Last night a moment arrived that we knew was coming but for which we could have never prepared enough. Our baby daughter Anastasia, born only eight months and two days ago, breathed her last as her mother and I held her in our arms. We have been preparing for this moment from the day of her birth back in April, but no amount of mental preparation really makes you ready to the moment when your child’s soul passes to eternity while their body remains behind.
The initial couple hours was much harder on mommy. I switched over to “on a mission” mode: keeping fastidious notes in Anastasia’s medical journal; making sure the kids were brought to see Anastasia one last time in an orderly and disciplined manner; notified our family, our pastor, and several friends; began cleaning and clearing our living room to make way for my wife’s sister and a handful of friends who immediately came over; generally keeping busy and being useful. But there were little things that prevented me from staying in the mindset of “I’ve got a job to do and need to focus only on that” which I didn’t expect. Like turning off the auto-timer on my coffee maker that had already been set to start brewing at 5:00 AM the next morning: the time I get up to take over watching Anastasia, that precious hour and a half when I would have her all to myself in the quiet stillness of the morning. This morning was also quiet and still, but missing was the grip of her tiny hand on my pinky while the rest of the house slept.
At 10:46 PM last night I made the final entry in Anastasia’s medical journal: that she was departing our home for the last time, en route to the funeral home. We had Anastasia’s body buckled into her car seat and I carried the her out to funeral home’s van. The phrase “I’ll take it from here sir, we’ll take good care of her” hit me a lot harder than I would have expected. It’s one thing to know that God gives you your children only for a while. At some point we have to let them go and make their way in the world. If we’re more traditional, we raise our daughters in obedience until we give them away to live according to God’s calling for them in this life. The realization hit me hard: in handing over the car seat I was giving away my little girl… not to any vocation of this world but giving her to God. How can I not be happy for her and proud that her pure, innocent soul now sees and will see God face-to-face for all eternity? At the same time, how can I not shed tears of sorrow that I can no longer hold her in my arms?
Now begins the bittersweet week where we will celebrate the Mass of the Angels before Anastasia is buried in the “little heaven” section of the cemetery which is reserved for the Baptized who died before attaining the use of reason. Now also, in a renewed way, we strive to live in a manner which is pleasing to God so that we can see Anastasia again in eternity.
Sometimes I’ve thought of children who die before they are able to offend God as the lucky ones: they go straight to heaven. But on second thought, maybe they regard us as the lucky ones. While they were never able to offend God they were also incapable of doing what we can do every moment of every day: willingly and selflessly give our thoughts and actions to the service of God. I imagine that Anastasia is praying and interceding for me, her mom, and her siblings with the hope that we’ll not only make it to heaven with her but that she’ll be able to tell the other innocents around her in heaven: “See those radiant souls waaaaaay up there, closer to God? That’s my family!!!” And so I renew my vows to renounce satan, his works, and his pomps and to serve God as thoroughly and completely as I can.
Pray for us, Saint Anastasia. We are working to be with you as soon as God’s Will allows!
With a mix of joy and tears,
Daddy and Mommy
Resting peacefully, both before and forever!
In our arms for a while; in our hearts forever!
You can stop praying for her Mr. Bear — she’s praying for all of us now!
