CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

(Matthew 5:4)

 

On January 7th, John talked me into accompanying the family to a small pond on William’s property for an ice-skating party. I had not been feeling too well the week before, but the crisp winter air seemed to bring back vigor to me, as we rode in the wagon to William’s house, the huge, lumbering Goliath pulling us through the pristine snow, which had fallen the night before. The sun shone brightly, making tiny diamonds dance before my eyes.

The children were excited at the chance to be outside. Henry at five was beginning to learn his letters and Alexander tried to imitate his big brother every chance he got. The twins, Arthur and Mary, were rambunctious three-year-olds, and baby Lydia had just been weaned. My sixth child was due in May.

By the time we arrived at William’s large house, the rest of the family was already there and the children were out on the ice. No one had skates, but that didn’t stop the children from trying. We all laughed at their attempts to remain upright on the slippery surface. William had built a fire and the adults were standing around its warmth drinking steaming cups of chocolate, which was a luxury here in the backwoods of northern England.

John helped me down from the wagon, unhitched Goliath and hobbled him under a tree, where he promptly began to dig through the snow in search of grass to munch on. He was a wonderful old friend, and a great worker for John. In my opinion, the village cooper back in King’s Lynn had lost a valuable asset when he’d sold the old Belgium draft horse to us. I recall that it wasn’t too cold that day—at least it didn’t seem to be at the time. Around three in the afternoon, I had risen from my seat on an old, dry log, when suddenly my water broke. I was shocked—I wasn’t due for another four months. Agnes must have noticed my distress, for she rushed over to me.

“What’s wrong, Sarah?” she asked.

“I think my water just broke,” I replied, rather queerly

“Are you in pain?”

“No, that’s the thing. I don’t feel anything—just wet,” I laughed nervously, plucking my water-soaked dress away from my legs.

“Well, we’d better get you up to the house quickly.”

“Yes, I think that would be wise.”

Agnes shouted to John and William, who rushed to my side, lifted me in their arms and climbed huffing and puffing, up the steep, snow-covered hill to the house. Mary and Elizabeth hurried along in our wake, while Sir Thomas and the others stayed to watch the children. It wasn’t long before the pains began, and the ordeal was quickly over with the birth of a small boy around seven o’clock. Agnes quickly took the baby away to clean him. The birth had taken a great deal out of me and I fell asleep. As my eyes closed, I thought it was strange that I hadn’t heard the baby cry at all.

I slept all night and awoke the following day to a peculiarly quiet house. There was no noise—no children’s voices rose in play, and particularly, no crying infant. Getting up from the bed, I crept along the wall into the front room to find Agnes sitting in a rocker by the fire, quietly knitting. She jumped at my voice.

“Agnes, where’s my baby?”

“Oh…um…well…uh, Sarah, you need to sit down. Let me get you a cover. We don’t want you getting cold, now do we?” She was speaking fast and bustling around the room.

“Certainly,” I responded, looking around the room for a cradle or something that would hold my son. “Where’s my son, Agnes?”

“Just a minute, dear, let me get that cover for you. Here, sit down in my rocker. I’ll be right back.” She hurriedly left the room and reappeared a few moments later with a heavy cover, which she draped over my legs. She appeared to be extremely nervous—fussing about me like a mother hen.

“Agnes….” I persisted, but she quickly shushed me.

“Sarah…um….the…baby….um….he….uh…well, he didn’t make it, Sarah,” she said, as she knelt in front of me and wrapped my hands in hers. “He was just too small and too weak.”

“Agnes,” I said, as the tears began to stream down my cheeks. “Where’s my baby?”

“John and William buried him yesterday, Sarah. You’ve been really sick and weak. We had a small funeral. Sir Thomas made the little coffin and I wrapped him in one of your shawls.”

“But I didn’t even get to see him. I want to see him, Agnes.” I was openly sobbing now and Agnes was weeping with me.

“Well, honey, you can’t. He’s already buried, Sarah. We named him John and carved his name into a cross over his little grave under the mulberry tree. He’s with Jesus now, Sarah. When you’re stronger, I’ll take you to his grave, I promise.”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. My son, my little son, was dead. Why, he hadn’t lived but a few hours. And I didn’t even get to kiss him good-bye. Suddenly, anger flooded my soul and I reached out and grasped Agnes roughly by the arm. I knew I was probably hurting her, but my mind felt as though it was shattering into a million pieces. “Where was God when all this was happening?! Was He taking a nap?! Couldn’t be bothered to be freekin’ disturbed?! Why do we pray to Him—thank Him for everything and ask for His help—if when we need Him the most, He simply disappears?! What’s wrong with me that God would take my baby? Did I sin somehow—is this God’s punishment for some sin I have committed? Why, Agnes, why has this happened?! Can’t you answer me, Agnes?”

My voice was becoming shrill, and I felt as if my very heart had been ripped from my breast. I was literally screaming the words at her, not caring how I sounded. Grief poured from me in a torrent of words and screams, until I collapsed against her weeping my soul out. “I shouldn’t have come here. I just shouldn’t have come. It was wrong, wrong, wrong………”

“What are you saying, Sarah? Honey, calm down, please. I have no answers for you, my sister. Certainly, you have not committed so great a sin that God would punish you in this way. Not you, Sarah, for you are a good Christian.”

William had told me long ago that he’d not shared my origins with his wife. And I’d just come perilously close to divulging “the secret.” Agnes, as superstitious as she was, would have thought me a witch if she knew the truth. I realized I had to get hold of myself. My sister-in-law sat with me for a long time, while I came to grips with the tragedy of losing a child. She didn’t berate me for my language or for railing against God—she just remained with me and held me in her embrace—and let me cry.

Sometime later, John came in and carried me back to bed. We didn’t speak. When I awoke hours later, he was sitting next to the bed praying.

“Are you going to be alright, Sarah?” he asked, looking worried.

“What day is it?”

“Why, it’s, uh Tuesday.”

“No, I mean the date, John. I want to know the date.” I was snipping at him and suddenly felt awful for it.

“It’s January 9th. Why do you want to know?”

“No reason,” I said, as I closed my eyes in sleep. Sometime later that night, I awoke from a vivid dream, but could not recall the details. John was sleeping soundly beside me. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him to take me to the grave—to carry me if he has to—for I must say goodbye to my son.

As he had with Bridget, John prayed me through the loss, uncovering hidden things I had believed from my past that had caused me to believe Jesus didn’t really love me—couldn’t love such a sinner as I—and had taken my child as punishment. In the end, I came to accept the loss as God’s will and the pain, though never truly gone, lessened as time passed.