some gum has a wrapper.

 

Son: No.  No. Dentyne Ice come in a foil pack.  So does Trident.  And Orbit.

 

Me: Yeah, but some comes in a wrapper.

 

Son: But, why am I not like the kind in a foil pack?

 

Me: Because  . . . because the foil pack was not invented when God started using this model.

 

Son: Yeah, but if the wrapper isn’t as good as the foil pack, why doesn’t God upgrade?  He’s smart.  You said God was the smartest person in the world.  Smarter than Einstein.  Smarter than Newton.  Smarter than you and Mommy.  If he’s so smart, why doesn’t he use foil packs?  Then, the person’s wrapper won’t get worn out, and they can keep living.

 

Me: Uh  . . . it’s, it’s . . . it’s because the Chinese invented foil packs, and they won’t sell foil packs to God to use.

 

Son: Why?

 

Me: Because the Chinese are protectionist.  And, they refuse to honor trade treaties and they flout international law to manipulate export-import markets to bolster their economy and take over the world.

 

Son: What’s protectionist? What’s treaties?  What’s flout?  What’s international law?  What’s export-import?  What’s bolster?  What’s economy?

 

Me: (Deep breath).  Don’t worry about that.  Besides, you’re not really in a wrapper or a foil pack.  It’s an analogy.

 

Son: What’s an analogy?

 

Me: I–  I’m just using the example of gum to explain this in terms you can understand.

 

Son: But, I still don’t understand why God wouldn’t use a foil pack.  God can do anything.

 

Me: Oh, for Pete’s sake!

 

Son: (starts crying)

 

Me: Oh, no, don’t cry.  I didn’t mean to yell.  Daddy’s sorry.  It was a mistake.  I’m just . . . Look, this isn’t about gum wrappers.  You don’t really have a wrapper. You have a body and skin.  And, that’s like your wrapper.  It keeps your insides warm and toasty and safe.  Right?

 

Son: (sniffles)  Yeah, I guess.

 

Me: Okay, so, see.  It’s like your wrapper.  And, what happens is that when someone gets really old or sick and their body – their wrapper – can’t do it’s job anymore, God gets rid of that—

 

Son: Wait, God, peels off your skin?! No!!  I want my skin.

 

Me: No, I mean, yes.  I mean, of course you want your skin.  God doesn’t peel it off.  The way God does it is that he just leaves the wrapper and he can extract the good part, the juicy part – the gum – and leave the wrapper behind.

 

Son: He can?  How does he do that?

 

Me: No one knows.

 

Son: God’s like a magician.

 

Me: Yes, that’s true.

 

Son: Can he pull a rabbit out of a hat?

 

Me: Probably.

 

Son: Can he find a quarter in my ear?

 

Me: Yeah, probably he can.  (Under my breath) Wish he’d find a billion in my ear.

 

Son: What’s that daddy?

 

Me: Nothing.  Point is, God’s the best magician there is.  He can do all of that.  And, with a piece of gum, he can leave the wrapper behind and take out the good part, the gum part, for himself.

 

Son: What does he do with it then?

 

Me: What?

 

Son: Well, once God takes out the gum, what does he do with it?  Does he chew it?!  I don’t want God to chew me up!

 

Me: He won’t chew you.

 

Son: Well, then what does he do with me?  I mean, why would you take a piece of gum out of the  wrapper unless you’re gonna chew it?  If you’re not gonna chew it, you might as well leave it in the wrapper and leave the person alive.

 

Me: Uh . . . well, in this case, the wrapper got damaged.

 

Son: How?

 

Me: Uh . . . I don’t know. It got old and wrinkly from being exposed to the air too long.

 

Son: But, that’s why God should use the foil pack.

 

Me: There’s no foil pack!  There’s no wrapper! There’s no gum!

 

Son: But, you said there’s a wrapper and gum.

 

Me: I. . . see, I . . . I’m just trying to explain this in terms you can understand.  You get a picture of it. See, it’s like your body is a wrapper and your soul is like a piece of gum, but they really aren’t those things. You understand?

 

Son: Uh-huh. Yes . . . .  No, not really.

 

Me: Look, it’s like . . . .  Okay, if I say you can run like the wind, it means that you’re fast, but you’re not actually wind, right?

 

Son: Wind doesn’t run. Wind doesn’t have legs.

 

Me: What?  Oh, um . . . okay, bad example.  How about .  . .

 

Son: I got it.  That time you cried when the commercial came on about the health insurance and retirement benefits, and I asked “how come you’re crying?” And, you said, “don’t worry about it.  Daddy just has to postpone retirement forever.  And, he should just take it like a man and not cry like a baby.”  That’s one, right?  Like you’re not a baby.  But you cried like one.  Right?  Am I right?

