"How Will I Get to Heaven?"

By Katherine Krahling, Waukesha, Wisconsin

As appeared in

I can't say my son's question caught me completely off guard. "Mama, where will I go after I die?"

I'd just tucked five-year-old Timmy into bed and kissed him good night. He was so quiet, I had thought he was already sleeping. He wasn't. Now he stared up at me from the pillow, his eyes alert and serious.

"You'll go to heaven," I said. "And be with Jesus."

"But how will I find heaven? I don't know where it is."

My sweet Timmy. "When the time comes, you won't have any trouble. Jesus will be there, and he'll show you the way."

I kissed Timmy on the forehead. He hugged me tighter than usual, but he seemed to accept my explanation and, when I switched off the light, I thought I could hear his sleepy breathing.

I've always tried to be honest with my son about death. I've never had a choice. Timmy was born with spina bifida, a birth defect that left him paralyzed from the chest down and with a host of medical problems. For as long as I can remember, the doctors have told us to get ready to lose him. How could a mother ever prepare herself for that?

Instead, I concentrated on doing everything I could to keep Timmy here with me. He needed constant medical attention, and he couldn't go anywhere without a wheelchair.

I was with him 24 hours a day, always on the lookout for danger signs. Were his pupils dilated? Was he having trouble breathing? Was his pulse normal?

Getting Timmy ready for bed that night—like every night—had taken almost an hour. I gave him his medications, checked his IV tube, drained his catheter, tested his reflexes, massaged him with lotion. Even the slightest mistake could be serious.

Before I climbed into bed, I opened my door so that I could hear Timmy down the hall. I had to be ready for any emergency.

I switched on my reading light and picked up a book. Suddenly, a loud sob shattered the silence.

Timmy! I jumped to my feet and dashed down the hall to his room. He was lying right where I'd left him, crying.

"What's the matter, baby?" I asked, taking him gently in my arms. "Do you feel okay?"

He nodded, but kept on sobbing, his little body shaking. Was it something serious? I felt his forehead. Normal. Timmy choked back his tears.

"Why are you crying?"

"I don't think I can go to heaven," he said at last.

"Why not?"

"Because my wheelchair won't fit into that box they send you in," he said. "How can I get to heaven without my wheelchair?"

I was relieved. I could handle this. I thought fast.

"You don't have to worry," I told him. "You won't need your wheelchair. You'll be able to walk and run, just like other boys."

"My legs will work?" he asked.

"That's right," I said, "and you'll have wings. You'll fly."

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really. The angels will bring you wings, when the time comes. And that's how you'll get to heaven. You can leave that old wheelchair behind!"

He buried his head in my arm, and I rubbed his back until I felt him relax. I gave him a few extra kisses and laid him down on the pillow. Then I tiptoed out of his room and back into my own bed.

I shut out the lights, but lay there a long time. I'd just done a good bit of mothering. I knew that. But it was easy to explain death to a five-year-old. How could I understand it myself?