Just Breathe

If you have just lost a child, may you just keep breathing.

If you are the Momma or Daddy to children who have just lost a brother or sister, may you just keep breathing. May some part of my 6 year old reflection speak to your heart and help you love on and understand your child's sweet innocence in the midst of a forced goodbye.

At six years old, We feel. We love. We see. We hear. We long. We wonder. We question. We scare. We imagine. We forget. We believe. We trust. We renew. We hurt. We like. We understand. We remember. We feel. It all. We love. BIG. We see. All. We hear. Your cries. We long. For them. We wonder. Why. We question. You. We scare. Easily. We imagine. They're here. We forget. They're gone. We believe. In you. We trust. You. We renew. Daily. We hurt. Momentarily. We like. Life. We understand. Only Parts. We remember. Pieces.

Thirty years ago, my 5 year-old sister left this world, leaving our double bed a whole lot bigger and my world a whole lot smaller . . . I loved my sister. I loved my parents. I watched them wet her dried up lips in a hospital bed and rode a shiny tricycle just moments later, entirely unaware that she was almost at the end of her life, entirely unaware that I was choosing a toy over another moment with her.

The six-year-old version of myself couldn't begin to understand the definitiveness of death. It could, however, totally grasp the day-to-day difference of a sudden goodbye.

Shortly after her death, opening my eyes to her newest giant bear first thing in the mornings was confusing. Some days, I figured she had crawled out of bed before me and was just waiting for me downstairs, her white hair in that disastrous mess that came with the morning. Those mornings of anxiously sliding down the stairs to go play with my Steph were the worst reminders that she wasn't there.
Or was she? 
Where was she? 
Or maybe the worst parts were the mornings I remembered she was gone the very moment my eyes landed on that awful bear, knowing I would face an entire day without her. Again.

My six year old mind was rather lost. I remember those childlike thoughts more clearly than any other time in my life. There are so many.

Why did Uncle John have to eat the last deviled egg? Why didn't I get one? Why is everyone asking me why I'm crying . . . I told them he took the last deviled egg. Why can't I take off this stupid dress and play on the swing set? Why are so many people over here anyway? 

Why on earth would her bear be here? Why would we keep her bear and send her away? Wouldn't it have been easier to just get rid of the bear and keep Steph with us? Was it something I did? Was it something they did? Was I leaving, too? Could I play with her bear, or would I get in trouble?

Did they want her to go? Will we ever be happy? Don't sit in her chair! No one can sit in Steph's chair! It's hers. I like to look at it while we eat. It's her place. Where'd it go? Why'd they move it? No. She's coming back. She's coming back. She's COMING back. Don't. Take. It. Away. 

I could find her. I could find her and bring her back and make everything ok. Then the crying would stop. The silence would stop. We could play with our toys. We could dress our stuffed animals. We could share . . . her bear. Everything would get better, and I wouldn't be alone. Mom would stop crying. Dad would start talking. Shane would be happy. He would stop taking her stuff into his room. Maybe. Maybe, just maybe. If I could find her . . .


I will always know the inner struggle that death brings to a six year old child. There are the striking pains that come at the most random moments, those moments when your soul realizes she's not anywhere -  no matter how many times you've heard it, it's the time you feel it. It's the ache of listening to parents crying, shouting, begging . . . There is the horrifying moment when a family friend mistakingly calls you by her name, leaving your little soul zooming to the eyes of the one who was her Mommy, knowing her tears will soon fall . . . It's making a dandelion into a bracelet for her, running into the house to give it to her, and finding her stuff packed away. It's a whole world where time doesn't move in 24-hour increments but in a circular shift where days blend together, months collide, and counting time doesn't work.

I will always know the delicacy of mentioning her name, much demanded at times so it wouldn't be forgotten, then instantly forbidden as though the name itself was a weapon (whose effects were brutal). May you never have to know the name game. 

Even now, I can't put myself in my parents' shoes. I can't imagine life after losing a child. I really can't. Thirty years ago, I was wearing some pretty uncomfortable sandals of my own.

Today I think of the last text message I received from my sweet mom. Knowing the anniversary of Steph's death was a short two days away had her in tears . . . thirty years later. I think that's a good sign, a sign of a parent's unending, forever-adoring love. It's healthy. It's painful. It's the way our body wears the pain of our soul.

I'd like to say that my faith is so very strong that I could say with confidence that I could imagine making it through a situation like this, depending fully on God to strengthen me, and everything else that a solid Christian would say, but no. I can't. I can't say that I've got faith like that, but I can say that I've got a God who's big enough, faithful enough, and strong enough to carry me when I can't do anything but breathe. There are times when we are so very weak, so vulnerable, so ripped away from the people we love to love, that we have to choose to breathe. It's in those moments that we choose to continue, one breath at a time, that our soul's vulnerability meets a new level of God's capability. May we all breathe. 

Pursuing the Lord, One Breath at a Time,
Emily