Things Change

When a Friendship Ends

Here in New England, spring is the season of hope. After months of gloom and freezing temperatures, the sun hangs in the sky longer and with it comes a much longed for warmth that breathes life into everything. Crocuses push through the thawing soil, followed by daffodils and tulips. Migratory birds return. Everything feels possible in the spring.

The beginning stage of friendship reminds me of spring.

After graduating from college, I joined an urban church where dozens of other twenty-somethings were all trying to figure out what it might look like to faithfully love God and each other while pursuing our chosen careers. The camaraderie and connectedness were powerful and life giving.

I met and forged friendships with several women, one in particular who had a similar upbringing and shared many of my convictions. We started our families, embarked on homeschooling, and bought our first homes within a year of each other. The overlaps deepened our bonds and cemented our friendship.

Summer brings an ease, a slower pace, permission to throw beach chairs in the car and take the day off. The weeks spent plowing and sowing begin to yield a harvest.

This season of friendships may lack the excitement of spring, but offers something richer, including the choice to keep loving even as limitations become known. My friend and I went deep during our summer. We tended and taught each others kids, navigated the loss of parents, processed career moves. Conflicts popped up but we always worked toward reconciliation which provided opportunities to trust more fully. Or so I thought.

Fall goes out like spring comes in: extravagant, stunning, and lightening fast. I can’t imagine spending September or October anywhere that does not offer such a flashy pre-death exhibition. The super-saturated reds and oranges, the magic of leaves slowly spinning as they descend, the exploding milkweed pods, and the farmers’ final harvest make this season bittersweet. The more beautiful the fall, the more difficult it can be to embrace the coming winter.

Change happens quickly in this season. The trees can be bursting with color on Friday and totally bare on Sunday.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, 2016 marked an autumn in this friendship. Many of the core beliefs that we had shared for decades no longer overlapped. One October afternoon, a crack opened up in a pre-existing fault line while we shared lunch.

That night, an early frost hit and by morning, the leaves were falling.

Winters can be brutal here. Temperatures remain in the teens and single digits, winds whip, and numbing rain falls—all of which shape our habits and activities from November through March. We tend to hunker down, be less productive, and sleep more. I guess you could say we enter into a state of dormancy.

While in that state, things sometimes change in ways we didn’t expect. My emails went unanswered. Face-to-face meet ups happened less frequently.

I thought the years of walking alongside one another, of crying, laughing, and praying would see us through any conflict. I imagined growing old together and assumed if I predeceased her, she would speak at my funeral.

Sometimes the common ground beneath our feet erodes to dust when no one is looking and the only sane option is to move on.

Though there are distinct and predictable seasons for the earth, that’s not the case with the human heart. Particularly as it pertains to loss. Grief doesn’t seem to have a rhythm or even a baseline that one can follow. It’s as powerful as it is unpredictable. Waves of sadness wash over me when I see older women walking with their arms entwined or laughing while huddled over dinner.

Everything has a season. Only we don’t always get to choose when the calendar page flips. If I’m honest, this entire year has felt like one interminably long January.

As I was finishing this post, the power went off in the house where I was staying. The entire neighborhood went black. I could not find any flashlights or matches which meant my only option was waiting in the dark. How apropos. (Got it God.)

We cannot prevent loss any more than we can stop the seasons from changing. Death comes unbidden: to our bodies and as well as our relationships. When it does, there’s not much we can do other than grieve, lament, and wait for spring.

Welcome to advent. A time of waiting in the dark.

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This is my take on what happened. If you spoke with my friend, she might have a totally different perspective.

Photos were shot with an iPhone in Harvard, MA. They are © so please don’t lift them.

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