UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN:

My dearest friend died, so I wrote her this letter to process my grief.

Dear Ann,

I have started to write this so many times. That’s not true, I have started to think about writing this so many times. But the words won’t come. Or they start to come and then the tears and the sadness begin to pour out of my eyes with such relentlessness that I can’t see. That’s not metaphorical; I have to take off my glasses because the heat creates a fog of grief on my lenses, and I tap my chest to catch my breath, to try and lessen the weight of the pain in my heart.

I need you so much right now, and you’re gone. I need you because you’re gone. I need you to tell me, how do I live with this grief? I’ve never lost someone this close to me, at least not as an adult. I just can’t imagine life without you, so I push the thoughts away. But when I wonder what you would do, I know you would write. So, that is what I will do. I will write about you, to you.

But this isn’t about what you meant to the world or to your family, although you and I both know the answer is simply, everything. I am selfishly writing this for me. I am writing this even though I don’t want to. I am writing this to try to face my grief, the grief I know I have no right to feel, but here I am. Even though my faith tells me we will all see one another again, I don’t want a world without you in it. None of us do.

Of course, I know that you are still here.

Your fingerprints, your laugh, your grace, your gentleness, your wisdom. You….you are everywhere.

You are in the picture frame beside my desk where I write these words right now. You are wearing a brightly colored scarf, of course, and we are laughing together because I made you stop to take this photo as you held a plate full of food. You always stopped for me.

You are in my story, the one that led to the life I have now. Meeting you changed everything. You became my spiritual mentor and dearest friend. You saw me, believed in me, encouraged me, taught me, inspired me, and grounded me. When I did not think there was a lovable thing about me, you said there was. You didn’t have to love me, but you did. 

You are in every quiet walk I take now. I don’t like to exercise, but you loved it, and in our last conversation, you told me to stop making excuses and to make time to get my body moving. You weren’t usually quite that direct, and there was urgency in your voice, so I took notice. Now, when I walk, I try to notice the dew drops on the plants you used to see as a sign that God takes care of everything, big and small. I pay attention to the deer you marveled at, but cursed for eating too greedily in your garden, and to the birds whose songs you delighted in. I hate being outdoors, but you loved it, so I try to love it for you.

You are in every daffodil I see. I never really cared for those flowers before you. I thought they were too common and boring. But you taught me to look for beauty in the everyday; to notice the easily overlooked. To be grateful for the moment I am in and live in the now, and to let tomorrow worry about itself. (You can probably guess that I am still working on that…) From you, I learned the power of positivity and contentedness, the strength of a steady life that comes from being faithful, and how simple acts of kindness can make big differences. You made the biggest difference in my life.

You are in the morning “Quiet Time with the Lord,” and in the pages of Scripture; in your favorite verses and in all the stories we poured over together. Planning and discussing, puzzling and searching, seeking God’s wisdom in our church leadership together. But then you would always ask about me. My family, my heart and my worries, and what you could pray for. I can still hear your quiet, soothing voice, offering words of wisdom in your Southern drawl. I can hear your heartfelt laughter, counseling me to quit “awfulizing,” to stop handing things to God only to take them back, and that guilt is a useless emotion. I hear you gently instructing me to be mindful of where I place my energy, and to fix my thoughts on whatever is true, good and right, whatever is pure and lovely, and to dwell on the good in others. You modeled living in the Way of Jesus.

I do smile when I think of you in the presence of Jesus, which is where you are right now. I know that with certainty. I am so happy for you, but I still can’t help but to grieve. I miss you so much. There are so many other things I want to say to you! I guess those words that would not come before, won’t seem to quit now! I believe you can hear me, but I had to write this. I know you understand that.

And so, my dearest friend Ann, I am thankful for every moment I had with you. For every lesson you taught me, in your words and in your actions.

I am grateful that you are still everywhere, and I pray a little bit of you will come out in me.

In every encounter, I pray your wisdom, grace, and faithfulness will prompt me to ask, how would you respond to this person? What do they need right now? How would you love them? I pray that I will stop for them like you stopped for me. And maybe, if I just sit in the moment with them, the Spirit will move…like the Spirit moved through your presence in my life and through the blessing of your friendship.

I love you forever, my soul sister. Until we meet again.

xo, Brittany