Twelve days have passed since I read that first desperate text from my daughter requesting “Mighty prayers needed for Azalea right now! Don’t call!”

This can’t be right, I thought. Is she just sick? I wondered.

But a sinking feeling settled in my heart and  I knew something was terribly, irreversibly wrong.

Information came in shattered fragments over the next half hour.

My darling eight-week-old granddaughter was fighting for her life…

She was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital…

In fact, she had stopped breathing and they couldn’t revive her…

In fact…

Her spirit had left her tiny body and she was… gone… 

My daughter broke this final devastating piece of news to my husband and me in a quiet voice. I muted the phone as anguish poured out of me.

Gone? How was it possible that the sweet baby I had cradled so tenderly just a week earlier was gone? She was perfect, we thought. The doctors had all assured her parents that all was well. And yet, in an instant, and for no apparent reason, she slipped quietly through the veil.

This tiny person whom I had cherished and loved as my own had moved on ahead of us all. Violent sobs rocked my body. Shock set in. Numbness. My legs turned to jello and my hands shook. So many tears fell as waves of grief washed over me. I had to get to my daughter. Racing down the freeway to get on the next plane out, I felt surrounded by heavenly beings, helping me. Loving me. Assuring me we would be okay… eventually.

So much seems like a blur but highlights come to my mind:

The feeling of being wrapped in the Savior’s arms as I flew to California.

Arriving at my daughter’s home that was filled with police who were investigating the “case”.

My daughter falling into my arms and the two of us weeping long and hard.

A feeling in their home that was reverent… sacred. Knowing it was filled with angels who were comforting us and giving us strength to endure the pain.

My daughter and her husband holding up like champs, having faith that their angel baby had lived out her short life in accordance with a wiser plan. Knowing with certainty that they would be with her again. Seeking the will and comfort of an all-knowing, all-loving Father.

We cried mightily and we prayed even more mightily.

So much love and tenderness came at us from all directions. Messages of sympathy, cards, flowers, poetry, photos, gifts, meals, generous financial donations, flags flying at half-mast, help with arrangements and so much compassion.

“What can I do to help?” everybody asked. There was a widespread feeling of shock and grief that rippled outward through our respective communities. People felt helpless and wanted to somehow make a difference for us. “Pray for us,” was always my reply. It was no trite request, but an earnest entreaty.

For the relief we felt was tangible. We were given strength beyond ourselves. Mingled with the loss and grief, we began to feel love, peace and gratitude. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but there I was experiencing it. And I wasn’t the only one feeling it. 

Heaven met earth as the veil separating the two became very thin. Normal people became angels to us. Heavenly beings whispered words of comfort and held us up when we might have collapsed. Our Azalea whispered to us of her happiness and her gratitude for her short life.

Hundreds of people mourned for this little family and for our extended family and something miraculous and beautiful happened. By sharing in our mourning, our burden was actually made lighter… easier to bear.

To “mourn with those that mourn” and to “comfort those who stand in need of comfort”* is one of the signs of a true follower of Christ. In so doing, we not only become like Christ, but we also become ONE with Him in his purposes to love and bless everyone.

Some friends reported that in supporting us, they were surprised that they felt inspired and uplifted, rather than sad and depressed.  Because of their acts of love and service, they were able to feel the Holy Spirit and all the beautiful feelings and gifts the Spirit brings to us.

“But the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith…” (Galatians 5:22)

I kept hearing a little whisper: “Be happy, Grammy! Don’t be gloomy.” And so we all set out to create a celebration of her life in the way she wanted it done.

The day of our sweet baby’s memorial services dawned bright and beautiful. Of course, there were tears of mourning. And there were also tears that came when our hearts were deeply touched… healing, cleansing tears.

In the history of funerals, I think this had to be one of the sweetest and most comforting. There were pink and white azaleas everywhere, hundreds of pictures of her, poems and paintings, comforting music and talks to honor her, doves flying into the sky, and at the end, her mommy dressed in white and danced for her. Nothing could have been more heartbreakingly beautiful.

When it was all finished, we knew we had not only honored our little Azalea well, but we had succeeded in helping others feel a Spirit of peace. Azalea’s mission in life was to bring peace and happiness to others.

There are times of tears and sorrow and there will always be an ache in my heart in that special spot I opened up for my darling baby girl, but I figure that holds the place for her and helps me remember how much I love her. Farewell, my sweet flower girl, until we meet again.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Psalm 30:5  (Read Part 2: “Waves of Sorrow, Waves of Peace))