Sometimes, I imagine who you would be if you were still here, if you hadn’t died when you were two, if you’d been with us these past 12 years. You’d be here to blow out your 14 birthday candles and open presents. You were number three of five, with two siblings on each side. Would you get lost in the middle somehow because you’re so sweet, quiet, and contemplative?
You would paint beside Jackson and build villages of Minecraft with him . You’d fight with Mary and dance with her and love her and paint her nails and do her hair, and let her do yours. You’d get mad at her because she’s so messy and I imagine you’d be neat. You’d roll your eyes at Caleb because he does silly things, but you’d do silly things beside him. Caleb’s friends would think you’re pretty, but Caleb would chase them away and say to each one, “Dude, that’s my sister. Stay away from her.” You would sip coffee with Alex and contemplate the world’s problems and talk politics and history.
Sometimes I remember the day of the accident. It’s rare that I do, and the dark images invade my thoughts when my head is on my pillow and I’m nearly asleep.
the sound of a small thud
a life-stealing noise
your blood flowed unhindered
your heart slowed until it could push no more
i was there when you met Jesus
when your breaths no longer came
stillness
emptiness
you were dead with us
you became alive elsewhere
I bought purple tulips for your birthday. When I put them in the vase, they stood straight and stiff; it was hard to arrange them, but today they droop gracefully.
In daylight, occasionally I imagine you’re still here, that we never had to bury you and walk away, that there isn’t a grave bearing your name. If you were here, your hair would be the color of the sun and glow beneath the moonlight. You’d love Jesus.
but you’re not here
so i take a deep breath and go forward
and do the stuff i need to do.
life.
and somewhere across the veil
that separates heaven and earth,
you move and breathe and live
and love and sing and dance and worship.
the wind carries your hair far away.
i feel the whisper of a touch on my cheek
and i smile,
knowing you’re living elsewhere
grieving with guinever 
I read this and grip my IPad….. I am fully aware that we are fragile and not meant to stay on this earth. I am aware we have pain and loss. I praise Him that after loss, it’s not tragic, it’s not really a loss, I praise God you have such grace. My heart is always thinking of you in February. My prayer is that you are comforted for the rest of your days on this earth until you see that precious face when you are reunited, and in the presence of the Creator the life giver, the master, the one and only.
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Thanks, Tami. You’re a good friend.
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I can’t read this without weeping. You have endured just about the hardest thing a mother can face and you’ve done it in a way that leads others to the only hope, the only comfort there is for such a thing… a loving Savior and our hope of heaven. My prayers are lifting you because despite your grace, you hurt more deeply than I can imagine.
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Thank you for your tears and your kind words. There is so much comfort in the promise of the Gospel and hope of heaven.
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Guinever,
I am Jill Ward, Traie Ward’s mother. I posted my response on Facebook but I also wanted to leave it here. I loved what Traie said about the church in Lexington, about your family and Abby when he reposted this blog. I still remember where I was when I learned of your sweet Abby’s death. She died on my husband’s birthday. Every year when I transfer everything from my pocket calendar to the one for the new year, I transfer your Abby with all the rest of the anniversaries of losses I keep track of. I have thought of you so many times over the years. I had never read your blog until Traie posted this one on Facebook. I marked it to read later. When I came to actually read it, I just kept following the posts you have written. I have cried for you and for my own losses. I can relate to so much of what you have posted over the years. I am thankful that you have found healing, even as you will always grieve for your little girl. I am going to send this to my Mama, who lost my 35 year old brother 15 years ago this past February. Thank you for so honestly sharing your grief. We have often felt like no one grieved like we did but I can tell from your writings that you have. That is comforting.
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Jill,
It is encouraging to me that you have found comfort here. Knowing that I am not the only one has been helpful to me through the years (even though at the same time I hate all the loss.)
Peace and grace, Guinever
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