Today marks 355 days since my oldest sister transitioned into her heavenly home. Five hundred eleven thousand, five hundred and forty-five minutes ago, I watched her take her last breath on this side of eternity.

I am grateful that she is no longer suffering. I am grateful that she was able to fully enjoy her life while she was healthy—and even in her illness, she continued to truly live.

Yet, even with that gratitude, I still wish she were here.

I understand that we all have an appointed time on this earth, and that when God calls us home, His will cannot be changed. And if I am honest, isn’t that what we are all ultimately longing for as believers—the opportunity to be in the presence of God? The answer is yes.

But if that is true, why does losing someone you love hurt so deeply?

She was my oldest sister. And if you have an older sister, you understand how they often step into the role of a second mother. Without even realizing it, you begin to accept that place for them in your life. Looking back, I know that I gave her that space—a sacred space that now feels empty.

There are only three of us, so now my middle sister finds herself stepping into that role. But I cannot fully imagine what this loss feels like for her, because their bond was different from mine. They were the first two—just fourteen months apart. Their connection holds its own depth and story.

And still, the void remains.

I try to fill that empty space with the things she would want for me—walking in purpose, serving in ministry, loving and caring for our mother, embracing her precious son and his beautiful wife, and adoring her granddaughters. I see pieces of her everywhere. We wear her clothes. We carry her memory. We speak of her daily.

As I sit and write this, I can almost feel her smiling.

I know I will see her again.

But until that day comes, I will likely continue to count the days.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (NIV)