We’re all dying, of course. But to watch someone die at a faster rate than you, to watch his body disappear and his voice go and to see the shudders of pain, hunger and loss right in front of you, right next to you on the brown couch that smells leathery and new, in your back yard under the cherry blossoms, in the car seat, him still and shallow and red hot from radiation— that’s more startling than remembering your own mortality (or dashing from it).  He was my first best friend and he has always been larger than I know to write. We are one moment slogging through the woods in our mud boots, children excited about making it further down the creek than before, the next moment hitting our first century ride on hot Nebraska pavement, jumping from our bikes into the pool, sweat and chlorine rolling off us. He is walking down the airport terminal all shades of beige and brown: pack, pants, muscle and even then you know he’ll do it again and again.  You expected him to stay in Vietnam or the Sudan or Guatemala or even in the Middle East, but he didn’t. He moved three blocks down and when you had your second and third babies, he was there. There on the back deck late at night, there on the sailboat, the bicycle, the beach. Still living a large, untamed life but also taking time to wrap your kids around his finger, to refinish a desk for her birthday, buy the first nerf gun and chase your son around with the leaf blower. He watched them ride their first bikes, cheered them on with you and your smiles split your faces.  Last week you told your children about the strong words promise, hate, never ever. How careful we must be with them, how we need to save them and only spend them when absolutely necessary.  And while those words left your mouth, you used them inside I hate this for him, I hate it.  And you do. But you love things, too. As strange as that is. The milkshake shack in between your houses and the evening walks from there to his couch. His excellent goodbyes (this is new, the eye contact, the hugs). Cleaning his kitchen, hearing your daughter’s prayers, worshipping next to your sister while the tears roll and the hands reach and you get new layers added to the word Hope. 

There are, of course, worse things than death. There are much brighter things, also. A friend once told me to not waste my suffering and that has become the strongest prayer I know right now. I hate this. But I love pieces, too (hope, eternity, knowing The Healer, and milkshakes). I’m raising three littles and my vision is sharpening. I’m teaching them to love one another and I’m also praying over their grown futures: may they one day have the great honor of carrying each other, may they please.