A Tiny Casket

Today, when Caleb's father made his way across the still frozen lawn of the cemetery, I was reminded of a painting of a pioneer father I once saw. In the painting, a father bore his child's tiny casket in his arms. Snow bore down on the man as he trudged through over a foot of snow to the grave where he would lay his child to rest. In the cemetery, Caleb's father, minus the snow, did the same.

Like pioneer parents, Caleb's parents, would soon move far away. Unlike the pioneers who trekked west, however, they would travel west to east and look forward to frequent trips back to their child's grave. Their grief, as they sat huddled beneath towering pines by the tiny casket, was no less intense than any other loving parent who has lost a child.

Dear little Caleb, the angels will take good care of you until your mommy and daddy are reunited with you once more. Watch over your dear parents. They need you...