Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 7614 Plough Quarterly • Winter 2015 My little sister Marianne died when I was six. Our family had waited for her arrival with great eagerness. She was born after my mother went through a very difficult labor for over sixty hours and suffered near-fatal heart failure. It was miraculous that she survived delivery at the primitive village hospital in Paraguay. But the baby was critically ill, and only lived for twenty- four hours. Because we lived quite a distance from the hospital, and because I was only six, I was never able to see, touch, or hold my little sister. Still, I have felt this loss my entire life. Over time, it has become all the more important to me to remember that Marianne was–and is–a real part of my life and my family. Though she was here on this earth for only one day, she will always be my sister. Years later, I experienced this link with heaven even more clearly through another child, my granddaughter Stephanie Jean, who will remain in my heart for the rest of my life. When Stephanie was born, we knew right away that she was a very special child with severe abnormalities. She was diagnosed with Trisomy 13, a genetic disorder characterized by a short life expectancy. Most infants born with this dis- order die within a few days. Stephanie had three sisters and one brother. They struggled to understand that their parents were not going to bring home the healthy baby they all had longed for, but an extremely dis- abled child who would not live long. We prayed constantly that God’s will might be done in her life, and that we would grasp the meaning of her birth. As grandparents, we experienced the wonder of holding her almost daily. Stephanie lived for five weeks, and when the time came, died peacefully. At her funeral, we could not believe how many people attended. They had all heard of her birth and diagnosis, and it affected them deeply. They wanted to partici- pate in this last expression of love for a small compassion are stronger than hate or indif- ference–can quickly trans- form this fear into confidence and a desire to do something for others. I have found this faith in children all over the world, regardless of their religion. But parents need to nurture it. When we tell our children that the God who made the world loves each of them personally, we give them a deep assurance that, whatever happens, they are never alone. As a pastor, I believe that even though God and Jesus are “illegal” in public school class- rooms, teachers should never be afraid to live out their faith, even if wordlessly, and let it guide their daily interactions with children. We can acknowledge and protect the spark of the eternal that lives in each of them, the unique soul that needs our reverence and respect, no matter how difficult or unhappy the child may be. Children’s own faith should be respected and affirmed. If they believe that God sees everything, that their guardian angel watches over them, or that Jesus is their friend, this can help them withstand the pressures that flood our culture. There’s another sphere of life that must be brought to a child with great reverence. To me, the mystery of birth and death can only be expressed in terms of eternity. This is not only because of my upbringing, since my parents lived their faith more than they talked about it. Rather, it’s because of the times in my own life when something far greater than words could clearly be sensed, through someone who never spoke a word. I have seen how even the shortest life can transform all those within its reach. The author and his wife, Verena, with their granddaughter, Stephanie Jean (September 3– October 5, 2008)