The Truth of Friendship at 35

When I was a teenager I kept a folder in my nightstand with various important items. House plans ripped out of Southern Living, pictures of wedding ideas, and lists. One list was Life Goals or some such nonsense. One of those goals is one I still hope and pray for.

Have a best friend with kids that grow up with yours, like Mom and Karen.

Every summer Stephanie and I lived in the pool with our friends Brad, Lori and Jonathan. We made float houses and our hair turned green and our eyes turned red and some of us got swimmers ear. We begged our parents to cook out together or order from Little Caesars and then, sometimes, we'd watch as a summer storm bent the pine trees sideways. We played Clue and Monopoly. We built haunted houses in Stephanie's room. We watched The Wizard of Oz and Return to Oz more times than anyone ought to. We listened to our moms complain about how fat they were (not fat at all) and drank Kool Aid as they guzzled Diet Rite.

In August, just before school would start, Mom and Karen would take us on a road trip. My dad worked hard so my mom could stay home, and Karen was a single mom, so our road trips were rich in fun and love but not luxury. I can honestly say I am thankful that is the case. On one trip to Gatlinburg we kids died laughing as we laid in the floorboard of Karen's van so the motel manager couldn't see how many people were about to pile in one room. We saw Lake Junaluska (flat tire!), Mystery Hill, Grandfather Mountain, and Blowing Rock. We played Punch Bug so much I still remember the point system. (Red was Beaver Cleaver, and I was in my 20s before I knew that reference.)

In the fall we built Halloween houses (hello, Michaels was the best thing that ever happened to our moms) and ate too much chocolate. In winter we prayed for deep snow so the Coggins family would come over and stay with us, sledding and eating chocolate chip cookies and chili beans, until school started again. In the spring we dyed eggs together.

Over the years our charmed childhood morphed into the teenage years and we somewhat grew apart, going to different schools, but the pull of family - and this is truly what we were - remained. I'm now staring down the barrel of 35 years old, and I love them no less than I did at 8, 9, or 10. We pray for one another and rejoice with one another, no matter how long it's been since our last hug. We attend each other's weddings and baby showers and grandparents' funerals. We text "please pray" when we're hurting. We show up when it matters.

So, when Melanie Shankle, author of Sparkly Green Earrings and The Antelope in the Living Room, wrote Nobody's Cuter Than You, a book on her relationship with Gulley, her college BFF turned lifetime BFF, I knew I had to give the book to Mom. Melanie and Gulley have raised their children together and road trip every summer. The stories are so similar to Mom and Karen's, I ache with remembrance and the hope I'll one day have that too.

Maybe that's why I haven't read it myself yet. I'm afraid it will hurt too much. I'm afraid I will sink into self-pity and question why I'm not a good friend. Where is that friend who will be beside me thirty years from now?

But in my saner moments I know there's more to it than that. Many elements fell into place to create the bond Mom and Karen share, for one thing. For another, I do have treasured friends. Life is so different now, in 2015, and here, in Chapel Hill, than in the early 1980s in Spartanburg, SC. In my mid-to-late twenties I formed three irreplaceable friendships - Jenn, Jaime, Kelly - that most certainly have shaped my heart and my soul. God took those ladies and their families elsewhere, but I remain close to them. I call them, text them, email them when life is too much. We send funny videos and stories of our kids. We trust each other with the unthinkable stories no one else would care to know.

And I have my best childhood friends, the ones who lasted across the years and miles and know my history. They know how dirt on my Keds shoes sent me into a frenzy, how I hated sports, how I adored Barbies, and how I could read all day. They know my crushes and my first kiss and how I fell in love with Jesus. One, Carrie, knows how I couldn't do my homework until my bedroom floor was clean. Another, Cassie, taught me to sing the books of the New Testament to Jingle Bells. My childhood friends own a part of my heart. Being with them is like being wrapped in a blanket. It's home and comfort and love.

Now I have Chapel Hill friends, too. There are the church women, ages 45 to 75, who graciously share their spiritual wisdom. They know my heart and know my struggles. They know Henry and Keith and ask me how Henry is doing. They even ask how I am doing. They make me laugh and don't mind when I cry. I have Melissa, the mom-friend on my street who won't judge if she hears me screaming in my driveway. Our kids play together, we send long vent-y texts when life is crazy, we pick up groceries for one another.  She accepts Henry, meltdowns and all, and never makes me feel like I fail as a mother. I don't know what I'd do without her. I have Amy, who has supported my work, encouraged my soul, prayed for my family and my spirit. She has loved my child as if he were hers; she's cleaned his messes, played trains with him, made him smile, sent him pictures of trains as she travels. She and her family have given us another safe haven here.

When I think about Mom and Karen, when I read about Melanie and Gulley, it's easy for me to wonder why I haven't met mine, but maybe the truth is my Karen/Gulley is a composite. Here's what I know for sure. I know I am blessed to love and be loved by all these women. God has thrown diamonds in my path, and I'd be selfish, ignorant, and wasteful if I didn't recognize them for the jewels they are. I also know I'll be forever grateful to Mom and Karen for showing me what friendship is: sacrificial, unconditional, agape love.