A Normal Day

It was an absolutely normal day, which, in hindsight, is probably how God operates.

I was driving, deep in my thoughts, the way I usually am once the chaos of the morning settles and the boys are off to school. Sometimes those minivan minutes are when I settle into the silence. Other times I have to fill the car with music or some ridiculous history podcast to keep my mind from spiraling over everything that's needed of me.

That morning I'd let my phone play hymns. Some mornings the chaos can only be calmed by songs that speak to the Lord, and Paul Zach's hymn albums had been on repeat for a while. I had the best intentions of letting them play as background noise to get me, Calvin, and Charlie into a right mindset for the day. Then Calvin asked me to turn it down. He's well aware of his mom's tendency to be loud and excited and to sing goodbye to them in the car line. I don't take it personally. I taught high school. That humbles you pretty quick.

But as I drove away, I felt a pang of longing. I wanted nothing more than to drive straight to Rachael's house, walk in, settle on the couch with her, and just be in her presence. That's a pretty typical feeling for me most days of the week, but that day it sat like a heavy weight in my chest. In the silence of the car, I felt tears pricking at my eyes.

There's no off switch on my emotions, I've discovered. If I feel like crying, your girl's crying. If I'm excited, you'll know it. My heart lives on my sleeve, and as Brad so lovingly reminds me, "You feel deeply. That's a gift." It doesn't always feel like a gift, and I've called it a curse before, but the older I get, the more I see it as simply the way God made me.

I drove through the morning traffic, unable to speak the prayers forming on the tip of my tongue. I didn't want to get swept away by the tide, especially while navigating rush hour in Hattiesburg. Finally, at a stoplight, I said it out loud.

"God, will you ever bring me a friend like Rachael again? Who will be my friend?"

Even as I asked, I felt guilty. I couldn't replace Rachael, and I sure didn't want to. There was no one like her and I’m pretty certain there would never be.

As a girl, I'd always wanted to be someone's best friend. I usually found myself on the edges of a friend group, longing for one person who saw me and loved me for me. When I met Rachael and learned her love for Anne of Green Gables, it felt like we spoke the same language. She knew what it meant to be a best friend; she'd seen it in Anne and Diana. And full disclosure: I had never read the book until we covered it on our podcast, Keep It Classic. My introduction to kindred spirits and bosom companions was the Megan Follows miniseries, on a VHS my mom had taped.

So when I found Rachael, it felt like we'd found the rare friendship we'd both been looking for. That's why losing her left such a wound: something I had desired was given and taken away in under a decade. I tried not to let bitterness seep in, but it still pricked the tender places.

In a quiet whisper, I asked God, "Show me you hear me. Tell me I'm not alone."

As I drove towards my usual morning haunt of Starbucks, I decided to turn the volume back up, needing the distraction of music to keep me from the overwhelm of my emotions. The last thing I needed was to have blurry vision trying to navigate Hardy Street.

It took me a moment to process what I was hearing. It was "No Not One," the old hymn that says there's not a friend like Jesus, not one, that no hour or night is beyond his nearness. 

The refrain struck me: Jesus knows all about our struggles; He will guide till the day is done. There's not a friend like the lowly Jesus. No, not one! No, not one!

It felt like lightning down my spine. To ask God for a sign, first of all, how presumptuous of me, and to have him answer in a way he knew would reach me? The hair stood up on my arms. It’s the same sensation when you’re so overwhelmed by mercy and grace that you almost don’t know what to do with yourself.

I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot and let the song wash over me. 

I felt a smile forming through the tears. It felt strange to be answered so clearly, but in the days since Rachael passed, he hasn't hesitated to make his presence known.

He didn't tell me whether I'd ever find a friend like Rachael again. He reminded me that he was already here. He was already my friend, without anything I'd done or said. He heard my prayers, even the ones I couldn't eke out without tears.

Rachael openly lived out her belief in Jesus as her savior. It was in the way she spoke to others with her open and warm demeanor. The way she taught her boys about God and who Christ was. The way she loved in the midst of deep pain and hurt that often felt supernatural because it probably was.

I won’t pretend the longing went away. I still want what I had with Rachael. But I can see now how she prepared me to be the kind of friend I always wanted.

Later that day, a song was just there again, a reminder, a little nudge from above: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” I hummed it as I sat in the car line.

It was an absolutely normal afternoon. I spotted one of her boys as the school dismissed, and I did what I always do when I see Joshua or Gilead: I rolled my window down, grinned, waved, and called to them from my car.

When my boys hopped in, they told me how excited they’d been every time they saw their friends that day. Calvin had seen Gilead at lunchtime. Charlie and Joshua are in kindergarten, so their classes played together at recess. And despite the embarrassment Calvin might have felt in the morning, the noise of the afternoon had allowed him to shed the concern he felt to see his mama hollering out the window at their friends and loved ones.

And no matter what I’d felt that morning, Jesus had been there. With my boys, and with her boys. With me all along.