“Adeline”

For the Families Who Face the Holidays with Empty Arms (In remembrance of those lost in the Hill Country flood. God be near.)

This is for the families whose holidays will look different this year—for the stockings that will stay folded, the chairs that won’t be filled, the laughter that once lived where silence now stands guard.

This is for every mother

who still listens for small footsteps in her dreams, for fathers who trace names on fogged windows of memory, for brothers and sisters

who carry two hearts inside one chest.

And this—this is for Adeline, who stands now as the name for every child lost too soon.

“Adeline”

written by Adena M’lynn 

She was small enough to still believe

that goodness always wins,

that summer meant campfires,

and songs,

and sun-warmed freckles on her skin.

A folded pamphlet in her hand—

Hill Country Christian Camp—

her golden ticket to belonging.

She saved her half—

earned with soap,

dust,

and babysitting money—

a jar full of hope clinking beneath her bed.

Her mother smiled.

Her father promised.

She was ready.

The bus rolled out from Dallas,

its wheels humming hymns of adventure.

The world was wide

and her heart was even wider.

Then—

a night when the stars disappeared.

Rain came with a fury

no child could name.

The siren never wailed—

and innocence had no translation for danger.

Water swallowed doors,

windows,

and laughter.

The cabin lifted like a broken ark,

tossed into the mouth of the storm.

Tiny hands reached for heaven,

for trees,

for breath.

They said she held on.

Little Adeline—

fingers cut,

palms torn,

still clutching bark as if it were God’s own robe.

When they found her,

her pajamas bloomed red through tiny flowers and puppies.

Her eyes were closed,

but her face—

her face still looked toward the dawn.

The tree that caught her

still stands—

a monument of mercy,

its roots deep in grief,

its leaves whispering prayers for every name

the river took.

God of storms and stillness, for the parents who ache through every season, for the siblings who light candles instead of campfires, for the friends who remember her laughter—wrap them in Your gentlest peace.

Let them dream of sunlight, of dry ground, of Adeline’s hand outstretched, touching joy again. And when the rains return, Lord, let the water rise only to kiss the edge of heaven.