Toddlers and Angels

June 4th—the day my sister Sharon died—always makes me pause. 

My mind shifts back to the dark days of 1994. Then, when the veil between here and after was thin and my mind was continually occupied by thoughts of my sister - memories, regrets, wishes - I was on high alert, ever watchful for her presence. 

Desperate for a sign that she was okay was a natural response to the traumatic way she died. I wanted reassurance. I found myself looking for women that looked like her in the grocery store or on the street, just to get a glimpse of her face one more time. For months, even years later, my heart would nearly leap out of my chest when I spied a young lady with long, dark, curly hair or a face that resembled hers. Of course, I was invariably disappointed when that person wasn't Sharon, and I couldn't pretend it was all somehow just a bad dream.

But there were a few times, when our daughter was a baby and toddler, when it wasn't me but Anne who seemed especially attuned to Sharon's presence. Anne was just eight week's old when Sharon died and never met her. 

I wrote this essay about it for a baby book that was being published a few years later and was soliciting short pieces about new motherhood:

 

I know that God was watching over me when he sent Annie to me just weeks before my younger sister was murdered. On the frantic, 16-hour drive home to be with my family, I distinctly remember Annie being suddenly alert, and I bent over her in her car seat, with my face close to hers. Her eyes were as blue as my sister's eyes—for minutes it seemed neither of us blinked—and I saw my sister's eyes in Annie's. It was almost as if God gave me one more chance to look into my sister's eyes. I'll never forget it.

Since then, Annie has continued to be, I feel, the conduit to my sister, Sharon, whenever we need it. When Annie was about 20 months old, we traveled home again to celebrate Christmas with Grandma. When we walked into the door, Annie immediately rushed to the small living room table upon which my mother had put several photos of Sharon. Annie saw them, picked them up and said, 'Sharon.' My daughter, only 8 weeks old at the time of my sister's death, had never met her aunt.

In later months, out of the blue, Annie would mention Sharon's name in ways such as, "I'm going to tell Sharon," if she was angry about something. Once, I gently pressed her further when she mentioned Sharon's name. "Do you see her?" I asked. Annie quietly nodded. "What does she look like?" I said. "Kind of like an angel," came the reply.

Although I know I can't make such moments happen, I long for them. As Annie grows, and her infant innocence begins to fade into knowing toddlerhood, I wonder if her spirit will remain as open to such miracles being done through her. Perhaps I will need to let go of these comforts as I had to let my sister go. I will release them unwillingly and sadly yet will be grateful for the gift.¹

 

Our daughter, now an adult, has little recollection of these incidents. As I expected, that openness which small children have to take everything in around them, at some point ended. 

I still like to think that Sharon in some way hovered close to Anne and me in those days, comforting us in the only way she could.

Until next time...

 

 

IMAGE

William Colbert Detling, The Three Circles: The Home, the Church, and the Heavenly Circle, or the Home, the Church, and the Immortal Life. (Cleveland, Ohio: n.p., 1904), 209; imaged, Library of Congress (https://www.loc.gov/item/04021625/ : accessed 2 June 2026). In the public domain.

NOTES

¹ Carol Keough, Better Homes and Gardens New Baby Book (Des Moines, Iowa: Meredith Corporation, 1998), 229, "Baby's Angel Aunt."