THE LOSS OF FAITH

December 15, 1996 I called the church President to tell her I would be at church on Sunday. She was happy because the church was having its Christmas party that day, and I’m expected to run the Christmas program. I resent that last part. I just lost a daughter, and for the church to feel they can’t have the Christmas party without me is unfair and selfish. In fact, I consider it callous, thoughtless, and lacking appreciation for the pain my family and I are experiencing. What really stinks is that we were very much looking forward to this Christmas because it was to be the first one Faith would genuinely enjoy. Now that’s not going to happen. It’s true that she’s having the greatest Christmas ever, being with the Lord, but we looked forward to her being with us. It hurts not to have her here. December 23, l996 I remembered today when I took Faith to her “baby” doctor’s office for a pre-op exam and how she patted me over my heart after her finger had been pricked as if to say, “It’s okay, Papapa; it does not hurt.” Oh, Sweetie, if only you knew how much my heart hurts now. January 13, 1997 I woke early this morning hearing a baby cry. It sounded like Faith. Her routine was to wake at about that time for a little drink of milk. When I heard the cry, I nearly got up. But then I remembered that she is gone. Oh, how I miss Faith Ann. January 20, 1997 Dear Faith, I miss you, Little One. It has been over five weeks since you died and left us to be with Jesus, and I miss you more now than I did then. Over the past few weeks, I have come to realize how much you meant to us and what a blessing you were and still are in our lives. Every day I think about the various things you used to do, and they bring a smile to my face. But they also bring tears. You see, I know you are in heaven with God and that you are now healed with a whole heart that lets you talk and run and play freely with no limitations. But Papapa wants you back with him. I want to hear you laugh, see you sleep, and watch you play. I want to see you crawling to me when I come through the door and hear you call my name, Papapa. I want to hold you, feel you pat me on the back, and feel you hug me. But now, none of this will happen, which hurts. Oh, Sweetie, Papapa misses you so much that I cry. I do so because I cannot be with you, even though I know I will someday. I look forward to that day, but that day seems so very far off, and the days here without you feel so lost and lonely. Mommies misses you too. We both cry, together and separately, and sometimes this helps. But only for a little while. You see, you were a very big part of our lives, but now that you are gone, there’s a huge hole in our hearts. A hole that no one else can fill but you. I want you to know Papapa loves and misses you. You are my little girl. My little sweetheart, who accepted me, faults and all, and I thank you and God for that. You are special and always will be. You may have had some physical problems, but I always knew you to be perfect because you are my little girl, and God gave you to me. I admit that sometimes I could see your Down syndrome, maybe in a picture or when you were overly tired. But when I heard your voice or saw you sleeping in my arms, your Down syndrome would go away. Then I would thank God that He gave you to me. You see, I never thought of you as having Down syndrome. I always thought of you as my precious little one who always gave more than she got, and I miss that. The truth is, I’m selfish and I miss you. So, I want you back. But God has a plan, and He knows best. He took you home, and I’m happy you are with Him. I know you’re a delight to Him. I also know He will take care of you, love you, and watch over you better than Mommies and I ever could. But know this, Sweetie: Mommies and Papapa will be there with you one day, and then we can all rejoice and be with God together. You may know when that will happen (and it may not be very long because time may be different in heaven—I don’t know). But for Mommies and me, it will be a long time because we miss you, which makes each day a long struggle. So, if you can see us cry, just know that we don’t know what you know. We only know that you aren’t with us, and that hurts. But we are coming, and we look forward to the day. Papapa loves you, Little One. I’ll see you soon. February 13, 1997 It has been nine weeks since Faith Ann died, and it’s time I try to put this in perspective. I know this is the start of a journey, and I have a long way to go. The thing that stands out is the pain. It’s as if the pain has always been a part of my life. Now, I know that there was a time in my life when there was no pain, but at this point, I can’t remember when that was. And it’s not pleasant. It’s a gnawing pain that eats at my insides. Yeah, I have a long way to go.