Loneliness is not a feeling I am familiar with. For as long as I can remember, I have been among friends. Even as a child, I knew I was important. I was just born into one of those families: everyone knew who I was, and the older I got, the more people cared about my opinions. Such a strange contrast to the situation I find myself in now.

Some may say this is my own fault; I had every right to invite as many people as I wanted to. I didn’t take advantage of that right. I knew that I wanted to come here, but I was sort of embarrassed by that fact. I can’t believe how petty I was.

The person who invited me here wasn’t embarrassed. I barely knew her, but it was obvious she was excited about this place. She hasn’t arrived yet, but I doubt she’ll remember me when she does. She invited so many people here, why would she remember one individual?

I get some very odd looks as I sit here. No one seems to recognize me; the exact opposite of the way things were back at home. The looks from others are not mean or disapproving – they are more like looks of pity. They must realize how shy and scared I am feeling, and yet they make no effort to speak to me. Will I always feel so alone? What happened to the place of peace and rejoicing I was promised?

And then He enters. I am instantly struck with awe. As he opens my eyes to the wonderful beauties around me, I am filled with shame. I do not deserve to be here. Time and time again I have failed Him. Why didn’t I invite others to join me here? People would have listened to me. I was blessed with the ability to be heard, and yet I wasted it. And still He loves me. Despite everything, he has given me grace.

Instead, my sister is lying in a box in the ground.

My earliest memory is from the day she was born. I was a happy, excited little three-year-old girl who couldn’t wait to meet this new baby I’d heard so much about. I walked into the room proudly wearing my “I’m a big sister” T-shirt and expected everyone to focus on me like I had always been used to. I stopped suddenly when I saw the tiny little pink bundle in my mother’s arms. That bundle was my sister. That bundle changed my life.

She was there for all of the big moments of my life. She couldn’t wait to hear all about school when I got home from my first day of kindergarten. In her two-year-old mind school sounded like an awesome adventure. She was the same for each new grade; I was her big sister, and she wanted to know everything I did so she could be just like me.

She was so jealous when I went to my first school dance. I thought I was so cool at the mature age of twelve getting all dressed up to go dance with the acne-ridden boy I called my date. I was horrified when I walked downstairs and found an excited little girl in a princess dress-up gown expecting to go with me. I harshly told her she was way too little to go somewhere fun with the cool middle schoolers and laughed as she ran upstairs. I found her later that night crying in her bed. She had only wanted to be like me, but I hadn’t been worth imitating.

When I first got my driver’s license, I took her out for ice cream – just the two of us. She seemed so proud that I was including her in my special day. We ran into some of her junior high friends, and you could feel their jealousy as they realized she was out with no parents. She was on top of the world, and when I saw her grin, so was I.

It seems like any time you feel that things couldn’t get any better your world is going to come crashing around you. That night was no exception. On our way home from the ice cream parlor, a drunk driver swerved from the other lane. His car hit mine, and my car hit a tree. I reached over to try to protected her as she screamed my name. It was the last word she ever spoke.

Today, at the young age of nineteen, my husband and I welcomed our first daughter into the world. We named her after my sister. It only seemed right. Here is a new tiny little pink bundle. Here is a little girl who will want to be just like me. This time, I won’t let her down.

            She wanted to go to the beach. In all of her six years she had never been to the beach. Her dad had promised her he would take her for her fifth birthday. A drunk driver had robbed him – robbed them both- of that chance. So I decided she would spend her last week at the beach.

            She didn’t know where we were going when I got her up early that Thursday morning. I had packed our bags the night before and loaded them in the trunk of my car. She walked sleepily to the car, buckled up in her booster seat, and quickly drifted back to sleep as I began to drive.

            She looked so peaceful. You would never have guessed while looking at her that such a small little girl had endured so much pain and suffering. She looked so normal as she slept in the backseat of our car.

            As the day continued, I drove further and further south. She finally woke up and began to fill the car with the sounds of her sweet little voice. She told me about everything she could think to tell me about. I heard all about her dreams, the cars we passed, the dog she saw out the window at the hospital, and all sorts of other things she found interesting.

            As we got farther and farther south, things began looking more like a beach. She began to yell and squeal as she finally realized where we were going. The conversation quickly turned to sand castles and fish as she thought about all the things she wanted to do.

            We checked into a small room in a beach side hotel and changed into our bathing suits. She practically dragged me to the water, laughing all the way there. It didn’t take her long to find a seashell, and many others quickly followed. We made a huge sand castle, buried each other in the sand, and even tried to make sand angels.

            As the week went on, she got weaker. Each day provided new challenge, and by Tuesday we could do little more than sit in the sand and watch the waves. It hurt to see my once hyper, active little girl sitting there looking so weak and powerless. A tear escaped as I thought of what was sure to happen in the days to come. I didn’t think she saw it until I noticed that she was crying too. I asked her what was wrong, and she laid her head in my lap and told me she wanted me to see Jesus too.

