Happy Birthday Katie

A journal entry from January 2, 2009. In honor of my little sister, Katie, on her 18th birthday.


As She Dances

It's cold tonight in Pleasant Plains Cemetery. As we jump out of the van, I grab the tissue box. I know we'll need it. As we walk through the headstones and footstones, we try respectfully to avoid stepping on anything. I observe the eerie silhouettes that are cast from the many headstones around the graveyard, but I try not to think about them. I greatly dislike graveyards. Not because they are scary in general, but in particular, I dislike this graveyard. It is an emotion that began very early in my childhood, perhaps because of the memories kept captive here. There is always an undertone of sadness when we come here, but we rejoice even still.

The moon is hiding tonight, and it's raining just enough to coat my hair with a shiny sheen. I can feel the wet coldness creeping through my socks. The creeping wetness resembles my growing anxiety and dread. It’s ever approaching, and never ceasing. Whenever we come here, it’s always like this. Dark and wet, cold and foreboding. In fact, most dark nights remind me of this place, only because it’s always nighttime and very dark when we enter these wrought iron gates. It's almost as if the weather anticipates our arrival.

Robert, my oldest brother, beat us to the cemetery with his small family. As we trudge through the slick grass, weaving around family markers that go back generations, Robert's two children run to meet us, announcing, "She's over here! Next to Mama Polly!" Mama Polly was there that day, so long ago. She had just buried her husband, H.A., only a short time before. Then she had to return once again, to bury another loved one. In fact, my dad made that same trip when his dad, H.A., died, and then again to the same place, only inches away and merely weeks later, to face a different kind of sorrow.

As we approach the little section of grass where a number of our deceased family members lie, I visualize in my head the enormous headstone bearing our family name. We all bear this name proudly, because of those who have gone on before us. I'm named after my dad's grandmother who lies here as well. Mama Sallie was Papa H.A.’s mother, and my namesake. She was a woman who worked with her hands constantly. Quilts, blankets, clothes, you name it, she did it. She blessed absolutely everyone around her. I’m rather humbled and very grateful to carry her name.

I see my brother has already started pulling weeds. You see, it's tradition to clear out the weeds that have grown up since we've been here last. I usually help, but tonight I can't. My hands are too cold. I can’t really feel them, and I know that once I start pulling weeds alongside my brothers, the emotions will start rolling. And the pride in me begs for avoidance of the emotions that leave me vulnerable and scared.

The only sound I can hear is the sound of everyone sniffing. It's not just because it's cold, although it most definitely is. Everyone is lost in their own memories of that short time, so many years ago. I don’t have many memories, but the ones I have are vivid and childish. I remember things like smells, colors, and voices. I remember tears and wondering why we were there. I remember life being so very different, but so very beautiful. Our family was different, and I knew it. Even at 18 months old.

You see, Katie only lived 68 days. She never even came home. My parents didn't know anything was wrong until the day before she was born on August 27th, 1992. She had many problems, including being born blue from the lack of oxygen, severe downs syndrome, and a missing heart valve that caused her heart to be greatly weakened. An emergency C-section was performed to save her life. Being as young as I was, I don’t remember her birth, or much of the days that followed. I called her "Kakie". My childish mouth was not able to fully pronounce her name. No one ever tried to correct me.

I stuff my hands into my pockets to keep them warm as I watch my brothers on their knees, clearing Katie's footstone and revealing the design we have all traced in our memories too many times to count. Robert designed her footstone. He was only 14. My sister, Polly, is now reaching for the tissues. It’s a good thing I brought them. I know I’ll be using them soon, too. I haven't started to cry yet, though it's always just a matter of time. Right now I'm too busy searching for answers, asking God why we're here. I'm not angry. I'm not bitter. I don't have a reason to be either. I hardly knew Katie, really. But I'm more than familiar with the way she impacted our family. My dad places his hand on my shoulder. That's why I'm crying. Yes, the tears have started, though I barely even noticed when they began. I'm crying for him. For my mom. For what I don't remember. For what they do remember.

