I told my sister recently that I remember driving with my parents to go pick her up in Allentown many years ago, though the precise location is one I cannot recall. Our parents, Carl and Cherie Valentino, of Reading, had already adopted my brother Bobby and me (from Bethlehem and Philadelphia, respectively), and they were now adding a girl to the mix.

That girl turned out to be a vivacious little spitfire they called, “Ronni Sue,” a name with connections to good friends of theirs. The nice agency folks in Allentown handed her off to us, and then we took her home. (As far as I was concerned, that’s where babies came from. You just go somewhere, pick them up, and bring them home.)

On the drive back to our house, Bobby and I let Ronni Sue sit between us so we could both talk to her and get to know her. She smiled a lot and spoke the language of a toddler. We were off to a good start, no doubt because Mom and Dad had prepared us for such a unique encounter.

Many handoffs would follow. We handed Ronni off to kindergarten, then to middle school, and then to high school. We handed her off to a variety of dates and duds over the years, and then to marriage and motherhood. We handed her off to various locations and occupations taking her to numerous cities, towns, residences, and even a houseboat.

This morning at a care facility in Baltimore, I took Ronni’s hand, sensing her journey on earth was nearing its completion. At 8:23 a.m., she took her last breath, with her hand still in mine. It was a sacred moment. And it was my honor to hand her off to Jesus.

Though still scarred, the hands of Jesus are gentle, loving, strong, and pulsating with life.

Forever.

What a hope we have in the risen Christ.

So, good night, dear sister.

Because of Easter, I know our hands will touch again.