loss

I am not sure why I'm writing this.
Or maybe, I know why I'm writing this, but I am unaware of what I expect to accomplish or gain in writing this.
There really is nothing to be gained.
What do I know about life? It would seem that I know nothing. That exactly when I am able to regain footing on this path that something else knocks me to my knees. Not that this is even about me, in the grand scheme of things, it's really not.

My childhood friend, Ruth George, was murdered yesterday.
Strangled. Left dead in the back of her car.
Yesterday I did not know this and life continued as it had. Yesterday I was stressed about writing a paper for my politics class, yesterday I was crying about my ex boyfriend. Yesterday, yesterday, yesterday...
I do not understand this death. I have experienced death before, many times. I watched my grandfather struggle for months against cancer, stood beside my grandmother as her love drew his last breath. Stared at his body, alive one second before, dead the next, wondering how so much changes in this fraction. The fractures of my reality were split into a million pieces that I would need to rebuild into a new reality down the road.
And even then, that was a gradual death. A natural one.
A good death I guess you could say-though how horrible to pair death and good under any circumstances. But my grandfather had lived and loved and learned and fought, and in death he found peace that we humans could not give with modern medicine.
This is not a good death, or a just death, or anything like that.
This is pointless. This is cruel existence.
This is the horror of humanity that I do not know how to comprehend.

Ruth and I weren't great at keeping in touch. We hyped each other up when we posted pictures, responded to instagram stories, shared sorrows when we needed prayers, texted when new things were happening.
We were present with each other, although not involved.
Ruth was someone who would've been at my wedding. She would've been at engagement parties and baby showers. She would've been an address I sent Christmas cards to when we were thirty five and did that sort of thing. Writing these things sound so meaningless and shallow. That her whole existence to me could be summed up in the seat she would hold at my wedding or the card I would put in the mail. Its the presence I guess. Knowing she was there, living her life alongside me, knowing the history we shared, getting to watch each other grow.

I wish casual existence did not have to be a regret.
Her murderer stole that from everyone who knew her. Her family should not have to look back on family fights or missed movie nights and lament these as a great loss.
There should have been time.
 Ruth should have had all the time in this world.
She should have finished her degree.
She should have been the most important thing in some man's life.
The kinesiologist that brought healing to her patients.
The mother to children as beautiful as she.
It makes no sense that these are not things that she will do. why are these things that she will not get to do?
how am I supposed to go to her funeral. how is this the end. I don't understand. I will never understand. what is her family supposed to do? how do you continue when so much has been taken. when your family has been taken. your best friend. your daughter. your child.
I don't have a bible verse for this. is there a verse for when your friend is murdered in a parking garage? Is there anything to be said? do I have any right to feel this loss. do I have any right not to?