Happy fifth birthday,
little Bella!
Five is a milestone!
Courtland is just
three. He’s probably still more baby than real person. When we visited your
grave today, he spent the entire time crying—not because he misses you or even
understands that you’re gone. After all, you left before his birth. He cried because
we woke him from a nap, it was raining, his beloved stuffed animal got wet, he also
got wet, and the concessions offered by Arlington leave a bit to be desired. Is
it too much to ask for a hot dog while Courty pays his respects? Surely, the
dearly departed wouldn’t mind?
Caroline was five
when we lost you. She was so excited to have a little sister. When we came home
from the hospital with bad news instead of a baby, her reaction struck me. She
was so sad about you and so happy about the rest of life. She contently cried
as we packed away your changing table and diapers and laughed five minutes
later as we drew with crayons and markers.
Five years is a
milestone. After five years, I’ve learned a thing or two from you little ones.
I believe the
courage of youth is to live passionately in the moment. Adults frequently let
their regret for the past and their fear for the future close doors to progress
and possibility.
I’d give walking as
a case in point.
I remember watching
your siblings learn to walk. They fell all the way to the ground on a routine
basis. Many of these incidental spills inspired tears of pain and frustration.
Some of them left bruises and a few of them left scars. Yet, they kept trying. The
didn’t let yesterday’s fall discourage them from the next attempt and the
threat of tomorrow’s troubles didn’t even register.
If—for some reason—I
was yet to learn to walk, could I approach the process with the same courage? I
seriously doubt it.
After having my
skull bounce off the ground once, I would mentally categorize walking as a
high-risk activity. I would spend the next few days bed ridden, taking calls,
visits, and chocolates from well-wishers. I would probably be really gracious
and amicable about it. If you came to visit, you would end up laughing as I
described how my right leg was just a hair off skew, making bipedal mobility
impossible.
But the chocolates
would only last a few days. Believing I was content to crawl, I would watch your
momma waltz to the fridge to grab a cheese stick. In a fit of jealous rage, a
lapse in cautionary judgment might inspire me to try again.
The second fall
would be worse than the first, emotionally if not physically. In dramatically vague
Facebook posts, I would ask for prayers for recovery and healing. Prayers are always
nice, but the real intent of these posts would be to inspire more chocolates
and more pity. All the while, I would swear off the activity of walking entirely
for fear of the next fall.
As chocolates ran
low, I would find myself in a real doozy. I’m not sure if I would splurge for
the Rascal 300, but you can rest assured that some form of electric mobility
would limit the rest of my life. Sure, I would be able to make it to the
chocolate aisle of Walgreens. I would also cut my time spent in transit in the
Pentagon in half—the Rascal 300 has a top speed of 8 mph! But I would miss out
on so much more in life constrained to a chair!
The point is that we
can limit ourselves so much through regret and fear. Part of moving beyond your
loss has been finding happiness in the moments. I’m thankful for your siblings
to help me see that!
I love you so much,
little one!
Love,
Dad
