are conversations like the one I just had with Lexi:
"Mom, why I blind?"
"Because that's the way you were born."
"But why my eyes can't see? Are they broken?"
"Yes, your eyes are broken."
"But it's not FAIR!"
"I know, honey. It's not fair."
"But I tired of being blind!" (sobs begin) "I want to see you!"
"Come here, sweetie." (I put her hands on my face) "You can see me with your hands."
"But I want to see you with my eyes! I don't want to be blind anymore!"
"Lexi, someday you won't be blind anymore. Because Jesus will heal you. And you will be able to see me with your eyes."
"I want to see you right now!" (tears continue to pour)
"I don't like being blind. Because I trip a lot. And I want to see Erin C."
"You will see Erin C. in heaven. And you will run around and play with her. And she won't need to hold your hand while you walk, but you will hold hands anyway because you love each other."
"Can I see Denise (Erin's mom) too? Because I want to know what she looks like."
"Yes, you can see everyone in heaven!"
(little bit of a smile, but still sniffling)
"I want to go to heaven."
"I know, I know."
These are the kind of conversations I've had with many of my kids about their unique struggles. There aren't words to explain how hard it is.
Luckily, Sophi is still at the blissfully easy place where a conversation with her goes like this:
"Why I not have hands?"
"Because you have feet-hands" (her terminology)