The past couple of weeks have been the most painful that Bekah and I have ever experienced. Not long ago, our days were filled with painting furniture blue, hanging (and rehanging) wall stickers, folding and organizing cute, baby-blue clothes, and spending hours trying to figure out how in the world that darn stroller and car-seat work. Since Wednesday, November 7, our tasks have been quite different.
Bekah has been recovering from an unexpected C-section, and I have been doing all the paperwork, emails, and phone-calls necessary for us to be able to have a funeral for our precious little baby boy in the United States. The whirl of activities, while keeping me busy, has not necessarily kept the pain at bay.
We’ve spent mornings and nights crying in each other’s’ arms. We’ve looked through our little boys clothes imagining what he would have looked like in them. We’ve recalled the few memories we have with fondness.
“Remember how he would always calm down when I put my hand on your stomach?”
“Remember how he would get so active when he heard you preach or sing?”
“Remember when we first found out we were pregnant?”
“Remember when we found out it was a boy?”
“Remember when I first felt him move?”
The memories bring pain, and tears, but, at times, they also bring smiles to our faces. Thanks to what we (ok…mostly Bekah) read during pregnancy, we know that connection, attachment to one’s family begins way before birth. Thanks to that knowledge we know that our son, sweet little Silas Jeremey, felt and knew our love. He knows that he has a mom and a dad who love him dearly. He may even know it more now than ever before.
A wise professor of mine once told us that the Bible teaches us that there is a great cloud of witnesses out there, watching and encouraging us as we walk this life. This cloud of witnesses is full of all those who have gone on before us, and there is nothing wrong with speaking with them when we need to; we have the hope that they are listening. Silas, in his innocence, is part of that cloud.
So Silas, listen to your parents as we tell you we love you, we always have and always will. We’re sorry we never got to hold you in our arms, play with you, or watch you grow up to be the man we know you would have been. Our hearts are with you, and no matter how much time passes, there will always be a part of our hearts that will feel a little empty because you are not here with us, a small part of our hearts that will only be full when we get to see you on the other side. Please, listen again to the chorus I sang to you in your mom’s belly, because it’s still true to this day, “You are my sunshine, my only, sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you…” and even though you are not physically with us, I’ll never let you, my sunshine, be taken away.