She is only

2 years old. Just barely 2, in fact.

She doesn't

understand death. But she knows "Donnie's dad

died."

She knows

because she repeated the refrain all day yesterday. Last

night when I laid down with her to get her to sleep, she

said it again and again.

"I

know, baby, I'm sorry," is all I could say.

Fighting

sleep with every ounce of her little frame, she finally

sat up boldly in bed and said, "It's mean. It's mean

that Donnie's daddy died."

"No

sweetheart, not mean, just sad this time. Just sad,"

I responded feebly.

Two years

old...

Then she

started to hold her foot again. She had complained of it

hurting all day long. Repeatedly. There was no visible

sign of injury. Nothing my eye could see. I was starting

to wonder if she was having cramps, "growing

pains" maybe.

Then

suddenly I asked, "Baby, is your foot hurting

because Dylan's foot is hurt?

"Yes."

Two years

old.

Her

5-year-old brother had spent the night at the emergency

room earlier in the week. He had a bite on his foot

- possibly an ant bite - that got infected and

turned nasty real quick, red streaks up his leg and all.

She awoke while their dad was at the hospital with her

brother and demanded to know where he was. Borderline

terror seemed to grip her. She sat up on the sofa by her

exhausted mom until 4 a.m. when her brother came home.

Whom did he

embrace first?

His sissy.

"I'm

all right, Sissy. Don't worry. It's okay. I love

you."

Their bond

is awesome. Her brother was home again, so back to bed

she went. He did not die like Donnie's dad. But her

brother's pain was fast becoming hers. She would bear it,

too. Share it with him. Help him carry it. Stay in the

know... hold on to him.

Two years

old.

How foolish

we adults are to think we know it all. To think we have

answers. To think we understand.

And a

little child shall lead them. Again and again.

How dare I

tell her it was just sad this time. She gets to decide if

it's mean or sad, not me. It's her emotions and they are

real. She must deal with them. She must cope. She must

try to understand the concept of death, even at 2 years

old.

When her

dad was her age, Ernie died. Ernie was Mrs. Smith's

husband. Mrs. Smith was my babysitter.

One day, a

Friday, Dean was at their house. Over the weekend, Ernie

died unexpectedly. It was more than two weeks before Mrs.

Smith was able to keep Dean again. When he walked into

their home on a Monday morning, Ernie's chair at the

breakfast table was empty.

"Dead"

didn't set well with Sissy's dad either. Not at 2 years

old. He tried but he couldn't understand. He would not

allow anyone to sit in Ernie's chair. For many months he

was certain Ernie would be back. Then one day he told me

Ernie was "at the moon."

He had

worked through his loss. His friend would not be back,

but it was okay because he was at the moon.

Two years

old.

I'll be 52

years old this month. I'm still asking questions about

death and dying. I still don't understand more than I

care to admit to. I'm still learning to cope.

But Sissy

reminded me of some things last night. When I realized

she had taken on her brother's pain, the depth of her

love for him shone though.

As I sat on

my front porch this morning, sipping tea, and looking out

into that haunting grey mist that transports us from what

we call night to day, I realized anew that truly Jesus

Christ feels our pain. We are not alone.

I went

upstairs to my favorite Bible. Opening it to the book of

Hebrews, I read in the sixth chapter, "In the days

of His flesh, He offered up both prayers and

supplications with loud crying and tears to the one able

to save Him from death, and He was heard because of His

piety."

But the

cross remained. And He went to it willingly.

He had to

become one of us. To feel what we feel. To hurt like we

hurt. To live as we live and die as we die. He had to

take on our humanity, know our weaknesses in every way.

Only then could He act on our behalf as the ultimate high

priest that He is today. Ever intervening... making

intercession for you and me. Because He understands.

Two years

old, or 52... the questions are the same. The answers may

be, too.