The Saturday Journal: A friend always,

tathelmillerwriter
15 hours ago
5 min read

This week's cleaning and decluttering involved unearthing a box of my high school yearbooks and I sat for awhile--in the quiet--in a sea of memories--looking through photos and reading messages from friends and classmates.

And there it was--her message to me--she, a senior, and me, a sophomore--her brother--a classmate of mine. She signed in closing--"a friend always".

My "a friend always"--she passed away unexpectedly a little over three years ago. I still miss her, as I always will.

This week--I want to share this story again--in memory of my " a friend always,".

She was a dear friend--not the kind I talked to everyday or saw on a regular basis--the kind that when we saw each other--time had stood still and nothing had changed. And over the past few weeks after learning of your passing, I sat alone in silence--my face washing in my own tears.

Death is never easy. And funerals--they are for remembering--honoring--reflection. And sometimes they are for self-reflection--hearing questions that penetrate deeply--the heart and the soul.

As I sat in an overflowing chapel, my friend's casket upfront and center--the man of God asked this question, reflecting my friend's life of 50-plus years, "How did she affect your life?"

Oh my goodness. I thought. Everything that is good and righteous and fun and hard and I could go on and on here....And as I pondered more on this question late in the evening--the days to come--remembering her...

I smiles--she taught me to laugh. She taught me the joy of laughter.

And laugh, we did.

Last year I was blessed to take an online three-part series writer's workshop called, "Write Now" with a few other women. It was a different kind of workshop--none like I had ever encountered. Intimidating to say the least, some of the women were published writers--the instructor, an awarding winning author.

The workshop consisted of writing prompts and a time limit of ten minutes for each prompt. And then we had to read our stories to the group. Out loud! Ugh!

Now, for me--I'm not the best at this impromptu format--especially on a time limit. I have to have a slow minute to reflect, think--before I can put pen to paper.

Our writing prompts on this one particular day--we were shown a photo--but only part of the photo and each time we had to write a story about what we saw. The first photo prompt--what I assumed an older lady and all we could see was from her waist down. She was wearing thick black orthopedic shoes, a hot pink skirt, her stockings (pantyhose) were sagging and she was carrying a brown purse, and a flowered closed umbrella.

The sagging pantyhose--that was the spark for my story.

I'll called this piece, "Southern Church Ladies" (disclaimer: based on a not-so-true story. Only one detail--further explained below and the fact that I love "Southern Church Ladies")

"Oh my goodness, Bea, do you see Estelle this morning?" Claudine says as she and Bea are waiting in line outside the church doors--waiting to greet their pastor. "She's carrying her umbrella as if the clouds are going to open on this sunny spring Sabbath. And her stockings sagging--have we never shared with her the power of lotion--taking the time to lather and soak the stuff into the divots and crevices of old age before sliding on our stockings? We must tell her after service!

"And her purse! That's the same one she carried last fall and winter! Heavens, she's so radiant in her hot pink. But that purse and those sagging stockings. Remind me to ask her if she has a spring purse."

"Well hello Miss Estelle," the pastor says as he stands at the door of the church greeting his church family. "Your smile always brightens my morning, like the song bird's praise. And your pearls, they are glowing. You look especially lovely in your hot pink suit. Is today a special occasion?"

"Happy Lord's Day Preacher," Estelle smiles, careful not to smudge her red painted lips. "Well today I feel pretty, a tad more sassy. You know I can be that way at times.

"Preacher, let me tell you what happened this week. My daughter had the nerve to tell me I couldn't drive anymore! She's taking my keys, she said! Like she's the parent now! She can take them alright, but what she don't know is I have an extra key hidden!"

"Now Estelle," the preacher says patting her hand while holding back his laughter, "You might want to listen to your daughter. I'm sure she will drive you anywhere you want to go."

"I have to get to my pew now, Preacher--don't want any visitors to come and take my spot, you know. One more thing though. Can you do me a favor? Can you preach a little longer today? You know, a little longer than your usual 30 minutes. That irritates Claudine a little!" And Estelle, she giggles like a 14-year old teenager going on 92.

This spark was--the sagging stockings--I can remember watching my grandmother get ready for church and she would put a thick coat of lotion on her legs. Then she would pull on her stockings--one leg at a time and make this tight roll at the top under her dress. And those stockings, they never moved--never sagged. I don't recall ever watching her take the stockings off--but I do remember the red mark they left on her thigh.

There will still be many days when I mourn, when I cry. When the missing of my friend always will be hard to carry. But I will remember how she taught me and so many others the happiness in laughter, the brightness of a smile. I'll hold close our memories together and remember her testimony that spoke so loud--trusting in the promise of a better tomorrow. And I will imagine her in heaven--with the Good Lord--with loved ones and children--enjoying the beauty of yellow roses and flowers, and wet nose kisses from as many dogs as her lap can hold.

To my friend always--I promise I will remember to laugh and laugh often.. For it will remind me of you.

A friend always--with love,

Thank you for your continued kindness in reading The Saturday Journal.

I am grateful for each of you--more than you will ever know.

And I pray, the stories shared in this space will encourage you--

bring a smile or remembrance, and bless you in some small way.

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All stories copyright and owned by the author, Tathel Miller,

photographs copyright and owned by Tathel Miller,