Category Archives: friends

Old Friends

Once many years ago, a lady and her daughter came into my life. For a time, the mom was one of my two or three best friends; she helped me survive a divorce, the death of my beloved cat, Argenté, and the ups and downs of a difficult career. The daughter was in her teens, and she was fun and talented and she helped me stay young.

Eventually life moved the family across the country. Of course we talked sometimes, kept up with each other on Facebook and by phone, and I even visited them once. Then I moved to Europe, Daughter went to college and eventually became a grownup in her own right, and her mom wrote a new chapter in her life that included grandchildren, a very unpleasant divorce, selling one house and buying another, and surviving cancer. Needless to say, her whole life turned upside down. Through it all, we prayed for each other and cheered each other on.

This summer, these two lovely people came to visit me. My thoughts were mostly on seeing them again, but I was also very preoccupied with introducing them to Bruges, Brussels, Paris and Amsterdam. And naturally, I did.

We walked all over Brussels and watched Belgium win third place in the World Cup (soccer) and thoroughly delighted in the ensuing madness in the center of the city. We saw Bruges from the canal and watched the final of the World Cup in a Bruges café. We admired the impressionists in the Musée d’Orsay, searched for our favorites (and all-too-few wafts of cool air) in the Louvre, looked for books in Shakespeare and Company, photographed Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower from the Seine, and ate the dinner of our LIVES at a little, non-descript Paris café. We dodged bicycles in Amsterdam, fell in love anew with Van Gogh, oohed and ahhhed over Dutch architecture and windmills, and “relived our flaming youth” (thanks to another old friend for that glorious combination of words) by wading and soaking our feet in a fountain in the Museumplein. And a bonus, we stopped by to remember history at the Corrie Ten Boom House in Haarlem. On top of all that, they fell in love with Belgium and my wonderful new friends here.

At some point in the process, they both let me know that they loved seeing all this great stuff, but it wasn’t why they were here.

In fact, the reason they were here was to see me.

Pause for a moment to let that sink in. From the USA to Europe in coach class, one of them driving something like ten hours so they could fly together, and spending way more money than they should have, all to spend two days in Paris, two in the Netherlands, the rest in quirky little Belgium, and all with me.

We actually hung out at my house three or four of the precious few days they were here, forgoing visits to famous places, once in a lifetime visits for most Americans who make it even once to Europe. Why? Because they were tired, yes. But also because they were just happy to see me again. We cooked together, walked around my neighborhood, watched a movie on Netflix, and slept in the next day. We talked about life, about eternity, and about ourselves. We learned who we are now, after so many years (eight!) since the last time we saw each other. We reminded ourselves why we were friends.

God often reminds me of how blessed I am to have friends like these. Some live just up the road and spend lots of time with me or make me food or invite me to events. Others  must travel thousands of miles to come see me, one of them knowing she will have to take antihistamine every day because of her acute allergy to cats. They receive from me, too, of course. I am beyond grateful for them all, each having proven their love for me over the years.

In girl scouts there is a saying that becomes more relevant and important as I grow older:

Make new friends, and keep the old. One is silver, the other gold.

 

Bitter and Sweet


How can one day contain this much emotion?

Yesterday, the Saturday before Father’s Day, I spent several hours with two people I haven’t seen in years, people who were two of my best friends throughout the 1990’s. One was my roommate and sharer of clothing, my shoulder to cry on, partner in prayer, and the melody to my harmony as we careened through the NC Mountains in my little white pickup truck or gripped microphones at church. The other was my concert-going, head-bangin’ buddy, my “little brother,” with whom I was honored to walk as he loved and supported his first wife through her valiant fight against cancer, and then while he grieved in agony for her when she left him, much too young, to be with the Lord. These two remarkable people helped make me the person I am today; few others have shared such influence on me. We enjoyed a wonderful time together at his home, talking and laughing and feeling the years fall away.

A few hours later, I was standing over my mother’s grave, stricken again by her name on the stone and feeling intensely the loss. You see, in the misty and secluded southern Appalachian Mountains that my parents’ families have called home for generations, we have a tradition called Decoration Day. It generally falls on Father’s Day, and consists of family reunions and some sort of memorial for those who’ve preceded us in death. So the early evening found me helping my father’s sister carry and place flowers on the earthly resting places of my paternal grandparents at the family cemetery. A half hour later, quite alone now, I was tending my mother’s grave, as well as her mother’s and father’s, carefully placing flowers and preparing them for tomorrow’s visitors to the cemetery. Performing this task by myself was difficult, highly emotional, and left me feeling very lonely and very alone. I drove away with a heavy heart, experiencing her absence afresh.

A few hours later still, finally back home, I signed into Facebook and learned what I had missed when I couldn’t answer my phone when it rang in the early afternoon. My lovely friend in Chicago had called me but she didn’t leave a message. I guess she figured that telling me she’d gotten engaged was too much for a voicemail! I would have to agree. My happiness for her overflowed; she has patiently waited for God’s perfect choice for her, and He has proven Himself faithful once again. 

Throughout the day I alternately laughed and cried, and I welcomed the tears: tears of happiness, of missed years regained and friendships renewed, of joyful milestones, and of continued grieving. God is sovereign and He is good. He gave me precious friends, people who love me as much as I love them, and he gave me a mom who for 50 years made me feel as if I were the most special person in her world and who treated me as both her daughter and her friend. I am grateful to Him for all of these incomparable people who have enriched my life.

A current song by Wes King is playing in my mind: “Life is precious, life is sweet.” Sometimes it is bittersweet. And sometimes it is just bitter. But it is always precious.
Youtube video of Life is Precious by Wes King