when oceans rise

I have a huge family. 

After a week of tears, that is one thing I want to remember.

I am the youngest in my family, with an older brother and sister. My sister, Jessica, is my best friend, my roommate, my accomplice, my wingman.

But I have more than one sister. 

Mary Beth, Liz and I have known each other for every life milestone. The first day of middle school. The last day of eight grade. Every first date and every breakup. The panic of public high school and the joy of college acceptance letters. Lizzy and I were college roommates for four years. As long as I can remember, we've been each other's first call in times of crisis and celebration. 

After graduating from college, the three of us met for dinner as often as we could - planning Lizzy's wedding, toasting new jobs, and somehow surviving the awkward transition from college to "real life" together. That summer, we went from store to store across Atlanta to pick out Lizzy's wedding dress. But last Sunday, Mary and I helped pick out the dress and shoes Liz wore in the receiving line at her mother's funeral. I think this is what Jesus meant by family. 

A part of the world broke on April 4th, close to 7am, when Liz's mom left this world for a far more beautiful one. I had the privilege of holding her hand for a moment the night before she left us. What I think I'll always remember is that she was concerned about me in that brief moment. I'm not sure there was ever a time that she wasn't taking care of me.

I was truly raised by a village. My village is a small Christian school my Dad had a large part in building. And that's where I found my family. But the thing about it is that it's not just friends that become sisters and brothers. It's parents that become aunts and uncles. Parents that I love in the same way that I love my own mom and dad.

Barbara Dennis was lovely and kind. Her confidence was contagious, and she raised a strong, brave woman that I don't want to live without. I've lived enough to know that somehow we'll survive this,  but I want to protect Liz from this pain - to take the blow for her. When Barbara was diagnosed with cancer three weeks ago, I started planning how we'd beat it. I wanted to drop everything to be available to Liz. My plans were probably unrealistic, but I wasn't going to stand by without doing something. 

But instead, all I could do was stand in the hospital hallway beside Mary Beth on Friday morning and hold Liz's hand, in silence, because there are no words on this day. 

I've wrestled with this post for a week now. I didn't want to publish it, but there is an ache in me that requires I acknowledged this loss - even in this tiny blog that only my family and a couple close friends read. If I've learned anything from growing up it is to acknowledge the pain in the world. To call it out and to mourn openly because otherwise it can swallow us.

I am heartbroken for Lizzy.

I wonder why it is that we are always surprised by pain. We are somehow wired to be hopeful. I think it creates deeper wounds, but it must also make us more brave.  But this time, I don't want more bravery. I just want my best friend's mom back.