A week ago, I snuggled my 5 1/2 year old daughter as she cried through question after question about Heaven and her Auntie Cheryl. When I’d hugged her goodnight several minutes earlier, Annie became teary eyed and said she wished she could see Cheryl. I squeezed her and told her it was okay to be sad and at the same time we could remember the things that made us happy while we were with Cheryl. Her smiles and laughter and hugs. She nodded and kissed me goodnight. Then as I reached her doorway, Annie blurted, “But Mom, all those hugs and smiles and laughs are done!” and broke down in tears.
So we hugged each other some more and both our tears wet her pillow. Eventually the tears mostly ceased and she began with her questions.
How will we find Cheryl when we get there?
Are you sure she’ll remember us?
What does Heaven look like?
And several more.
I did my best and waited until much later to let my sobs out. I tried to share her sadness while also sharing wisdom. But, oh, how far from wise I always feel now.
The next morning, after she was dressed for school, she came to my desk where I’d started my workday.
“Mommy, when you and Daddy go to Heaven, I’ll want to go too, but I won’t get to yet.”
A few more tears. More hugs. How do I explain? How do I accept it all myself? I don’t know, but for her sake and mine, I’m trying.
The next day, these photos were in my Facebook memories. I marveled at the time that passed. How could that Christmas be nine years ago? How could Cheryl be gone almost 5 months now? As I considered these numbers, I thought next of eternity. Nine years – a blip on the spectrum of time. 5 months – next to nothing. Someday… someday that’s what it will feel like too. Until then, it simply feels like too much.
Carrie In Writing 