The Meaning of Friendship

I had intended to post a blog about the difference between anecdotal and scientific evidence, but circumstances got the better of me.

I received a late-night phone call from a dear friend in New York informing me that her husband had died. We, all three, had attended high school together. While I didn't know him well, she and I have been close friends for 41 years. Forty-one years. Extraordinary.

While in school, Maura was by best friend. She called me Patty, but sometimes we were Samantha and Lowezy, too. Although she had a plethora of friends from her Catholic school days and associated ("hung out" in today’s parlance) with a very different circle of friends than I--she with the "popular" crowd, and I with a group a little rougher around the edges--we remained friends. One summer I think we logged about a million games of canasta at her house.

In all those years, I did a lot of crazy and downright stupid things, for which she never criticized me. She wrote the book on good listening. I never could seem to get my feet on the ground, while she always had hers firmly planted. Her marriage to Dave was a gorgeous affair. I still remember how beautiful she looked. When they outgrew their condo (they have three children), I accompanied her house hunting--the day she saw the home she still lives in.

They had a good life, living well and doing lots of wonderful things. Their kids are beautiful, and they raised them well. They loved the sea, liked cruising, and even cruised across the Atlantic.

In 1982, she and her husband stood by me and my George at First Baptist Church in Freeport, NY, as we said our vows before God and a few dozen friends. As I write this, there’s a picture of the four of us on my dresser. Wow. We were so young and pretty!

A relationship was forged that endures to this day. I find that amazing, because maintaining relationships with people in the neighborhood can be difficult, let alone those with 3000 miles between them. When I lost my husband three years ago, she started calling me more often. Sometimes we’d talk long after midnight, her time, and it always felt like we were in the same room. And I always came away refreshed.

We went through a rough spot, too. Note to the cyberspace crowd: When going through a rough spot, email or texting won’t cut it. Because she insisted on talking to me, I realized that our friendship had deep value for both of us. And I would have let it go, because I was afraid of being rejected. It paid off, too. Our relationship got stronger. We even say "I love you" before we hang up. I guarantee we didn’t say that in 10^th grade!

So, when she called me and told me of her husband’s unexpected passing, and that she would be needing me to get through it, I was both saddened and humbled. We are too young to be widows. I hope I can listen as well as she has. I pray that I can. Because one thing I learned that a person needs when they lose a loved one, is someone to simply listen. I cannot fix it. I can only listen, comfort, and promise to be available. I promise to listen no matter how long it takes.

I don’t know if sudden loss is easier or harder than an illness that prepares you weeks, months, years in advance. I don’t know that you can ever truly be prepared. I only know that I woke up this morning and thought I’d dreamed the whole thing. I imagine she did, too. But the reality is like a knife in the chest. Morning after morning, for a long time . . . a time undetermined.

TV, newspapers, experience all teach us that life can be snuffed out or snatched away in the blink of an eye. One day you’re going your merry way, then . . . everything changes. Death changes everything. One door has slammed, another stands open. A new path stretches toward the horizon and disappears around a bend.

But Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.

And because nothing, no experience, trouble, pain, joy, triumph is wasted, I am sure that as God has promised (2 Cor 1:4) I will be able to comfort she who is in anguish, through the comfort with which He has comforted me.