“Jesus loves me, this I know.  For the Bible tells me so.  Little ones to Him belong.  They are weak but He is strong.  Yes, Jesus loves me.  Yes, Jesus loves me.  Yes, Jesus loves me.  The Bible tells me so.”  

It’s a song I learned at the earliest of ages, one that is universally recognized as a child’s profession of faith.  But on Wednesday morning, it became so much more.  As the music began and the sweet voices of the children filled the room, the grief and pain that hung like a cloud found its own voice.  You heard the intake of breath as the mourners realized what was playing—and then the audible sobs that rose from almost everyone there.  The piercing cries of the grieving blended with the music.  Men and women alike rose from their seats and walked out, unable to contain their tears and unwilling to disrupt the service.   The women wept bitterly and clung to each other.  The men strode quickly through the doors and into the sunshine, searching for the brisk morning air.  One of the ministers, unable to leave the stage where he was on display for all to see, bowed his head and covered his eyes in prayer . . . or in tears . . . or both.

It was, perhaps, the most difficult moment of a difficult service—and the most liberating, for it gave everyone there permission to visibly grieve, to express the depth of the pain that consumed them.  But why that song?  There had been others that were just as meaningful to many in attendance.  Why the song of children, sung by children?

Perhaps that is the very reason.  That innocent expression of faith served as a forceful reminder of the innocence that had been lost.  In the unnatural sequence of events where parents and grandparents survive, children were being buried that day—and not just children defined by their age.  And though they might not comprehend the magnitude, even the youngest in attendance knew that something terrible had happened.  The tragic event that brought them all together stole a part of their innocence—of everyone’s innocence—for it reminded the adults of how cruel life can be and how unexpectedly its tragedies can come, and it told the children that life is not always good.

Despite Death’s callous nature and all-consuming power, I choose to believe that, on this day, he did not prevail, for in the midst of their grief, those who were suffering the most turned to one another and drew strength from their faith.  As one of them so beautifully put it, “I’m choosing not to dwell on what I’ve lost, but to look at what I still have, and to be grateful for what I had.”  Despite Death’s best attempt at destroying far more than the four lives he claimed, he failed.  He failed because the words of a simple child’s song—one that gave voice to their pain—was also a profession of their faith.

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