Leave Behind the Old Ways, Build a Path to the New

Keep a skip in your step and embrace the dawn. Let the sun guide you toward a bright, new horizon.— S. Catalano

“I enjoyed your visit.” Lenore’s voice was dripping with earnest.

“Bu-u-ut?” I elongated the one-syllable word, sensing there was more.

“Well,” Lenore hesitated. “Maybe it isn’t my place to say.”

“Lenore,” I said, hoping I sounded patient. “You can say anything to me. You were my mother’s best friend and have been like a mother to me since her passing.”

“It’s been years, decades since she died, and I still miss her so.” The lamentation in Lenore’s words was unmistakable.

Lenore is someone who has known me all my life. Not a blood relative, Lenore was my mother’s longtime best friend. In our shared grief upon my mother’s passing at an early age, Lenore and I have had a common thread that has kept us in touch through the years.

“I miss her, too.” I reached out and patted Lenore’s delicate hand resting on the arm of her chair.

“At the rate I’m going, I’m outliving all the people I knew.” Lenore’s voice quivered as she flipped her hand up to grasp mine.. “It is a comfort to have you living here in Colorado now. I look forward to your weekly visits.”

“Being with you is the highlight of my day.”

Lenore’s face brightened, and she shifted to another subject. During last week’s visit, Lenore had found one of my statements to be quite severe. I had been referring to the shrinking of my circle of friends as time goes by. In our conversation, I had confessed to Lenore that I push away anyone who has known me for a while by doing something off-putting.

“It’s easier to keep people at a distance before I can get hurt.” I reiterated my sentiments on the subject.

“I just want to be sure you will never push me away.” The sorrow in Lenore’s voice bespoke the pain she felt from her lifetime of losses. “If you try, there will be trouble.”

The spunkiness in the delivery of her threat defused the darkness surrounding us. Well into her eighties now, Lenore had earned her stripes and the right to speak her mind.

I loved that Lenore had known me all my life, since I was a year old, to be exact. It brings me comfort that she knows me still.

“I could no more push you out than deny my own relatives as family.” With smiling eyes, I made a promise. With punctuation, we closed the matter.

Lenore and I chatted some more about lighter things regarding our previous conversation, and in her words I found meaning in the love she had for my mother. I’m thankful that Lenore shifted their connection to me.

Talking with Lenore compelled me to reach out to my own best friend since fifth grade, Aila, later that day. Aila lived in Idaho but we stayed connected as best we could. Talking to Aila on the cell phone while strolling along a bike path above the desert dry river gorge gave me peace. Both of us were struggling with some recent drama. I had baggage to unload, and so did she. Each needing a shoulder to cry on, we knew as best friends, we could always turn to each other.

With Aila, we found a way to connect no matter the miles that separated us.

With best friends, there is never a need to go into detail. In ongoing narratives, we knew all of each other’s trials and tribulations. Our conversations had a rhythm we had developed over fifty years. We chatted about life’s challenges and what needs to be done to walk as close with God as possible.

When the conversation that began with righting wrongs circled back around to forgiveness, I knew we were talked out. Even though I felt better after expressing my thoughts and feelings, our chat ended with nothing resolved.

One issue that had been at the forefront for me lately was adjusting to life in Colorado. Trading farmland and forest-covered hills for dry washes and scrub brush, everything seemed upside down. Along with this were changes in my marriage over which I had no control. Even though I chose to relocate, I felt abandoned because I missed my old way of life. And even though I couldn’t fix what ailed my marriage, I prayed for wisdom to forgive those responsible for my troubles.

Exasperated with the enduring work I have been doing to forgive and the lack of forward progress, I had been turning to the Bible remembering the recent words of a pastor. Referring to the Beatitudes in the Gospel of Matthew, the pastor emphasized that to receive mercy, one must give mercy. In all my attempts to forgive, I had left out that last step.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. — Matthew 5:7

The pastor challenged those listening to find through mercy a way to build a bridge between themselves and a loved one from whom they were estranged. This challenge should be easy. I accepted the challenge with enthusiasm. Not proud am I that I didn’t have to go back a long way into my past to find someone to whom I had shown no mercy, I am humbled to admit it.

