Dear Hildegaard

Squirrels, apple-pie, and death

Dear Hildegaard,

The trees are all but bare, save for a few clusters of dead leaves stuffed together in tightly bound clumps by desperate winter squirrels. We watch them scurry and hurry, laughing when they reach the end of a branch too small. We thought only birds made nests, but it turns out lots of animals do. We make nests, too. I collapse onto the floor here and there, throughout the day, and you cover me in blankets and bring me your favorite animals, like your stuffed peacock or your well-loved, yellowing polar bear. To you, it is a game. To me, it is a chance to be still.

You turned two last month, and ever since that day - as if on cue - you have been checking to see if former boundary lines are still in place. You shake them, kick at them, and try to climb over the fence of authority. You are developmentally right on track, and your dad and I are scrambling to keep up. We hold you for “time-outs” which makes you angry, but also gives us a chance to show you that we are still near, even when you disobey. We try to help you take deep breaths and get to a place where you can say, “Yes, Mom,” or “Yes, Dad,” and pick the sticky oranges off the floor, or collect the cat food you flung across state lines. 

But that is only sometimes. The rest of the time, we get to marvel at your new word combinations like: “apple-pie,” “eyeball,” and “hotdog” and watch you test your strength and use your imagination. Today, for the first time in your life, you pretended to be a chicken, flapping your wings, squawking: Bawk! Bawk! You have only ever been animals that roar or growl up to this point, so I was taken aback and delighted. You have learned how to say “hush” with your finger over your mouth, as you try to creep quietly along and sneak up on Mom and Dad. You love to dress up, and you adore the moon.   

You also understand things I thought were too mature for a two-year-old. When I told you about the new baby in my belly, you were confused. Because months ago, we talked about another baby - the one you named Dog - the one who died at nine weeks with his sweet, round belly lit up in that last ultrasound picture. I never explained to you what happened. I just stopped talking about him. But this time, I told you the truth: “Baby died.” I said it only once, but you have continued to process it for days. Weeks, actually. “Baby died,” you say, while coloring with crayons in the sunlight. “Yes, baby Dog died, but this new baby is alive!” “Baby died,” you say again, and flop your head in your arms and sigh, as if full of sorrow. You recover quickly and ask: “Hilde die?” “No, no, baby. Hilde alive!” I assure you, and you sigh again, smile, and continue coloring.

I don’t understand what death means to you, but you take in the emotions around you and have figured out that death is an enemy. One day, you will pray along with the rest of us: 

O Christ, crush the enemy of death forever. Raise the dead. Make this world new.

For now, you ponder it here and there, but the rest of the time, you are working out how to get your boots on by yourself, why Winnie the Pooh loves honey so much, and where mom hides the cookies. And I am longing to assure you that God loves you at all times, and so do I. 

Recently, after a particularly hard Sunday with lots of fits, time-outs, and a few scratches left on my neck, I got you into your car seat and you settled down with some milk. I wanted to talk to you about what had happened. To teach you. To help you understand how important it is to obey Mama and Daddy. I started to say: “God loves obedience.” I needed to reach for something higher than myself. And beloved, God does love obedience. It is a form of worship, precious in His sight. But for some reason (some reason being the Holy Ghost) I stopped myself and said instead:

“God loves…you.”

Cover image by Aditya Vyas.