Today marks 18 years since my sister Sheri died. Its hard believe…nearly two decades of life have been lived since last we were together.

I remember before she died, one of Sheri’s regrets was that she wouldn’t be there to experience the upcoming years with us. And of course, she hasn’t been physically present. We all miss her, even my kids who never knew her. “I wish I could have met Aunt Sheri,” Lucas said this morning. “Me too!” Alena agreed. We have kept her close these 18 years, however. This morning Lucas pointed out to Alena all the things in our home that Sheri made for us–items that we can hold and touch that make her seem near. They are reminders of her love, her creativity, and the countless hours she spent investing in the lives of others. This morning I read over past emails, cards and letters she had written. I ran my fingers over the words she penned in her neat cursive, imagining that her fingerprints might still be there. Holding the things she once held feels like a connection to her, and to our shared past.

Sometimes memories come to mind that I haven’t thought of for years. This morning I got a clear mental image of her behind the counter of the DeliQue, a small deli near our house where she worked one summer. I hadn’t thought of that in ages. I reread an email she had sent me dating back to the summer before she died. She had written to apologize (sort of). You see, when I visited her I sometimes acted as chauffeur to enable her to get out the house. She was on oxygen full time, tethered to the tubing and tank, which made it difficult to get out. Sheri loved wild flowers and would pick and dry them for various craft projects. She had found a patch of especially lovely flowers, so we drove over, she slipped her oxygen off, popped out of the car, and picked some. Just as she was walking back to the car, someone stepped out of a nearby house and started yelling at us. Thankfully I had our getaway car gassed up and idling and we made a clean escape. She hadn’t realized what she was doing was illegal, and in her email she made an unsuccessful attempt to feel bad about it (she was enjoying the flowers!)

Sheri liked to make up words if she felt the English language lacked a satisfactory option. “Buckus” comes to mind. It means something revolting and I’m sure you’ll agree, it is a far more satisfying expression than “yuck” or “gross.” She used a lot of nicknames: “J-man” for Jaime, “Bets” or “Betsy Beesy” for me, and some more original ones like “Wabers” for my sister Kristi and “Bering Straight” for my sister Carrie which evolved over time and made sense to those involved. She often added on to words or phrases to spice them up a bit. The phrase “stuffed to the gills” became “stuffed to the gillicutties.”

I called my mom today and she reminded me that Sheri would always come home with little treasures to share after her hospitalizations. Whether it be a single portion jelly packet, a hospital-sized soap or a treat or gift someone had brought her, she doled out those little gifts to her sisters when she returned home and we treasured them.

Being the oldest of six sisters, she was subjected to a fair amount of irritation at the hands of us younger siblings. I remember a fair share of eyerolls and her declarations that the current topic of dinnertime conversation was “not of general interest.” I’m pretty sure she was the one who made the “no singing at the table” rule as well. These memories make me laugh now. Oh, Sheri!

Starting with my first major cystic fibrosis health crisis in 2007 and in the various challenges I experienced in the 12 years that followed, I identified with Sheri strongly in our shared disease. Even though she was no longer present, still she lent me her wisdom and supported me. I clung to the lessons I had learned from her, read and reread her poetry and her published articles, tried to apply the advice she had given me before she died. One of the great blessings of those years of struggle was the pleasure of feeling so close to her, even in her absence. I shared in her suffering in a way I hadn’t been able to when she was alive. It gave me a new understanding of who she was and a profound admiration and respect for the way she was able to handle adversity and suffering. It made me love her even more, if that’s possible.

Now that I have started Trikafta and my health has so drastically improved, I haven’t had to lean on Sheri in quite the same way. I miss thinking of her constantly and feeling close to her. But I know without a doubt that she is rejoicing in my new life and the healing I’ve experienced. She never wanted me to suffer as she did. How grateful I am that she guided me even in her absence. She taught me so much. She was a shining light for Jesus and no amount of suffering dimmed that light.

I remember Sheri as a courageous fighter. I remember her undying faith in God, her generosity and love, her wisdom and her strength. I also remember her as “just” my big sister. My sister who got irritated but also was patient and loving and fun. My sister who played games and laughed and gave gifts. My sister with summer jobs and cool friends and good grades. My sister who rolled her eyes and spoke her mind. My sister the artist, the teacher, the musician, the writer, the wife. My sister who I loved and looked up to and who loved me too. My sister who is forever a part of me. I miss her so very much.

With your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory’s side

And fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live

From Untitled Hymn by Chris Rice