Happy Feast Day. I wish you were here to celebrate with us.
Sometimes, when I visit your grave, I try talking to you. But it’s always been a bit weird. Maybe it’s because your grave isn’t really where you are. Somehow, writing a letter feels more natural to me.
I know that you are perfectly happy in heaven, but I can’t help think of all the happy times we won’t be able to share on earth.
I won’t be able to make you laugh by making silly faces. I won’t be able to comfort you after you fall down. I won’t get to see you take your first steps, or hear you say “Dada” for the first time.
I’ll never get to change your diaper, or buckle you into a car seat. I’ll never see you dressed up for your first day of school. I’ll never hear “Pomp and Circumstance” play as you graduate from high school. I’ll never get to dance with you at your wedding.
It gives me some comfort that, while I am left here with the emptiness of the moments we’ll never get to share, you are experiencing a pure and perfect joy in heaven. In fact, when I think about how your heart is full of the infinite love of the Trinity, my love for you seems tiny in comparison. But I want you to know – and I wish I could tell you in person – how much I love you. How much I will always love you.
You are my daughter. I wish God had given me more time to be a father to you. When, by the grace of God, I get to heaven, we will be together again. Until then, I miss you. I carry you in my heart. And I will always remember you.