Dear Michelle,

I could close my eyes and fool myself into believing I'm sitting at the beach. The breeze is constant, the sun is blazing, the sand hot beneath my feet, and I can almost hear the breakers pounding on the beach, then rolling up to where I'm sitting.

But I'm not at the beach. I'm at your memorial. And it all seems so surreal. You shouldn't be dead. (Do you know how strange and awful it is to write that?) We should be barefoot together, sitting at the water's edge, watching the waves roll in. Your hubby surfing, my hubby bodysurfing. My kids taking a nap up at our towels (okay, now I'm really dreaming!). Couldn't we have done that one last time before you left? Oh how I wish we made more time for eachother. I am so sorry my friend. Where did time go?

And I didn't get to say goodbye to you. God called you to Himself before we could talk again, before we could hug goodbye. Why didn't He warn us? Why this harsh immediate disconnect?

I would have told you I love you and that you're my sweet friend. I would have thanked you for making Dan so happy and being such a wonderful wife to him. I would have told you how I loved hearing about all your adventures together, how in some ways I lived through your experiences. I would have told you how well I think of you. How smart you are, how hard working, how you choose your words before you say them. You have been an honorable friend, a loving friend, and what I remember most besides your smile is your laugh. You still laugh at me don't you? I can sense it at times.

So I ask you, why am I sitting here, at this memorial, for you? Aren't you supposed to be with Dan at little Hailee's birthday party? You left us with too many empty years ahead of us!

Do you realize how acidic tears can be?

But I don't mean to be angry. I'm not too angry with you. I'm a little more envious. You bypassed all this grief. I don't know what the hell God's doing. I can't figure Him or His ways out. And I'm sick of trying to anymore. His ways are not my ways, His thoughts are not my thoughts. You have a better grasp on Him than I do. You walk with Him, talk with Him, and He's the one who's experiencing your laugh now. Who would have thought you'd be there before any of us?

My friend, I am not ready to say goodbye. This is not a goodbye letter. I can't let you go yet. And I am not ready to thank God for taking you.

That time will come, but it's not here yet.

Until a better time then,
Emily