She is only 2 years old. Just barely 2, in fact.

She doesn't understand death. But she knows “Donnie's dad died.”

She knows because she repeated the refrain all day yesterday. Last night when I laid down with her to get her to sleep, she said it again and again.

“I know, baby, I'm sorry,” is all I could say.

Fighting sleep with every ounce of her little frame, she finally sat up boldly in bed and said, “It's mean. It's mean that Donnie's daddy died.”

“No sweetheart, not mean, just sad this time. Just sad,” I responded feebly.

Two years old...

Then she started to hold her foot again. She had complained of it hurting all day long. Repeatedly. There was no visible sign of injury. Nothing my eye could see. I was starting to wonder if she was having cramps, “growing pains” maybe.

Then suddenly I asked, “Baby, is your foot hurting because Dylan's foot is hurt?

“Yes.”

Two years old.

Her 5-year-old brother had spent the night at the emergency room earlier in the week. He had a bite on his foot — possibly an ant bite — that got infected and turned nasty real quick, red streaks up his leg and all. She awoke while their dad was at the hospital with her brother and demanded to know where he was. Borderline terror seemed to grip her. She sat up on the sofa by her exhausted mom until 4 a.m. when her brother came home.

Whom did he embrace first?

His sissy.

“I'm all right, Sissy. Don't worry. It's okay. I love you.”

Their bond is awesome. Her brother was home again, so back to bed she went. He did not die like Donnie's dad. But her brother's pain was fast becoming hers. She would bear it, too. Share it with him. Help him carry it. Stay in the know... hold on to him.

Two years old.

How foolish we adults are to think we know it all. To think we have answers. To think we understand.

And a little child shall lead them. Again and again.

How dare I tell her it was just sad this time. She gets to decide if it's mean or sad, not me. It's her emotions and they are real. She must deal with them. She must cope. She must try to understand the concept of death, even at 2 years old.

When her dad was her age, Ernie died. Ernie was Mrs. Smith's husband. Mrs. Smith was my babysitter.

One day, a Friday, Dean was at their house. Over the weekend, Ernie died unexpectedly. It was more than two weeks before Mrs. Smith was able to keep Dean again. When he walked into their home on a Monday morning, Ernie's chair at the breakfast table was empty.

“Dead” didn't set well with Sissy's dad either. Not at 2 years old. He tried but he couldn't understand. He would not allow anyone to sit in Ernie's chair. For many months he was certain Ernie would be back. Then one day he told me Ernie was “at the moon.”

He had worked through his loss. His friend would not be back, but it was okay because he was at the moon.

Two years old.

I'll be 52 years old this month. I'm still asking questions about death and dying. I still don't understand more than I care to admit to. I'm still learning to cope.

But Sissy reminded me of some things last night. When I realized she had taken on her brother's pain, the depth of her love for him shone though.

As I sat on my front porch this morning, sipping tea, and looking out into that haunting grey mist that transports us from what we call night to day, I realized anew that truly Jesus Christ feels our pain. We are not alone.

I went upstairs to my favorite Bible. Opening it to the book of Hebrews, I read in the sixth chapter, “In the days of His flesh, He offered up both prayers and supplications with loud crying and tears to the one able to save Him from death, and He was heard because of His piety.”

But the cross remained. And He went to it willingly.

He had to become one of us. To feel what we feel. To hurt like we hurt. To live as we live and die as we die. He had to take on our humanity, know our weaknesses in every way. Only then could He act on our behalf as the ultimate high priest that He is today. Ever intervening... making intercession for you and me. Because He understands.

Two years old, or 52... the questions are the same. The answers may be, too.

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