Do you think they swim in heaven?

We spent this morning at the pool with friends. It was hot and loud the way neighborhood pools are supposed to be. Lydia was swimming and I was chatting with my girlfriends about the usual stuff. It was all very familiar. Very ordinary. Then it happened. A little boy caught my eye. I sat mesmerized by his every move for what felt like an eternity. He was having a grand time toddling around with his swimmies and his broad smile. I watched him laughing and playing with his brother. Then I saw him taking a giant leap of faith from the side of the pool into his mother's outstretched arms. I saw her cradle him as he cried. I took notice of every detail. How tall he was. How much hair he had. How he pronounced certain words. He looked so big. So sweet and full of energy. And so I wept. Actually, I weep every time I see him.

His mom and I are friends from church. We were pregnant at the same time and used to have lively conversations about how miserably big we were or how many Tums we had taken that day. Our due dates were pretty close together so as time got shorter we would look for each other at church, determined not to let the other one go first. She beat me by about a week and I remember being so excited that I wouldn't be far behind. The next time I saw her was at Rebekah's memorial service. I remember the tears falling down her cheeks and the strong hug she gave me. I remember telling her not to keep her sweet baby from me. I told her I could handle it. I was really, really wrong.

She has been so kind to us since we lost our daughter. Shortly after returning home from the hospital, she sent me a beautiful card and a very generous gift. She's been nothing but sensitive and compassionate towards me so I shouldn't avoid her but I'll admit that I do. Mostly because seeing her with her son takes me back every time. It doesn't take much. Just a glimpse and I am shaken by how much he's growing and changing. It makes me sad and angry and the pity party seems to last a while.

I'm tired of believing the whole "it will get better with time" thing because it doesn't seem to be true. For me, it seems to get worse. Watching her with her son today at the pool, I couldn't stop staring and thinking "that's how big she would be. She'd be talking and laughing and playing with her sister. She'd be jumping into my arms." Then it occurs to me that she wouldn't. That's why He took her home.

I always have to remind myself that Rebekah was born with so many disabilities she would have never had the chance to walk or run or swim. She wouldn't be the child that I envision in my mind. Not on this earth anyway.

These days, I don't talk or sing about Heaven without thinking of her. It's a humbling, remarkable thing to imagine the little baby I held in my arms at the throne of Christ. But as beautiful as that assurance is, sometimes I just want her for myself.

I know it's not theologically correct, but I don't care. If heaven has a pool, the first thing I want to do is catch her when she jumps.