5 Years!

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