“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she bore?”
~~Isaiah 49:15a, NIV
Twenty-seven years is a long time to keep a secret. My husband, James, was the only other person who knew the real story—my Christmas story of legacy and faith. So, when my youngest was 18, I knew the day had come, at last, to tell my four children what I had kept to myself for all those years. I had stood guard over my heart and its contents of long ago, partly out of guilt and partly out of fear of how they would react.
So, after dinner that December 25th, I said that I needed to talk to them. “Please, just listen until I’m completely finished,” I said. We were all around the dining room table, pumpkin pie half eaten.
I took a deep breath and allowed my mind to drift back to a time of great pain. “As you know, your sister Faith died 27 years ago today,” I started. “But, what I’m about to share with you is the part of the story you don’t know.
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