I am certain most everyone has heard the phrase, “A reason, a season, a lifetime.” It categorizes people and our relationships with one another into three types: people we know for a reason, like co-workers, classmates, etc. They might be close for a moment, but it is temporary. Soon they drift away.

People we know for a season are those who have a role in our happiness and bring us growth during a specific stage in life. Less about proximity, within the ebb and flow, they stay with us through some changes, and for reasons only God knows, we drift apart from these folks, too.

Last are the people we know for a lifetime. Unlike family members, this list represents those who are chosen. Special to me are the people with whom I share no blood relations, the ones who know me because they chose me. I need only one hand’s worth of fingers to count the people who have been with me for a lifetime, those whom I also chose. Lenore is one finger on the hand representing people who are with me for a lifetime.

With these thoughts and conclusions floating around, I turn to the voices in my head for clarity. Unmistakable is God’s gift of timing. I can see God’s work unfolding before my eyes. Responding to the pastor’s teachings and Lenore’s words, I am learning. I felt inspired to write an email wishing a friend of twenty-plus years, Sophia, a happy birthday.

Sophia and I met in college when I was studying for an associate’s degree in agriculture. Sophia was adding a degree in viticulture to her list of degrees in chemistry and biology.

Kindred spirits in some ways, Sophia and I are quite opposite in others. Sophia is smart as a whip, logical, and I am emotional, an empathetic thinker. We finished our studies, graduated together, and stayed connected.

Meeting up to go hiking, biking, out for wine tasting or cooking and dining in, our friendship grew. As two single women, we dished about guys and shared health and wellness advice. Even when we didn’t meet up because of busy lives, we were always just a phone call or text away.

Sophia supported me through marital dissolutions and single-parenthood. She attended family dinners and engaged with my girls, showing genuine interest in their lives. Sophia coached me through dating and encouraged me to remarry with full approval of my choice. She was family.

When Sophia called at four in the morning one stormy night almost ten years ago now, I was the one who came running to help after a sycamore tree came crashing through her roof. Through the storm, I managed the forty-five minute drive and arrived to see the devastation the tree had caused. The massive tree I admired and enjoyed now laying on its side, splintered branches scattered about, seemed apologetic.

Having survived the harvesting efforts in the 1800s, the sycamore had stood its ground as one of the oldest trees along the creek. Like a sentinel, the old-growth tree had watched over Sophia’s house and family farm for more than one hundred years.

We spent many summer days reclining in the shade of that old sycamore tree.

A series of battering storms coming off Lake Erie had weakened the old relic. When its roots let go of their hold on the banks of the creek, with a stroke of luck, the bulk of the tree landed on the uninhabited side of the house, preserving Sophia’s life as she slept in the bedroom inside. The only member of her family still living in the old farm house, she had been alone when the tree struck.

I stayed with Sophia while emergency personnel handled their business and listened while the insurance adjuster gathered facts and details. Later, we strung up tarps to protect the undamaged parts of the house from the elements that would enter through the massive hole in the roof.

I brought Sophia home with me that evening when it was apparent she couldn’t stay in her beautiful house in the grove on the banks of French Creek. The insurance company deemed the house unlivable now that it had a tree in the middle of its kitchen. Too frightened and traumatized to stay in her house surrounded by other trees still bending and quivering in the ongoing storm, Sophia would never sleep in that house again.

Sophia stayed with us in Union City for three weeks while orchestrating the cleanup and repairs in the disaster's aftermath. In finding a new place to live and managing the repairs, Sophia had a lot to deal with. Vowing never to live under trees again, Sophia sold her childhood home and the family farm on the creek and bought a condominium less than ten minutes from my house. Staying true to her roots, Sophia turned on her Pennsylvanian farmer’s resiliency, and life went on.

All the experiences Sophia and I went through during the twenty-plus years of friendship built a tight bond between us. Her decision to move to town surprised me, but I think it was comforting for her to have us so close by. Sophia was among the people chosen to be on my lifetime list.

