That Day.

My very best friend, Earl, called me with the news that day. I answered, joyful that he'd called, but also wondering why he'd done so (we're more of a texting sort). As soon as I said a chipper 'hello' and heard his hesitation, I knew something was wrong. I waited.

As he told me that Rachelle was dead, it was physically hard to breathe. My mind was racing, 

 What does he mean?

 Is he sure it's Rachelle? 

Are they sure there's absolutely nothing that can be done?

About 15 seconds after that, it began to sink in. Earl wouldn't tell me this without being absolutely sure. My voice began to shake as I told Earl "I love you" among other words that don't matter. Words I don't remember. Words that attempted to fill the space between us, and share the grief. The pain. 

I thank God I wasn't alone. I was with my dear friend, Mariah. We prayed. I prayed for Rachelle's family, for her friends, for me. I wasn't sure how I was going to make it off the couch. It felt as though I was in a really bad dream and need to wake up. Yet I saw Mariah across from me, her eyes lovingly holding mine, and her hand clutching mine. I was not alone.

And then the greatest thing happened: I envisioned Rachelle with an awesome haircut (think short mohawk) dancing her crazy way with Jesus. She was laughing, smiling, and having a ball. I laughed and uttered a sentence that would soothe my soul ever since, "She's dancing with Jesus."

I couldn't help but be a little jealous.