(may be long---but worth the read)
You would think that I would learn...
In 1988, a dear friend of mine, Krista, gave birth to a boy who died shortly after his arrival to earth. A few years later, Krista moved from Burbank, Ca. to Bountiful, Ut. Shortly thereafter I would periodically, and at random times, receive promptings to call my friend Krista and ask where her son Adam was buried, so that I could go and tend his grave. Now--for me to call Krista would mean that I would have to find her phone number, which in all likelihood was up in the rafters of the attic (in a box with the Christmas card mailing list). As I mentioned, the promptings came at random times and there was always some excuse as to why I would ignore these promptings. Sometimes I would tell myself that it was a ridiculous thought since Rod's family lived in the area. Other times it was that no one was home who could climb up into the attic to get Krista's phone number. One time I even remember thinking, my hands are wet right now because I am doing the dishes. Imagine how I felt when in 2004 I received the following newspaper article from Krista that she had penned.
(Now the good part starts.)
"At Christmastime it is common to see poinsettias and evergreen wreaths decorating the graves in cemeteries.
Search out the baby section of a cemetery and you will also find pinwheels, balloons, teddy bears, toys, ornaments, notes, and every imaginable decoration left by loving parents in honor of their little ones.
For the past ten years I had noticed these graves and had been overcome with sadness as my thoughts would travel to the untended grave of my son Adam, left behind when a new job brought our family from California to Utah.
Adam died as a tiny baby of a rare genetic disorder. We have hung his Christmas stocking on the mantle each year alongside those of his brothers and sisters, talked about him and done our best to keep his memory alive.
But the thought of his neglected grave always left me with an ache that was difficult for others to understand.
In 2003, my sister's family experienced a tragedy similar to ours, when their baby son, Cole, died.
There is much to be said about walking in another's shoes and as my sister grieved over the loss of her baby, she found empathy for me that she had not known before.
The day after she buried her own son in the Bountiful cemetery, she and her husband returned to the cemetery and purchased the plot next to Cole's for our son, Adam.
She then called family members and close friends and quietly collected enough money to cover the expense of having Adam moved from California to the Bountiful cemetery. There were tears of gratitude shed as she presented us with the deed to the small plot and a check that would make it possible to bring our son to Utah.
Thanks to the kindness and generosity of family and friends, Adam was brought home to rest in the Bountiful cemetery. As Christmas approached this year we felt a closeness to our son as we gathered at his grave. The children left little trinkets, messages and flowers and when the snows came they built a small snowman between Adam's and Cole's headstones.
With frequent visits to the cemetery, I have become familiar with the surrounding graves. I know the names of the children buried there and how old each of them was when he or she died.
There are twins and newborns, one-year-olds and toddlers, each with a name and a story.
I know which graves are recent and which have been there 20 or 30 years, visited by mothers now in their 60's and 70s still bringing flowers for their beloved babies.
I give a sigh of relief every time I return and there are no new graves and when I do come upon a fresh grave marked by cut sod and countless flowers, I remember how difficult those first days were and wonder how the parents are coping.
But most of all, I notice the graves that go untended and unvisited.
I wonder if there is a mother whose heart is heavy because distance or other circumstances keep her from visiting the grave of her baby.
Perhaps she cries, as I did, at Christmastime thinking of the little headstone bearing her child's name that sits snow-covered and unadorned as all those around it sparkle with cheery decorations.
Last year, my sister and I started a new Christmas tradition with our families.
Meeting at the Bountiful cemetery, we went through the baby section and placed a small Christmas decoration on each of the nearly 300 graves. Each of these children have a story, each is dearly loved and each, whether near or far from family, has a symbol of this love left on his or her grave.
Just as the Christmas story tells of the three wise men bringing gifts to honor a tiny baby, two loving mothers, their husbands and 13 children will bring small gifts to honor the babies in the cemetery each year at Christmastime.
This new tradition and the joy and comfort it has brought us, will be a highlight of the Christmas season for our families for years to come." (Davis County News(?) Thursday, December 23, 2004, Krista R. Mortensen)
Just for the record, I immediately found Krista's phone number and called and through my tears apologized profusely for my not heeding the spirit.
Do I have a testimony that Heavenly Father hears our prayers and is aware of our sorrows? You bet I do. Am I trying better to follow promptings as they come to me? You bet I am. How grateful I am to Heavenly Father and his tender mercies that come and sweeten my life.
inspiring story.
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