Surviving the Death of a Child, Part Three

Part Three: Training Wheels

"I’m Sorry for Your Loss"

That sounded pretty good, right?

I couldn’t imagine what it was like to lose a child, and I wasn’t about to say something stupid. Peter’s son, Nicholas, had died in his sleep for no discernible reason.

What else could I say to a father who had just unexpectedly lost his 4-month-old boy? I wanted to communicate so much more, but everything else that came to mind seemed over the top. So I went with the first and simplest option. He shook my hand as I expressed my condolences. I remember his eyes—wet with sadness.

Poor guy.

I walked my two oldest boys across the sanctuary toward the miniature casket. I wanted them to see little Nicholas. They needed to understand what is at stake in this fallen world. The writer of Hebrews warns: “It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.”

Everyone needs to be ready to stand before God, even children. Shielding my boys from this reality would do them no favors, so I made it a practice to bring them with us to any funeral we attended.

This was already the second one they had been to in 2012. I didn’t want it to become some weird, morbid thing. I wanted them to understand the wonder of Jesus’ resurrection. Death is defeated. We have a blessed hope.

On the way out to the minivan, my oldest son, Hudson, said, “I don’t want Nicaea to die.”

Athanasius, the middle child, chimed in too. “Is Nicaea gonna die?”

“No, no. Nicaea is doing just fine. Boys, don’t worry. You’ll be hugging her before you know it! She isn’t going to die.”

Hudson smiled. He had been looking forward to a little sister.

Weeks later, that exchange kept playing over in my mind as we tumbled down State Route 45 in our minivan. How wrong I had been! Nicaea, like Nicholas, was with her Heavenly Father. There wouldn’t be any hugs from her big brothers—not in this life. And I’d have to explain that to them in a few minutes.

How do I say this right? A thousand scenarios played out in my head, and all of them seemed bad. Before I knew it, we were there. I should’ve read those pamphlets the nurses gave us.

The two oldest boys were playing by a tree stump in the front yard. I walked over to them as Em went onto the porch to get our youngest, Caedmon. I sat down on the stump and looked Hudson in the eyes. He knew but still asked, “Is Nicaea dead?”

“Yes. She is in heaven. We won’t see her until we are in heaven.”
“How long will that be?”
“I don’t know. Probably a long time.”

He cried. Athan and Caedmon cried. We all held each other and cried. It hurt so much that she was gone. The pain was excruciating. It still is, at times. But our tears have never been tears of despair. We had plenty of hurt, but we also had plenty of hope.

We thanked our friends for watching the boys, loaded them into the van, and headed home. They all needed baths, and we needed to somehow plan a funeral.

No matter how unprepared you feel, God prepares you for death. Sometimes, He prepares us through direct experiences; other times, it’s more indirect.

I remember a pastor telling a story about how God used the death of his pet turtle as training wheels. It prepared him for more substantial tragedies. The Lord took the training wheels off when his wife died in a car accident, leaving him a widower with several small children. Some years later, their teenage daughter would die in a similar car accident. He said, “Our Father always prepares us, but even then you will still need His strength.”

That story always stuck with me. I was nineteen when I heard it. Years later, it turned out his story was my training wheels for the death of our own daughter.

My grandfather passed away when my mom was eleven after a long battle with cancer. I remember her telling me that she was away at camp when everyone suddenly became extra nice to her. In that moment, she knew he had passed. Every time I heard her tell that story, I could feel her pain. It taught me, even as a small child, how fragile life is. God doesn’t waste pain. The trials my mother faced in her childhood, shared through her occasional stories, became part of my own preparation for understanding life’s tragedies.

God not only prepares us for trials but also through them. In the months before Nicaea’s death, I found myself transfixed by James 1:2-4. It reads:

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

I remember thinking, “Why is God bringing me here?” I sensed He was preparing me for something. I was right. He was preparing me not just for Nicaea’s death but for heaven. He knew I loved this passing world. He knew heaven was often far from my mind. So, He blessed me with a trial to perfect me.

Pastor Thomas Brooks said it well:

"Surely, these afflictions are but the Lord's pruning-knives by which He will bleed my sins, prune my heart, and make it more fertile and fruitful! They are but the Lord's potion by which He will clear me and rid me of those spiritual diseases and maladies that are most deadly and dangerous to my soul! Affliction is such a healing potion as will carry away all soul-disease better than all other remedies (Zech. 13:8-9)!"

He did just that. He broke me. I hate sin and death more than ever. Heaven is never far from my mind. Just a few days ago, Athan began to cry about Nicaea being gone. Hudson turned to me and said, “I look forward to heaven.”

What a gift Nicaea has given us! Her death was preparation. God has used her to make the entire family heavenly-minded. After all, heaven is where our treasures are—not just a daughter or a little sister, but our glorious Heavenly Father!