Whence Comes Spring

 An Essay On Friendship

 

 

When I was in my 20’s the thought of ever turning 40 seemed like a foreign concept. A forever into the future sort of hazy picture. Details blurred, almost as if the picture would never exist. In my 20’s I made timeline plans. I promised myself that my 20’s were for travel, adventure, falling in love, getting married and moving into a dream cloud of fuzzy pink soft landings and an ever-growing list of accomplishments. I say this without an ounce of cynicism because I do believe that naiveté has its place in the human growth cycle. It’s a necessary blindness, for without it, would we ever jump at the next available risk? The older I get, the more guarantees I want. Will this leap over this puddle cause me to slip and get a little wet? Or will I fall all the way in, break an ankle, ruin some good clothes, miss an appointment and find myself on a trajectory for the worst possible outcomes imaginable? It’s almost as if I forget that there may be another possibility. I can land safely on the other side, dry and moving confidently towards my goal.

As if the positive outcome is the least likely one for me to achieve.

When did I turn into this? This slightly cynical middle aged woman?

Yes. Life has given me some serious knocks. I’ve lost a child. Had some miscarriages. I’ve lived through a decade of infertility with no real reason as to why. And now, I’m just too dang old and to be thinking of getting pregnant. There have been some terrible deaths amongst my friends and family. Fires, suicide, car accidents, cancer, old age, and rare disease. And most recently, my very best friend passed away suddenly and without warning, and there are still so many unknowns surrounding her death. 

She was only 38.

She was, and is, my best friend. The one who knew me better than pretty much anyone else on this planet outside of my husband. 

She always had room for me. We made that room for each other.

I still don’t know how to do life without her and looking at the years ahead of not having her to grow old with, just really freaks me out. 

She was my sister. She is my sister. 

I have never known such loneliness as I do now, and I must be honest. I don’t know how to build that kind of a friendship with anyone else. 

I need my friends.

I need them because this loss has been just as earth shattering as losing my daughter, just in a different way. 

I felt instant insecurity the moment I found out that she had died. It was so weird. It felt like I no longer knew myself anymore. It was like she made me feel acceptable and as dumb as it sounds, cool. She made me feel valid as a person like I had opinions and thoughts worth listening to and input that held importance and value.

I realize now that I made her responsible for a lot of my emotional wellbeing. I didn’t realize I was doing that. She had just been a part of me for more than half my life and as much as losing my daughter has felt like a part of my body is forever missing and gone, losing my best friend has felt like that too. A whole part of me, my history, my memories, my attachment to places and moments, died with her because she was the only other one who was there for so many of those experiences, and she was the closest person to me in those places.

I truly don’t know how to make friends anymore. I have people I value and cherish deeply. People I am so grateful for, and I recognize that I have been singularly blessed to know some pretty amazing women that I get to call friend.

But how do I share this vulnerable, needy side of me with any of them?

I honestly don’t know how.

We’re all so busy, with our own families, our own day to day lives that we are living and figuring out.

How do I ask someone to know me?

How do I cultivate decades of friendship with someone new? 

I feel like there are whole social media pages, memes and blog posts about how difficult it is to build deep friendships as adults. I guess I want to learn how to change the pattern. I’m trying. I’m messy at it, but I’m trying. I often come home thinking, “Why the heck did I say that, she probably thinks I’m an idiot.” 

The thing is, I often hide myself behind a reclusive curtain, just so I won’t have to feel the pain of rejection. 

I’m 46 and I’m scared to put myself out there because I don’t want to get hurt. It feels pitiful to admit to this. The funny thing about being so insecure is that I wasn’t always this way. I went to 8 different grade schools, moved well over a hundred times from across states, to across countries. I’ve travelled alone, navigated foreign transit systems without a smart phone, sat nav, or GPS. I’ve lived with so many different kinds of people and cleaned so many different kinds of toilets in the myriad places I’ve lived in and yet I’m terrified to put myself out there and ask my friends to be there for me. I feel dumb about this fact, but it’s the truth.

I’m fine sending a text and saying I would like prayer for something.

I’m fine, more than fine, to be asked to be there for someone else. 

What is that? Is it really just me that does this? 

I’m figuring out how to be a good friend too, I want to extend that grace to others in my life. I need you. I hope that you need me. I don’t know about you, but I  find it so much easier to be the one needed more than being the one who needs, and that word “need” has become such a bad word in my vocabulary. I think of need and neediness as something weak. Too naked and vulnerable. Maybe even immature. I want to change the way I think about need. I want to see it as one soul calling out to another soul and asking it to share of its goodness and uniqueness. 

I don’t want to live out my life in solitude, I’m pretty sure God made us to walk this path alongside each other. But here’s the tricky bit, I don’t know how to do this anymore. This extending out of a hand and asking someone else to meet me here and join me in this really interesting thing we call life. 

I hope and pray that if you’re lonely today like I am, that God will bring you just that right someone to meet you in this place. And that that someone will sit with you or call you up and hopefully tell you a dumb joke that makes you laugh and forget for a little while that you ever felt alone.