A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh

About four weeks ago, I stood at a bakery and scanned the mountains of pastries and cookies behind the glass looking desperately for the right one. Orange Scones, Bear Claws, Pecan Braids, Cinnamon Rolls. All of them labeled in fancy script. Each of them listing calorie counts and allergy information. Not a one of them labeled "This is what you bring to your dying friend and her family".

I was to knock on her door and sit by her side and make conversation with her - likely for the last time - in exactly ten minutes and there I stood weighing the pros and cons of blueberry muffins and brightly colored sugar cookies in the shape of flowers. It was ridiculous and infuriating to me.

"Oh, who gives a s&8t", I thought.

Yes. I sure did think it. I thought it, but I didn't say it out loud. Does that help?

I grabbed a box containing a giant round cinnamon crumb cake . . . the biggest one I could find, taped closed with a label. At least that label would alert my friend, Cindy, that I didn't bake it myself and this would give her at least some sense of relief. If her brain - which was being attacked by a tumor - could reach back to find the memory of me, she would know that my not having baked this cake on my own would be a bonus for everyone. . . if, in fact, there were any bonuses to be found when one's family room now contains a hospital bed squeezed in next to the fireplace. . . its mantle lined with photos of a time when no one really imagined, despite the diagnosis almost fourteen years before, that these final days would really come.

I spent almost nineteen years as a member of a gaggle of about 15-20 ladies within a less than one square mile section of our town. We effectively raised all of our children together. We baby-sat each other's kids to encourage date nights. We showed up outside in the alley at 3:00 pm on the dot to have the adult conversations we'd craved all day long and watch the kids ride scooters and play kick ball in the street until we had to go in and feed the little buggers. We wiped noses and applied band-aids, no matter whose kid was whose. We swapped maternity clothes and showed up with meals and sat in lawn chairs on hot summer nights. And our sweet, funny, brave friend, Cindy, was always there among us.

As our children got older the frequency of those lazy afternoons in the alley tapered off a bit. We soon had sports practices to get to after school or we had returned to jobs or to other pursuits. And yet we still gathered for block parties and book clubs or ran into each other walking the dog or at Starbucks or church. And we still had a bond that tied us back to those early days when we never imagined a time when someone in the group wouldn't need tips on potty training or how to get our babies to sleep through the night.

So that day four weeks ago, about seventeen years or so since I first met her, I left the bakery and went to Cindy's house. Another member of our posse, Lisa, sat in a chair and I sat on the sofa next to Cindy. She had just woken from a nap, so along with her brother, we helped her sit up.

We were just a few moms just sitting down to chat about our kids as we had so many times over the years. I rambled on and on, as I tend to do. She searched for words. We tried to fill them in for her. We spoke of the high school graduation of her daughter that she had just attended. We had prayed specifically that she would be able to see it and she was thrilled to have been there. We reminisced about when our children were small and how in the world they could suddenly, unbelievably be so big. How could Lisa and Cindy both have sons who would be juniors in high school now and mine would be a senior? How could I have one going into his 2nd year in college and the two of them have children on the way to college this fall? Wasn't it minutes ago that we all sat in the alley watching our children run around with light sabers, dress up as Harry Potter, and race tricycles down the street? We certainly could never have imagined on those long, hot afternoons that one day we'd be moving those little maniacs into dorm rooms.

So, we marveled at the passage of time and yet we never touched the marvel of how in the actual hell this could be happening now. How could we be talking of a future that very likely would not include Cindy?

So we just didn't talk about that. We talked about one of the times I baby-sat her children and when I realized that they had a guinea pig, I just about did the superfreak and thought about spending the rest of the night perched on top of the kitchen table. We talked about how wickedly smart her daughter was and how funny was her son. We talked about when she and her husband won a drawing at a furniture store and ended up with an entire set of furniture for their family room. We covered all kinds of mundane topics. But more than anything else, we simply laughed and giggled and laughed some more.

And that seemed absolutely appropriate for an afternoon with Cindy. You know that friend that makes you feel like an actual real-life comedienne? The one that gets all cracked up at the slightest joke? That is Cindy. And she did it again as we sat there together the last time I saw her. She covered her face with her hand as I have seen her do so many times. She shook with laughter, that hand covering her mouth, her head bent low as if she could not even with how funny we were. And we sat together and laughed just as we had at book clubs and block parties and summer afternoons in the alley a zillion and one times.

So it was that this past Saturday morning when I woke to a text that God had taken Cindy home, surprisingly, I didn't feel anger or bitterness and the image of her that came to my mind was not that of the frail, tired body that had betrayed her. The image I had of Cindy was of the way she laughed. Just as I was picturing her, a friend texted a photo of her doing just that. I grinned through my tears and just started to giggle. Because this was the Cindy I think we all will remember.

But there is one more thing I will remember when I remember Cindy. And that is how fiercely she was loved by her closest circle of friends. I visited her and I took her to a couple of appointments and I brought a couple of meals over the years, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to what her closest girlfriends did. There were women who cared for her so deeply and so ferociously that I will forever be in awe of them.

They waded into the darkest of waters for her and kept her spirit afloat. They made sure she had a comfortable seat at the block parties and that she sure as heck didn't miss out on the appetizers and that her wine glass was full. They fed her chocolate pudding in the hospital and made sure that the nurses kept the warm blankets coming. They turned over every stone to make sure she would have a front row seat at her daughter's graduation. They loved her so beautifully and so relentlessly that I will never forget it.

But more than anything else, they made her laugh. They would say or do anything and everything to make her laugh. And laugh she did.

So as I think of Cindy today, I can't help but think of that tight little tribe of girlfriends. And I imagine their broken hearts and I know that they are suffering greatly today.

But I realize that their pain comes only because love came first. Their sorrow comes only because joy came first. Their emptiness comes only because fullness came first. And more than anything, I know that their weeping comes only because first there was so darn much laughing.

This morning I am reminded of Romans 8:18 which assures us that the suffering of our present is nothing compared to the glory that will be revealed to us. Because I am positive that one day we will see our friend again.

I can picture it so clearly. All of us girls - even if we moved away or lost touch over the years in our time on Earth - will meet up together in the alley of heaven one day. We will bring our lawn chairs, some book ideas for the next book club meeting, our wine, and our chips and salsa. Then someone will say something that's kinda-sorta-maybe not even really all that funny. And we'll look over and see Cindy. She'll raise her hand to her mouth and slightly bend her head and she'll giggle her little head off. And in that moment we'll know that despite all the heartache we felt in the summer of 2018, we were blessed by a good, good God who loved us all so much that He plopped us all down in the same little neighborhood and watched as we loved each other. And we'll sit in our circle of lawn chairs and fill the heavens with a laughter the likes of which the angels have never heard before.

Until that day, sweet Cindy. We will miss you.