Some nights I close my eyes and I'm transported back to 2006. It's 5.45am and I'm running down that horrendous corridor with the motion-sensor fluorescent lights coming on behind me. I'm too fast for them but I do not slow down. I do not stop. I jab my finger furiously onto the buzzer for the intercom and I demand to be let in. The door swings open and I run. Adrenaline is coursing furiously through my veins. I'm afraid but I keep going forwards.
And then I get there. The fear is replaced by an overwhelming peace and although the situation is dire, we are not alone. I sit silently as my worst fears are played out in front of me. A silent tear rolls down my cheek and a gut-wrenching emptiness begins to take hold that will never shift, as I study the silenced monitor. Jesus is there, he's taking her hand. He doesn't forget us. He comforts us. He carries us like in the famous poem I had as a beaten up bookmark in my bible. And I'm comforted as I know.
For her, this isn't the end. It's just the beginning.
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