Celebration & Goodbye

There are some weeks in life that feel almost impossible to hold together.

 

Weeks where joy and sorrow sit side by side at the same table.

Where your heart expands with gratitude one moment and aches with grief the next.

 

This was one of those weeks for me, filled with overlapping emotions that blurred the boundaries between celebration and farewell.

 

Our youngest son graduated from college this weekend, a milestone that still feels surreal to say out loud. As a mother, there are moments you know are significant while you’re living them, and this was one of them. Watching him walk across that stage carried all the emotions of years gone by: the little boy he was, the man he’s becoming, and the quiet realization that another season of parenting has shifted.

 

And in the midst of all of that joy, our family is also celebrating another beautiful chapter unfolding with our future daughter-in-law. I’ll be sharing more about that next week because it deserves its own space and story.

 

But this week, my heart keeps returning somewhere else.

To my friend, Deb.

 

At the top of this post is one of the many luncheon photos Deb and I shared over the years. This particular one was after finishing a book club read together. Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe it’s been almost fifteen years to the day since we first met.

 

For most people, it’s almost unheard of in a small town not to know every family in your child’s grade. But between different sports, raising boys and girls, and my naturally introverted ways, it somehow happened.

 

And then there was Deb.

 

We met during one of the hardest seasons of my life. The week before we met, I was preparing for the symptoms and effects of chemotherapy, while she was beginning to experience the growing physical symptoms of MS.

 

I have always believed in God’s timing when it comes to friendship, and my friendship with Deb was no exception.

 

We became fast friends in a way that felt more like family. Our children connected the same way we did, and over the years, long after my cancer remission and long after the progression of her disease, Deb remained one of the brightest lights in my life.

 

Even though her physical limitations increasingly required help from others, somehow she was still the one bringing healing and hope to everyone around her.

 

That was Deb.

 

In so many ways, we were completely different.

 

Deb grew up in a 4,000-acre forest. I grew up in what felt more like a 4,000-acre mall.

She hated shopping. I loved it.

 

Deb could find her way anywhere. She was basically a living GPS. I, on the other hand, have spent most of my life with absolutely no sense of direction. (Slightly improved with age, but barely.) She used to guide me during our weekly trips to the chiropractor so we wouldn’t get lost on the way there.

 

She had a green thumb and taught me endlessly about plants, herbs, nature, and all the things she seemed to know intuitively. Meanwhile, I’ve managed to keep maybe two plants alive in the last thirty years.

 

Where I wrestled with anxiety and fear, Deb was fearless.

 

I loved hearing stories from her younger years before her diagnosis, stories of her incredible strength, adventurous spirit, and limitless physical ability, including cross-country bike trips that sounded impossible to me.

 

And yet, despite all our differences, we connected deeply on the things that mattered most.

Great conversation, good food, our families, and most importantly, our faith.

 

Deb was one of the best listeners I’ve ever known and one of my greatest encouragers. We shared recipes and meals that our families didn’t appreciate nearly as much as we did. We shared tears, laughter, endless conversations about our children, and the word proud on repeat through every season of motherhood.

 

And through it all, our faith deepened individually and strengthened us together.

 

Deb was genuine, honest, thoughtful, stubborn, loving, authentic, hilarious, and without question one of the most inspiring women I have ever known.

 

But one of the greatest gifts she gave me was loving me for who I was, not who she wanted me to be.

 

Even in the midst of a disease she never asked for or wanted, even through disappointment, frustration, loss, and physical limitation, I never saw envy take root in her heart. Instead, she offered perspective, wisdom, and gratitude.

 

She held tightly to the belief that someday she would not only walk again, but run to her Maker. And, even now, that image brings me peace.

 

This week has reminded me that life is rarely one thing at a time.

 

Sometimes we are cheering in auditoriums while grieving in quiet corners of our hearts. Sometimes we are celebrating new beginnings while mourning immeasurable loss. Sometimes God allows joy and sorrow to coexist, not to confuse us, but to remind us how deeply we are capable of loving.

 

And grief, I think, is often the price of having loved someone extraordinarily well.

 

I hope you have a friend like Deb in your life, if not today, maybe someday. Because friendship like this is a gift, and everyone deserves at least one.