Letter to Weston

This is a letter I wrote to Weston a few days after his death. It was read at his memorial service, and it is an honest representation of how I was feeling at that time. Two weeks have passed now, and I still feel like this on many days, but other days are a little better. The intense love and grief expressed in this letter will always be a part of me, but I pray that days filled with hope and peace will someday outnumber the days filled with sadness.

Dear Weston,

Parents sometimes write letters to their children, which they may give them years later on big occasions. That has always been on my to-do list for your big sister Caroline, but I had not formed much of a to-do list for you yet, beyond getting your nursery at home set up and ordering cloth diapers. You have grown me and stretched me in so many ways, though, and now I find myself forced with the impossible task of writing you a letter only 3 1/2 weeks after you came into this world and a few days after you have left it.

As parents, we are cautioned to just enjoy the present moments with our children, because our children grow up so fast. We shouldn't wish for the next milestone because the present time is so sweet. While I have so many hopes and dreams for your big sister, I do savor the moments with her. All the cliches are true: our babies do grow so fast, and they will be gone from us in a heartbeat.

And now we arrive at another cliche: that children represent hope for the future. With you, so much of everything was about the future, rather than the present moment. Before you arrived, it was about keeping you inside me for one more day, one more week. After you arrived, everything was about the future: looking forward to you breathing on your own, gaining weight, eating, and the eventual, ultimate goal: having you unhooked from machines and home with us.

You taught us so much during your brief time on earth. We learned that you really liked to hug a pillow when you slept, just like Mom. You had your daddy's toes and easygoing spirit. But when you were angry or upset, you let everyone know, just like Mom. And you had your sister's same newborn face, only smaller. Your daddy and I each got to hold you once while you were alive. It was a big ordeal to get you out of your incubator and situated on my chest, and I will forever be grateful to the nurses who made those priceless moments possible. You put your hand on my chest, rested your cheek on your hand, and immediately fell asleep. You were my whole world in those moments. I didn't get to hold you again until you were on your way to heaven.

Most of all, you taught me that I need to give up control of a lot of things. As hard as I tried, I was unable to control your early entry into this world. After you were here, I very quickly learned that I could not control anything about your life, except how often I could come sit with you and how often I could pray for you. Many times, I could not even comfort you, because I needed to be out of the way for medical procedures. I will never forget seeing you silently cry during an attempt to insert another IV and not being able to do anything for you. I am so sorry, and I hope God was giving you extra comfort during those times.

When your little lungs started struggling, your daddy and I went to pray for you in the hospital chapel one evening. God put a beautiful song in my head called "Breath of Heaven." It is written from Mary's perspective, the mother of Jesus. She was afraid of the monumental task entrusted to her of carrying and giving birth to Jesus. So she asked for the Breath of Heaven to hold her together and give her strength.

Similarly, for reasons we may always struggle to understand, God gave us such a privilege when he entrusted you to us for the short time you were here. I started praying Breath of Heaven over and over, asking for the breath of heaven to hold me together for you. Even more, I prayed for the breath of heaven to touch and heal your lungs. The breath of heaven sustained you on this earth for six more days after that night.

You fought so hard. You had some scary episodes that last week which stabilized when I touched you. Thank you for showing me that you knew I was there and that I love you. When I held you in your last moments, you let out a few breaths, perhaps transferring the breath of heaven to me.

You were on this earth for 21 days. It has been said that the human soul weighs 21 grams. While I don't know if that is true, I think God let you be with us just long enough to indelibly touch our and countless other human souls. We will never be the same for having known you. Your 21 days and 1 pound 11 ounces have left a mark on this world forever.

Thank you for holding on long enough to let your daddy and me be with you as your soul left this earth. It was comforting to hold you, and only you, with no wires or tubes. I hope you felt our presence, our touch, and our profound love for you during those minutes. That was also the first time we had ever seen your entire beautiful face, without tubes down your throat or tape on your cheeks.

That first evening after you left us, you sent us a smile in the form of a rainbow. Thank you for that. After the rainbow, the wind really picked up: you and Jesus sent us a very strong and unmistakable breath of heaven. Then the rain came: a beautiful affirmation of our grief. And I am so glad that you will never cry again.

In the weeks leading up to your birth, when I was in the hospital, I had a few dreams about you as a toddler with straight, light brown, shaggy hair and a big, precious, slightly mischievous smile, running and giggling on the grass in our front yard. I guess that was my hope for your future. You had a good couple of weeks in the NICU before things started going downhill. During that initial period, I felt hopeful enough to order a newborn-sized romper for you, perhaps to wear home from the hospital. Cruelly, it arrived in the mail on Monday, two days after your death. As the cliche goes, your death represents the death of hope, the death of the future.

We believe in Jesus, that he died and was resurrected. We believe in heaven, and we know that you are there. The resurrection of Jesus represents the ultimate hope, and I know that we will be with you again someday. I usually would not speak of such heavy things to a child, but you are an old soul by now. So I think it's OK to tell you that I am really struggling to feel that hope right now. While I know we will be reunited someday, I am struggling to understand because I want you here in my arms, or even back in the NICU, so badly.

There is no doubt that you are in a better place and in better hands now. You have forever taken a piece of us with you, so please keep reminding us that you are happy, not in pain, and that you know how much your mommy and daddy loved and will always love you. We will not be completely whole until we are reunited someday. Until then, may God keep you safe and happy in his arms.

With all our love forever,

Mommy and Daddy