I am reading a book called Window to Heaven. It is a concise read, and her editor suggested that she pad the stories to make it longer. But she had no desire to dilute what she had found to be precious. As a pediatric oncologist Diane Komp spends her time with children on the edge of life. 

 

A three month old baby named Henry was dying of cancer, and his mother kept vigil at his bedside. Her prayers were for healing, until one night when she had a pivotal dream. In it Henry was crawling around the church kitchen. The baby kept pausing at the center to reach his starfish hand upward, saying "God!" before crawling around again. Then he stopped for the last time, flopping down lifeless. She ran to him, but it was too late. God walked into the room, and gathered Henry into His arms. The mother was crushed to lose her son, and God looked at her with great compassion. He gave Henry back for a moment, and yet even as she held him to her heart, the baby responded as if he had been handed to a babysitter, when the Parent he really wanted was just out of reach. She cried out with a burning question. 

 

"Do I get to keep my baby?"

 

She looked into God's face, believing that if she saw sadness the answer would be no, but if He smiled it would prove that Henry would stay. Instead she saw an emotion that was wider, more expansive than yes or no. She felt encompassed in deep love. 

 

Henry died soon after, and she was able to accept it. She went on to have two healthy children. 

 

I resonate with her prayer. When Benjamin lay limp in a hospital crib at five months, that petition hammered inside my chest. The answer I was given had words.

 

"He will be carried along on the wave of your family." Which is indeed how it has played out. Still her dream comforts me around another uncertainty. One I wrestle with these twenty two years later. 

 

"Will Benjamin's life have joy?"

 

Society can convince us that happiness is calibrated in success, or physique. My own definition once rested on a vibrant marriage, motherhood, and meaningful work. Yet those are not the bones of Benjamin's days. 

 

Maybe I too can let go of my stubborn questions. Some answers don't fit inside the house that is my head. Which is why I need a window to heaven.