"All the darkness in the world cannot put out the light of one small candle." -- Unknown

Her name was Kim Lorraine, and in the spring of 1956 she died moments after she tiptoed into this world.

And so she was laid to rest in France, where my family was stationed at the time.

Kim was my sister.

No one knew the real cause of death. Just that she had a very small head, and life would have been a brutal challenge had she lived. When the doctor detected abnormalities during Mom's pregnancy, he confided his diagnosis to my father, adding that the baby would either be stillborn or not live very long. It was recommended that Dad keep the diagnosis to himself because the doctor did not want to impose undue hardship on my mother. Back in the 1950s, that was the psychology of the times.

Even though Kim's passing left a glaring gap between the first four kids and the last four kids in my family, none of us appeared to be affected by it. Life went on. My mother spoke of it only when asked about it. And even then, in short, unemotional sentences.

We were known as a family of eight, which would have been nine with Kim's presence. My standard refrain throughout my life was always, "I'm the seventh of eight kids." It was easier that way. Kim gradually became the nonexistent family member as though she had never been born at all.

Years passed before I understood the depth of Mom's sorrow.

My first son was born at 24 weeks during the week of Christmas. Alone in my room and heavily sedated from the emergency C-section, I stared blindly out the window.

The phone rang. It was Mom, reaching out to me long-distance.

"You have a grandson, Mom," I announced brightly, masking my bleak spirits. "His name is Cody Travis."

"Oh, Jennifer, that's wonderful!" she answered with enthusiasm. She was hiding her concern well. "How much does he weigh?"

"One pound, six ounces," I replied, my voice breaking.

"Oh, honey."

Her response, simple as it was, spoke volumes.

I could lose this baby.

Neither one of us dared say it out loud. As my deepest fear bubbled to the surface, tears stung my eyes, and I began to tremble, aching for her steady presence and her compassion and warmth. Only my mother, my beautiful mother, whose baby had been buried overseas so long ago, would understand.

"I love you, Mom," I whispered.

"I love you, too, hon."

Two days later, my parents wore scrubs in the NICU, absorbing the impact of the tiniest grandchild they had ever welcomed into this world. Watching my mother as she tenderly cupped Cody's head, I wondered if she was thinking of her little girl. Perhaps she was envisioning a place like this, complete with aggressive technology, saving her daughter just as it had saved her grandson.

A couple of years ago, Mom received for Mother's Day a necklace that featured little boy and girl stick figures with birthstones. There we were, all eight of us birthstone brats, dangling from a long gold chain. She wore it with great pride. The manner in which her fingers lightly trailed over each child touched me in particular.

At one recent holiday, I handed Mom a small white box. The card read: "Mom, I just wanted to fill the gap between the first four and the last four."

Puzzled, she opened her gift. It was a girl stick figure with Kim's emerald birthstone.

"It's Kim, Mom. The baby you lost."

Her eyes were moist as we hugged each other tight.

"You are so thoughtful," she said softly.

Kim will gain her rightful place on Mom's necklace. Right there in the middle, between the first four and the last four, will be her daughter completing the family.

These days I tell people I'm the eighth of nine children. I do this out of respect for my sister. I do this out of respect for my mother, whose pain is locked away. And for all mothers who mourn the loss of their babies, I do this for you, too.

Her name was Kim Lorraine. In the spring of 1956, my sister tiptoed out of this world just as quietly as she entered it, leaving small footprints on our hearts.

Jennifer Oliver
[email protected]
Copyright © 2001 by Jennifer Oliver. All rights reserved.

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Becca is my giving niece!
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DID YOU KNOW?

(Thanks, Diane!)

What in the world do leaping lords, French hens, swimming swans, and especially that partridge that won't come out of the pear tree have to do with  Christmas?  From 1558 until 1829, Roman Catholics in England were not allowed to practice their faith openly.  Someone during that era wrote this carol as a catechism song for young Catholics.  It has two levels of meaning: the surface meaning plus a hidden meaning known only to members of their church. Each element in the carol has a code word for a religious reality, which the children could remember:

The partridge in a pear tree was Jesus Christ.

Two turtle doves were the Old and New Testaments.

Three French hens stood for faith, hope, and love.

The four calling birds were the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

The five golden rings recalled the Torah or Law, the first five books of the Old Testament.

The six geese a-laying stood for the six days of creation.

Seven swans a-swimming represented the sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit:  Prophesy, Serving, Teaching, Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership, and Mercy.

The eight maids a-milking were the eight beautitudes.

Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit:  Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-control.

The ten lords a-leaping were the Ten Commandments.

Eleven pipers piping stood for the eleven faithful disciples.

Twelve drummers drumming symbolized the twelve points of belief in the Apostles' Creed.

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QUOTES FROM LESSER KNOWN PEOPLE

"It's so much fun to teach our kids to laugh before they can talk!" Stephen said as he tickled our one-year-old daughter, Madison.