She died on Good Friday, with loved ones near, mortal and unseen, held by love until love could not hold her here anymore.
Outside her window, the breeze tore cherry blossoms from a pair of trees in their Easter best, weightless petals carried beyond their power to a beautiful grave. That same breeze brought a small company of geese, returning with the graceful season, begging to carry her to a new home.
Her death was beautiful. Her life was beautiful. Impractically, imperfectly, inescapably beautiful. But it was not lost. Not forever.
Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.
But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.
No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. In this life or the next, Sunday will come. —Joseph B. Wirthlin
We were all present in His death, and we all share responsibility for the death of our Savior. The transgression of just one made His death necessary.
We gave Him that Friday, but what did He give in return? He gave us Easter Sunday—a reason to hope, a reason to fight on, a reason to live and live again, beautifully.