Baby Girl Kepple

This is a column I wrote which appeared in the Middletown Journal (Saturday, Dec. 16, 2000). -- Dave Kepple


This is the story of someone who never had a chance to live. She was my older sister, who was stillborn on March 27, 1937. This story is told in brief, with the hope that in one small way it will say to the world, "Yes, this life counted, too."
In this special time of the Christian year, when we focus on the birth of a Child whose life would change the world forever, I offer this story as a Christmas gift to anyone who has ever suffered the loss of a child at birth, or even in the midst of pregnancy. God knows your pain, as I'm sure He knew that of my mother and father in the early spring of 1937.
This story begins near the end, with the death of my mother, Barbara Kepple, on March 2 of this year. During the last months of her life, she began to speak more openly about the loss of her first-born child. Before then, it was somewhat of a family secret, generally known -- but with no details -- and very rarely discussed. Indeed, it was only as a teenager that I learned one day, almost by accident, that there had been an older sister who was dead at birth.
You see, God had blessed my mother and father with four sons -- of which I am the youngest --after the death of this little girl. And when my eldest brother began his family, he had three boys. And my next-eldest brother's first child was a boy, too, so when a granddaughter finally came along in 1968, it shook my mother's world. It was then she blurted out her anguish over the loss of her own little girl. . . .
Through the last few years of her life, my mother was in poor health and it became clear she might not long have to live. During this period, I had a very vivid dream of mother being in heaven with God -- and she was holding the baby girl which had been taken from her tragically so many years before. Only now the baby was alive and well, and there was a look of pure and total joy and peace on my mother's face, like none I'd ever seen before.
At Mother's funeral, my family called upon me to say a few words, and I disclosed the contents of that dream, and the sense of comfort and great hope it gave me. It felt "right" to share this with my loved ones in this time of sorrow.
Soon after the funeral, my brother, Bob, began searching for the unknown facts about our sister. He eventually determined that "Baby Girl Kepple" was stillborn at 2:16 a.m. on March 27, 1937, and that she was buried the same day in an unmarked grave in a cemetery in Greensburg, Pa., our hometown. As a family, we decided to honor her life with a marker, and it was at last in place as I travelled to Pennsylvania to visit with my brothers and their wives early this month.
On Dec. 5, a cold, gray morning in western Pennsylvania, members of the family stood together at the graveside, for the first time given the opportunity to mourn the loss of the sister we never knew. I received the privilege of leading a brief service of death and resurrection on behalf of "Baby Girl Kepple," and reflected upon the fact that though she was never given a name on this earth, her name is surely known to our Loving and Merciful Father in Heaven.
As the service ended, I believe we all experienced a sense of completion. A circle that had been left open for too long had now been closed. This awareness was highlighted by a modest epiphany, as sunshine burst forth, bright and warm, in the midst of this dark winter's morning. I like to think Mother was smiling down upon all of us.