A Few Extra Seconds

A few extra seconds was all it took to be sure that the man behind me in church remembered our family. The gentle eye-contact and careful smile was accompanied by a few extra seconds of our hand shake and words of "peace to you."



That man was our funeral director.
That man was the one who dressed my baby in the pink dress we bought for her, just for that day. That was the man who gently suggested I leave her baptismal blanket with him to be placed in the casket with her for eternal rest. She had her pink booties on, too, the ones they gave her in the NICU.

That was also the man who typed the wrong date for Caitlin's obituary, which had the effect of me feeling like she lived a few less days. It was horribly painful, and he wanted to correct it, but the paper would charge him (that meant us) another $400 to reprint. REALLY!!!! Well, my sis managed to shame the paper into correcting the on-line version for free, but the print remained incorrect. It was hard to stay angry with the one who shook my hand with a careful smile and a few extra seconds. We wrote no check for his services, and I still don't know why. But, I think it might have something to do with those few extra seconds.

Peace.

A Second Eulogy

Today, I listened to Caitlin's Eulogy that I wrote and a friend read for me at Caitlin's funeral. It transported me to a far off land. As Caitlin's death date is now just days away, I've been thinking about writing a second eulogy for her, but what would I say?

Caitlin continues to save my heart. Her life draws out more from me than I thought possible. She inspired us to collect and share our love for her with other families with babies in the NICU. She brought a renewed sense of importance to my profession as a music teacher, though, these days, I would prefer to stop teaching and sing only to my living baby at home. She inspired many to hold us with words and deeds and to walk with us on this painful journey. She reminded mothers to be a bit more careful and bit more gracious and a bit more grateful for their children. She helped put lost keys and forgotten appointments into perspective of what truly counts. She taught me to accept my failings in the big things and the small things and helplessly receive the love and aid offered to me.

Her death has destroyed parts of me as well. Her absence from our family is unbearable. The lesson of forever continues to be painful and, yet, meaningful. Caitlin found ways this past year to let her parents know she was present through the blue bird on the deck that stared into the window, the full moon that watches us through the skylight, the Autumn leaves that fall, the red birds that sing, a blooming cactus, and the butterflies that visit for moments.

Echo In My Soul

As Caitlin's death date approaches, I find I am swept away with grief. "It sounds an echo in my soul" is a lyric from the recessional hymn at Caitlin's funeral. It isn't death that echos there, but love and the music that is all that has the power to connect us here in this life.

Music was very important to us during Caitlin's short life. I sang to her constantly in the hospital. I made a recording of songs for the nurses to play for her when I couldn't be there. And as we walked out the door to go to the funeral, I grabbed the digital recorder that laid by her head so she could hear her mama's voice. I recorded her eulogy and many of the songs. I remember thinking, that I needed to be as present as possible. "I must pay attention," I thought, "and I must remember."

After the last post about "How Can I Keep From Singing," I trudged through the files on my computer and listened to those recordings again. The tears flowed, but that's love. I've drawn together some pictures, all from my camera on this grief journey and added the first verse of the recessional hymn at her funeral. I don't know how I sang, and in some places, I didn't--I just knew that I had to sing her out of the church as I sang her into heaven just days earlier.

To view click the butterfly.


Echo in My Soul 10/18/08