My first and forever friend, Julie.

We never know when the ‘last’ will come.  How do we know this is our last visit to a dear family member’s home?   When a friend turns against us, how can we know the week before was the last time we would eat lunch together?  We know all things will end.  We know death will take us and those we love, however, often we have no clue when our last goodbye will occur.  

Julie was my first friend. Our parents and our grandparents were friends.   Our mothers were pregnant at the same time.  Julie is five months older than me, and I have always adored her. 

We grew up going to the same church and we went to each other’s birthday parties.  No one was surprised that we always sat next to each other whenever we were in the same room.

I could never replicate her mischievous antics and wholehearted laughter… Julie was the queen of laughter. We were like Ethel Mertz and Lucille Ball. Who wants to be Ethel? No one. All of us want to be Lucy. And that’s who my Julie has always been in my eyes and my heart.

Because of Julie, I gravitate to people who not only made me laugh, but who like to walk on the wild side. (That sometimes means a dangerous path.) Probably, it’s because of her that I married a man who is sometimes dangerous and who always knows how to make me laugh.

I loved Julie from the beginning of my days. Certainly, she was the first friend who attuned to me and me to her. I don’t remember not loving her. She was as real as the sun, and as green as grass in the spring. I am not sure how living will be without her on this side of heaven. 

On this past Mother’s Day weekend, Julie called to tell me that she has glioblastoma. A few weeks later she found out that the tumor was on both sides of her brain and too big for surgery. She faithfully took her chemo and radiation treatments for the first three weeks. We held on to hope that was bigger than possible.

Dan bought our flights to Columbus knowing this journey was too big for me to do alone. Ten days before we flew, Julie called to tell me that she was back in the hospital because she was too weak to stand. Cancer was now in her spine. Two days before we arrived Julie got three blood clots in her legs. She was transferred to rehab from the hospital.

The three days of our visit were agonizing, wonderful, nightmarish, and holy. Each day we left when she grew too tired to talk, I knew we had another day, another precious few hours to be in her presence.  

On our last day and final visit, I felt like there was no air in the room or in my lungs.  The time passed but I could find no space to imagine life on this earth without her.  

It was time.  The moment came as it will for us all.  Dan and I went to Julie’s bedside and held hands while Dan prayed.  I could barely breathe let alone talk.  The words finally came through my throat, “I will see you again, my friend.”  Julie said, “On this earth or on the other side.”  

We walked down a hallway with profoundly broken people in every room. There were the sound of voices, machines, and the whir of wheelchairs.  How could it all end with so few words?  How could a lifetime of laughter, secrets, and banter end with 15 words?  

I held all that I felt in a compartment of my heart until we exited the building and once outside, I wrapped my arms around Dan and began to weep.  And then I heard my name!  Walking into the hospital was Julie’s son, Michael, with his two gorgeous daughters who both had the same mannerisms, hair, and facial configuration of Julie!  

My tears were wiped away and I knelt to introduce myself to Ravi and Juno.  Juno had just returned from Camp Wyandotte, the camp that Julie and I had attended at nearly the same age.  Life, glorious, beautiful, captivating life stood in front of me and greeted me with a flourish that cried out: “Death will not get the final word!”  

My tears will always be filled with inexplicable grief and yet equally fueled by the provision of the resurrection that promises I will see you again, Julie! My first and forever beautiful friend.