Once a year I get down my Baby Davy box. I pull out the teddy bears that were on his graveside flowers. I hold up the blanket he was wrapped in and laugh at the doll clothes the hospital dressed him in because even though they are tiny with silly metal snaps, Davy could have almost slipped out the neckhole. I read over all the cards, touch his footprints and marvel at his pictures because each addition to our family looks more and more like him. I guess that's because, just like his brothers, he is our son.
And that is the memory that I'm trying to nuture with my yearly tradition. Four years ago we had a beautiful baby boy and even though he only lived a short time, he is still ours forever. I remember right after he was born, I could put two of my fingers over his whole chest. I laid them there and felt his heart beating and I prayed and prayed that somehow his heart would keep beating. I wanted him to be a medical miracle that overcame everything to keep living. And somewhere in that hour that he lived, it came to me that Davy would die, but because of a different miracle, because of the Atonement and Resurrection of the Savior, his tiny heart would beat again. That is what I try to remember.
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