Dear Lord, last night, I had a very disturbing dream. It seemed so real, although it couldn’t possibly happen. Or could it? My nephew’s wife had just given birth and word had reached me that the baby was dead. Arriving on the scene I saw my nephew Chuckey, bowed over this delicately small casket. It was a beautiful milky white thing with shiney silver trim, lined in pale pink satin and skirted with gathered burgundy. It seemed suspended in mid air amongst a sea of red roses with a sprinkling here and there of pink and white roses. I approached the casket on trembling legs, mostly with dread but also with anxious anticipation. Anticipation to see this child who was a part of my nephew, my family, myself. We were connected.

As I looked into the casket, I did what I always seem to do when I look at the dead, I checked for movement. Of course I knew there would be none. There never is. But this time, as I looked at this very small child, whom I could see little wrong with, I thought I noticed a slight movement. I searched the contents of the small casket to see where it had come from. Then I realized it must have been my imagination because at second glance everything was just as it should be, perfectly frozen in time. Everything from the dark brown hair caressing a cherubs face, down the flannel covered body with little praying hands cupping the stem of a single white rose, down red and white splotchy legs to ten tiny toes. My eyes slowly went back to the white rose. I knew exactly what it meant for we had started this tradition nine years ago after the death of our oldest brother.  

There were five of us children and in one final attempt to express our love towards him and in memory of the special bond we had together we placed one white rose and four red roses in his hand. I was thinking of that day and that white rose when suddenly my breath caught in my throat. The rose lying against the baby’s chest began trembling rhythmically as a glass of water disturbed by the steady pounding of a judge’s gavel. The child was alive, perhaps very close to death, yet still alive! I turned to my nephew and cried, “Are you going to bury this child alive?” He replied that the child was not fit to live. How could my loving and compassionate nephew say this about any child, much less his own?

            I picked up the cold and forsaken baby and held it in my arms. Oh, what a precious baby—I loved it already! I began to beg for mercy on behalf of this child who had no idea it was about to be buried alive—this child who did not have the strength to cry for help. My own mother took the baby from my arms and began to scold me as she placed it back into its casket. To her the child was already dead, a lost cause. How could my mom who would fight for the rights of any child, who had taken others in when no one else would have them, have no compassion for this child, her own great-grand child?

            My brother, Ronnie, was also there. As I begged and pleaded for reason, he tried to explain that the child would be dead soon. But the child wasn’t dead! How could they make such an assumption? Did they know something I did not? Was the baby missing some vital part?  Surely it wasn’t the child’s splotchy skin! Did they think the child was ugly and repulsive? Could they not see what I saw—a beautiful baby—perfectly formed—a child with great potential!  

            I touched its legs. They were cold and yet no one seemed to care. I touched the bottom of its foot and tiny toes curved down over my finger as if craving human contact. This child still had strength! 

       I looked back at the face of my nephew and realized that he did indeed love this child. Afterall, that is why he was there, quietly watching, yet doing nothing.  I began to wonder where the mother was. How could she abandon her own child? Did she think the baby was already dead when she left? Was it possible she simply did not want to bother with this one whom she only saw as a burden? Was that it? Was that why Chuckey sat, refusing to help? Would he have been alone in raising this child? I feared it might be so.

            I looked back into the casket. There actually was very little movement. Was I wrong? Was it a lost cause after all? Would the child die regardless of our efforts? I then began to pray, “God, if this child can not live please let it die soon.” For, I could not stand the thought of abandoning a live child to the grave, to feel cold and alone, reaching out for someone but finding no one, surrounded by silence and darkness and finally to suffocate from lack of air. What a terrible death! I spoke these words out loud but no one responded.     

            I awoke.            

            I sometimes try to figure out why I’ve dreamed what I’ve dreamed. Usually it’s because of something on my mind at the time mixed with things recently seen or heard. Sometimes it’s just a story I’ve read, a sermon I’ve heard or a movie that I’ve watched. If I sift through long enough, I usually find many pieces of the puzzle. Sometimes it even seems as if God has sent me a special message or answered one of my questions.

            The people in this dream are all real. My nephew’s wife is expecting their third child. Although I know she, Chuckey, Ronnie and Mom would never bury anyone alive. The subject of our pastor’s most recent sermons has been discouragement and not giving up, and our church family just lost one of its most beloved members.

             I suppose these things help make up the pieces of my puzzle. However the largest piece of all must be my burden. My burden is for the children surrounding our church who are often dirty, abused and neglected, the children that I work with at mental health who sometimes express their pain with violence and destruction and the clean fresh scrubbed children in my Sunday school class who also have their problems, some which I know about and others which I am probably totally ignorant of. Sometimes it seems that others either can’t see or don’t want to see the potential in some of these children. What good is accomplished by only watching a child whose plight is seemingly hopeless? Must we stand by and do nothing?

            Perhaps, just perhaps, a child may be saved after all. If we are willing to give some love, some warmth, some attention to these children, maybe we can help them reach their potential.

            Dear God, this is my burden. I see the children. I see the beauty, the life and the potential they have within. Please help us to help the children. Don’t let us be guilty of burying them alive.