We Should Live Forever

We use several blankets daily in our house. We use blankets for eating, for sitting in the backyard, for forts, in addition to their usual uses on beds -- not that the blankets ever stay on the beds. There is one particular blanket, handmade by a friend of mine, that means much more to us than the others. We use it in our regular rotation, but it's different. We use it to remember someone.

We call him Little One. We all excitedly awaited his arrival in the weeks and months he spent growing inside of my sister. We talked about what he'd be like and who he'd play with, what kind of hair he'd have.

I remember putting away baby toys and books and the kids talking about giving them to their yet-to-be-born cousin. We went through books -- we have so many -- separating out which books were duplicates that he might enjoy hearing. For a while, we talked about him all the time.

He was the first real loss, real death my children have ever experienced, and they haven't taken it lightly.

He and Charlie were close in age. The children expected to have two babies to hug and hold and know and love. We all did.

Little One passed away shortly before he should have been born.


He was the first real loss, real death my children have ever experienced, and they haven't taken it lightly. It took some time for the disappointment to sink in; it still is sinking in, I guess.

We speak of him regularly in normal conversation and of the sadness of not having him here. Usually, it's Charlotte who brings him up; she seems to have been particularly sensitive to his passing and also to the feelings of his parents. I've really appreciated the perspective of my children in this and the way they trust God's goodness intrinsically. Together we mourn... and hope.