The Search For Mercy

No one could blame me more than I blamed myself.

- Angelia Waite

Hundreds of mourners had packed the church. My husband, Jay, and I sat in the front row near the little white casket that held the body of our three-and-a-half year-old son, Ramsey. The pain was indescribable. Parents are not supposed to bury their children. I wanted nothing more than to go back in time. Back before that Friday afternoon…

May 26, 2000, was a beautiful, sunshine-filled day. Jay’s veterinary practice was doing well. I stayed home with our three sons, Benjamin, 12, Chandler,8, and Ramsey. Church was a big part of our lives.

That afternoon, I picked Ramsey up from preschool and he asked for an ice pop. He loved Bomb Pops. Actually, Ramsey loved just about everything: playing catch and jumping on the trampoline with his big brothers, giving butterfly kisses and picking flowers for me from the garden, eating chocolate (which he loved so much he frequently wore a chocolate-lined smile). One thing he didn’t love, though, was our swimming pool. I didn’t know why, but he’d always been afraid of it. Even when all of us were in the water, he wouldn’t join us.

We stopped at the grocery store and bought several boxes of Bomb Pops. We got home and found Chandler watching television. “Come on, bubba,” Ramsey yelled, “we’ve got a million Popsicles!” I went upstairs to check on Benjamin, who had come home from school sick.