About two weeks ago, on a sunny February day, I started writing.
It had been almost 16 months and I'd never written the story of his death and birth before.
I always thought I would. I wanted to remember, but the very thought of it made me shutter. I didn't want to go 'there'. I didn't know if I'd come back...I didn't know if I could come back or if I'd even want to.
Out of the blue, the words came and I obligingly wrote them.
And they were beautiful.
Before you think I'm some kind of prideful narcissist (which I am), I want to communicate that I can't take credit for the words, or the story.
He wrote them. And they were beautiful.
His is a story about a young woman and her little boy, a baby who would leave an incredible impact on her life when he was called home on a cold November day...
This is a grand story reaching back generations, into thousands of centuries, where the lead is also a little boy; but not an ordinary little boy at all.
Owen's life and death, the story that is weaving through my life and the lives of many others, is not an open and closed book. It does not end with his death.
Yes, my mother's heart cries out remember him...and I believe it for a purpose.
I am adamant that he is not forgotten. I can become incensed very quickly when I feel less value is placed on his life because he only lived in my womb.
Our Heavenly Father's purposes were not squelched when Owen died. Yes, I may have felt that I was cheated and my plans were dashed at a great price...but our Father's plans are never ruined. His perfect purpose was exacted in Owen's life just as He had planned from the very beginning...and those purposes are just as vital and important to His Plan and to His Glory as is a life lived 90 years.
And so I shout from the rooftops, remember him, value his life...and please remember Him, value His life for He lived and died at a great price and His story is beautiful.