Remembering a Friend

I lost someone almost two years ago. Someone mentioned her the other day and I still felt that twinge. I have her phone number stored safely in my phone. Whenever it snows, my reflex is to want to drive to her house and shovel her out. I still find it difficult to speak her name; I do not want to remember she is gone. I didn't think I'd be saying any of this when she first got sick. I didn't think it would end up this way. And I certainly didn't think it would have left me thinking about it in the way I do now.

I don't remember the first time we met. I don't remember why we "hit it off." But I know I liked her. She was tough. She was feisty. But above all, she wanted to be loved. Who doesn't, right?

But this was different. "L" wasn't the type to let anyone in, to let anyone love her. She cared for others. She did the heavy lifting. And the first person to get mushy with her risked being cussed out. And yet...

She'd tear up at the drop of a hat. She'd cared -- deeply and selflessly -- for a sick family member, putting her health and happiness on the back burner. She was known for her wacky style, and her equally wacky and spontaneous gift-giving. She went above and beyond to help others. Her family was precious to her. And yet...

She was tough as nails on the outside, and fragile as a wisp of smoke on the inside. A true paradox. Her wide smile drew you in, and her vicious lip cut you down. "Do unto others before they can do unto you."

As time wore on, I knew she was sick -- I mean really sick. I begged her to see a doctor. And she was terrified of it turning out to be something really serious. But we were supposed to lose her too soon. She'd leave us all here to grieve, and then we'd be sorry. Sorry we hadn't been a little nicer to her. Sorry we hadn't loved her properly. Sorry we'd let her go. Sorry we hadn't fought to care for her more adamantly than she'd fought to be left alone.

Push. Pull. Push. Pull.

When she was with us, I was never entirely sure where I stood with her. I'm not sure anyone was. In fact, early on in her illness, when I'd asked others to pray for her, I'd called her a co-worker. I would have liked to call her "friend". I mean, I'd even tried to be her friend. But had she tried to be mine?

What kind of friend is just as nasty to you as they are nice?

What kind of friend will talk about you as often as she will talk to you?

What kind of friend pushes you away when she needs you most? And yet...

As God has worked in my life I have come to know how damaged and misshapen I was before I allowed Him the reins. I learned that God is the Author and Perfector of relationships -- even relationships that don't always fit our criteria for "safe". I thought building myself up as an island was a good thing -- strength, independence, self-sufficiency, and best of all, safety. To others, I was distant and even condescending. My mistrust of others led others to mistrust me; my circumspection caused others to exclude me. I wasn't safe; only ineffective and unforgiving.

In the time "L" has been gone, I've thought a lot about our relationship. And despite her fears, I couldn't help but love her. I couldn't help but recognize in her some of who I used to be, and know she was really trying to be loved, as well as love others. In the best way she knew how, she had tried to be my friend and still maintain walls that made her feel safe.

It's a friendship I will always cherish.