When certain songs begin to play on the radio, they bring my little sister, Cathy, to me. One that hits me particularly hard is Amy Grant’s “Emmanuel,” because it speaks of how things used to be and of tales told of wondrous things and times. Don’t get me wrong, we had our share and more of times that were not wondrous, but we always had each other.
Cathy had a charm. It could turn to a terrible wrath, but she had a charm that was magic. She could pull you in and bring you a contagious joy or boil you alive if you took one wrong step too many. She held a spark and that spark could lighten the load of the world, solve all the problems, protect the underdog.
Her spark could lead you on a wild adventure, leave you in peals of laughter, or frustrate you beyond all measure. But there are so many tales to be told of how we used to be. We huddled together to keep each other warm when we were made to stay outside in winter, when our daddy and our brothers and sisters were at work and school. We sang silly songs
at the tops of our lungs until we couldn’t force the words out through the laugh anymore.
Saturday will mark five years since her voice was violently silenced. Her crooked smile is still there in my head and heart. The emptiness I feel is there too. We always think that there will be more tomorrows, that our petty beliefs and tendencies are so important, that we have to prove to others that we are right, that we need to make more money or climb one more step up that ladder.
The truth is, we should make sure that those we love know it, we should look out for each other no matter what issue we might be on opposite sides of, we should remember that life is precious and we only get one, and we should do every tiny little piddly thing we know to do to make someone else feel valued, heard, and loved. We miss you Cathy.