This is the third of a four-part series. 

Maddie once questioned why her new baby cousin was born. "Was it hot in there?"

Few things garner as much attention — or beg more questions — from small children exploring their new world than life and death, though the latter certainly draws more. For kids, a baby comes from Mommy's belly; sometimes the questions stop right there.

But with death, it is always, understandably, far more difficult. The child knew and loved Grandpa, and now he's gone. She misses him. Where did he go? Why? And, eventually, will that happen to me?

The story I read that led to this series touched on fibs geared toward "sparing" children the "anxiety and trauma" of life's inevitability. One example was a parent who told her son the family dog had died and gone to heaven, only to wish she had used the classic farm in the country where the beloved pet goes to frolick for eternity.

Maddie was not quite 5 when her Papu died.

I wasn't ready to explain death and all that entails with her. I'm not sure, though, I ever consciously debated the tack I would take with Maddie; anything but the truth never occurred to me. But I was definitely influenced by the sage advice of an elder at a church I used to attend.

He, having a prodigious line of offspring, told me to keep it simple and let Maddie's questions guide the conversation. He explained that when parents try to unwrap abstract topics for their children, we often give far more detail than necessary and wind up making things more complex and less understandable.

And so I explained to her the night of the viewing that Papu had died, that his heart had stopped and he was gone. Of course she was upset, but I felt strongly that this was an opportunity to be tackled head on, a watershed moment in her life, and I could not fail by simply telling her the truth.

When we went in to visit with family and friends, Maddie could sense the heartache and loss everyone felt and she began to cry. As some time passed and people gathered to talk, she calmed.

This was not a night for questions as much as curiosity. I carried Maddie to the coffin with me and she pointed and talked about Papu looking like he was sleeping … maybe something about a boo-boo. I don't think I said much then.

The questions came in the days and weeks to come. She first asked about going to see Mamu and Papu, and I had to remind her he was gone. She became upset and asked why he had to go, and I told her he had smoked a lot of cigarettes and sometimes didn't eat the right foods and it hurt his body.

Maddie didn't have to understand death in all its forms and ramifications right away, but she did need to talk about it, she did need to bounce her questions and ideas off me. And it was fascinating to listen to her mind work and seek the solutions on her own.

That experience taught me it's often the best to teach Maddie by allowing her to digest information at her own pace and let her ask for more.

Nuance and omission are often a part of parenting, and they're a far better alternative to lying. Grieving is a part of being human, and children are resilient. And, they're watching and learning from us … always.

Watch for part four, The Trust of Your Child, on Monday.