This story is dedicated to the children on the hill: Albert, Craig, Mildred, Andrea, Anthony, Jonathan and one unnamed baby boy.
Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. (Mark 10:14)
Tiny Tears from Limbo Hill
Prologue
“Lord, be pleased to bless this grave, and set your holy angel to watch over it; through Christ our Lord.” Muffled sobs of mourners mixed with the monotonous drone of the priest’s voice. “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Our Father…”
Rays of golden morning sun glinted off the edge of the tiny white casket around which they had gathered. The party stood atop a gentle slope in an area of the cemetery set apart for infants and small children, a handful of which had been laid to rest here since 1929, the most recent just five years earlier.
“…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Lord, You consoled Martha and Mary in their distress; draw near to us who mourn for Jonathan, and dry the tears of those who weep. We pray to the Lord. Lord have mercy.”
The crowd responded in a murmur. “Lord, have mercy.”
“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”
“Amen.”
“May he rest in peace.”
“Amen.”
The priest addressed the living. “May the love of God and the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ console you and gently wipe every tear from your eyes.”
“Amen.”
He made the sign of the cross, saying, “May Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen.”
Flowers bursting with color still covered the tiny plot the following day, their fragrance filled the nostrils of a lone figure who knelt before it. Teardrops slid down delicate cheeks and landed upon soft earth. In the echoes of her mind, a mother-in-law’s chastisement replayed over and over. He can’t enter the Kingdom of Heaven because of you. He’s forever deprived of the Beatific Vision. He’ll never see the face of God because of you.
A familiar sound interrupted the young girl’s mental anguish. Startled, she looked around, but saw no one. She stood up and surveyed the area until satisfied nobody lurked there. But still she heard the unmistakable sound. Somewhere a baby cried. Her gaze fell to the flower-covered grave at her feet. The crying grew louder. She threw hands up to block her ears but could not banish the sound. In despair she turned and ran from the place.
I
“Paranormal Research Institute, Harry Alexander speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hello, Mr. Alexander. My name is Anthony R—. I wonder if you might be able to help my wife.”
“What seems to be the trouble? Is she experiencing paranormal phenomena?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. She’s been through a lot lately. I mean, we’ve recently buried our little boy.”
“Wow. I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. It’s been hard on both of us, but Diane is especially upset. You see, we hadn’t baptized him—she was waiting for her sister to arrive from California—and, well, Jonathan died suddenly, in his sleep, and I’m afraid my mother has given my wife quite a guilt trip, telling her he can’t go to Heaven and all that. I’ve asked her to stop such talk, but . . .” His voice trailed off, then returned. “Anyway, Diane came home yesterday hysterical from a visit to his grave; said she could hear him crying.”
“Oh, my.”
“Yeah, I want her to go to a support group for grieving parents or maybe even a psychiatrist, but she won’t do it. She’s afraid what people will think. That maybe she’s crazy or something.”
I tried to reassure him. “That’s a common fear, one which psychiatrists expect and address very early on. I do know a few I can recommend.”
“Thank you, Mr. Alexander, but I’m actually hoping you can just help convince her Jonathan is not crying in that cemetery.”
“Well, I can bring a medium out to determine whether or not there’s a presence.”
“What? You don’t seriously believe there is, do you?”
“It’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.”
“Wait a minute. What do we do if your—what do you call it—medium, what if your medium somehow convinces Diane our baby is some kind of earthbound spirit? What do we do then?”
“If that turns out to be the case, we’ll bring in a rescue circle to help his little soul cross over.”
“Cross over? Uh, this is all sounding way too hokey for me. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Alexander.”
“Wait now, don’t hang up. Chances are very good that Diane is simply experiencing traumatic stress. If so, our findings will help set her mind at ease. On the other hand, if we discover a soul in need of help, you owe it to your son to let us do whatever we can.”
II
Mr. R— reluctantly gave in to my persuasion and agreed to bring us to his son’s grave site in Hudson, Massachusetts. I contacted Rosalyn Davenport, a medium affiliated with One Small Candle, a group dedicated to helping spirits move on. I told her about baby Jonathan.
