Just a few moments ago a sweet girl, accompanied by her father, came in to fill out an application to have help rebuilding their home. I should expect it, but every time a resident launches into their story, I'm shocked. I suppose I should be grateful that I haven't become desensitized to it all just yet.
She explained, "My mom kind of drowned in the storm. I evacuated like a week before, but she didn't," with unbelief and denial still laced in her voice over two years later.
When she turned in her application to me, her dad also handed me the program from the funeral of his 55-year old wife. Smudged with fingerprints and worn with time, the photo of this wife and mother was so pixelated I could barely make out her features. All I could say to him was a heartfelt, yet completely inadequate, "I'm sorry." I could see the memories in his eyes as he took it back and studied her face on the cover. He couldn't speak, but simply pointed to the top: Sunrise- 1950, Sunset- 2005.
Oh God, before the sun sets on my days, help me to live my live as wholly yours!
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