Precious

(Written yesterday.)
I was there today when my best friend from adolescence buried her mother. But let me start at the beginning.

Sharon and I first became friends in 7th grade. We’d left the secure nest of different neighborhood elementary schools and were thrust into a scary junior high school. I’d heard rumors of fist fights in the halls and bullies beating up 7th graders in the stair wells. (At least no one brought guns in those days and most of the stories turned out to be suburban legends.) As teenagers, Sharon and I lived almost two miles apart. Before we could drive or had cars, we would walk to one another’s houses, setting out at the same time, and meeting half-way. Even that simple bonding act is lost among today’s youth. She and I remained close friends throughout high school and young adulthood. But as the laws of God and nature dictate, we married and began our families (our oldest being born within a month of each other), and we were no longer in close contact. Still, we never lost touch completely, and each time we were able to see each other again, it was all the more sweet.

But this is about her mother. Sharon is the youngest of five children, all but the oldest of whom were still living at home when we first became friends. If you were a friend of one of Mom Rex’s children, then you were enfolded into the family. Her influence is profoundly impressed upon my teenage years and I still bear that imprint today. Although one or two memories are as crisp as today’s headlines, most of them are as fuzzy as new puppies. What I recall is that she was perpetually happy, usually singing, never idle, and continually mindful of heavenly things. Wherever she was, or whatever she was doing, if I came following behind Sharon, I was welcomed and included. She started calling me Joansey, and the way Sharon’s siblings are likely to know me today is if I re-introduce myself that way. Just remembering her calling me that is like a warm blanket wrapped around my heart. And that’s what it felt like to a mixed-up, insecure, awkward teenaged girl… a place, a family, a person that was warm, secure, unwavering. And that’s the heart of it: On Christ, the Solid Rock, she stood, and I believe, although I don’t recall her verbalizing it to me, that she knew or sensed I was in desperate need of a rock. The Rock. It is no accident that today I also stand on that Solid Rock, having first drunk from the well springing up in Sharon and her family.

Her mother died on Sharon’s birthday. That was the first thing that hit me when I heard the news. I was so choked up I couldn’t even tell James. Earlier in the week, Sharon was grieving over that “coincidence,” when her daughter comforted her with these words: Mom, she loved you the best and she wanted to tell you Happy Birthday, but she knew she couldn’t on earth in the body she was in. Does Sharon really believe, that in a family of five children, her godly mother would love her “the best.” I doubt it. But those were words she needed to hear at that moment. What a wise-beyond-her-years and compassionate daughter Sharon has.

At the chapel today, the first words spoken by the pastor were these: We preach our own funeral service every day of our lives. Each person there could have simply echoed, “Amen.” Mom Rex’s testimony of loving service to the Lord and His people lives on. Undoubtedly, she had her eyes fixed on Him and on things to come. A small slip of paper with faint, barely perceptible writing was found in her Bible. It read, I want to wear a flowered dress so that Jesus will know how happy I am. Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints. (Psalm 116:15) Precious, indeed.