            We sat there for awhile, happy to enjoy each other’s presence. Not a word was spoken for a long time as she lay there in my lap watching the waves. It was so peaceful. A huge smile spread across her face as one last tear ran down her cheek. She was healed. 

            She had tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing. She knew she couldn’t take care of a baby. She was young, and she was alone. Her parents had told her to leave. They said they’d already raised a child, and they weren’t going to start over. Her boyfriend had left her. He said it was her fault, and he wasn’t going to be a teenage father. No one wanted this baby, and as long as she was carrying it, no one wanted her.     

            Her friends tried to help. They all told her to kill it, a few even offered to drive her there. No one used the word “kill”, of course. They all used phrases like “terminate the pregnancy” or “abort the fetus”. They tried to assure her that it was just a medical procedure, and it was by no means murder. And although she felt uneasy about it, she believed them.

            Things started out well. She let a friend take her and her friend tried to assure her she would be fine. They arrived at the clinic and were greeted by a friendly receptionist. She was finally beginning that everything would be okay.

            Everything wasn’t okay. The procedure sparked an unexpected response. She went into premature labor. They tried to tell her that everything was fine, but everything wasn’t fine. The pain increased as time passed. For a brief moment she wondered if she was dying. Then suddenly the pain decreased.

            They told her that they had removed and were now disposing of the fetus. Despite all the chaos, she caught a brief glimpse of her tiny little boy. Stillborn.

            At that moment she forgot about all of the pain she had just gone through. She could no longer think of all her troubles with her parents and boyfriend. She was now full of guilt as she realized what she had done.

            When she woke up that morning, she had a healthy, innocent, beautiful baby boy growing inside her. Although he was small, he was still a person. He had ten fingers and ten toes, just like everyone else. He was a little miracle.

            Now, because of her actions, this little boy was dead. The doctors told her it wasn’t a baby, but anyone with eyes could see that that was not true. “It” wasn’t an it, it was a he. An innocent little life that had been snuffed out because of his mother’s fear and selfishness.

            She instantly felt numb. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, and couldn’t move. The guilt was too strong. Her friend took her home and explained to her parents what had happened. They were more than happy to take her back in. They told her that they loved her, and that they were proud of her for “doing the right thing.” She tried to tell them that they were wrong – that their grandson was dead and it was her fault – but they wouldn’t listen. They told her to go to bed. They said she would sleep it off and it would all be better in the morning.

            Only she knew that it would never be better. She had killed her little boy, and she couldn’t bring him back. From her mistake came someone innocent, but someone innocent became another mistake.

            She tried to plaster on a fake smile as the people began to arrive. They were all people she knew – family, friends, teachers from her sister’s school – everyone she expected to be there was arriving. She wasn’t completely sure if she was ready to face them, but she didn’t have a choice.

She wanted to hide. She wanted to run back to the bathroom, lock herself in the stall, and be left alone to cry. She even wished she could cry. She wanted to be sad. But sorrow was an emotion that had escaped her. In its place were shame, guilt, and fear.

As she shook hands with each person who arrived, she avoided their gazes. She couldn’t bear to look them in the eye. She knew what she would see. They all felt sorry for her. They spoke of how much they cared for her, and how they were always there if she needed to talk. But she couldn’t talk. She could only choke out “Thank you” and hope that they didn’t ask her any questions.

She blamed herself. Her parents tried to convince her it wasn’t her fault. She knew it was. They said that they knew had no way of knowing that the car coming towards her held a drunk driver. They tried to tell her that she couldn’t control other people, and that they knew she did everything she could. But she didn’t. She was the older sister. She was the driver. She was supposed to be in control. Yet she wasn’t, and her sister was the one who had to pay for her mistakes.

She was sure that someone would blame her. She wished that someone would look her straight in the eye and tell her that she alone would be held responsible. Those were the words that she longed for, as well as the words she feared. If someone would only tell her that it was her fault, she could begin to deal with her guilt.

Her tears continued to hide as she glanced over at the little girl lying next to her. She looked so peaceful; so perfect. She half expected her to get up and start dancing at any moment. If only she would jump up, whine because she was wearing a fancy dress, kick off her shoes, and start putting on a show for all of the people who had come to see her. After all, her sister had amazed her before.

As the time slowly passed, each face blurred with the next. Each person passed by with his or her own version of the sympathetic look she had quickly come to hate. She was no longer paying any attention to them. She felt almost numb.

Finally the hour had passed, and it was time to begin. She slowly walked to her seat, ignoring all of the eyes she was sure were on her. The preacher began to speak – “We are here today to celebrate the life of one of God’s precious children…” – and the tears finally fell.