Friends

Friends

We were six years old, and Elaine was walking me home. I had spent the night at her house; she didn’t live near the other missionaries, but rather in the native settlement nearby. So we had to walk from the Quichua village, past the airfield and the clinic and the school and on down the road to where I was staying.

We often discussed matters of great importance, such as whether her brother really could type without looking, and whether my mother was going to sing in church. We knew that there was a war on somewhere in the world because the adults talked about it. And we had heard the story of David and Jonathan in the Bible and knew that they set the standard for friendship. We, it was obvious to both of us, were just that kind of friend.

And so she walked me home. When we got there, we realized that she would have to walk all that way (miles, it seemed) back to her house alone, so we did the only logical thing. I walked her home.

Halfway there, we realized that we could potentially spend the rest of the day walking each other home, and we were both due at our respective houses by sundown. So we compromised. We would part ways at the airfield, each only walking half the way home by herself.

But if we had to part ways, we would do so in a manner worthy of David and Jonathan. We remembered that the Bible story said they “wept and fell on each other’s necks”. We could simulate the tears. But the neck-falling-on business was tricky. Like short, ungainly giraffes, we stretched our heads up and tried to bump against the other’s neck with our own necks. All we got was sore and dirty from missing each other and ending up on the ground.

Maybe we could just do the tears and hug so our necks touched and still satisfy the legacy of those great Biblical friends. So we scrunched up our faces, stretched our necks and embraced. David and Jonathan would have been proud.

We were still friends when I went up to boarding school in seventh grade. Elaine was my first roommate. Once, we got mad at each other and made a line down the middle of the floor with tape. Afterward, we pushed our beds together in the middle of the room. Because we were friends.

This weekend, Elaine came for a visit; she’s on a trip with her daughters. Thirty-four years have flown by. There’s grey under the Miss Clairol, a few wrinkles and hopefully more wisdom. We went to visit some of the people we called “Aunt” and “Uncle” when we were little. Then two other friends, dear women we grew up with, came over. Jill, Ruth, Elaine and I looked at old pictures and laughed and remembered.

Tomorrow, she’ll leave again and I won’t walk her home. There will be no neck-falling and I doubt there will be tears.

But with all the different paths our lives have taken, we are still friends. David and Jonathan can still be proud.