Lily died today.

Lily died this morning, and her parents are still in shock. They knew it was a possibility from the beginning, because Lily was born premature, and she arrived weighing less than two pounds. Her time here was short, only a few months. She spent most of her life in an ICU of a hospital in Colorado. Her parents brought her home recently, because she appeared to be big enough to be able to breathe on her own. She had underdeveloped lungs, which are apparently common among  premature babies. It was a sink or swim situation, and for a time it seemed Lily would make it.  There were plans to bring her to California because there is more oxygen at sea level, which would make it easier for Lily to breathe. Lily had the best parents any child could want: they wrote about her progress on a blog that showed images of Lily as she grew. Less than two weeks ago, Lily had reached six pounds, which was a milestone. She seemed perfect on the outside, but her lungs gave out. Lily is at peace now. She was a miracle; she beat the odds. Her parents and grandparents would have liked her to grow up, and go to school, and experience all the good things this world has to offer, but God had other plans. What kind of God takes little children? Is God cruel, and unjust? We understand when an older person dies, but we see no mercy  when a child dies. Lily was the first grandchild of a woman I once dated a long time ago in California. I spoke to my friend on the phone this morning; when she answered she was crying. There weren’t many things I could say; no words were adequate. We live our lives in a vacuum, a perpetual state of uncertainty, clinging to hopes and dreams for ourselves; our children; and families. We are forced to believe in the substance of invisible things. We have very little proof of a hereafter; but little miracles like Lily ought to be proof enough. We live our short lives never knowing with certainty that God exists, cares, or hears our prayers. The universe is vast and beyond understanding. Love is the only glue holding everything together. I have experienced the death of very few people, and that in itself seems like mercy to me. I have lived longer than some and not as long as others, and each day is a miracle. I never knew Lily, but I loved her vicariously through my friend. My friend and I are in the same place: divorced, single, the parents of grown children, and not yet grandparents. When we pray we pray with the hope that there is justice in the world, and that God’s ear is infinite and open to not only us but voices without measure across the ages, and expanses of time and space. Faith is the substance of things unseen. But faith doesn’t entirely soften the loss of Lily much for her parents or her grandmother. God speed to you Lily; you gave it your best shot, and you breathed the good sweet air for a time, which is better than not at all.