A Light In Darkness

“Charlie,” I said. “I need to ask you to forgive me. I can’t remember when you were born. Do you think you can forgive me?”

Charlie, of course, said yes. After all, he didn’t remember being born himself.

I, on the other hand, have had a hard time forgiving myself.

I remember when Jack and Henry were born. I have vivid memories of waiting in the waiting room for each of them to arrive. And I remember when Griffin and Amelia were born. I watched Griffin fly into the world and I held my sister’s leg as she delivered Amelia. But I have no recollection of Charlie’s birth...only his return to the hospital when he was just a few days old. He had a hole in his heart. I’ll never forget the worry in Daniel and Gretchen’s eyes or the heart drawings on the ER sheets or the relief in the room when the doctor said Charlie would be okay.

Puzzled by my lack of memory, I scrolled back through my phone’s calendar. My phone is only smart. It’s not a genius. Because I have no way to sync my phone calendar with my computer, I don’t use it for scheduling. In fact, I only refer to it to get an idea of what day dates fall on the calendar. So when I arrived at November 21, 2006, I was shocked to see three red numbers near the date. A red number means that an event took place that day. As soon as I clicked on the first red number, I knew...

I don’t remember Charlie’s birth because I was in shock from Kay’s, my mentor’s and friend’s, death.

On Tuesday, November 14th, I was standing outside Kay’s apartment watching the paramedics roll away her lifeless body. On Tuesday, November 21st, I was undoubtedly doing my best to celebrate the arrival of new life—a tiny baby boy whose body was full of possibility—yet I can’t remember it. I had helped make funeral plans, cleaned Kay’s townhouse, listened to grieving friends, and sung at Kay’s funeral in the week between Kay’s death and Charlie’s life. I had continued with my life and work, outwardly holding everything together. Yet inwardly I was beginning a downward spiral into a long period of darkness.

When I look at Charlie now—who is indisputably one of the cutest kids in the world—I see a life of light. I see how, in the middle of heartache and grief, a small seed of joy was planted in my soul and that it has blossomed into something amazingly beautiful in the five years that have followed. I am reminded that even in the darkest night, God is there, breathing new life and hope and possibility into this world and that sometimes it takes years to realize the full significance of a memory—or lack thereof—because sometimes it takes that long for our souls to mend.

“Dee,” I said. “I need to ask you to forgive me. I can’t remember when Charlie was born. Do you think you can forgive me for not remembering?”

“Yes, Dee, I can,” I said. “You were doing your best to survive after Kay died. And you made it. And I am proud of you. And you have five years of other memories with Charlie...and many, many more to come.”