Anona-mom: It was, indeed, A Dark and Snowy Night

"Even Jesus can't bring Adam back."

Natalie was sitting on my lap, cuddling, listening to me tell her the bible story of Easter, when, after a pause, she had suddenly spoken her pain.

She burst into tears then, and I held her as waves of sorrow made her tiny body shudder in my arms. I tried to console her, but no words would come because of the lump in my throat. I have long known that if I cry along, the little ones always cry harder. Perhaps it's like permission, or maybe they feel afraid when the one who is supposed to be strong for them seems as weak as they are, but either way, I knew if I spoke, she would hear the crack in my voice, would turn her head from her own pain and see mine. I hurt so much when they hurt.

"I need to see his face!" she wept desperately. His face, the one we have all been missing since New Years, is now 600 miles away in Provo. 600 miles away from the little girl who was now dissolved on my lap in a flood of grief.

I cleared my throat and gulped a stabilizing breath, just enough to fake a calm "I miss him, too," then I let silent tears slide down my face, a skill I have polished over my many years of parenting. How many of my own tears have been shed while holding a child in grief over a lost pet, grandparent or new love? Still, I had a job to do, so I dug deep. After a moment to calm myself, I searched and found words that helped us both a little, while shooting off a quick text to Adam.

*Are you up? I have a very sad little girl here.*

He called her, and in just a few minutes had her giggling, sorrow forgotten, the miles closed in a little.

I had known this storm was looming. When Adam left, Nano didn't understand. She was jolly, and cheerfully bounced around the room as the rest of the family hugged our tearful goodbyes. It was the one time my tears strangely had had no impact on her. But this realization had been coming, building up slowly the past three months until the floodgates sprang open. At first when she saw something that reminded her of Adam, she would shout his name gleefully, "Adam!!!", but now any mention of Utah, a game they used to play together, or a picture of him, and she drops her head and sighs his name in a whisper.

"...adam..."

Last week, in her perpetual run through the house, she suddenly stopped, bending to pick up a dogeared copy of Ralph S. Mouse."This is the book Adam was reading to me. But now he'll never read to me again," she uttered with drooping shoulders, letting the book drop through loose fingers to the floor.

I stole a moment during her phone call to chat with Adam and we made plans for Natalie to SEE Adam by video call. Tonight was the night.

***

There they were. Together at last, together again. Natalie didn't mind the slight lag in the video, the dull blue of the screen that made it a little hard to see Adam's handsome face well. They compared hair length, and he showed her his hat. She showed him her Easter basket, and told him about the Easter egg hunt along the creek. She held up jelly beans one at a time to show him their speckles, and chattered away like he was right here with her.

Then he got out his phone and read to her from the pages of her book that I had hurriedly texted him as they visited.

"Chapter 1: A Dark and Snowy Night..." he began.

He read Natalie a whole chapter, one screen at a time, finishing right at her 8:30 bedtime. He said goodnight, with a promise to read to her again soon.

"Tomorrow!" she insisted.

"Um, maybe next week," I compromised, and thanked Adam for all his effort with his little sis. A twenty year old who is willing to spend an hour on a Saturday night reading to his kid sister is my absolute hero.

Natalie scooted contentedly off to bed, her cheeks dry, her smile in full, familiar bloom. All was well, at least for now. His voice had been the calm in my own storm, the balm to my mama heart. I wasn't just reacting to Natalie's pain when I wept along with her. I miss this boy terribly.