We sit waiting in the sprawling nest of the airport terminal, my husband Jan and I. We chat, and I wonder. The years, the tens of years, that have rolled and flowed since we last saw each other. Whole lives lived, but worlds apart. My mind is recalling all the schemes and dreams and late night musings of our new found faith. This friend of my youth. This first-best-friend in a life begun anew. This friend of the deep places of my heart.

The clock tells me the time is near, and Jan says that if we stand “over there”, we will be closer to the gate. We walk together, and I peer through the glass, the last separating partition of time and distance. And out they come, lives delivered safe by those giant silver birds. Lives moving through the cadence of life. And there she is. I see her first. I hear her voice. A voice that has not been changed by the years. I see her, and she is small. Smaller than I remember. Her bags in her lap. Her frailer body accepting the strong arm of the porter who pushes her chair. My heart swells, and I clear that partition and stand face to face in the presence of friendship and love. A friendship that, in spite of time and distance, is sealed safe in Spirit of God. Much is different. And nothing has changed. She is my friend.

And so we spend the hours filling in the blanks of two lives lived so far apart. A friendship begun in our twenties and reunited in our sixties. We ponder and recall the dreams and expectations and ignorance of youth. We laugh – a lot. We agree that though the years have wrought havoc and loss in these bodies of ours, the loss has produced gain in the deep places that sickness can’t reach. We share our stories. Stories of a lifetime. Stories of sorrow. Stories of joy. Stories of when we were strong. Stories of when we were weak. Stories of dreams realized. Stories of dreams buried. Stories of hilarity. Stories of despair. Stories that were never, for one minute, penned without the gracious hand of God. The God who has penned not only the narrative of our separate lives but also narrative of our enduring friendship. Lives and friendship forged in a holy fire.

When we were young (and in years to come), we read an especially favorite book entitled, Hind’s Feet on High Places. It’s a wonderful allegory of the believer’s journey with God. The main character is Much Afraid, who is aptly named. In the course of her sojourn, she will be given another name. A glorious name. Yesterday Colleen and I were talking, and she told me that when we were young, she always saw me as Much Afraid. I told her she was quite right.  And then she said, “Pam, you’re not Much Afraid anymore. You have grown into something beautiful.” And we went on to discuss how it is that these transformations are brought about. How our fearful, or harsh, or selfish, or demanding natures are transformed into something “beautiful”. And we agreed, of course, that it is the molding, loving hand of our Redeemer that brings transformation, but that He often (if not always), uses the difficult, the tragic, the hopeless places of our lives to accomplish this. And we also agreed that we would not trade those places for the transformation they have produced. Transformation we could not possibly bring about on our own. And we agreed (with maybe just a little reluctance) that this stage in life is more rewarding than youth.

And so Colleen will leave in a few days. This may have been our swansong. If so, it has been a song sung to the tune of deep love. Love for each other and for our God. A song sung with the joyful resonance of His Spirit that lives in us and who has graced us with this bond. A song sung to the honor of the One who has granted us life and who has walked with us through every mile. I have told Colleen of the women who also have shared my journey. The women who sojourn with me this path to the Celestial City. Women who have come to treasure the depth and wisdom and increasing dependence on our Father that becomes more clear and more vital with each passing year. Friendships forged in a holy fire. Colleen is every bit one of these women. How utterly grateful I am that we have been able to know each other now on this side of our youth. How much richer it is in our sixties than in our twenties. How utterly grateful I am for Spirit on Christ who binds us together in the beautiful Body of Christ. A Body transformed in a holy fire…..