Sarah runs through the rolling hills, her dusky blonde hair lifting and floating with the breeze. Tinkling laughter echoes back in the wind while blue-green eyes sparkle with hidden joy. Slender, agile, with rosy cheeks from robust health, she hasn’t a care in the world.
“Mama,” she giggles. “C’mon. You’ve got to see these flowers. They’re magnificent. Have you ever seen colors like these?”
I stand up from the bench under the whispering pines while Sarah continues her forward flight.
“Sarah,” I laugh, “how can I catch up if you keep moving away from me?”
More tinkling laughter.
And then I realize she is farther away. Suddenly, a mist appears that obscures my vision.
The mist tumbles and thickens, blotting her from my vision.
I reach up to wipe the tears flooding my cheeks as I realize this was a dream.
Thirty-four years ago today, Sarah left this world to walk hand-in-hand with Jesus.
The crazy thing is I never met Sarah. I don’t even know if she is a Sarah.
However, in my heart, that’s who I believe my child is. Yes, is. She is fully alive, healthy, and complete with Jesus.
Many years ago, my eldest daughter told me she’s always known that this sweet baby we never held is her sister. As the years progress, I believe my daughter is right. This baby is Sarah.
Thirty-four years. A long time.
Yet, as a mother, I never forget. Each year, at this time, I remember this baby and wonder who she is. I’ve learned how to hope and cling to someday.
Recently, I heard another mother who lost a child, several in fact, say that every life is to be honored and celebrated. That hit home. Hard.
We never celebrated Sarah.
Her death came suddenly and quickly. She didn’t live long in my womb—only ten weeks. When she died, my husband and I didn’t know what to do. No one talked about miscarriage in those days. (Not that they do much nowadays either.) No one acknowledged it when you lost a child. Why? I’m not sure, but I guess it’s because you hadn’t delivered a live baby. You never held that baby. How could you mourn a child you didn’t know?
But we mourned and felt empty. And unable to express our grief.
To honor Sarah this year, I remember this second child I will know in full someday.
However, today I have questions:
- Are her eyes that piercing blue-green I imagine?
- Is her hair dusty blonde, or is it more blonde-auburn or dark like her sister’s?
- Who does she look like?
- How tall is she?
- Is her voice more soprano, alto, contralto, or mezzo?
- Is she musical like her siblings?
- What would her passions have been?
- Would we have had a good mother-daughter relationship?
- What hobbies would she pursue?
Today, I remember this daughter, wonder, and miss her potential. Yet I hope. I hope in remembering someday.
Someday I will hug her. I will spend time with her. I will see her walking in her full potential and marvel at this precious daughter known and created by God the Father to walk in eternity with Him.
Will I recognize Sarah when I get to heaven? I believe I will. I pray I will hear her sweet voice call me “Mama” then, too.
Until someday, Sarah.
I love you,
If you are struggling, please reach out. I promise to listen without judgment and help you take the next step.