We believe you are alive, though we do not have the pleasure of seeing you run and jump, dance and laugh, hug and cry. We sometimes ask God why, though we can’t comprehend His answer. We sometimes find ourselves missing you, you who never spent time in our arms.
Ever year, on this day – and on many others – we remember you. We know you are watching us – there are too many miracles to explain away otherwise – and we try to watch back. We try to stay vigilant, faithful, hopeful. We can’t wait to meet you someday, to finally be able to kiss you and hug you and squeeze you.
You are the light of the smallest star, the candle that burns brightly from afar, the second of three small white caskets. We can never forget you, nor do we want to.
You changed our lives, and you made us aware of God’s greatest miracle. You did not live here with us, on earth, suffering as we do and struggling through the daily routine of living. And yet you are a miracle, dear Lucas, for the hearts you have softened, for the people you have touched.
Today, we remember you. We will go to Mass, and offer our banquet feast for the broken and the lonely, the hungry and the homebound, the prisoner and the suffering. Today, dear Lucas, we will thank God for the miracle of you in our lives, though that confounds the world and seems contradictory. Today, we remember you, and we pray for those who grieve you and the others who deny themselves the miracle of an existence like yours.