Soul food

Michele Marr

o7 And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be

no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying; and there shall be no more pain,

for the former things have passed away. Revelation 21:4

f7

A week ago Wednesday I had the profoundly sad and poignant experience

of attending the burial and memorial service of a child.

Roxanne was a 15-month-old girl, so full of love and delight that she

was nicknamed “little bit,” for “a little bit of heaven.” She was always

laughing, always clapping, always reaching out to others. A multitude of

photos, taken by her daddy, confirm it.

I did not have, what was by all accounts, the great joy of knowing

this little girl. My 7-year-old goddaughter Vallee -- who did know this

child and her family of five siblings, mother and father -- drew me to

the occasion.

Vallee’s mother was to sing in the choir at the graveside service and

I didn’t want Vallee and her two sisters to stand alone through the

burial without her.

I, too, knew a young girl who died when we were both very young. Like

Roxanne -- the beloved toddler buried last Wednesday -- my young friend

died in a tragic accident. Bright and alive and so very there one day,

she was astonishingly out of reach the next. Never to come back to us.

I remember my sorrow and my questions well. As Vallee’s godmother I

wanted to be there for hers.

Standing by the grave among flowers and well-tended grass, we were in

view of the Pacific. It sparkled on the horizon through the late morning

fog. It looked like it could be the threshold of heaven.

The choir chanted, “Whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never

die. Jesus called them unto him and said, Let the little children to come

unto me and forbid them not for such is the kingdom of God.”

Vallee took my hand and looked up at me. I smiled at her and nodded, a

nod I hoped would say what I believe, “It’s true.”

But I think she would believe it, with or without me. At this time in

her life, her faith seems effortless. And faith it is, not unawareness.

She believes with ease what we pray, “O merciful Father, whose face the

angels of thy little ones do always behold in heaven; grant us

steadfastly to believe that this thy child hath been taken into the safe

keeping of thine eternal love; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The distance between here and heaven is not so great for Vallee. It is

like a place just over the ocean, out of reach, but ever present and

waiting for us. She is like the child Jesus set before his disciples when

he said, “Unless you become as little children, you will by no means

enter the kingdom of heaven.”

As we drove to the memorial service, Vallee told me, “I would trade

places with Roxanne if I could.”

“Why would you do that,” I asked her.

“Because, I remember the first time I ever held her and I love her,”

she said. “And her family is sad and she never even got to go to school.”

“And I never even got to hold her,” Vallee’s 5-year-old sister Sarah

shouted from the back seat. “She died before I ever got old enough to

hold her.””Yes, Sarah,” I said, “Roxanne died before a lot of people got

do so many things they looked forward to doing with her. We are all going

to have to wait until we are all in heaven to do things with Roxanne

again.”

“I know,” she said, with both a smile and a sigh. “But I don’t like to

wait.”

Oh, Sarah. None of us like to wait. Not one of us.

But it is the same for us as it was for King David who lamented the

death of his son and said, “Can I bring him back again? I shall go to

him, but he shall not return to me.”

In the car, on the way to the burial, Vallee drew a picture for

Roxanne’s family. And the bottom of the lengthwise page, she drew the

earth with all its continents and its blue waters. It rests on the edge

of the page like the sun on the horizon. All around it are blue clouds

and above them, white atmosphere. There, Jesus stands with a wide smile

and wide-open arms, greeting little Roxanne.

Sometime during a eulogy at the memorial service, Vallee wept. She

crawled into her mother’s lap until her tears were dry and then she came

and laid her head in my lap.

She looked up into to my face. “I miss her,” she said.

She knew what we all knew last Wednesday. Our sorrow is not so much

for Roxanne, who has gone ahead of us to the Kingdom of God, but for

ourselves. It is the sorrow of those who must go on without the precious

company of those who have gone before us. Our sorrow is the sorrow of

those who must wait.

But the wait is part of our hope.

* MICHELE MARR is a freelance writer and graphic designer from

Huntington Beach. She has been interested in religion and ethics for as

long as she can remember. She can be reached at o7

[email protected]