Micro Friends
I believe in Christmas cards.
Family photo, clichéd greeting, newsletter, stamp, the whole deal. I send close to 100 every year. In this digital day, you might ask, why not just post a festive meme and be done with it?
Because I also believe in relationships. We may not have spoken in ages, but the thought of losing someone I care about to the silent theft of time undoes me. Those in whom I’ve invested my heart are treasures I want to hold onto forever. More than once, the card has been the only link for a family member to tell me my friend had passed away the previous year.
Lately, though, I’ve realized that not all friendships are mine to keep. Some are gems that God drops into our lives for a brief season or specific reason. People with whom we share a project or see around town. A favorite teacher, student, or customer who moves on. The grocery store clerk that you practice your rusty Spanish with each week. The purple-haired barista who has your order started before you get to the counter. These are the micro-friends that make our days sparkle.
* * * *
When her son was in high school, Donica was a gung-ho band mom, constantly ferrying kids and musical instruments from campus to competition and back. She grew close to the band director, a younger woman, as they spent countless hours together, organizing fundraisers and trips, downing lukewarm Styrofoam cups of coffee, and discussing the teenagers’ dynamics, dreams, and dramas.
Then Donica’s son graduated.
Suddenly the relationship with the band director changed. Donica was no longer needed as a new wave of musicians and parents poured in through the band room doors. She felt irrelevant and tossed aside, though she recognized that the friendship and wonderful sense of bonding through purpose had come with a built-in expiration date.
She grappled with grief, traveling from sadness to anger before arriving at acceptance. Theirs was a micro-friendship. And that was okay.
* * * *
Still in her teens, Nancy was traveling to meet up with a Belgian foreign exchange sister she’d lived with the year before. They’d made plans to meet in Strasbourg the day after Christmas. Only Nancy’s plane was delayed in London, and—long before cell phones and the Internet—she had no idea how to navigate the logistics of an overnight stay. A kindly woman she’d met at the airport told her not to worry; her brother knew the area well and would help her. As Nancy walked outside, a car drove up and a well-dressed, middle-aged man said his sister had sent him. Nancy hopped in the car (she shudders at the folly now) and the man drove her to a nearby youth hostel, helped get her situated, and cautioned her not to let them charge her extra for breakfast. She made it to her flight the next day, her friend’s family waiting for her on the other end.
Nancy realized then that she didn’t know the name of her benefactor and had no way of thanking him.
A stranger who became a micro-friend. Or maybe an angel?
* * * *
It might be a stretch to call Rochelle a micro-friend since I’d known her casually for 30 years. She was the manager of our local hardware store. Petite and spunky with cowboy boots and whimsical jewelry, she called everyone “Hon” and welcomed us as if we’d made her day just by showing up.
One day, my husband noticed that Rochelle seemed down. He asked her what was wrong. Tears escaping from her eyes, she told him that her son—a young man—had passed away suddenly. My husband came home and told me. I drove to the store and ran inside to envelop Rochelle’s tiny, fragile body in a wordless hug.
After that, we began to share bits of our personal lives. Recently, we invited her for dinner. I texted her to set a date and received this return message: “I’m so sorry. I hate to bail on you, but I’m in the hospital. Raincheck?”
Rochelle had Stage 4 lung cancer.
After she came home, I brought her a batch of my famous potato cheese soup and peanut butter cookies. Over the next six weeks, I followed her from the ICU to rehab, home, and then back again, for peanut butter cookies and a chat. She asked about my life and minimized her struggles as we shared laughter and prayers.
I showed up at her house on Easter with a little basket after receiving her text four days earlier, saying she was back, resting and getting better.
When I arrived, the door was open, and her living room was filled with people.
“I’m Rochelle’s friend,” I told the woman who answered. “Is she home?”
She paused for a moment before saying, “Rochelle passed away last night.”
Stunned and saddened, I introduced myself and explained to the gathered family how I knew Rochelle. When I mentioned peanut butter cookies, they nodded, “Oh, you’re the cookie lady!”
Our friendship had been flash-forged in the crucible of illness. And I’m so grateful now.
* * * *
Some friendships last a lifetime; others are ours only briefly. Life happens. The circumstances that brought us together change. Though these friendships come and go, I thank God for each one. Over time, our micro-friends become like tiny pearls in a necklace, lovely and complete, strung together by a master jeweler.
And who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll see them again on the other side, with plenty of time to catch up.