On Friday, Shiloh’s math lesson included the instruction to count the members of his family. Easy enough. He held up 4 fingers. Papa, Mama, Shiloh, Shadrach.
“Wait!” he said, “There’s one more! What’s my sister’s name?”
Poppy. Her name is Poppy. Shiloh’s sweet remembrance brought tears to my eyes, because I’d already been thinking about her that morning. I always do on the coldest days.
Seven Januaries ago, we had the worst cold snap I’ve ever experienced in my 20 years as a Wisconsinite. I’m talking temperatures in the -20s, and windchills approaching -50. School was closed for over a week, but my mind was happily occupied elsewhere, because on our one-month anniversary, a Thursday, I discovered I was pregnant. The next day, Sandy’s work also closed due to the weather, which was a rarity. We had our joyous news and an impromptu three-day weekend together! What could be better for newlyweds?
I made pancakes. We went for a walk and took a picture, just to say we did it. And we talked and wondered and dreamed about our baby. I remember that weekend of cold temperatures and warm hearts with great fondness.
On Monday, I miscarried. The dreaming and wondering were over, starkly and abruptly, the cozy joy of our weekend replaced by grief. The brevity of her life did not diminish the ache. We named her Poppy, because she was the size of a poppyseed when we found out she existed. It was only after I had my two sons that I began imagining her as my daughter. (If I get to heaven and find out Poppy’s a boy, that’ll be ok, too.)
We have a picture of a field of poppies hanging in our kitchen as a tribute, and when the boys ask about it, I tell them about their big sister who lives in heaven. And whenever the temperature dips near 20 below, I remember that bittersweet cold snap, and imagine my little Poppy, safe in the arms of Jesus.
Made for Eternity 