"Today is a difficult day."

That's what my friend Jamin said today when he opened the memorial service.  My friends Pete and Catherine buried their baby girl yesterday.  Today they celebrated her life.

Hope Spring was born with anencephaly, a disorder that prevented a large part of her brain and skull from developing while she was in the womb.  We found out in April of this year that Hope was sick.  Catherine chose to carry her and she grew for almost six more months until her birth at full term on September 21.  Hope lived for eight precious days.  Six of those were spent at her home in the Cove, a sweet community of friends in my city.

Today I sat again at Merton Avenue Baptist Church.  The last time I was there was several years ago, at Pete and Catherine's wedding.  Three years ago I never considered the possibility that I would sit at their daughter's funeral.  I would never have guessed that I would relish helping Catherine hang the laundry on the line in the backyard, watching her belly grow with Hope.  That I would get to help Catherine put her daughter Hannah to bed, singing to God with them and then asking Him to heal her baby sister.  When I attended their wedding so many years ago, I never knew that so much heartache was ahead for them.  So much pain and mystery and suffering.

Yet, some things have not changed.  Pete and Catherine have always lived vulnerably, exposed.  They are real about their emotions and their shortcomings.  They live with their eyes wide open, as well as their arms and their hearts.  They are sustained by the Spirit of God.  There is no other way to explain the peace they exude amidst deep, piercing heartache.  And sadly, this is not the only heartache they have known.  They care.  About the world, about the land, about the city, about their neighbors, about me.  They have large hearts and wide smiles that remind me that Jesus is indeed alive.

I wanted to share the letter that Pete wrote to his daughter, Hope.    

How is it possible that I have learned so much and gone to such a deeper place in my walk with God through the ministry of you, my daughter?  You were only here through a nine month pregnancy and outside the womb for 8 days.  Knowing that you would not survive, I hit many crossroads over this long hot summer.  Do I let my love grow for you despite knowing that it would not be fulfilled in this life?  Knowing that I would not see you grow up?  Somehow, despite myself, my love did grow for you in ways I could not understand or control.  It grew past wanting to terminate the pregnancy, it grew past wanting you to die quickly so that I would not have to suffer, it grew past hoping you would not be handicapped so I would not have to take care of you the rest of my life.  It grew, and grew, and grew to the point that I would have done anything to save you and still be able to hold you today and have a future with you here.  This love grew despite knowing that you would not be here long.  In other words, I experienced something of what God experiences for us--unconditional love.  Thank you, Hope Spring, for teaching me this.  Your legacy in my heart is deep and firm.  I am a little angry that you will not be walking in the woods with me and jealous that you are seeing the real woods and mountains that I long to see.  I promise that I will remember the lesson you leave me about true love and never forget the grip of your hand on mine.  

Love, 
Your Daddy

The gratitude board in Pete & Catherine's living room.  All who enter are invited to share.

It was a privilege to celebrate Hope's life today - her short life here and her eternal life in the Kingdom of Heaven.  Pete and Catherine have taught me more about faithfulness and sacrifice than I can comprehend tonight.  The British theologian Thomas Raitt wrote, "It is precisely those who know the death most painfully who can speak the hope most vigorously."  Yes, this is true of my friends.  May it also be true of me.