 Thirteen years ago - in the early morning - my third grandchild died. Kitty was a special baby, full of spunk and determination --- she simply didn't have enough strength to fight her way back to us. Thirteen years. It seems like a long time, and yet, not. As clear as if it was yesterday, I see her lying under the Christmas tree, trying to pull those shiny ornaments down so she could try to taste them! Often, I try to imagine how her personality would have developed ... where her interests would lie ... is she more like mom or dad, what are her relationships like with her siblings. Would I still call her Kitty or do I use her given name now ... or a maybe different nickname? I'll never know. It's difficult for me not to know, to always imagine. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder who you are. Kitty's siblings are all very social, responsible and trustworthy, comfortable stating their opinions, thoughts and ideas respectfully and with a level of maturity beyond their young ages. I can't help but believe she would be the same - if not even more - secure and confident in herself. But maybe a little less serious and funnier! Within the past year, Belle, Beanie and Bash have all been more forthright about Kitty and what happened to their family 13 years ago. Belle, now 15, publicly references missing "the sister who was taken from" her. At lunch with a friend from baseball, Bash told his buddy about his sister who ... you know ... is "up there" as he lifted his little blond head upwards. I haven't heard Beanie make reference yet, but I know there have been healthy discussions at home and friends are aware. There's no secrets, no pretending, no sugar-coating. It's all open, honest and real. And our family's story - Kitty's death - will always be relevant. Recently, son-in-law was at a social event where a man he didn't know shared his story of sobriety, mentioning that he stopped drinking after he heard a talk that touched him to his core. It was a presentation from a man whose 9-month-old baby died because of a bad decision he made while under the influence. That speech changed this guy's life, potentially saving the lives of his own children. That speaker was son-in-law. He introduced himself to this man, "that was me." Kitty's story continues to make an impact and I'm grateful that after 13 years. the feedback continues. Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky, watching over our family and beyond. On this 13th anniversary of our loss, there is much to imagine, to envision, to wonder. And there is much of which to be certain. My granddaughter's short life and her tragic death was meaningful. It positively impacted the life of her siblings; it made our family stronger; it changed lives of many who heard and continue to hear her story. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star 
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 A favorite tradition in my family is that when we gather together, we take a 'cousin picture'. My sister and I started snapping photos 42 years ago when her daughter was four years old and my son was born. As my siblings and I added to our families, we continued to press the shutters until our children scattered across cities and - eventually - states. It's rare to have the original generation of cousins in one place these days, but my own three kids have carried the tradition on with their kiddos, my grandchildren.
Over the past few years, I've noticed that whenever a cousin picture is taken, there tends to be a space, a gap, room enough for another child to be positioned in the photo: a spot reserved for Kitty. It continues to be an amazing occurrence. When I first noticed Kitty's open spot in the pictures, I was rather taken back. I interpreted the curiosity as a sign or message telling me, 'Look at this ... this is where Kitty would be if she was still alive. This is where she would fit in.' Snapshots from the past several holidays and birthday parties have continued to leave me staring at the days' memories thinking, 'Wow, there's where she'd be placed in this one.' Except, she isn't. Realistically, I understand that Kitty is exactly where she is meant to be, where God intended her to exist: in our hearts, on our minds, with Jesus, watching over us. In past posts, I've noted how Kitty's death brought healing to our family, how it saved her dad from his own destructive lifestyle. For almost nine years, I've clung to the belief that in Kitty's short life, God's plan for her was fulfilled. Moments ago, as I was looking at one of the cousin pictures and preparing to write this, I recalled a recent message published in my church bulletin. Our deacon wrote: "It is so important for us to take time to drink in all that God gives us. Each day the Lord sends blessings into our lives. Some are evident, like winning the lottery! Others are more subtle, like a cool breeze in the evening or finding an extra cookie in the cookie jar." ... "There are so many ways that God is communicating his love to us in our day to day lives. There are little moments—little miracles—that we witness each day, if we open our eyes to see them." Our family tradition has become one these blessings, a little miracle that I gaze upon daily in the pictures that hang on my walls. Whenever I go upstairs and through the hallway, I am blessed by the memory of my grandchild and the reminder of how she healed our family. Praise the Lord for all of those cousin pictures that appear to be incomplete!! Along the stairway there are also nine black and white 8x10 photos in silver frames, one for each of my grandchildren, taken at the age of two-weeks. The portraits are hung in birth order with the first-born at the bottom of the stairs, winding to the top and descending back down to the youngest. As I make my way up- or downstairs, I am reminded that Kitty is truly the heart, the center, of our family. Her image is hung directly in the center of all of the cousins, with two wooden hearts above her photo. Those hearts were cut by her dad and painted by Kitty's little sister, the Dasher. So appropriate, so perfect, so very blessed.  Holy Week is here and as Easter draws near, we, as Christians, have hope at the forefront of our minds. We rejoice in, and yearn for, the promises the Resurrection brings: eternal life, freedom from pain, reunion with our deceased loved ones and hope for the future.