My brothers step away from the stone and join the semi-circle the rest of us have created around the small marker that reads "Precious Daughter, Beloved Sister". My niece, Robert’s little girl, runs up to my dad, her arms outstretched. He gathers her up like a precious gift. She is a precious gift. Her name is Katherine. We call her Kate. She is named for Katie. To see Katherine in her aunt Katie’s father’s arms, breaks my heart. My tears intensify and become more painful. But I think Katie is smiling above us. I know she’s still a part of our family because we refuse to let her be anything else. I know she'd like to be the one in his arms instead of Kate. When I see Kate, more often than not, I think of Katie. When I see Kate dancing, I imagine Katie dancing. If she had lived, she would have been severely retarded. But she still would have danced. I know she would have. Because I would have taught her to dance with abandon. We would have danced while Dad played the songs that we know so well. Kate loves to dance. Almost every time I see her, she's dancing. That's how I know Katie would have danced too. It’s in our blood. The joy, the understanding of life, how short and sweet it is, and how we can’t waste a minute regretting anything. We just dance because we can, and we prefer dancing to anything else.

My dad starts to pray now, tenderly, brokenly. My ears are very cold. I pull my hat down farther, and wipe my nose on the back of my near-frozen hand. Even my tears are cold. I feel raw, broken, ripped up and completely shredded to pieces. "Father, thank You for Katie." His voice breaks. I didn't think it possible, but I now feel even worse. "There are things we don't understand." Ah, yes. The million-dollar question: Why? "But You are a great God." So they might know Me. Is it possible that through our pain, our crippling, blinding, and breaking pain, that someone might see Him in us? Yes, it is most definitely possible. God knows how Daddy feels. In fact, He's felt it first hand as He watched, in anguish, as His Son died a torturous death at the hand of men. So they might know Me.

We sing "Will The Circle Be Unbroken". I can't sing. I’m crying too hard. Dad then asks us to share something, anything, about our memories of Katie. Christopher goes first. "It was such a long time ago." I never see him cry. He’s a tough guy, a macho man who loves to make people smile. "But it was such an important time in my life." Polly goes next. I can't really hear what she says, because she's crying so hard. Mom follows her, "I'm so glad she has brothers and sisters like you guys". Mom always knows how to make us feel like a million bucks. Dad's next. He tells us how Katie spoke to him with her eyes. They held pain. And love. They told him Goodbye, I love you Dad. Joshua says he is proud to be her brother. He wasn't even born until 1994, two years after she was born. When he was born, Mom told us he was God's gift, straight from heaven. I thought it was ridiculous at the time, but he was a balm for her broken heart, purpose after she lost hers. It's my turn now. I say that she made our family strong with the love she gave. Robert says that he remembers holding her while the van pulled around for mom, and how much it meant to just hold her. I think he means at the funeral. I didn't even know he held her there. That makes me cry even more.

We sing the last verse of Amazing Grace. I'm holding Kate now. She wants to know when it will be her turn to say something. I tell her that I don't think she'll have a turn tonight. Dad walks around the group, hugging each of us with the strength that only fathers can posses, and telling us that he loves us. Then he falls to his knees at Katie's grave as if to embrace her as well. He begins to sob from the depths of his heart. I've never seen my dad cry so. Even now, I wonder why he cried like that tonight. I don’t know why this night was different, but I know that it was. The tears began to fall again, cascading down my face, blurring my vision and landing on my wet coat. I’m crying for my Daddy, and the pain that is wrecking his soul, his mind, and his heart. My dad is a strong man, one of the strongest I know. And to see him on his knees in the dirt that harbors the mortal body of my little sister is earth shattering. I don’t understand it. Any of it. But I know it’s worth crying about. So I cry.

I'm still holding Kate, precious, precious Kate. She sees me crying and tenderly touches one of my tears as it makes its way down my wet, cold face. Then she, too, starts to weep. She buries her face in my shoulder as her sobs take over. She doesn't know why I'm crying, but she knows whatever it is, it's worth crying about. So she cries.

Mom joins Dad at Katie's grave, crying with him as her heart bleeds along with his. Then, they stand and trek across the darkened, frozen cemetery, back to the car, holding each other for the strength to walk. The rest of us follow at a distance. I carry Kate, my sister carries the well-used tissue box. She's still using them. Actually, I think everyone is.

As I buckled Kate into her car seat, I wipe a tear from her face as her lip continues to tremble. I whisper, "It's alright, Katherine," and kiss her lightly on the forehead to comfort her. She’s confused, I know. But she trusts me. If she understood the reasons why we are all in tears, she would be crying too. This child who honors her Aunt Katie by carrying her name would understand that the joy she feels when she sings and dances, is the same joy that Katie would have felt had God seen fit to leave her with us longer than He did. And if Katherine could understand that, her tears would surely fall.

As I walk away, I add a thought to myself. Katie is dancing with the angels now. And that is so much better than anything we could have offered her here.