Sunday, July 13, 2008, 7:15 a.m., D.S.T.~
Thank you for your heartfelt letter; it was nice to hear from you. I will probably see you at church later on, but I wanted to write this note to you anyway. I hope you don't mind.
Honey, things happen. You don't need to blame yourself for Corrina's death. It was just an unfortunate accident that happen; there was nothing you could have done. You are trying to let go of the past, the awful memories, but I don't think anyone could ever get over losing their child in such a horrible way.
I know when I lost my foster daughter Rachel to AIDS, I thought my world was going to end, just as it did when I lost all three of my own children. Seems like only yesterday; however, it has been nearly twenty years since my oldest, Aron Jakob, passed away on what would have been his fourth birthday from a virulent strain of meningitis. Then I lost my second-born son six days after he was born to crib death, and finally, my premature daughter died two weeks after her birth from meningitis she'd contracted from a sick baby in the NICU unit.
I still cry sometimes when I think of them. Rachel, Aron, Pierre, and L'Acadia will never grow up; they will remain small children forever and ever; they will never know what it is like to learn how to walk, read, write, go to school, graduate, get a job, have a family of their own, learn to drive a car. I guess God had a reason for taking them all, but it hurts, it still hurts, especially on their birthdays, the anniversary dates of their deaths, or on holidays like the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, or Christmas.
This is when I miss them the most. And what makes it hard is that I can only visit Rachel's grave on a regular basis; the others I can only visit when I'm in Louisiana, where they are buried. I probably visit their graves three to four times a year if we are lucky; this year so far we've only seen them once. With gas being so expensive, we don't travel as much as we used to.
On to happier news before I get the computer keyboard all wet with my tears...
I am glad you had a good time for the Fourth. We did; we went to our city's annual celebration (used to be called Nashville Fourth of July BLAST!; now it's been renamed Red, White, and BOOM!); we all got plenty of sun, and plenty of bug bites to go along with it. The fireworks were magnificent; the display lasted a good forty five minutes. Our ears were left ringing by the time the fireworks ended.
I know it was probably hard without Corrina, but you got through it. You will continue to do so if you rely on the Lord. This is what we do whenever we think of Aron, Pierre, L'Acadia, or Rachel. We know that they are no longer suffering (particularly Aron, L'Acadia, and Rachel); we know that they are safe in Jesus' Arms, and that one day we will all be reunited in Heaven. That is the hope we cling to, and that's the hope that keeps us going day in and day out.
I am glad you are enjoying my book. Do you have the others? If not, I will bring them to you one Sunday before church starts. It means so much when people come up, tell me how much they like my story, learning about the family, or when they say positive things about adoption, disability, or the children in general.
It means more than people will ever know. I know I appreciate all the kind words.
Well, Bill is honking the horn, so I will go now. Maybe I'll see you at church; please come up to me, say hello. Don't be a stranger; I'd love to get to know you (and Adam) better! And that lunch date? It's still open! :)
God bless you mightily, and will write to you soon! Love you!
~As always, your friend in Christ Jesus, Louie May. :D