I found a piece of scrap paper with my sister’s neatly scribbled handwriting of my exam schedule while clearing up her things the other day. She must have noted it down when I had asked her to pray for me. That little scrap of paper triggered off many memories of her.
I remember how I would be invited to speak at a meeting or a camp, and there she would be, quietly seated at the back of the room soaking in everything I had to say. I was always the one rushing here and there. She always had time for me. She was always waiting for me. I remember how she would invite her friends to come for those meetings because “my sister is speaking.” She was my number one (and perhaps only?) fan. She always had something good to say about whatever I did (no matter how I felt I had bungled).
Then I found a brand new 2003 diary that she had bought. It was still wrapped in the bookstore’s plastic bag, complete with the receipt for it. Cynthia was expecting to live another year, but Jesus chose to take her home on 31 December 2002.
How I miss seeing her at the back of the rooms now whenever I am called to teach or speak. How good it is to feel so loved. Someone once said, “Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems de-populated.” How true it is for me.
