Kristi

Today marks the eighteenth anniversary of the death of my younger sister, Kristi. Kristi, just turned twenty years old in December 1989, was in a car accident when she was on her way home from Cedarville College for Christmas break. Complications set in, and she died in a hospital in Dayton, Ohio, a month and a day after her accident. Jon and I had moved to Grand Rapids by then, but I spent most of that month and a day following the accident with the rest of my family in Dayton. I had just returned to Grand Rapids on January 15, the day before she died. My poor dad had the unenviable task of calling to tell me that my sister was gone.

Kristi was a beautiful girl, the baby of our family. In true youngest child form, she was the family clown, and nothing has been quite as funny since the day of her accident. My family still laughs and enjoys life, and we're all grateful for what we have in each other and for the brief life of Kristi, but the valley of the shadow is close by--just a thought away.

Many things have happened in those eighteen years since Kristi died, and many people have come and gone. Katie, Jonathan, my niece Elizabeth, and nephew Garrett are the most notable additions--and how interesting that one that Kristi loved as a brother--Jon--has gone, and now Henry has come.

Reminders of Kristi are never far. Whenever I step into Katie's messy room (Kristi was definitely a messy), see her admiring herself in the mirror, hear her musical giggle, and watch her go out the door in the middle of January with shoes and no socks--Kristi comes quickly to mind.

A piano book sits on the piano in our living room, the very piano she and I both practiced on as girls; a Beethoven piece with the measures numbered in pencil inside and her name and high school on a label on the cover take me back to a day when Kristi called me, in tears, because a mean judge had been overly critical at music competition.

In a photo session during the holidays, Katie photographed her cousin Elizabeth--Kristi's niece--wearing the crown Kristi had won as our town's homecoming queen the summer before her accident. Kristi would have thoroughly enjoyed watching her nieces trying on her crown, formal dresses, and clothes.

A picture in my bedroom of two young girls--sisters--one a bride, the other the maid of honor, both with smiling eyes, one with dark hair and the other blonde, tells the story of a happy summer day when things were much simpler and life was much lighter.

During the Christmas season, I listened to a lovely soprano singing "I Know That My Redeemer Liveth" during the Messiah concerts, and remembered accompanying Kristi on that piece and then hearing another soprano sing it at her funeral.

After Kristi died, I read book after book, trying to reconcile this tragedy with my faith, with the God who gives and takes away. One of the books that stands out in my memory concluded that life is a gift--not something owed to us and certainly something to be treasured. My sister's life was a gift to her and to her family; she continues to enjoy that gift in the presence of the God who gave it to her, and one day again we will join her in celebrating the gift of life and the God who has given it. And I'm certain there will be singing and laughing.