My niece is unbearably small, her face a pale mask peeking out from the winding sheet.
Less than a month old and already she faces Jehovah’s terrible justice. My sister, still suffering from childbirth, sits by her infant’s small wooden box with tears streaming down her cheeks. She will not be comforted. Master Bayley is equally distraught but doesn’t show it.
“God will send us other children,” he tells Mary.
“I don’t want other children. I want my baby!” Mary sniffles while Master Bayley turns away.
I put my arm around her shaking shoulders and whisper, “I’ve heard it said that Jesus gathers innocent lambs to himself, so that heaven may be replenished.”
Even as I say the words, I don’t believe them. Neither does my sister.
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