Sunday, April 29, 2012

If She Were Still Alive Today


If she were still alive today, she’d be twelve—probably making tween jokes and liking things tween girls like.

If she were still alive today, she’d probably still love purple, and pumpkin pie, and spinning round in her wheelchair with Daddy at the sprayground. She would love the scene in Cars 2 where Mater eats a plate full of wasabi. She would giggle at the minions in Despicable Me. I just know it.

If she were still alive today, she’d be taller, with more mature features. She’d still be sitting her life away, strapped in that 5-point harness that forced her self-straightening body into its 90-degree position for 8 years.

If she were still alive today, she’d no doubt be stronger, heavier—harder to carry from bed to chair to shower, and back again. My back would be sorer. We’d be walking sideways with her down the hall by now. But that would be OK. What I wouldn’t give to lug her lanky, spastic frame down the hall again, kissing her cheeks all the way.

If she were still alive today, she’d still be stymied by the hostile, broken body that enveloped her like a stiff, ill-fitting garment that doesn’t move when and where you want it to. She’d still be experiencing moments of tears—overcome with sadness about toys and words and annoying itches that were just out of reach.

If she were still alive today, I would still call her peanut. I would still be her very imperfect daddy, taking care of her through my own frustrations and lip-biting lapses of control at her cries in the night.

If she were still alive today, her granite headstone would have been sold to someone else. Her grave plot would probably be the resting place for someone who died much older, and saw a lot more of life. A different demographic of mourners would darken the grass growing above her body. The rain and snow and sleet would be falling on someone else’s ground above.

But since she is not still alive today, I take it one day at a time, with a deeper longing for heaven, for things to come. Her destination now beckons me more than it threatens me.

I do not want to die. But half of my DNA has seen the other side, and reminds me that it’s fine to come.

I miss you, peanut.

15 comments:

  1. Scott,

    This is achingly beautiful. The continuing love you have for your daughter shines in every word of this post. I am glad for you that you can take comfort in her destination beckoning you rather than anything else. My heart and thoughts are with you.

    Take care,

    Casey

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  2. This just makes my throat - and my heart - ache. Thank you, Scott, for giving words to the grief - and the hope. We all need permission for both sometimes. Can I just tell you how glad I am that you are writing this stuff down? ALL of the fine stuff you put out here in this space? Well...even if you say no, I've said it anyhow!

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    1. Thanks for your encouraging words, Diana, and for reading. YES! I'm glad you're glad, and I always love hearing from you. :) God bless.

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  3. I hope you know that in this blog, Jesus shines so brightly in your words. That your love for your children and wife mirror His love for His bride, and His children. Thank you!

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  4. Thank you, Nick. I so often find myself second-guessing how well I'm making Christ shine here, wishing I had said this or that differently. So it's great to get your words of encouragement.

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  5. "I do not want to die. But half of my DNA has seen the other side, and reminds me that it’s fine to come."

    I feel this way - but have never been able to put it into words so eloquently. We only lost a baby, not yet born, but it has loosened my grip on life. I've seen this in the many families I've cared for as their children die. Thanks for finding words for this feeling. You are brave.

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    1. Thanks for your words, Genevieve. That's a great way to put it - it loosens our grip on life - at least life as we know if now. The older I get, the more I believe that heaven is the Higher Reality, and this life will have been but a dream. Looking forward to that day with you.

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  6. What a beautiful and moving tribute, Scott.

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  7. So beautiful yet so sad and true. Your words speak for my broken heart. Our baby girl would turn 4 on May 14. We lost her at 20 months. Way too soon, but left with memories to last the rest of our lives. We too yearn for heaven and our treasure waiting there.

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    1. Thank you for writing. We both miss our baby girls. Praying that you experience God's perfect comfort in these days leading up to what would have been her 4th birthday. God has promised to be close to the broken hearted. The Lord bless you.

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  8. Wow, Scott. This brought tears to my eyes. Your writing is gorgeous and moving - and empowering. Like others have said, it gives up permission to let go, to relax and let the grief pour through us. It reminds us that we do not have to be made of stone, and that if Jesus cried, then there's no reason we can't do the same.

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    1. Thank you, Patrick. You are so right. I got that advice from one of my pastors shortly after our daughter died. At the beginning, I was rather stoic and emotionless, resigned to the fact that God had sovereignly taken her home. But he reminded me that crying is OK. It doesn't make a man less godly to weep. It makes him more like Christ.

      Thanks for reading.

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  9. I have no idea who you are. (That's how this blogging world is most days, eh.) But still sit here crying my eyes out. What a beautiful piece!! I am so sorry for your family's struggles along the way and for your loss. Thank you for sharing though! Thank you for putting into words the very thing that many try to on a daily basis. For some reason, when our insides are finally articulated so well, it offers healing. Thank you!!

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    1. Thank you, Greer. It's a privilege and pleasure to spill it out here. God bless you.

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