We had the same initials before our marriages, and we had the same initials after we got married. Her husband and my husband have the same name. We taught together for a year. She gifted me a recipe book with hand-written recipes when I got married. I visited her when she was on her third maternity leave and held her five-week-old baby who shares the same name as me. We lived five minutes from each other.
Although we weren't inseparable best friends, we lived a lot of life with each other through ten years of friendship.
I used to accompany my dad's choir which was made up of older men and women who got together socially to sing. About 4 years ago when I was pregnant with my second child, I remember having a conversation with one of the older ladies. She had said to me, "You young people get to go to weddings and celebrate births of babies. Us old people are attending each other's funerals." It was meant to be a joke, but it held a bit too much truth.
Little did I know I'd be grieving for a "young person" far too soon.
It's really easy to go through my days and feel normal. I take care of my kids. I cook food for my family. I have a job. But there is a part of me that succumnbs to this overpowering grief if I let it. Because her reality is a nightmare I've lived from the other side.
My heart sank when I read her first CaringBridge entry. It was the same disease my mother was diagnosed with. And she had five young children. My mother had two. October 1, 2023 forever changed their lives the way May 1, 2004 changed mine. My heart aches for the rest of their lives knowing they will walk the same path I did. It is not one I wanted or chose, but was forced to accept. I am heartbroken they must accept it as well.
I couldn't bring myself to visit her because I didn't want to sob hysterically the whole time. I was already doing that behind closed doors in my own home. I didn't want to be a complete mess in front of her as one of our last visits. Instead, I wrote her a letter. I'm glad I wrote her, and I'm glad she was well enough to be able to read it.
As a person of faith, I'm very frustrated with God right now. In my head, I know He is the Almighty. I know His plan is perfect. I know He knows what He's doing. But I'm sad for her husband. I'm sad for her children. And I'm sad for what she had to accept and come to terms with in leaving this life far too soon.
Jesus himself prayed in Gethsemane, "My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will." He prayed this prayer three times, displaying the very human characteristic of fear, while at the same time, possessing the foresight of God knowing what had to be done.
Our pastor recently preached that death is a miracle. It's a miracle that is oftentimes overlooked. We think of miraculous healings as miracles. Screenings where the cancer is suddenly gone are miracles. Yes, these are miracles, and yes, they do happen today. So when someone's sickness is not cured, we wonder. We question. Where is God?
God's miracle in death is that we are healed from the pains of this world and have the gift of eternal life with Him. I have to remind myself she is no longer hurting. She is no longer suffering. And that is the bittersweet comfort we get in saying goodbye to a friend of faith. What I am sad for are the human experiences of sadness and loss. Yes, I am very sad. But I am not hopeless.
I hope she gets to meet my mother. And I hope she can tell my mother about the adult version of me my mother never got to see herself.
Goodbye for now, friend.
Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. - Hebrews 11:1
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