Ten minutes ago I read the news on Facebook, a local woman was shot in the head in her home yesterday.
Her husband is the pastor of a local church.
Her toddler was there.
Her unborn child in her womb.
She died today.
I wept for her. For her husband. For her son.
But I don't know her.
I tried to stifle it, thinking it was a reaction born out of my depression and fragile heart. But it wasn't. It was a reaction born out of a deeply rooted family tie. She was my sister, I mourn her.
So many times I gloss through shooting story after shooting story in the news. This one stuck with me. She's mine.
She's me, making breakfast for my boy.
She's me, switching the laundry for the 70th time.
She's me, tripping over cars and books and stuffed lions.
She's me, mom and wife.
She's me, daughter of the King.
So I'm going to cry for her. I'm going to wrestle through this loss. I'm going to honor her by talking about her. I'm going to pray for her son as he grows. I'm going to kiss my husband out of respect for her. I'm going to hold my son close out of honor to her. She's mine to mourn.
She's yours to mourn too.
Rest well Sister, I rejoice that He holds you and your babe in His arms today.