This afternoon I read Adam Greenwood’s birthday tribute to his daughter, Betsey Pearl. When she was only three, Betsey died of cancer.
My own “baby,” Caleb, is also three right now. He is excited about Christmas, birthdays, gum, car rides, swimming, playgrounds, ice cream, friends, lightening, and “going to the beach on an airplane.” As we drove to Salt Lake yesterday for his cousin’s baptism, he squealed with delight at the cows, the trucks, two airplanes, a helicopter, a mountain, the windmills, a big sign, some trees, a row of bushes, a couple of churches, and a man with a baby. When Anna was immersed in the water by her dad, he gasped in awe. Everything is wondrous and amazing.
Right outside my office window, Caleb is running around the yard with his brother, Samson, who is six. It’s an unseasonably chilly afternoon for May, and the wind is howling. Each of them is holding a plastic grocery bag up as high as their arms will reach to catch the most wind. They are alternately calling out the wind-to-bag ratio to the other and calculating how much stronger the wind must be to propel them into the air.
Losing someone this innocent and precious and amazing is more than I can even imagine. More than I ever want to let creep into the corner of my thoughts. I don’t want to believe that such horrible things can really ever happen to anyone.
Caleb just came inside the house. “Mom, mom! Come with me,” he said, tugging on my little finger. “Come see me in the wind!”
How could I possibly stay inside?