 

Me: Yes, that’s a good example.  I’m not a baby, but I cried like one.  And, you’re not gum.  You’re like gum.  Got it?

 

Son: Yes.  What kind?

 

Me: What kind what?

 

Son: What kind of gum?  Bubble gum?  Mint?  I wanna be bubble gum.

 

Me: Okay, you’re bubble gum.

 

Son: But purple.  Purple flavor.

 

Me: Well, purple isn’t a flavor.  But, you can be purple.

 

Son: What flavor is purple then?

 

Me: Purple isn’t a flavor.  It’s a color.  Purple is grape flavor.

 

Son: Okay, I wanna be grape, purple flavor.

 

Me: Fine.   So now God takes the gum – a person’s soul – from the wrapper and keeps it for himself.

 

Son: And, what does he do with the gum?

 

Me: Do with the gum?

 

Son: Yeah, do with it?  Like why does he take it?  ‘cause if he’s gonna chew me, I don’t want to get taken.  I wanna stay here.

 

Me: Why would he chew it?

 

Son: Because what else do you do with gum?  I don’t want to get chewed.  And, what does God do with me when he’s done chewing.  Does he throw me in some garbage pail?  Does he stick me to the underside of desk?  Does he throw me on the street and then I got stuck to the bottom of his shoe?  I don’t wanna be a piece of dried up gum on the bottom of God’s shoe.

 

Me: You won’t be on the bottom of God’s shoe, I promise.

 

Son: Well, then does he swallow me? I don’t want to be in God’s stomach.  That’s so gross.

 

Me: God doesn’t swallow you.

 

Son: Well, then what happens? You can’t chew gum forever.  You get tired.

 

Me: God doesn’t get tired.

 

Son: Yeah, but gum loses its flavor.

 

Me: Not you. You’re special.  You’ll never run out of flavor.

 

Son: Yeah, but I might.  And, what about all the other gum?

 

Me: What other gum?

 

Son: The other gum.  The other people.  All the people whose souls are pieces of gum.  How many pieces of gum can God chew?  At some point, he can’t fit everyone in there

 

Me: There are no other pieces of gum in there.

 

Son: Well then where does everyone else go?  I don’t want to be by myself.

 

Me: No, right.  Of course.  Everyone’s there with you.

 

Son: Where?

 

Me: Where what?

 

Son: Where are we?  We’re not in God’s mouth are we?  I don’t want to get chewed.

 

Me: No, you’re not in God’s mouth.

 

Son: So then where are we?

 

Me: A pantry.

 

Son: What’s a pantry?

 

Me: A closet.  It’s like a closet, but it’s in the kitchen.  God has a special closet in heaven where he takes all this gum – all these people’s souls – and he puts them there for safekeeping.

 

Son: I don’t wanna be in a closet.  It’s too dark.

 

Me: Not this closet.  This one’s see-through.

 

Son: See-through?

 

Me: Yeah, see-through.  This way God can see you, and you can see God.

 

Son: And, how do we breathe?

 

Me: I—

 

Son: If the door’s closed to the closet how do we get air to breathe?

 

Me: It’s a special closet.  Lots of air holes.

 

Son: Are there shelves?

 

Me: Yes.  Tons.

 

Son: I wanna be on the top-shelf.  Like bunk beds.

 

Me: Well, you’re in luck. That’s where you go.

 

Son: How do you know?

 

Me: Um . . . it’s in alphabetical order.  Our last name starts with “B” so we’re right near the top.

 

Son: I don’t want to be near the top.  I wanna be at the top.

 

Me: Okay,  you can move up.

 

Son: How?

 

Me: There’s a rule that says that once you have your spot, you can trade spots with people whenever you like.  This way you can visit people.

 

Son: Good. ‘Cause I was going to ask you how I visit my friends whose name starts with “W.”

 

Me: I knew you would.  That’s why I invented, er, told you about that rule.

 

Son: So, then what happens?

 

Me: What do you mean?

 

Son: Well, once I’m in the closet, what happens?  Do we play?  Do we go to school?  What happens?

 

Me: You just do what you want.

 

Son: In a closet?

 

Me: Yeah, it’s a huge closet.  Tons of room.  It’s actually less like a closet and more like a giant stadium, like Yankee Stadium, but way, way bigger.

 

Son: Is there a scoreboard?

 

Me: No.

 

Son: Is there food?  I like hot dogs.

 

Me: There is food.  Tons.  Lots of hot dogs and hamburgers and ice cream and all the good stuff you like.

 

Son: But, I’m not eating any gum when I’m there ‘cause it could be someone.

 

Me: Good plan.