For Niko and Anika

As I’ve written in previous postings, my son and daughter-in-law recently went through the pain of miscarriage, not once but twice. This past week, they returned to the spot where they first became engaged and held a private ceremony for the two little ones they’ve lost.

They were sure that the first baby was going to be a boy (Niko) and had picked out a name for the second baby (Anika), who they were just as sure was going to be a girl. Both of them wrote letters to the babies, which they buried under this little stone. I was privileged to be able to read what they wrote. It was heartbreaking but it was also such a testimony to their love, their faith, and their belief in God’s goodness.

It’s an impotent feeling when tragedies happen and you’re far away. I couldn’t physically be there for my son and daughter-in-law as all this was happening, to hold them tight and let them know that things will get better. As the grandmother, I never got the chance to shower these babies with knitted hats and mittens, handsewn baby clothes, and colorful quilts. I never got the chance to read them so many wonderful stories.

But the one thing I can do is give them the gift of the written word. And so, Niko and Anika, Laura and Jason, this is for you.


“Why did you do that?” I cry out.
You introduced them,
Made me care about them
And then suddenly they were gone
Before you had even fully developed their characters.”
“Read further,” He says.
“I don’t want to,” I answer.
“It hurts. I want a new story…a happily ever after one.”
He shakes his head.
“Fairy tales are for children. I deal in reality.”
“Then change the reality. Certainly you can do that.
Why do you insist on filling pages with so much suffering?”
“You’re not the first to ask me this,” he sighs.
It was not my original intent.”
“It needs a hero,” I suggest, “one to give them all hope.”
“Oh, he’s in there,” he assures me. “Keep reading.”
“Look,” I bargain, “can you just tell me how it ends?”
“I could, but I won’t”, He states.
“Shortcuts aren’t always the answer.”
“Then what is?” I whisper, “when it hurts?”
He smiles at me.
“Trust the author,” He says.
“Trust the author.”


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