Sandy Phillips answered the telephone in a meek tone. Her voice was resilient and graceful. It spoke to a pliable resolve, bent to threshold but unbreakable.

It was not defeated. It was meek.

It was a Thursday night, sometime around 7 p.m. in San Antonio, Texas. It had been an especially difficult day in the weeks full of difficult days since her only daughter, Jessica Ghawi, was killed in a Colorado movie theater by a gunman toting four weapons and 6,000 rounds of ammunition.

Jessica was one of 12 who died in the barrage of bullets that night.

But hers is the face of the tragedy.

Her mother, naturally, can't make sense of it. Rarely is there sense to be made of the inexplicable. And for Sandy, the aftermath of this tragedy leaves the unexpected very tangible.

"You don't know what to expect or when to expect it," Phillips said of her wide range of emotions since the July 20 shooting. "It's not a roller coaster -- it's the top of Everest to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. It is a living hell."

Regan Smith's special paint scheme memorializing the victims of the Aurora, Colo., shootings last month was emotional for many, including the victims' families. Marty Smith/ESPN.com

Mother and daughter were the best of friends. As a parent of three, that is among my life's greatest hopes. When my children are grown, I want to be a hero and a friend to them. Sandy had that in Jessica.

And on this day, Sandy's first thought upon waking was a crushing blow: I don't have a daughter anymore.

Somehow Phillips' faith is strong. She noted to me her belief in God's plan, however difficult.

"Things happen the way they're supposed to," she said. "God's timing is always perfect, but right now that's very hard for me to accept."

Sandy does not know me. But she speaks like an old friend who could use a shoulder. She took this call only because her son, Jordan, suggested she should. Granted, Jordan doesn't know me, either.

A friend of his -- a TV producer from Texas named Brett Baker -- asked me on the day before the Brickyard 400 to capture a photograph of Jessica's name on the side of Regan Smith's No. 78 Aurora Tribute Chevrolet.

Jessica would be buried later that day, and the photograph, Baker said, would be special to the family. I didn't hesitate. I was honored to be asked.

I walked out in the garage at Indianapolis Motor Speedway. It wasn't quite 8 a.m. It was hazy and humid, but a spectacular morning. I entered the garage, leaned down beside the car and captured the photo of the victims' names.

Names line either side of the car. Seven on one side of the wheel well, five on the other in vertical lists. Jessica's name was atop the list of five names, the closest to Smith as he sat in the cockpit buckling in for practice. That is somehow fitting, although Jessica, Phillips said, wouldn't see it that way.