The gravel crunched under our tires as my husband Ralph and I pulled into the small cemetery parking lot with Clare, our ten-year-old daughter. The cold wind nipped at our cheeks as we got out of the van.  The stark winter weather and the muted gray palette in the sky were an appropriate backdrop for visiting our baby’s grave.  I glanced at my husband. Earlier in the day when we had gathered with our extended family and friends, Ralph stood apart from us all, dignified and focused.  He held our son John Paul Raphael in his casket in front of his chest, bearing the physical and emotional weight in equal measure.  For most of our journey, I had carried the heaviest load and he was my support. But today, the burden of our son was his to carry, a burden he shouldered with complete love and a father’s heart full of grief vulnerably on display.

Ralph would do this for John Paul Raphael, carry him home with grace and dignity, when he could not do any of the other 1,000 things he longed to do with his son.

The three of us wanted to visit the cemetery before going home, anticipating the workers would have finished filling in the grave.  We glanced across the brown lawn to the fresh mound of earth.  Clare walked bravely ahead clutching a small bunch of flowers from the reception. I lumbered behind leaning on Ralph’s arm, aching from both the caesarean section and the heaviness of the day.  

I watched our beautiful daughter stop and stare at her baby brother’s grave and quietly place her flowers on top. It is a double dose of grief to mourn your child and to also mourn that your other children know grief.  Clare was our youngest child again.  After enduring divorce and the death of a spouse, Ralph and I were married June 1, 2013 bringing together nine grieving children, five of mine and four of his. We were delighted and surprised to discover I was pregnant in the Spring of 2017 at the age of forty-five.  While most of our other children had un-enthusiastic responses to this news, Clare was ecstatic.  She would finally have the younger sibling she had always wanted. When prenatal testing indicated that John Paul Raphael had Trisomy 18, always a life-limiting condition, Clare was undeterred in her hope and excitement. As my pregnancy progressed, she hugged my belly, waiting to feel John Paul Raphael wiggle and kick and praying earnestly for a miracle. She was the first to hold him in the recovery room, and she huddled with us in tears on the hospital bed as our little boy breathed his last breath after only 28 hours and 10 minutes.

I stood with her now by the fresh piles of upturned earth. Only hours before when the cemetery director indicated the graveside service was over, I told him we would remain until John Paul was fully in the ground. He looked uncomfortable and made a comment about the gravediggers’ attire not being presentable. This made me laugh, as if the grubby clothes of the gravediggers were going to ruin the day.

The workers quickly arrived and removed the plywood covering to reveal clean, deep cuts in the ground.

For the first time, but not the last, I imagined climbing into the hole with John Paul Raphael and lying there, insisting the gravediggers must cover us both with dirt.

Instead, Ralph and Clare and I came forward and each kissed the casket before it was lowered into the earth.  We stood vigil at his grave until the rest of our family and friends finished dropping in carnations, covering his casket with beautiful white flowers.

Now the gaping mouth has been filled in with dirt and is marked only by a small metal sign bearing part of his name: John Paul Leon.  I clung to Ralph, out of words but not tears. Clare slowly selected a few small, precious rocks from the muddy earth to bring home with her. The three of us made our way back to the van, a rental because ours was in the shop. Ralph noticed how wet and dirty the rocks were and asked Clare to be careful not to get mud on the seat or floor of the van. We suggested she place the rocks on top of a white Styrofoam food container we had in the back seat that held leftovers from the reception.

As we headed home, the sky was glorious and we could tell the sunset would be spectacular. The light captivated us and instead of turning onto our street, Ralph parked at the bottom of the hill by our house where we often walked to see the sunset. The three of us got out to go sit on the stairs of the hillside as the colors in the sky unfolded. I could feel God’s presence as the light and the clouds played together. This awe-inspiring sunset was a beautiful consolation on the hardest of days.  

As the colors faded, we made our way back to the van, and Ralph gently helped me into the front seat. As I clicked my seat-belt, Clare exclaimed, “Mom! Ralph! Look!” She lifted her hands to show us the rocks she had gathered from John Paul Raphael’s grave. They were perfectly clean. Not a speck of dirt or mud remained on them anywhere. There was no dirt on the floor or the to-go box. It was as if they had been scrubbed and made new. The three of us were in awe of this small but mighty miracle. What a consolation for our beautiful little girl who watched her baby brother die and whose heart was broken along with ours.

What a clear sign that, in faith, we are each scrubbed clean and made new in the presence of God. 

What a gift of hope that John Paul Raphael was enjoying the privilege of being a new creation with our Heavenly Father. All three of us saw those dirty rocks from the cemetery. There could be no denying the transformation, and we praised God for bringing us a generous miracle of His presence on this long, painful day.