My Beautiful Friend Flew Away

On cancer, grief, and second moms.

One of the best friends I’ve ever had died yesterday.

Nine words in, and I already have to stop and cry. Again.

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I woke this morning to the drumming of rain, hollow and dull upon the rooftop. The sound of it felt like a gentle kiss upon my brow, a far better rousing than the nightmare which set my heart racing the evening before. The first thought I had was that it was too early to get up. The second thought was that my friend was dead. I didn’t need the reminder.

Friendships are at times a great riddle for me. As a military brat, I moved half a world away every three years, hardly long enough to develop deep relationships, but enough time to plant seeds. It’s difficult to harvest flowers when the roots are ever pulled right before blooming. I met that challenge with a certain sense of the inevitability of loss: friends come and friends go. May as well make them quickly, but keep them at arm’s length.

Sara, however, wasn’t a good “arm’s length” friend. She was a strong hugger, for starters, and if you know any of those strong huggers, they aren’t real good at staying on the surface of conversations either. Even though she was shorter than me, her piercing eye would demand transparency and, disarmed, she would get it. Multiply that over a dozen years and there aren’t enough Kleenex boxes in the house right now.

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Last days at the hospital, my friend was like a little bird tucked underneath the thin blankets, her skin a deep orange hue due to her failing liver. Her hair had begun to grow back, a beautiful blend of dark brown and grey, soft to the touch. A year ago, we had laughed about it, taking off her wig of crocheted dreds and rubbing her fuzzy head during our getaway to the ocean, and made bets if it was going to be straight or curly while we got our nails done.

I stroked her hair while she lay struggling amidst strange surroundings. Straight. I lost that bet.

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Her husband handed me her cell phone at the hospital to contact everyone. I slipped it into my back jeans pocket; it felt like a holy trust, an assignment from the Lord. Of course I would, yes. Of course.

The next morning, I welcomed the sitter to watch my children and filled a mason jar with water. I added a nervine tincture to it, and settled into my small chair in the bedroom, the nest I snuggle into for my Bible studies. I took the first of a thousand expansive breaths, unlocked Sara’s phone, and found her contacts.

My managerial side took over, and I began with the A’s. Abby, three Amy’s, Ann…

“Hello, this is Keri, Sara’s friend…(pause for surprise and/or a sharp intake of breath)…I need to let you know the very sad news that Sara passed away this morning…”

Every time I say it, I feel robotic. Every time I say it, all I hear in my head is “she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead." Even though I know the truth of the matter, 1 Thessalonians 4:13-15 pressing into my spirit like all the manna I would ever need, the pain this side of the veil is real and unrelenting. I don’t blame her for fleeing to Christ.

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Sara had a ferocious love for her children. Perhaps when they have children of their own, they will more deeply understand this. Her deepest and greatest desire, spanning all of the heavens of any other humanly yearning, was that her children would know Jesus and Him crucified, that they would walk in truth and belong to Him.

Every Christian mother I know understands this longing. But not every Christian mother I know adopts other children as Second Mom. When you awaken Sara’s cell phone, there’s a photo of our two goofy daughters together, because she loved my children enough to care for them as her own as well.

In fact, she loved all the young people in our congregation. It’s one thing to know this, in theory; it’s another to crawl through the contacts in her phone and find teen after teen after teen.

She had a special affinity for my girls with Down syndrome, because she once had an aunt with the same challenge. She was someone who could not only offer me encouragement, but she had the receipts of time spent with her grandmother and spoke out of personal knowledge what it was like to raise a daughter with Down syndrome. I have her grandmother’s wool coat, and every time I wear it, I am reminded of the saints—and mothers—that have persevered before me.

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I can tell by how they answer if they know anything about what has been going on. Sara slipped by so quickly, how could the multitudes know? Some want more information, what happened, why, what to do, how to help, when the service is. I try my best to be present, to listen, to comfort. Sometimes, I break down crying with them. I feel guilty when they tenderly thank me for breaking their hearts.

Crawling through the list, I finally get to my own name. I can’t. I leave to take a walk outside, the second or third I cannot recall, to tell myself what I already know.

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Sara was a crafter. Her cards were meticulous, with unusual cuttings and layers of colors that were an enigma to me. Every year, she spent untold hours carefully constructing the most ornate Christmas ornaments to gift to others.

We were good-bad for one another in this. I mean, it was great for US, but our families did have to make way for mountains of colored paper, pens, and glues (for starters). We were not good at reigning each other in; in fact, we were each thrilled at everything our friend ever made, even though our styles and even our materials differed. She was shameless at introducing me to art supplies and techniques I’d never heard of and never knew I always wanted.

Sara will forever be the fuel in my creative fires.

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I don’t know how to answer the calls that come into her cell phone. I mean, literally. She has a Samsung, that’s the reason. That’s what I would needle her about when it gave her trouble, anyway (“anyway” being the word she used most often in pauses).

I hear the ring. I see the person calling. I see the bright button to press to answer. I press the button. Nothing. I hold down the button. Nothing. I try swiping and pressing and pushing and tapping and speaking into the void.

Now I know. I have to helplessly let it ring itself out, and call the person back.

“Hello, this is Keri, Sara’s friend…”

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I still hear her laugh. Oh, God, let me never forget her laughter. She had a laugh that was quadruple her size. She would get going with an initial great whoop and her initial shriek would cascade into the most contagious and merry of joyful noises ever. She laughed easily, frequently, and with a brightness that would permeate the room.

Who’s going to grab my arm now with that kind of joy?

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I get through the three Jennifer’s and hours later end up with one of the Wendy’s. During one of the phone calls, a text pops through: “I can call you back tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. I feel an initial irritation, but then the sorrow of what is to come on that tomorrow buries it. I recognize that these calls will be the last calls people will get on their phones heralding their friend.

Many of the calls go to voicemail. I do not leave them. I can’t. Instead, I call and call and call.

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When Sara initially recognized I was with her in the hospital, her face brightened and she said “HI!” Surely it was a whisper, but to me it was the same thrill we always had to see one another. Her eyes were still the same blue, even with her yellowed sclera.

“Hey there…”

“I don’t feel good…” she mumbles.

I choke. “I know….but you’re going to feel reallllllly great soon.”

She asks if it’s ok to go. I tell her, “Go, friend. You can go anytime you want. God’s got you. He’s got you!”

She asks about her babies. I remind her: Second Mom! That’s our joke, our promise. “I’ll take care of your babies on this side, and you’ll take care of mine on the other.” I try to smile at her; I don’t want to leave her with my anguish.

I will forever pocket the slight lopsided smile it took all her strength to gift me in return.

Before I leave, I can’t stop stroking her hair and kissing her and telling her I love her. I tell her she is safe, that her (earthly) daddy is on the way to the hospital, and that I will see her again. I know when I leave that it is 100% true, but that it will not be in that room.

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She slipped (ran?) from her earthly tent and this world the following morning. I knew she was leaving but it still caught my breath when her husband’s text came in. At that moment, Sara’s cell phone and my notebook were on my lap. I took a deep breath in and warbled a lengthy one out as the tears streamed. I swear I can hear her laughing with Jesus.

It’s going to be all right.

1 Thessalonians 4:13-15   But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep.