We were living in the home of some missionary friends for the year, housesitting while they were overseas on furlough. I had put my firstborn down in her crib, all curled up after her last feed of the day.
I tiptoed through the hallway toward the master bedroom, when the phone rang.
It was one of those dreaded phone calls you wish never existed.
A friend of ours had been killed in a car crash. She was only in her twenties — spunky and full of life.
My chest heaved in disbelief as the news sunk in.
I thought of our friend’s parents — how their worst nightmare had become reality.
And all I wanted to do was to hold my little girl.
Even though I’d already put her down for the night, I went back into her room, gingerly scooped her sleeping body out of the crib, and held her close to my chest. I let the tears stream down unwiped, and just held on in a tight embrace.
And she slept on, unaware that life can be snuffed out in a moment, without warning.