My dearest son,
I have been writing to you since you were born…actually before… in a journal, but a few weeks ago I switched from the journal I keep in my bedroom to a word document. That was because your sister was coming, and I started writing to you both. Unfortunately, I only made one entry to her. She was so close to being born and my pregnancy with her had been so perfect. You were about to become a big brother and you were so very excited. We were so excited. Finally a sibling for you and a daughter for us. I have no idea what you will remember from the tragedy that took place after those eight months of excitement, so I have to explain it to you here. Your baby sister did not come home. You were with us at the hospital the night after Thanksgiving when we went to the hospital because I had not been feeling her move as much as usual. You were sitting on a little chair spinning around when they hooked the monitor up to my abdomen and then looked at me with their eyes full of pity and said “We are so sorry”. Quickly, the nurses took you in another room and gave you a popsicle so you would not see the scene that ensued. Your grandparents came to the hospital and took care of you. I’m sure you had no idea of the nightmare your parents were enduring that night and into the next day. But, eventually you had to be told. We consulted with the doctors, our pastors and friends about what to say to you, and then they brought you in to me. Daddy and I pulled you up on the hospital bed and I started by telling you that an accident happened in mommy’s tummy and that your sister would not be coming home. We told you that she had died and that she was in heaven with Jesus. I didn’t know what you would understand of that, but to my surprise you started to cry. Realistic like your father even at 3 years old. You somehow knew that what we were saying was real and permanent. You wailed “But I don’t want her to be dead” to which we all cried and could do nothing but agree with you. It was one of the hardest moments of my life. To break your little heart like that, to let you in on the adult pain that we were all bearing, it took my breath away. But I couldn’t keep it from you. It was impossible. She was taken from all of us, and no matter how little, you are a part of this family and I couldn’t shield you from it. Later, the time came when she was born. Your father and I held her for a long time and sat with her and cried and smiled and loved her. Then we knew we had to share her with our family…Grandmom and Grandpa and aunts and uncles. Our family had to honor her life too and so we invited everyone in, including you. They all got a chance to hold her, and talk about her, and remark on how very much she looked like you. And then when they were done, she was handed back to me and we had to ask you if you wanted to see her also. We didn’t think it would be right to exclude only you, but I was surprised when you said yes. We reminded you that she would not be able to move or talk because she was not alive, but we wanted you to see that she was not scary, or something to be afraid of. We wanted you to see that she was a life, a child of God….your sister always. And so you climbed up on that bed and peaked around the blankets. You said nothing. You just looked at her for a few moments and then looked up and announced you were ready to go home.
These last five weeks have been hard. So so hard on me, but they have had an effect on all of us. You have been more teary than usual – probably affected by the stress – and you bring up your sister from time to time. At first, when you would see me sad or crying, you would tell me you wanted to fix it, but I think you have finally understood lately that we can’t and so you have stopped saying it. You have asked questions about heaven, and Jesus, and when we will die and if we will see her again. All so hard to answer for a 3 year old and my heart breaks when I have to speak about these things to one who should know nothing of this kind of pain. But yet, we have all kept putting one foot in front of the other. You have had to be so patient with me, but patience is not for three year olds. There have been times when I have been unable to be the mother that I want to be for you, and for that I feel so guilty. I feel awful that any of this has been put on you, but it has, and it will probably continue from time to time. All parents want to protect and shield their children from tragedy, from experiencing such loss. At least we try to avoid it as long as possible, but for you it came so early and so tragically. I can’t change the fact that me, your father, you…our family will always have a part of us that is not with us. A part we are waiting to meet. A part watching over us. A part of us that is literally in the arms of Jesus Christ right now. That is a powerful and difficult thing to remember. Yet, when I was crying the other day, you climbed up on the bed and asked me why. When I told you that I was crying because I missed baby sister so much, you hugged me and patted my back and said that we would see her. I wiped my tears, reminding you that she was not coming home. You sat up and said “no, no Mommy. We ARE going to see her. You know. When we are very very old, we will go and see her with Jesus.”
My sweet darling child, reminding me in so many ways that life goes on and that this is not the end. There is no end.
