A Baby's Death at Easter

By Elizabeth Foss
Herald Columnist
(From the issue of 4/17/03)

I was nearly finished writing this column when a phone call changed its focus and forced me to stop and reconsider its message. Here’s how I began:

I love mornings. No matter how tired I am when I go to sleep at night, no matter how discouraged, there are at least a few minutes in the morning when the promise of a new day is filled with hope and joy.

I am usually awakened by my infant, Kirsten, who calls to me in a sing-song chatter and rewards me with a glorious smile and the gleeful, excited kicking of her feet. It doesn’t matter how many times this child awakened me in the middle of the night, I am always happy to scoop her up in the morning and inhale her sweetness.

We spend some time together, just the two of us, rocking and cuddling in the early dawn. Soon enough, children of all ages will careen down the stairs. As soon as they are old enough to talk, they are taught that the first things out of their mouths — before the whine for breakfast, before the demand for the day’s agenda — is "Good morning, Mommy!" And they are scooped up, too, according to size. The day begins sweetly, with love and with joy.

I am a morning person. In every morning is a little bit of Easter. Every morning grants an opportunity to begin again and a promise of God’s grace. The majesty of sunrise brings with it the hope of a risen Lord.

That’s as far as I got when the phone rang. It is my friend Bonnie. Her voice was tight and strained.

"I won’t be able to come over this afternoon as we planned. I have Joan’s little boy here playing with my children. When Joan’s husband went in this morning to get the baby to bring him to her, he found the baby dead." Bonnie is crying now and I have gasped audibly. Instinctively, I turn to see my baby playing on the floor with her siblings. I discuss with Bonnie the details of the day—who is with the family, how should we organize meals and childcare and support. The call ends and I reach for my baby and head for my bedroom. There, with her safely at my breast, I cry.

We are an Easter people. We believe in the message of hope and joy that is the Risen Lord. But there are times in our lives when we live shoulder the cross and we live in the tomb. Sudden infant death is the nightmare of every new parent. I can’t imagine a greater pain than to suddenly, randomly lose a nursing baby. I can’t imagine ever facing morning again with unabated joy. But morning comes.

And when it comes, a Christian recognizes in it the promise of her Lord. She recognizes that our children are only ours for a very little time, even if no harm comes to them here on earth. We are entrusted them by God and charged with the great responsibility of raising them for heaven. Heaven is the ultimate good morning and our goal is for all of us to be there together.

On Good Friday, our family watches the end of Jesus of Nazareth, from the ride into Jerusalem through the crucifixion. My children hate this tradition. They can’t stand to watch the cruelty, the pain, the death. We recoil, too, from the very real pain in life.

The pain is part of the Easter story. God works in people’s lives. He shapes them. He molds them. Most people aren’t pliable, soft clay in the potter’s hands. Instead they hardened. He chisels them. And it hurts. But He is there in the midst of the pain. He felt pain. He knows pain. And in the morning, after the dark night of the tomb, there will be joy.

Foss is a freelance writer from Northern Virginia.

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