Mary, part 1 (or How I Met My Soul Sister)

Mary's mom, Edith, asked me to write to her about Mary--our story and what she meant to me. And so the blog is back in business for now as I seek to compose a memorial that will do Mary justice.

It is a daunting task to chronicle 13 years of friendship at any time, and in the depths of grief, it feels monumental. However, I am hoping that in the writing will come some healing, and that in this space I will find freedom to reflect and remember and cry and laugh and ultimately enjoy and give thanks for the gift of true friendship.

I moved into Mary's rented house on April 1, 1999. She was away at her brother's wedding, and so I settled into an empty and absolutely FREEZING house. Mary was from Cape Cod, and she didn't believe in keeping the heating above 60, so I became accustomed to wrapping up in blankets and wearing gloves inside when we lived together. I don't remember much about our first meeting, but I remember feeling fairly stressed for the first few months we lived together. This was due in part because Mary was THE lightest sleeper ever created by God and was very particular about keeping noise down after 10:00. As a 19-year-old girl working odd hours, this was not ideal for me. Mary was an amazing English teacher, and she never gave easy multiple-choice tests, so she was forever grading essays in front of Law and Order. She was tired and counting down the days until summer break.

The first real interaction I remember with Mary was when she invited me to spend the day at the local pool with her one hot summer day. All of a sudden this stressed-out teacher turned into a fun-loving soul who wanted my company. I was trepidatious at first, not being one to dive into new experiences (pun gleefully intended--Mary would be trying not to laugh and rolling her eyes right now--fantastic), but she convinced me to come, and it really was the start of a beautiful friendship. We spent tons of time together that summer, and even though there was a 10-year difference in age, we got along wonderfully. She introduced me to all her favourite restaurants, (Anthony's, Burrito Brothers, and Tara Thai, to name a few) and made me go on hideously long and brisk walks with her (her legs had to have been at least three inches longer than mine, and I always got shin splints trying to keep up with her mad pace). We shared our family histories, cried with each other upon receiving bad news, sympathised over sibling dramas, hosted dinner parties, fought over whether cleaning the kitchen should include washing the walls (I am fairly certain she won that one and that the walls were included), scrapbooked, and truly became like sisters. Only living under the same roof and seeing someone in their true form can create space for that sort of closeness, that true acceptance and love for someone, having seen them at their best, worst and all the in-between times of just being.

During the two and a half years we lived together, Mary introduced me to the idea of co-dependency, of healing prayer, of talking to Jesus about everything, not just the big stuff but all the everyday stuff too. She encouraged me to get counselling when I wasn't coping with my parent's divorce. She prayed for me and got others to pray, too, when she knew I was up to no good. Her eyebrows raised knowingly when I'd try to sneak in unnoticed after a night out. Mary never lectured, but her very being rang out conviction and emanated grace. She was a God-sent beacon for me in the darkest time of my life, when I was looking for love, for acceptance, for truth, Mary was a faithful friend and mentor to me, never wavering in her insistence that Jesus longed for me.