“Consider my calendar cleared, Sweetie. Do you want me to get a team together?
“I don’t think we need to drag a whole group of folks out there just yet. The boy’s spirit may not even be present. At this point I’d like your help finding out.”
“All righty. You just let me know when.”
I knew I could count on her.
On an overcast day we parked across the street from the cemetery entrance where Mr. and Mrs. R— met us. They appeared to be in their thirties; Anthony a muscular man, Diane rather petite. Their dark complexions led me to believe they were of Mediterranean descent. (They turned out to be Portuguese.) Diane was a pretty girl but sad; red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks revealed she’d been crying recently. Anthony held out a hand. “Thank you for coming. Our son’s grave is way in the back, up on a hill.”
We followed the couple and finally came within sight of a small white statue, the Virgin Mary standing with face tilted and arms spread as if embracing the little ones. Rosalyn grabbed hold of my arm, her voice a whisper. “There’s something here.”
“You can tell already?”
“Oh yes, a strong presence.”
At the foot of the tiny grave, Diane turned to face me, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. “Can you hear it?”
I exchanged glances with Anthony. “I don’t hear anything, Ma’am.”
“I do,” Rosalyn said. “Clear as a bell, a baby crying. Can’t you hear it?” Anthony scowled, this was exactly what he’d said he feared would happen. Apparently he couldn’t hear anything either.
Diane cried harder. “It’s my baby!” Anthony put an arm around her and pulled her to his chest, while glaring at me.
Feeling rather uncomfortable, I turned to Rosalyn. “Why is he here?”
“Because of her,” she replied, indicating the embracing couple. Probably the worst thing she could have said, it caused a fresh wave of grief to come over the poor woman.
“Your mother is right,” Diane wailed. “I’ve kept our baby out of Heaven and he can never see God!”
“What?” Rosalyn knitted her eyebrows, then began shaking her head. “No. That’s not it at all. You haven’t kept him out of Heaven, you’ve simply kept him here. He’s crying because you’re distraught. Your grief is what’s holding him back. He can’t move on until you let him go.”
Diane lifted her puffy face from Anthony’s chest and looked at Rosalyn. “How am I supposed to let him go?”
A man answered, “Have faith.” We all turned toward the sound of this new voice. As if on cue a dark-haired young priest had come walking up around the hill. “Trust in the wisdom and mercy of God.”
Diane took a deep breath and tried to explain. “But my baby wasn’t baptized. He can’t go to Heaven.”
The priest held up a hand. “Wait; don’t be so quick to judge. Jesus said, ’Suffer the children to come to me’. He never said, ’but only those who’ve been baptized’. Come, let us pray.” He stepped up and stood next to the couple at the foot of the grave, raised his arms and lifted his voice to Heaven. “Father of all consolation, from whom nothing is hidden, you know the faith of these parents who mourn the death of their child. May they find comfort in knowing that he is entrusted to your loving care.”
“Amen.”
As if God Himself were answering, a ray of sunshine peeked through the clouds. Rosalyn asked, “Do you hear that?”
“What?” I asked. I’d expected, "Did you see that?" meaning the sunlight.
“It stopped.”
Diane looked all around, then up to the brightening sky. “He’s not crying anymore.”
Anthony and I exchanged glances once again. I had never heard anything, but the women were in agreement; the infant’s crying had ceased. The priest smiled warmly, then departed saying, “May the peace of the Lord be with you always.”
Diane and Anthony responded trancelike, “And also with you.”
As we said goodbye and parted ways it relieved me greatly to see Diane had stopped crying as well. Perhaps mother and child both found peace that day.
Epilogue
In 1984, at the time of this case, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome had yet to be identified, and although its cause remains unknown, little Jonathan R— was almost certainly one of its victims.
The fate of unbaptized babies has long been the subject of much debate in Catholic circles. Diane’s mother-in-law had grown up with the teaching that although they didn’t suffer in Purgatory (as was formerly taught) they remained in a place called "Limbo" where they could never know God’s love. Currently the Pope is considering dropping the idea of "Limbo" from the theology, in favor of the belief that these Holy Innocents do indeed have a place in Heaven.