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My Old Roommate died last night.  I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes trying to think of a better way to put that, some way to ease into it or something.  But, no, I don’t think there is one.  The Kiddo called me about an hour after it happened.  It was the first time we’d talked since… I don’t know when.  We’d traded some messages, poked each other on facebook, stuff like that, but we hadn’t talked.  And then here we are, her up in her room with the brilliant blue walls, me in front of my laptop in the drafty kitchen, talking about what it takes to survive pain.

You’re never ready to hear that someone has died, no matter how long their illness might have been, no matter how much you knew the call was coming, that it couldn’t be much longer now.  It may not be a surprise, but it’s a shock.  Deep down we know that this is not the way things are Supposed To Be.  Mothers are not supposed to die before their children are grown.  Families are not supposed to be torn apart.  Life was never meant to end in death.  Death is a natural part of life – yeah, I know.  It is now.  But in the beginning, before sin entered the world, it wasn’t like that.  The depths of our hearts remembers what it was like in the Garden of Eden, and whispers, “Once there was a better way.”

Sometimes that whisper is all you can hear.

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