“Healthy children will not fear life if their elders have integrity enough not to fear death.” – Erik H. Erikson

“But I wanna give this picture to Nietsy!” Taytem cried. She was desperate. At three years old, she was very attached to my mom, whom all the grandkids called “Nietsy” (pronounced “NEET-see”) from the leftover nickname that her dad had called her growing up. Nietsy and Taytem were kindred spirits, adventurous and playful, stubborn and dramatic, both of them. Their bond was strengthened by my mom’s constant indulgence to all of Taytem’s desires as well as the constant mantra she would playfully whisper into Taytem’s ear, “Nietsy is your favorite person in the world.”

I choked on emotion as Taytem begged me to get back in the car and drive the four hours back to Texas where we had just buried my mom so that she could give Nietsy the picture she had colored. Taytem had colored the picture weeks before to send to my mom, and I just kept forgetting to put it in the mail. Now my oversight had been discovered, but it was too late.

Three days earlier, my mom’s nine-year fight with breast cancer had come to an end. It was the bitterest moment of my life. I had just lost my mom, my anchor and my friend, far too early in life. She was only 61, and I only 30, far too young to be burying my mom. But the worst part was, my girls had just lost their fun-loving, playful, spoiling, Nietsy who faithfully prayed over them every single day. I wasn’t sure which was worse: Taytem being at an age that she would miss her and not understand why she was gone, or Eisley being too young to ever know her at all.

We had done the best we could to explain death to Taytem. We told her about heaven, and how Nietsy wouldn’t have to stay in bed anymore, but could go walking and exploring the whole universe. We read Taytem a children’s book about dying and heaven. We had a special viewing of the body just for Taytem. She just smiled and said she looked like she was sleeping. It wasn’t until the hearse drove the casket away that it began to sink in for Taytem, and she wailed and cried for them not to take her Nietsy away. I was at a loss, exhausted from two full days of funeral arrangements with my brother and sister, visiting with old relatives, planning my portion of the message my mom had asked my brother, sister and me to share, and grieving alone in the dark of my aunt’s dining room at 2 a.m. I had nothing left with which to comfort my daughter.  As we sat listening to the last hymn  being sung at the graveside, Taytem seemed inconsolable, that is, until my brother began poking her and calling her “stinkerbug.”  All grief was forgotten by Taytem as she giggled on my lap.

But here we were, back at home, and the concept of “Nietsy’s never coming back” hadn’t sunk in. Taytem needed for Nietsy to have that picture, and I couldn’t let her down again. It had to have been God whispering the idea into my ear, for I was at a loss. I grabbed my keys, took Taytem’s hand and we headed to the craft store. Taytem and I picked out flower stickers, beautiful scrapbook paper and embellishments, ribbon and a white photo box. When we got home, I dumped it all out on the kitchen table and explained to Taytem, “We’re going to make a special mailbox just for Nietsy. We’re going to decorate it and put her picture on it, and whenever you want to give her something you’ve made, you just put it in this box.  Then, an angel will come down and get it and take it up to heaven to Nietsy.” I knew it was a risk; her believing me, Lukus and I getting caught taking the pictures out of the box at night as we performed “angel duty”, or her finding the pictures in my nightstand someday. But for now, she simply jumped up and down delightedly and said, “OKAY!”

My mom loved flowers, so we covered the box in flowered paper, stickers, and Taytem wrote Nietsy’s name in glitter paint. We put a photo of my mom holding Taytem and Eisley the last time she looked healthy and beautiful on the lid. There was just one last piece: my mom loved lilies, but the florist didn’t have any live lilies for her casket spray. They added a few silk ones to all the fresh cut flowers, and as we’d left the graveside, Taytem had picked one of the silk lilies from the spray to take home. I found the lilly, poked a hole in the lid and put Taytem’s special flower through.

Taytem couldn’t wait to put the drawing in the box, and was even more anxious to check it the next morning to see if the angel had come. He had, of course.

Even though the box brings me a small twinge of sadness every time we put something in it, it keeps Taytem connected with my mom and the memories they shared together. Sometimes, Taytem will whisper, “I love you, Nietsy” into the box and my throat will catch. I told a friend how I’m thankful for the idea of the mailbox to heaven, but how I wished so much that it was real, or that I could at least believe that it was as fervently as Taytem. My friend, an older woman, close to my mom’s age in fact and who had just lost her own mom, said with such wisdom and confidence that I think I might believe her, “Oh, it’s real. She’s sees and you know that she does.” Yeah, I think I do.