Yesterday morning, she took some time from her tremendous learning load and spent some time with me picking the fabrics that were just the right color and just the right size.
Last night, she came with her baby and sat in my living room while she and I and my husband laughed as we watched a favorite movie and quoted and cracked up at the cheesiest and most delicious one-liners.
She noticed me walking to Smith's one morning, just a few months ago, baby boy in tow, on my way walking to buy groceries. And she can't have known that that morning I felt lonesome and dark even amidst the sunshine and blossoms. She walked with me there and back again, and my burden felt so much lighter and my smile felt so much easier by the end.
A month ago, she and I saddled up her horses and wildly wandered across a hillside, as freely and as frolicky as we were ten years ago, doing the same wonderful thing we had done as girls.
They two came consistently, speaking Spanish to me (knowing I'm terrified of losing that skill) and bringing baked goods and words about Christ. They left me a note with words of love the morning I returned to work and felt my heart was splitting in two as I had to part from my infant son. They were there when I needed, always.
Just a few nights ago, near Halloween, she greeted me at the home of her childhood--she with her little ones, and I with mine, and our husbands at our sides, all of us playing dress up and enjoying chili cooked in a pumpkin and having authentic conversations and reminiscing youth.
A few years ago, as I warbled through tears about breaking things off with a boy I had cared about but whom I knew I could not have a life with, and she stroked my hair and listened til I felt courage enough to forget a bit and move on with hope.
She writes, and I write, and we check in with each other even though states separate us, to make sure the other is well and still exercising freedom of speech.
She asked me to teach her guitar, and while she had perfect pitch and studied piano at university, she still saw me as someone who had something grand to offer. So I fumbled my way through the little I knew, and she and I jammed together, and laughed and smiled.
She wrote me letters every week. We were ten years old, too young to drive a car and too far apart to ride bikes to meet at each others' houses. It was before email or phones were accessible to us. So she wrote, and between school years I knew I had a friend.
Over lunch at a diner, we chatted, she and I--about goals and about heartaches and about illnesses of mind and body--and though eight years have passed since we first met and became pals, and while cities and long stretches of days separate us betimes, our friendship felt the same and strong as ever.
She and I talked about motherhood and teaching. About how we loved both and were constantly trying to balance both, and how one bled into another, and how we felt so happy and so freaking stressed all the time all at once. It felt better to know I had a teammate who understood, because her struggles were much like mine, and we had each others' backs.
She and I walked the cobblestone streets in the bitter cold, trying to find South American souls who wanted to learn about Jesus. And amidst the struggle and frustration and heartache and bone-chill wet, we giggled and found solace in singing in Lois Armstrong voices.
Tonight, as I'm feverish and with an upset stomach, she's making me a meal (she, almost a week overdue with her first child) and bringing it to my home to nourish me.
Both of them and I stayed up til the wee hours of the morning watching Lord of the Rings, pasting pictures of the Jonas Brothers in our Journals, eating heaps of Caramel Popcorn and creating raps that were recorded to video and to this day remain as blackmail.
I feel supremely grateful today for all the women who have blessed my life and become dear, dear friends to me and blessed me in divine ways.
Afterthought: There was not time or room enough to mention all of you, but if you know me and we're friends but didn't find yourself in this post, stay tuned. You'll show up sooner or later ;) Because I love you, promise.
Last night, she came with her baby and sat in my living room while she and I and my husband laughed as we watched a favorite movie and quoted and cracked up at the cheesiest and most delicious one-liners.
She noticed me walking to Smith's one morning, just a few months ago, baby boy in tow, on my way walking to buy groceries. And she can't have known that that morning I felt lonesome and dark even amidst the sunshine and blossoms. She walked with me there and back again, and my burden felt so much lighter and my smile felt so much easier by the end.
A month ago, she and I saddled up her horses and wildly wandered across a hillside, as freely and as frolicky as we were ten years ago, doing the same wonderful thing we had done as girls.
They two came consistently, speaking Spanish to me (knowing I'm terrified of losing that skill) and bringing baked goods and words about Christ. They left me a note with words of love the morning I returned to work and felt my heart was splitting in two as I had to part from my infant son. They were there when I needed, always.
Just a few nights ago, near Halloween, she greeted me at the home of her childhood--she with her little ones, and I with mine, and our husbands at our sides, all of us playing dress up and enjoying chili cooked in a pumpkin and having authentic conversations and reminiscing youth.
A few years ago, as I warbled through tears about breaking things off with a boy I had cared about but whom I knew I could not have a life with, and she stroked my hair and listened til I felt courage enough to forget a bit and move on with hope.
She writes, and I write, and we check in with each other even though states separate us, to make sure the other is well and still exercising freedom of speech.
She asked me to teach her guitar, and while she had perfect pitch and studied piano at university, she still saw me as someone who had something grand to offer. So I fumbled my way through the little I knew, and she and I jammed together, and laughed and smiled.
She wrote me letters every week. We were ten years old, too young to drive a car and too far apart to ride bikes to meet at each others' houses. It was before email or phones were accessible to us. So she wrote, and between school years I knew I had a friend.
Over lunch at a diner, we chatted, she and I--about goals and about heartaches and about illnesses of mind and body--and though eight years have passed since we first met and became pals, and while cities and long stretches of days separate us betimes, our friendship felt the same and strong as ever.
She and I talked about motherhood and teaching. About how we loved both and were constantly trying to balance both, and how one bled into another, and how we felt so happy and so freaking stressed all the time all at once. It felt better to know I had a teammate who understood, because her struggles were much like mine, and we had each others' backs.
She and I walked the cobblestone streets in the bitter cold, trying to find South American souls who wanted to learn about Jesus. And amidst the struggle and frustration and heartache and bone-chill wet, we giggled and found solace in singing in Lois Armstrong voices.
Tonight, as I'm feverish and with an upset stomach, she's making me a meal (she, almost a week overdue with her first child) and bringing it to my home to nourish me.
Both of them and I stayed up til the wee hours of the morning watching Lord of the Rings, pasting pictures of the Jonas Brothers in our Journals, eating heaps of Caramel Popcorn and creating raps that were recorded to video and to this day remain as blackmail.
I feel supremely grateful today for all the women who have blessed my life and become dear, dear friends to me and blessed me in divine ways.
Afterthought: There was not time or room enough to mention all of you, but if you know me and we're friends but didn't find yourself in this post, stay tuned. You'll show up sooner or later ;) Because I love you, promise.
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