Our days are numbered

 Life was normal up until September 14, 3;00 pm.

She was posting a funny picture of a mom sleeping in the edge of her bed because her boys had taken over all of the bed. 

"I can't move," she captions it with many smiley faces. 

Life would change so drastically in the upcoming minutes, hours, days. 

She is breastfeeding her baby boy. 

Her eldest comes in the room asking for his coloring book. He was always coloring and drawing. 

As his teacher I knew this well. He would always ask me to make another picture in our virtual class, even after time had finished and I need to go to another class. 

"I can stay with you for another class if you let me, Miss Linda," he would say not caring that my other class was for three year olds. 

He really loved his classes. That comforts me. He wanted more. He tried correcting his English pronunciation and took pride on every little booklet I sent him that he learned to read by heart. 

I keep his videos of him reading his booklets. I keep all of my students' videos and pictures. 

Covid allowed me to teach kids in Panama. He was my Honduran. 

He was a prolific reader. He would take classes with an older girl who was already in first grade. He would stay at her level and even read some words faster than her. You could see he would practice after class and took it very seriously. 

I had a class with him that day. I had had a rough morning fighting with the girls with their schooling. Today had been an especially hard morning. Tears were shed. Screams were shouted. Hearts were heavy. I had a rehearsal later in the evening. 

I write to his mom canceling our class. "We'll have it on Thursday just this week," I write. The other girl had left the class because of family problems. "Tell my boy we'll have our first class just the two of us!!!!" I write with many exclamation points. I knew he was going to be disappointed that I was canceling his beloved class, but that he would be happy to know we would be all alone, just he and I, in our next class. 

He comes into the room a second time to ask for his coloring book. 

"I think it is in the car," says his mom, "I'll go get it for you as soon as I'm done feeding your brother."

The San Pedro Sula sun is unrelenting at that time. The car sits in the street with no roof overhead and the heat being concentrated for many hours. 

She doses off for a few minutes after breastfeeding. I know the feeling and reason quite well. How many times did it happen to me? I cannot recall. 

She hears her husband screaming. 

Her boy had gone to the car. 

For how many minutes? We can only guess. It couldn't have been 15 minutes ago. It's all it took. 

Her boy was passed out on the back car seat not breathing. 

They get in the car to run to a nearby clinic. They live far away from the city. Their car breaks. They run to the neighbor for help, get on his car, and it also breaks. His Aunt runs to get her car and they get to a clinic. It was too late. He was gone. 

I'm finishing my rehearsal. It was good rehearsal, and I stay back in the stage with the pianist singing some Whitney "There can be Miracles if You Believe." I see my phone has two missed calls and a message. 

"I lost my baby, Miss Linda. I lost my Melvin."

I read it and a shiver goes through my spine. I call immediately up on the church stage.

I cannot believe the story I am hearing. I am sobbing uncontrollably. 

My husband is looking at me scared from my face and tears. He understands what happened from what I am saying. 

I cry for minutes until he finally tells me I need to move because they need to close the church. 

"How could this happen? I could have prevented this. If only he had been in class with me! He would have been coloring and would have not been looking for that book." I say.

His mom has the same sentiments. "If only I had stopped breastfeeding and gone to the car to get his book. He had never done this. He would never even go to the backyard alone." 

Heartbreak is a heavy pain to bear. On Wednesday, the pain was so intense I thought it was going to break me. If I am feeling this way, how is she feeling? 

I keep repeating to myself "He is not dead. He is alive. I just can no longer see him but I will again," when the tears come to my eyes. My girls saw me cry too much last week. I can see it was causing my eldest anxiety. They don't know what happened. "Why are you crying?" they ask. "Something happened in Honduras, but don't worry," I say. 

That same night I come home. I go to my girls room. I grab Emmalee and take her to Kaylee's bed. I get between them and hold them close. I cry and say "I'm sorry." 

Ecclesiastes 7:2 It is better to go to a house of mourning

    than to go to a house of feasting,
for death is the destiny of everyone;
    the living should take this to heart.

I feel like I am writing a horror tale in this post. It is indeed a horror tale that a mom is enduring and living and carrying. How? I do not know. 

We forget that our days are numbered. "If only" has no purpose in our vocabulary. There was nothing she or her could have done. It was his day. That day belongs to God alone. 

Psalms 139:16  Your eyes saw my unformed body;

    all the days ordained for me were written in your book
    before one of them came to be.

Someone shared a story with the quote "It is not for you to understand why things happened. It is for you to learn how to live with them." I guess it is a good advice for someone like me always in pursuit of why. 

I kept remembering what I wrote on Pastor Bob's memorial post: "He believed in what he lived, and he lived what he believed." Do I believe this child is with Jesus? Yes. Do I believe he is alive and well? Yes. Do I believe I'll see him again? Yes. Then I must live like someone with such hope and faith. But I also remember the words of my dear Diane: "Everything has it's time. You need to feel it all before you move forward. If you skip steps to be 'Christian-correct', you'll have to go back and will have to go back many times. Don't skip over the grief and pain and hurt."  

I write this with the hope that this story makes you think of your own life. What are the useless feelings and emotions we waste our days with? What missed opportunities to love our children and loved ones fervently are we not taking? We MUST be preparing ourselves for our last day here because it IS coming. We never know when it will be the last of anything. 

My sweet boy will be missed. My heart still aches at remembering him and his sweetness and joyfulness. He was such a happy boy on this earth. I tell his mom to take comfort on what a happy life he enjoyed by her side, even if the pain of losing him is so hard to endure.

Join me in praying for her. Her name is Eimy. Pray that she, her husband, baby, and family can endure this terrible passing. Pray their marriage can endure. Pray they don't blame themselves. Pray that the Lord may work miracles in the healing of their hearts. Pray that I may continue being close to her and that the Lord gives me wisdom and words to help her in this healing journey. Pray that they may all come to Jesus to share in the hope of seeing our little boy again.