Friends for life, we were, until I moved away. It seemed to Sophia to be a snap decision, no matter how I tried to convince her I didn’t take it lightly. Sophia had been unhappy but suppressed her displeasure when I started planning to move from Pennsylvania to the warmer climate of southern Colorado. The ripples that expanded outward from my one decision were ever-spreading. Our friendship had entered treacherous waters.

“I saw the listing offering your house for sale.” Sophia had said one afternoon as we hiked on a path along the shores of the Canadohta Lake, our favorite place for all outdoor recreation.

“Umm-hmm.” I murmured.

“I never thought of you as the mountain-dweller type.”

“Me neither,” I assured her. “But when I visited Cortez last year, something in the mountains spoke to me. The energy coming down through the carved canyons seemed to welcome me.”

Too tired to defend my position, I hoped to put the matter to rest. I walked on, saying nothing more. I had been feeling the strain of preparing to sell my house. Packing and cleaning and getting rid of thirty-plus years of stuff was a lot of work.

How could I explain something I barely understood myself.

Planning a midweek meetup for a hike with Sophia was supposed to be a relief, but here I was listening to Sophia pleading a lost cause, which was harshing my mellow. After my decision to move became undeniably real, Sophia revealed more negative feelings.

She tried guilt. “How can you leave your children?” Sophia had declared. Later she proclaimed, “The mountain desert is so dry. You’re going to miss the lake.”

Then came the deeper threats designed to instill fear: “Your life is here. Do you know how hard it is to rebuild? Finding doctors and making new friends. It is a lot of work. You’ll find out.”

Sophia and I were walking together, but when the conversation lagged, we were miles apart in our hearts. A hawk swooped down and dove towards the lake just as a splash from underwater erupted. The bird’s wing feathers grazed the water as it lifted back up. Its talons were empty in its failed attempt to capture a fish, which had remained below the surface. The scene unfolded before us, but I think our differing feelings kept us from seeing the beauty.

In the months leading up to the move, I had felt the shift in Sophia’s energy. Perhaps my energy shifted, too. I hadn’t thought of it before, but soon concluded where the negativity was coming from. Sophia had moved closer to us after the tree incident, in part for security. Sophia believed me when I claimed I would never leave the house where my girls grew up. I had lived there for almost thirty years. Even I thought growing old in that house was a sure thing. Things changed.

After we moved to Colorado, I came back to visit twice in the first year. We stayed at a resort about a twenty-minute drive from Sophia’s condo. I set aside time to meet up with Sophia several times during both weeklong stays. I arranged family dinners with my kids and grandchildren, knowing how much Sophia meant to them.

Since then, it has been an annual thing to meet up in Union City, go for walks on the beach around Canadohta Lake, or go hiking in the forests around Crawford County. I invested in the planning while Sophia rode the flow. Her efforts were not equal to mine. The energy between us continued to cool.

In February of this year, I began planning this summer’s family visit and contacted Sophia to let her know which week we’d be staying at the resort. She was reluctant to talk about setting dates.

“I’m not sure I can get time away from work.” Sophia admitted.

“We will squeeze into any time you have free.” I offered.

In March, Sophia notified me she’d be on vacation in June. Sophia was planning to visit her brother in Boulder, Colorado, a three-hour drive north of where we lived in Cortez.

I had been hoping Sophia would come to see her brother and include a quick trip down to see us and our new house. Since we left Pennsylvania, Sophia had declined every invitation to stay with us. It surprised me she was planning to come out west now, right when we’d be heading east.

When I told Sophia I’d keep my departure plans loose to accommodate even one day during June if we’d both either be here in Colorado or back east in Union City. Again, Sophia was noncommittal. This marked a turning point for me because her actions hurt my feelings.

Since moving to Colorado, my summer plans had always included a stay in Pennsylvania the third week in June for a family visit. Afterwards, we would loop through the Great Lakes and into Canada for sightseeing and adventure. From there, we liked to head south through Nebraska, where we visited my sister before heading home. This was our regular summer routine to escape the dry eastern Colorado heat.

