It was just before Ellie woke up from her nap that I found out that Jerry died. I went upstairs to get her out of bed, and the tears were still fresh on my cheeks. She put her chubby little hand on them and patted. She couldn't understand my tears or the words I whispered in her ear. "Sweetie, Mr. Jerry died. He loved you."
My heart was breaking while I cared for Ellie last Friday, because I remembered our last time with Jerry. He chuckled at Ellie, and she chuckled back. Oh, they loved each other.
He was the candy man at our church. He welcomed the little children who called him "Papa Jerry." He loved our children. And they loved him back. My heart broke on Sunday morning when Pastor Tim gathered the children to explain to them that Papa Jerry was in heaven with God. Ellie was home sick. But she wouldn't have understood anyway.
My heart broke on Sunday night when we stood in front of the casket, looking at the body that served as Jerry's home for 70 years. Ellie, restless in her father's arms, looked at Papa Jerry. No longer squirming or discontented, she stared at Papa Jerry. His body held her gaze for more than a minute. And then it was over. She didn't understand that, either. But she seemed to know it was important. She seemed to know that man loved her. We made our way to Nancy, Jerry's wife of 48 years. Nancy was so glad to see us. And Ellie flashed her charming smile. It brought a smile to the room. Oh, I love that little girl.
So how do I explain to her that she will forever miss knowing the man she knew for only 7 1/2 months? And how does my heart not break remembering knowing him and wishing we could know him still? Oh, I love that little girl. And that old man, too.
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