She came through the front door in tears, struggling out of her boots and snow pants. I stopped what I’d been doing, and asked what was wrong.
“It’s just everything. They’re not being nice to me,” she cried, finally having to sit to pull off a stubborn snow boot.
“And….,” she rubbed a red little hand across her face to stop a runny nose. “I need to tell you something I haven’t ever told anybody before.”
I set my computer aside, and patted on my lap for her to come sit. All the while, wondering what this new disclosure was going to be.
Over the years, there have been so many times that I’ve heard that statement. I need to say this. I’ve never told anybody this. A preface to a disclosure. A warning. To the person, or to me, I’m never entirely sure which. Be ready, because I’m going to say this now. Then in a small voice, whether it’s a child or an adult, they go on to tell me of some horrific violation. Or finally reveal some secret indiscretion which has been quietly eating at them, filling them with guilt and shame.
She came and plopped down on my lap. Adjusting her position to fit in just right. And the flood waters broke.
“At night I get out of my bed and look out the window at the sky. I know my dad is a star now, but I don’t know which one.”
She erupted in another sob.
“And I should know. You’d think I would know which one he is. But I don’t. And during the day I look up at the sky, but I don’t see his face anymore.”
I rubbed her back, and kissed her forehead.
She’ll be 8 years old next week. She’s been part of our family for two years. Her dad was murdered three months before she came to live with us. As a 5-year-old her brain had to try to process having her dad killed. And now, as an almost 8-year-old, she was sure she’d been doing it all wrong somehow.
We talked for a while. I told her that I think when someone dies they don’t actually become a star. I said I think they go to heaven, where God lets them keep an eye on their kids.
“How come?” she asked.
I said that heaven is supposed to be a wonderful place. And that as a parent, if I died and couldn’t see my kids anymore then heaven wouldn’t feel very wonderful to me. So it made sense to me to think that God probably lets parents in heaven continue to keep an eye on their kids, checking in on them, continuing to love them.
She thought that made sense. She snuggled in a little tighter, and began to breathe a little easier.
I said that I think most of the time when her dad checks in on her I bet he smiles. We talked about some of the specific things she does, and how her dad probably smiles when he sees her doing those things.
“And when you’re playing, and you’re being loud, and crazy, and laughing, I think your dad probably chuckles and tells other people in heaven, ‘That’s my little girl. That little redhead over there. She’s my little girl.’”
She smiled at that, and turned her head to look up at me for a minute.
I, of course, was in tears. She wiped a tear off my cheek and then resumed her position.
“And at other times, when you’re doing something naughty,” I started. And she turned to look at me again and smiled. “At those times, I think your dad’s probably saying, ‘Haida Sky, what are you doing?’”
She nodded, solemnly. “That’s what he used to say to me when I was bad.”
We sat that way for a while. Me, thinking about what an enormous burden this little girl has had to carry. And how well she has carried it. Her, breathing easier and seeming to relax as she thought more on how it works when someone you love dies. Life, and death, and heaven. And how to grow up here when your parent is there. And how people are still in our lives, every single day, even after they die.
I whispered to her the reminder that I always want her to tell me the things she’s never told anyone ever before.
“Okay,” she said, sliding off my lap. Then, still smiling, she shrugged back into her snow pants and pulled her boots on. And headed back outside. To play.
H—Thanks for letting me tell this story.–Love, Mom
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