Ever know someone who makes you feel as though you’re home every time you’re with her? The kind of person who, were she an actual structure, you could crawl inside, curl up and fall fast asleep in the safety of her walls, but you never really would fall asleep because you might miss something fantastic she has to show you, like a new set of china or a fabulous new piece of art she’s displaying? This is my friend Shelby.
I met Shelby 8 years ago, just after giving birth to my first son. She was a fiery red head with a personality to match, someone who by all accounts seemed completely put together in ways I never even considered. I was fat from pregnancy, exhausted from caring for a newborn, and still reeling a bit from the sting of a year spent in rehab. She worked as a corporate trainer, wearing Brooks Brothers suits and still tucking her button-down shirts into her tailored, perfectly creased size 6 pants. I was what you might call a peripheral part of a title insurance office, mainly there to accomplish all the menial tasks no one else had time to do, and I only wore professional clothes when I absolutely had to. I never tucked a shirt in because doing so highlighted my bulging belly and ever-expanding butt. As soon as work ended, I rushed home to find a pair of forgiving pants with elastic waistband and wear them as long as I could. I probably had 9 pair of sweatpants, while Shelby owned none.
Shelby was married a year or so when we first met, and was by all accounts madly in love and childless. Bill and I were into our 4th year of marriage but our first as a sober couple so it was like we had only been married a year. We already traveled a much harder path than many couples do – drug addiction, jail, homelessness, and rehab – which left some scars and reluctance to let other people in. Shelby and her husband were no exception, but through a series of encounters over a period of years, we got to know each other better. She intimidated me tremendously for the first 2 years or so that we knew one another. She was polished and put together, I was awkward and always on the verge of falling apart. She had an ease about her in everything she did, while I flailed a bit as I wrestled my way through life. She seemed to glide while I tripped over my own feet.
I remember one of the first times I went to her house on a social visit. She invited me over to make strawberry freezer jam one Saturday in June. Max was just turning one and I was still trying desperately to figure out this mom thing, but I went over anyway, considering how much I truly loved homemade strawberry jam. The home she rented was gorgeous, with matching décor, beautiful landscaping, and level floors. We owned a duplex at the time located directly next to railroad tracks with floors in some rooms that made you feel like you were in the carnival funhouse. She stood ready in her lovely kitchen, all her products and necessary items lined up on the counter, poised and waiting to be transformed from simple sugar and fruit into fabulous jam. Shelby moved through the kitchen, talking as she went, and describing her actions and decisions like the best cooking show host. I discovered later that Martha Stewart was in fact one of her idols, which was a ridiculous thought to me. But despite our differences, I liked her. She never made me feel frumpy or unpolished. Instead she was gracious and kind, always offering some word of encouragement. I found myself tripping less as I got to know her more.
Shelby soon became pregnant as well and went on to give birth to her first daughter, Sophie. It was my turn next, conceiving and birthing my second son, Charlie. In the years to follow she went on to have Maggie and Noah, and before we knew it we were knee deep in sippy cups, stinky diapers, and sassy two-year-olds. We quit our day jobs and became stay at home moms which allowed us to get together on snowy afternoons and let the children run wild while we hid in the living room, chatting over hot coffee. We shared our frustrations and joys, funny things our children did or the irritation at our clothes not fitting our post-baby bodies. I think Shelby picked up some sweatpants around this time, and I was able to give her great advice on where to get the most comfy ones.
In time we ended up working together at our church, co-leading the music team that led worship on Sunday mornings. It seemed like an odd thing at first as Shelby was handling the job solo for sometime, but when we combined our efforts and brought together our gifts, the match was almost perfect. Shelby was (and still is) wickedly organized and operated at lighting fast speed. I was (and still am) much more slow and methodical, considering all sides before making decisions. We discovered there were times for both and we quickly learned to appreciate the other for her gifts, and to utilize them when needed. It was a unique relationship for me in that I had never spent so much time with someone who I was so different from, and yet who didn’t annoy me tremendously. I found myself being grateful for all the ways she filled in the gaps where I was lacking. She picked up pieces I dropped, sometimes even as they were still falling. And I was able to do the same for her, even though I was a bit slower on the uptake. I did more stooping to pick up off the ground what she was quick enough to catch in mid-air. But she was giving me confidence in the gifts I was given which was new for me.
Shelby became my best friend, which is why it came as no surprise when she and Josh announced they were moving to Pennsylvania to take a head-pastor position there. Even though I had been privy to the intimate details all along their decision making process, it was still a harsh blow to my heart when they finally spoke the words “We’re leaving”. I flailed internally again, much like that girl fresh out of rehab years before, and not sure where to go. In the days following, I worked my way through all the tumultuous emotions, praying and crying and wailing into my pillow about the loss I was already feeling even before they were gone. I knew this would mean our friendship, a friendship like I had never known before, was about to drastically and permanently change and the pain was unbearable. As much as I wanted to cling to her, wrap my crumpled body around her ankles and cry, “You can’t leave me! You’re the best friend I’ve ever had!” something inside wouldn’t let me. I knew I owned no rights to say such a thing. There was a place deep inside that, despite my own selfish desires, wanted what was best for them, for her, and I knew this was it. For what may be the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to love in letting go. You might be thinking of the old cliché “If you love something, set it free…yada, yada, yada,” but that’s not exactly it. You see, I never owned her, or her love. I was given a gift in her friendship, not something to possess and hold on to, but to enjoy while it was with me; it was always free.
Letting her go and watching our relationship change due to the distance between has been tough, but necessary. It is still difficult to consider what I lost when she moved 700 miles away. I am grateful for cell phones and email and text messaging because all those things help to make her feel closer; although they don’t replace the moments of curling up on the couch with a cup of coffee on a blustery winter day, children playing all around, and looking into the beautiful eyes of my friend. But seeing who she has become, how she has touched lives that would have never been touched had she stayed, and how her family has grown, make it all worthwhile. She’s changing the world one relationship at a time, much like her love and friendship changed me. There might be another flailing woman somewhere in Pennsylvania needing Shelby’s help to stop tripping, and start gliding.
