“Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord?”
The sounds of children’s voices echoed through the cathedral at my daughters’ school as my husband, dressed in black, carried our son Gabriel towards the altar. My two daughters and I, along with our family members and all the small children in attendance, followed behind, carrying white roses to offer him near his casket. My mom took one of my grandmother’s tablecloth’s and placed it over top, as a pall.
I will always remember my baby boy being placed at the forefront of this beautiful cathedral, painted light blue, surrounded by roses, stained glass windows, and the smell of incense. My husband placed a baby blue Crucifix on top of his casket and a two-toned blue Rosary nearby.
And then it began–my baby’s funeral. My son’s official farewell. Continue reading
This part of our journey was so very difficult. I cannot explain the the agony I felt in knowing our sweet boy was alone, in refrigeration, just waiting. Waiting for us to figure out what to do with him and how to honor his short but very important life.
It felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest every time I thought about him laying there, alone and cold. Thanks to a loving and compassionate funeral home, I knew he was safe, but even so, it was agonizing. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to keep him warm. I wanted him to return to my arms, even if just for a moment, to tell him how much I loved him and how much I missed him already.
I laid in bed crying and remember physically reaching both arms out to the sky, begging God to hand him to me; to let me hold him just one more time.