Sophia knew this had been the plan in previous years, but with this new conflict, it was difficult not to take her alternate plans a little personally. I still hoped something would align and there would be an opportunity to meet up, but Sophia wouldn’t give me actual dates for her travel plans. It was as if she didn’t care to try.

I texted Sophia twice while she was traveling west and I was heading east. She responded with brief texts, leaving out any details. I texted again and shared pictures of us at Canadohta Lake. Sophia told me all about her spur-of-the-moment trip to see a friend in Arkansas and their sharing time shopping and doing girls’ night out things.

I was glad she was having a good time but couldn’t stop the twinge of envy. Her plans were loose enough to accommodate a last-minute detour way out of her way, but meeting up with me hadn’t been in the cards. It was as if she were now trying to hurt me. I felt like I just wasn’t important enough to deserve her efforts.

The next time I texted Sophia was to share a link to a video of my extraordinary experience bungee jumping off a bridge in Canada, near Ottawa.

“Look what I just did.” I texted.

“It’d be far more impressive to ski down a double diamond slope.” Sophia’s single-sentence response came back with a ‘whoosh’ sound on my cell phone.

I sensed the indifference in her reaction. There were no congratulations. Not even an admonishment like, “You fool. Why would you do such a crazy act?” Just one sentence dismissing my achievement as nothing special at all.

I had defied logic and mastered my fear. I took control of destiny and jumped into an abyss, falling almost two hundred feet to be stopped short of splashing into a 160-ft-deep lagoon by a two-inch in diameter rubber cord. The lack of an emotional connection in her response to what I had done left me speechless.

I didn’t write back immediately. But I stewed. I took inventory. Sophia hadn’t supported my moving away. Understandable. She had been distant about staying in touch and not very welcoming when we met up the last few times. Okay, so long-distance friendships are difficult to maintain. This summer, Sophia had seemed determined to avoid me. Confusing and hurtful. All these things added up, and none of it left me feeling good.

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” (Ephesians 4:2)

I know people who hurt others are themselves hurting. Sophia was hurting, and she was hurting me. But this thought didn’t enter my mind soon enough. Rather than account for the pain I caused Sophia, I responded to her unemotional and heartless text by coming from a place of injury myself. Her actions had hurt me, and before I could evaluate my own actions, I texted back, “I think we are done here.” That was it. I felt we had officially become estranged.

“Don’t get bitter or angry or use harsh words that hurt each other. Don’t yell at one another or curse or ever be rude. Instead be kind and merciful, and forgive others, just as God forgave you because of Christ.” (Ephesians 4:31-32)

Having shown no mercy to my friend, the situation becomes simple to understand. In the eyes of God, he sees it all. He knows what is in each of our hearts. Based on my actions, and taken at face value, who is the bitch? That would be me.

Now we are in late summer, and autumn is around the corner. I have held on to the hurt. My decision to let go of what had become a toxic relationship had stood until this week. In hindsight, I am questioning my actions. Looking back and listening to the voice in my head, the message has changed. I knew what I had to do.

Following the pastor’s advice to challenge ourselves to make amends, I wrote the early morning email wishing Sophia a happy birthday. It was a sad but necessary email in which I apologized for having moved away. I asked for forgiveness for hurting her with the text.

I am not demanding that she forgive me. That is not for me to expect. The email was for me to express the mercy I should have shown and to establish my continued need for God’s mercy. Sophia may not write back. She might be done with me now. Or she may misunderstand the email altogether. Maybe Sophia doesn’t even know her actions had hurt me.

Regardless, I am prepared for what happens next. I will take responsibility for my actions and carry out God’s plan. Sophia was not in my life for a reason, or a season. She means more to me than just a passing connection. The mutual support we had for each other was a gift. Through that support, Sophia challenged me to grow. We have been friends for more than just a season. I will miss her.

It is in God’s hands now whether we are to be friends for a lifetime. In writing to Sophia, I felt compelled not only to wish her a happy birthday, but to give her the opening. I am choosing her. Taking the lesson to heart, I pray she will choose me back.

Isaiah 43:18-19

New International Version

18 “Forget the former things;
    do not dwell on the past.
19 See, I am doing a new thing!
    Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
    and streams in the wasteland.”