I have five children.
If I’m asked how many kids I have by someone new, I say four. Not because I am uncomfortable, but because it is a difficult conversation for others. My children are 21, 19, 13, 10, and I have an angel being held in God’s arms.
I don’t know if Andrew remains a baby in Heaven or if he is growing up like his brothers and sister. I don’t know if, when I go to Heaven, he will be set in my arms like he would have been on the day of his birth had he lived, or if he will meet me as a grown man when I arrive.
Whatever happens, I know that I will know him. I’ve never seen his face beyond his tiniest baby stage, but I will know him.
I never got to rock him to sleep or tuck him in at night, but I know the shape of his soul. I carried it within me.
And I will recognize his heart because it is enmeshed with my own.
Every day that I breathe I miss him.
I write about Andrew for many different reasons.
When I say his name he lives on for me. I will never teach him to tie his shoes, or help him learn his ABC’s, or shout for joy the first time he rides a bike or throws a baseball, but when I write about the tiny amount of time he lived under my heart his memory stays fresh and alive.
