A Letter to Talitha

I had a hard time thinking of writing a Eulogy for my daughter’s funeral, but I wanted to do something. And so I thought that writing Talitha a letter seemed more doable. So I am going to read you that letter now, the letter of some of the things I would want to say to Talitha if she was still here.

My daughter Talitha,

I sit here and imagine you, my little girl, still in my womb, or rocking in my arms, or bouncing on my knee. This may be the hardest letter I have ever written, because there are a million things I wish I could say. There are so many things I want to tell you. And so here I sit, writing you this love letter, and I am going to tell you some of those things now. The things I want you to know.

I want you to know that your life was an answer to your big sister’s prayer. We were all driving to church in the car, and your big sister A asked us for a sister. Your Dad and I smiled at each other and told her this was something she needed to pray for. And A prayed for you, right then and there. A then promptly informed us that she was confident God would say yes. And a few weeks later, we found out she was right. And we were so excited.

I want you to know that you were prayed for. When you were about ten weeks old, the color red made us believe we lost you. Now you weren’t only in our prayers: many others gathered praying for you, longing for your safety. Family, friends, the church. As our many ER visits played out again and again, more prayed. Your own church, Second Presbyterian Church prayed for you Wednesdays and Sundays and every other day too. Churches in Michigan prayed, the nurses at the hospital told us of how they gathered together to pray, people of God scheduled zoom calls on your behalf, and even total strangers from afar prayed. And how much your sister, your Dad and I prayed too.

I want you to know you are loved. So many fought for your life. Your Dad served as father and took on all the roles of a mother too as I was on bedrest, tenderly caring for me and thus for you. Our little seminary street we live on cooked us healthy liver and some less healthy muffins too. The doctors and nurses took extra measures to stive for the intervention for your life. Your church astounded us with their love. Every day dear saints came to serve us and care for your brother and sister. Diapers, laundry, meals, chalk on the sidewalk, midnight calls, countless texts, and cards that filled our mailbox too- how they stood by your side, rallying on your behalf. Friends spent the night with your siblings while your Dad took us to the hospital. Your Bubba flew out your Nanna and Aunt Lydia to help. Your Grandpa and Grandma Lyon prayed. Many in Michigan sent their support.

But then, we learned the fight for your life was coming to a close, and we had to say goodbye. And we loved you then too. Your Dad and I loved those precious moments we held you, seeing your heart beat, your little mouth open and close. For those two sweet hours, we delighted in every second with you singing hymns, reading Revelation 21 and 22, telling you of the King you now see. Then how we grieved- me and Daddy and A and Z. When we came home from the hospital without you, the four of us all hugged and cried on our bed. We miss you Talitha, we will always miss you. Talitha, you are loved. A dear friend said it well when she wrote, “There are people who live for decades on less love than your baby received in months.”

I want you to know that I am so proud of you. I am so proud of how you grew so big and strong inside me. I am so proud of how you fought for your life, despite the doctor’s predictions, you lived so long, struggling to breathe for those two precious hours after being born. I am so proud of how your life- just being alive- told so many people of Jesus. Strangers at the store and the park, friends near and far, doctors and nurses, we told them about our Lord Jesus who you now see. And on the dark morning that the doctors and nurses gathered around us to tell us you weren’t going to make it, we told them. No stopping a grieving mother and father- we told them all about your name, Talitha Grace. About the Jesus of Mark 5, who resurrected a little girl 2,000 years ago, and would resurrect you too. Not an eye was dry, as they heard your story- His story in you.

And I am so proud for all the things I don’t get to see- for everything you’re learning and how you grow. For how you are praising the Lord eternally before His throne. That is all, all I have ever wanted for my children. And though I do not pretend to know the specific plans and purposes He had for you, I know they were accomplished, and accomplished beautifully in you. My dear Talitha, you glorified the King, and are now enjoying Him forever. I am so proud of you.

I want you to know the Word you now see is the same Word who faithfully speaks to me. When I cried to the Lord, “If only You had been there Jesus, she would not have died!” I remembered the Scripture, “Jesus wept.” When I grieved late at night, “My womb is empty,” the Word spoke, “He is not here. He is risen.” The Word who holds you now is the same Word who comforts me.

I want you to know the many ways your life has forever changed us. How can one so small have such a big place in our lives? But your life changed us dear Talitha. Your life, and yes your death too, brought us closer to one another as a family, bonded us even closer to the church, invigorated us again for the active labor towards the abolition of abortion and care for orphans, renewed our urgency for Gospel life in the home and local church, has caused us to pray more fervently- to search the Scriptures more diligently, and above all to cling closer to Christ.

And finally, I want you to know that while I long to be with you, it’s not that I want you back with me, for you have no regrets but are eternally rejoicing. No, rather I will come to you. And just like those two hours in the hospital, we will sing. But this time, I will hear your voice, too. Together we will sing hymns ancient and new. We will recount the wondrous works of the One we then behold, how He is good and does good, and does all things well. And we will dwell together with Him, seeing our Good Shepherd face to face. In the comforting and true words of our Pastor Phillips, this is not loss. It is only delay. So together, though realms apart, we eagerly await for that great end when the trumpet sounds. Come Lord Jesus, come.

I love you, and we promise to always remember you and treasure you, until we see you soon.

Your Mother

*Images are from Talitha's funeral, graciously taken by photographer and dear friend Shantelle Fitch.