N E T I

 

I was full of opinions and full of myself, and all of a few months married.  

She was hair gone prematurely gorgeously white and a mouth made for laughing.

Decades of being a wife and mom to allow her the flexibility to do so.

She loves this church.  Sentimentally adores the little red schoolhouse beside.

Her favorite pew is towards the front.  Side benches. I sit behind her, finding my uneasy

rest in this new-to-me looming sanctuary.  Hoping as the "amens" fade into fellowship, I can

make my quick escape from the awkward "good mornings" and "what have you been doings."

But when she smiles, it is for real, and her "how are you's" followed with genuine interest.

The artless honesty of her blue eyes draws me in on the spot. Should I be smiling too?

I find myself doing so.

The funny thing about looking back, is trying to locate the tipping point--what moment does this 

stranger turn precious?  Was it our random encounter in the produce section?  Where she mourned the announcement of her son moving, and I somewhat flippantly declared, "Well I guess you'll just have

to adopt us now."  Maybe it clicked during our year coaching the junior sewing circle, where we found 

ourselves hysterically stitching fabric frogs with split peas for insides?  Or was it the quiet knock, flowers in hand, as she chose to lean into my five-year-childless ache?  My luckiest guess as to origins, is the most unsentimental of all--the simple affinity for a certain section of pews, pinning us together every seventh

day.  There, as predictable as a benediction, the spark of our kindred spirits gleamed.

We're no strangers anymore.

I think of her now as the woman whose car swings up my driveway to rescue me from January's gray captivity.  Off we squirrel, satisfaction found in thrift stores and secondhand shops.  Conversation over coffee, most always.  It's her I see delighting in the beauty of ordinary objects--dishes of food artfully arranged-- "I sure like to try for a color-filled plate."  She is the glowing-faced and kerchief-wearing tender of campfires, late into summer evenings.  She nurtures tall sunflowers, debates over paint colors, creates all manner of things from junk, and is the first to remark on the perfection of snowfall, blinding with its million tiny mirrors.  She's the confidante who shares her anxieties with me.  A modern day psalmist expressing joy and sorrow, but always finishing on faith--trusting the God she knows.

Our friendship metamorphosis was not without effort.  I sometimes chafed at the strange ways of my new-to-me congregation.  She unapologetically let me know that HERE was the place I belonged.  

Of course she was right.  She usually was.

But she loved ME more than she loved being RIGHT and it showed.  To top it all off, the expected "I told you so's" never came.  And goodness knows I deserved them aplenty.  

I stumble and am humbled.  She is chrysalis safe and encouraging. Somehow making it obvious to me that being humble is good, and what do we have to prove anyway, and "isn't it interesting how everyone is so different?"

Love from her feels authentic and comfortable.  It's the meeting of eyes after "amen."  It's the value of my opinion when I'm sure she doesn't need it.  It's many Sunday dinners at her table.  Dishes for days afterwards--of which she will apologize for and I won't care an ounce--it only means more time for talking and laughing. Love everybody, breathes her life.  And I feel it exhale into mine.

We do need to discuss the laughter!

Some may consider her abundance of it unreasonable.  Especially if you count all the times we laughed when we weren't supposed to be laughing.   Those pews that first bound our friendship, now hold our soundless shaking bodies.  Barely contained hysteria in a glance.  Don't you DARE look at me right now or we will be OVER.  And you mean to say you wouldn't be howling as you hear her convince me to drive the wrong way up an exit ramp during a full on blizzard?  "Because we'll be stuck in traffic too long if we don't.  Plus I'm hungry, and there's a Five Guys back that direction.  C'mon, you've got this!"  Just try keeping a straight face at her epic arrival for supper one evening, featuring a Mrs. Claus hat and a bosom not found in nature.  Does she realize she's teaching me a merry heart is important medicine?  That having a good time on the most ordinary days is the antidote to despair?

Trust God.

Be Humble.

Love Everybody.

Have a Good Time.

It's said that what we practice in times of ease, we recall in times of hardship.

Should I then be surprised that in those final days of her courageous battle she clings to these?  Watchwords given to guide us, now affirming her own journey toward the God she trusts.  Humbly submitting her will to the One who created her.  Loving us well to the very end. 

Telling us through tears, that in the weeks and years to come, even as we sense the gaping hole of what isn't here-- "Remember to have a good time."

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the words above are the fruit of my latest assignment for a writing group i participate in.

my life has been blessedly altered by the privilege of experiencing such a special friendship.  

thank you, neti.