My father and Mother arrive home. My Dad lacks his usual up-beat character, and his demeanor is very grim. He lifts his head and his dim eyes are filled with tears. The odd thing is my Mother isn’t shedding any tears and says nothing.
“What’s going on?” I ask sensing something dreadful I don’t want to hear. “The police called and wouldn’t tell me anything.”
What my Dad says next makes me wince. He looks like he has been punched in the stomach as he blurts out, “Deb’s dead. She was hit by a car and killed.”
“Oh no!” I am too shocked to hold back my reaction. “What? Debra’s dead?”
What we all do next is little more than a blurry memory, but nobody forgets the rush of emotion that engulfs everyone who hears the tragic news. The driver of the car was 21 and was drunk. The accident never should have happened. Remorse is inevitable and the losses irretrievable. Yet victims are everywhere. I can scarcely breathe. My sister’s death silences something deep inside me. We were best friends, and now, in an instant, my sister’s vital presence in my life – especially since we had both found God and had given up drugs – is gone. I am trying to stay strong. I want to stay strong. But I can’t! With loads of guilt I privately pray, “Oh dear God. Please tell me the cost of my rebellion, my many sins, my rejecting you and bringing me back wasn’t at the cost of my sweet sister Debra’s life.” But, but, I can’t help thinking it is. “Sorry God, sorry!”