Friendship

I'm sitting in a booth with Kara at Azteca's Mexican Restaurant. It's snowing. Hard. It's been snowing all day. Non-stop since ten o'clock this morning. It hasn't stopped. I think it's about minus four degrees outside.

Inside, we're eating good food. Sweet-tea to wash it down.

Kara and I are talking about life, dreams, plans, hopes, lessons learned in our marriage thus far. I notice that the cooks in the kitchen are staring at Kara. This happens all the time. Seriously. Not trying to be funny but it's true. Since I've known Kara, she, without any effort on her part (aside from being alive and breathing) attracts Hispanic men.

When we lived in Nashville, Hispanic men would virtually pull of the highway as we drove around Nashville. I-65 has not been the same since we left. The restaurant that paid the bills (Kara was a waitress while I finishing my M.Div.) was full of eager Hispanic workers. In fact, they became some of her closest friends. Kara would leave the apartment for the 4pm to 12am shift with a quick and sharp, "I'm going to see Jesus."

I laughed every time. I still do.

Anyways, Kara and I start talking about the great friends God has placed in our lives. We've just come from the hospital where two of our close friends--Aaron and Julie Mize--have just welcomed their first child, Calli, into this world. She's beautiful. 7 pounds. 3 ounces of perfection.

The discussion turns to the big sister Kara never had, Mary Morris. Mary was Kara's mentor, sister, friend, confidant, and overall champion. Mary taught at Lipscomb. Mary grew up in the same town as Kara, Morgantown, W.V. Kara still says the reason she likes Whitney Houston and Maroon Five is simply because, "That's who Mary listened to." She also likes the occasional Michael Jackson song for the same reason.

Mary died over four years ago. She battled cancer valiantly. Her body failed her. I've never seen Kara so burdened with a blanket of sadness as the night we got the phone call from Kara's dad (Mary's parents and Kara's parents have been friends for several years), "Kara, Mary is no longer with us."

Kara sank to the floor. Crocodile tears flowed down. We laughed. We cried. We remembered how Mary loved when I would tell inappropriate jokes right from the stories of scripture. Or, the time when Mary looked at me and said, "Josh, tell me about heaven again." I was a third year seminarian and grateful to share what I knew. Especially when what I knew might actually make a difference in the real world, and not a crusty, stale library.

Over sweet tea, taco salad, and good Mexican food we remembered our friend. She is still with us. We breath her laughter, singing voice, wisdom, courage, and character each and every time we tell the stories that made Mary the extraordinary human she was.

It's cold as can be outside. But inside, it's warm enough.

And it is enough. Our questions are never answered. Our frustrations never silenced. But it is enough to remember . . . grateful that we have any memories at all.