Lying to Your Kids: The Seductive Comfort of Heaven

It usually happens in the most inconvenient place possible. You aren’t sitting in a quiet, sun-dappled library with a cup of herbal tea and a stack of science books. No, you’re usually in the drive-thru at McDon't, or elbow-deep in a diaper change, or, in my case, trying to negotiate the terms of "just three more bites of broccoli" when the bomb drops.

My kiddo looked at me, eyes wide and genuinely curious, and asked, "Mom, is Rocky in cloud city now?"

I froze. My brain did that thing where it tries to run four different programs at once and ends up just making a loud whirring noise. One part of me wanted to laugh. Cloud city? Like Bespin in Star Wars? Is Lando Calrissian there? Another part of me felt a sharp, familiar pang of grief. Only a week prior, we'd put our beloved 16-year-old dog, Rocky, down.

But the loudest part of my brain was screaming: Oh god, it’s happening. How the fuck do I explain death to a kid?

The "Cloud City" narrative is everywhere. It’s in the cartoons they watch, the books their well-meaning relatives give them, and the playground whispers from friends who have already been "saved" three times before recess. It is the participation trophy of human existence, an easy, sugary answer to the hardest question we ever have to face.

And in that moment in the kitchen, I’ll be honest: I was tempted to lie.

I wanted to say, "Yes, sweetie. Rocky is in a beautiful city in the sky with all the other dogs we’ve ever had, playing with his Nylabone and watching you right now." Why? Because I was tired. Because telling the truth about death feels like letting them down. Because Heaven stops the crying. It puts a neat, tidy bow on a messy, terrifying reality. It’s the ultimate parental "easy button."

But then I realized what that lie actually costs.

If I tell him Rocky is in Heaven, I’m not just giving him comfort; I’m giving him a debt he’ll have to pay back later with interest. Eventually, that story will crack. Eventually, he’ll realize that "watching you right now" is actually kind of creepy, and that a city made of water vapor doesn't have a very good foundation. I’d be setting him up for the same gruelling deconstruction process so many of you went through: the feeling of the floor falling out from under you when you realize the "truth" you were sold was just a fairy tale designed to keep you from asking too many questions.

Rocky and my little booger, who is now 17 and the sun and the stars.

So, I didn't push the easy button. I took a breath, put down the broccoli, and tried to explain existence to a person who still thinks his parents are superheroes.

"Well," I started, "you know how everything in nature is a big, beautiful cycle? Remember the garden you planted with Gam-Gam?"

I fumbled through a rambling explanation about energy, atoms, and how Rocky's "stuff", the literal stardust he was made of, was going back into the Earth to help make new things. I talked about how he lives in our stories and our memories.

The look on his face wasn't one of "enlightened peace." It was more of a "So... no Xbox in the sky?" kind of vibe. He wasn't devastated, but he was processing. He was doing the heavy lifting of understanding reality instead of the easy work of believing a myth.

As atheists, we don't have the luxury of "thoughts and prayers." We don't have the convenience of an afterlife. We have the here, the now, and the atoms. And while that can feel cold when you’re staring into the eyes of a grieving child, it’s actually the most honest, profound gift we can give them. We are teaching them to find wonder in the real world, which is infinitely more spectacular than any "cloud city" ever could be.

But, man, it would be nice to have a manual, right?

Because after the afterlife question comes the "Will I die?" question, and the "Why do people pray?" question, and the "Is Jesus like Spider-Man?" question. We’re out here winging it, trying to build a fortress of reason out of Lego bricks and logic, all while the rest of the world is trying to sell our kids a map to a place that doesn't exist.

I realized I didn't want to just "wing it" anymore. I wanted a strategy. I wanted to turn these awkward, panicked kitchen conversations into a curriculum for a curious, brave, and scientifically-literate kid.

And now, I want you to be able to talk about death with ease without lying to your kids.

In Part 2, available to my Patrons, I’m laying out the "Critical Thinker’s Bedtime Toolkit." I’m sharing the "Comparative Mythology Game" we play to take the power out of religious fear-mongering, the specific "Stardust Script" I use to talk about death without causing nightmares, and my curated list of secular books for kids that expose the holes in theology. Let’s stop winging it and start raising kids who are too smart for Heaven.

Read Part 2