A letter to Mary, the mother of Jesus
Oh my dear sister…may I call you
sister? I feel such a connection to you this advent season. You see, this year
I had a daughter. A daughter I never carried, and never got to hold. Her
arrival was celebrated and anticipated with much love and rejoicing. Oh the
plans we had! Her Papa and I had many things we wanted to share with her. We
wanted to teach her the love of language, share with her our favourite books.
We wanted to foster in her a love for music, sharing with her how certain songs
made us feel. We had dreams of watching her grow, what she would become…. We
were excited to get to introduce her to your Son, in hopes that she would learn
to love Him and serve Him the way we do.
But things changed. Suddenly, instead of welcoming our baby girl home,
we were waiting for her ashes. My heart went from overflowing with joy and anticipation,
to being shattered, filled with pain and grief; the grief was so overwhelming
that some days I still have to remind myself to take the breath I hadn't
realised I was holding. Instead of holding and nurturing this little person, we
have a crib that hasn't been used, clothes that have not been worn, and arms
that remain empty.
So this year I find myself not thinking
of our Saviour who will willingly took the form of a helpless baby. Rather, I
find myself thinking of you. You, sweet sister, who had dreams for your tiny
baby, who nurtured our infant Saviour at her breast; you who had so much to
share with our Saviour…How your heart must have leapt watching Him roll over
the first time, or get His first forward motion crawl in, or coaxing His first
steps out! You got to do all the things I never did with my baby girl. And yet…. Did you realise as you watched Him
grow that each milestone He made was one step closer to His sacrifice for our
souls? How did you do it, I wonder… How did you not ever think to yourself “I
cannot let my baby grow up just to be killed!”? Did you ever argue with God
about how He surely must have some other way? Or did you simply trust His plan?
And if you simply trusted, how did you accomplish that? What I would give to be
able to talk with you in person, to learn from you.
I'm not sure which is worse: to lose a child and never see them grow, or
to lose a child that you spent three decades loving and watching over. How your
heart must have broken that fateful day when He was led to the cross. I know. A
mother's heart never stops loving her baby. No matter how grown they are, no
matter how far away they are, and no matter if they are separated by death. And
yet, sweet sister, I will see my little girl one day, because of your baby. The
baby you raised and nurtured and then buried gives me the promise that one day
I'll be united with my daughter. The baby you raised to die means that I'll be
given eternal life.
I'm not sure exactly how heaven works,
but I can say with certainty that you are there. I have a favour, if it isn't
too much to ask of you. Will you hold my little girl for me? Will you take her
hand and lead her to your Son and introduce them? There are a great many of our
loved ones there already, but you understand what it is like to lose your
child. You understand and can hug her in the way I would but can't.
Anyways, I suppose that I should wrap
this up. So, sweet Mary, thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for raising
your child to die for the sake of my child. The words are so so small in
comparison to what is in my heart, but it's all I have to use. Thank you.
Love, Jen
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Jen Amnott is a pretty kickass hospital
coordinator who works in a Cardiovascular ICU. She's also wife to "The Bearded
Nurse", and an occasional writer/photographer. She's a Whovian, a
Potterhead, a foodie, a Browncoat, and the kind of person to play Christmas
music all year round. Jen is mommy to 6 Angel Babies.
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