Eating apples

Today when I was talking with Austin about memories and the importance of us sharing our memories with one another, he gave me of one I didn't have. He mentioned that one of his earliest memories was of the morning that his little sister, Molly, died. His memories were in snippets:

-firetrucks

-paramedics

-coming into the room while his Dad was shaking Molly, trying to wake her

-eating apples

Considering that Austin was just barely a 4-year-old on that 31st morning of January when Molly went to be with the Lord, I shouldn't be surprised that his "list" of memories is something similar to an episode of Sesame Street. It's kind of like playing the game "One of These Things is Not Like the Other". The first three go together, in the tragic reality of what that morning was. The forth is so random.

But, I know immediately the reason he remembers the apples. It was because of a neighbor. One of our neighbors at the time, and I sadly only remember the name of her son, David (who was also 4 at the time) heard the sirens as the fire department entered into our tract of homes in the quiet city of Placentia, California and she came to see what was happening.

How I appreciate this woman in her boldness to walk up to our home and into the scene. She volunteered to take my children to her home so that we could leave with the ambulance. The police would have kept Emily and Austin, and most likely would have found the additional baby, our Adam, in his crib in a back bedroom. But, how much fear would have come with that experience. Instead, this sweet neighbor took my three little innocents to her home and gave them a snack. While they sat eating apples, she called the school to tell them that Emily would not be in Kindergarten that day, and perhaps for a few.

I wish that life had happened differently, but I am thankful that my young son's memories are of eating apples when our world was being tilted off it's axis. For truth and pain would come soon enough.