Emma

Emma is a beautiful little girl that I will never meet. 

She has spunk and personality. She is the exception. She is a fighter. She loves life. She is stubborn. She doesn't despair when others lose faith; in fact, she doesn't really pay any attention at all to things others may say about her. She is a bundle of love and joy. She loves her family. She has a purpose. She is a daughter of God. And she is my niece. 

Her father said, "How would you feel if you were coming to a family and everyone was depressed you were coming?"

It's given me a lot to think about. But I've decided that I don't agree. We are thrilled that she's coming to our (Jensen) family; we're all just depressed that she's not staying.

At 23 weeks, my sister- and brother-in-law found out that their baby was not developing properly. Her heart was growing too big and her lungs weren't growing at all. (Metaphorically speaking, don't we all wish our hearts were a little bigger so we could love a whole lot more? I don't mean to make light about such serious and somber things, but in the bigger picture, it's definitely something to think about.) The doctors and specialists they saw said no baby with her condition had ever lived. Most babies died in the womb. The fact that little Emma has lived this long is nothing short of a miracle. 

I don't write this in any way to try and make any attempt to emulate the feelings of Emma's parents. I know that I do not know what they are going through. Not to be selfish, but I hope that I never know what they are going through. 

I have been so touched and impressed at their faith and strength through such a difficult experience. I've wept when I've heard that they wept, and probably at other times when they haven't. 

Loss is something my heart does not deal with very well. When my grandma died when I was 8 years old, I sobbed...for weeks. I used to make up songs about her. I didn't even know her very well. But I knew at that time that my life would be different because she would not be a part of it. Even the simple loss of friends, because life's paths have taken us different directions and staying close and in-touch has failed, my heart has ached. I hate losing the interactions, or even the possibilities of memories, with those that have touched my heart. 

I'm not trying to compare the loss of my grandma or broken friendships to my brother- and sister-in-laws' loss of their daughter. They don't compare. But my heart aches. It aches for them. It aches for my family. And it aches for me. My heart aches because for this earthly life, we will not get to make memories with Emma. We won't get to see her grow and learn and develop. We won't get to see her smile, or wipe away her tears, or laugh and giggle as we play. My son won't get to be close to his cousin. Not now.

But later, we will. With each ache of loss, I find peace and hope amid the tears, knowing that there's more to life than death and sorrow. There is love. And there is Life. We are families far after our mortal bodies rest in the earth. 

Christ is the reason. He lives, so that we will live. His love  binds our sorrow and heals our grief. His love magnifies our joys. His love creates our purpose. His love makes us an Eternal Family.