Merriam-Webster defines 'Hope' as "a desire accompanied by expectation of or belief in fulfillment; confident that something good will happen; a feeling of trust". For those of us grieving the loss of a grandchild, the meaning of hope runs a little deeper. It runs more akin to a definition provided by thefreedictionary.com where it is described as "a theological virtue ... the desire and search for a future good, difficult, but not impossible to attain with God's help." For those of us in grief, hope manifests in the form of being able to move forward in our lives with purpose, to be able to function positively in society and in our homes. It means being able to actively support our children who are struggling with their loss while we battle our own griefs. We need the strength that comes from God and from our identity as 'Easter People'. While we perceive Holy Week as glorious, miraculous and as the basis of our faith, we also know that hope is needed more than just one week of the year. I am thankful to have experienced glimpses of hope during the past 12 months. These seemingly small happenings helped me rise above my sorrow when grief bore it's weight. * My daughter-in-law chose to share a dinner-table discussion she had with my son and three granddaughters. The twins, Kitty's age and 2/3 of the 'triplet cousins', had a homework assignment that asked the often heard question, "If you could have dinner with anyone, who would it be and what would you talk about?" The very simple, yet beautiful response they gave was this: ' We would want to have dinner with Kitty so she could tell us what it would be like to be in Heaven.' My heart welled with love and hope. Of course Kitty is in Heaven and because of Easter, we will see her again. * During the pandemic, serving meals at Ronald McDonald House (RMH) has been on hold, keeping us from our biannual tradition of volunteering in Kitty's memory. Mandy called one day, excited to have an idea for an alternate activity that we can do as a family to support RMH. Following our conversation, I realized that my daughter's enthusiasm, her plan to memorialize her child through this volunteer effort, is a sign of hope. She continues to move ahead, using Kitty's life and death, for the good of others, for love of neighbor. “We are an Easter People and Alleluia is our song!” We are not looking for a shallow joy but rather a joy that comes from faith, that grows through unselfish love, that respects the “fundamental duty of love of neighbor, without which it would be unbecoming to speak of Joy.” - Pope John Paul II * Most recently, an email popped into Mandy's email from a well-credentialed, local therapist. The purpose of her message was simply to say 'thank you'. This therapist counsels DWI offenders and her tools include a few old newspaper clippings detailing Kitty's story, our family's legal and personal journey and a copy of Mandy's book, "Stella's Story, Dealing with Sibling Loss". She wrote about reading the book to her clients, mostly adult males, whose response is never less than emotional. She expressed gratitude for the impact our story has on her clients, giving them hope for the future. We find solidarity in hope. Alleluia! Throughout our celebration of Holy Week and with the joy that comes on Easter morning, hope is truly the highlight. I feel blessed to be reminded of it's presence not only during this most holy week, but at moments scattered among daily happenings all year 'round. 'Hope Happenings' may not always be obvious, but by staying open, listening and being aware, these blessings can be found. Prayers for you at Easter. May you find peace and joy in hope. The last time I sat down to write, I was starting work on Kitty’s unintentionally forgotten memory book, a task that was entrusted to me not long after Kitty was born. My goal was to complete the book in time to give my daughter on what would be Kitty’s eighth birthday in April. It was a goal I couldn’t meet – craft stores were closed because of the pandemic and online shopping proved frustrating due to sold out pink paper and scrapbooking supplies.
Christmas day is a mere five days away and I'm feeling really good about the progress that's been made in preparation for my family celebration. Cards and packages have been mailed, wrapping of gifts is well underway. Three out of four varieties of cookies are baked, frosted and frozen. Tree and decorations? Check. There is, however, one thing that I'm struggling to get done - one thing I simply cannot make myself do. It's neither physically demanding nor time consuming, but emotionally it's extremely difficult.
This past week, I had the chance to spend some time with the grandchildren I see the least - my son’s daughters, N, J & G. Because their dad is out of town on business and their mom wanted to go listen to a speaker talk about education for gifted students (N fits the description well), I was more than happy to spend an evening with the girls.
For those of you who have not read back in my story, J & G are identical twin girls, born just two weeks after Kitty Rose. They are now seven years old and I think about Kitty whenever we are together. How could I not?  Next Sunday, sixteen family members and close friends will be 'walking and rolling' in memory of Kitty at a fundraiser for Faith's Lodge, a retreat center that supports parents and families coping with the death or medically complex condition of a child. I kind of wish that the event was today, rather than a week from now, although I completely understand the reasoning. So, for today I am at home enjoying a peaceful afternoon and gratefully anticipating next Sunday's event.
Both Mother's and Father's Day - quite honestly - aren't very enjoyable anymore. As I suspect may be true for many grieving grandparents, we are also bereaved sons and daughters. We have no living parents to honor and we silently watch our own children suffer through the well-intended greetings of 'Happy Mother's/Happy Father's Day' as they mourn the loss of their child. I overheard my daughter tell someone that every decision she and her family make is because of and centered around Kitty Rose and her death. At the time, I thought that was a bit exaggerated … Really? Every decision? Ever since, I have been mulling over Mandy’s statement and its meaning, not only for her and her family, but also for me personally and for the extended family. Just yesterday, I had that ‘aha’ moment – I think I finally understand.
There they sat in the tree outside my window - mama and papa cardinal, plump, robust and quite content on the first day of winter. Ah yes, my parents bringing me a reminder, a sign that at the onset of the season, day by day, we gradually gain more daylight. Our lives will see a bit more sunshine every day from now until summer.
How true, this analogy to our grief. Slowly, step-by-step, we feel a little bit better. We gradually heal. We gain more sunlight. Recently, I was asked to participate in a special grief session designed specifically for grandparents. The invitation came verbally several months ago in a very vague 'would you be willing to ...' manner. Until about one week before the session, I didn't have a clear grasp on either my role or what to expect. When I learned that I was to 'provide a nugget … something newly bereaved grandparents could take away to give them ideas for coping', I dug deep.
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