On this day, four years ago, I sent an email to a fellow student in an online writing class. Her name was Sarah, and she was born on August 24th, the same day as me. The class itself was somewhat of a fluke, as the teacher ran over his laptop and just sort of forgot about the whole thing, despite the considerable fee. We were both very baby writers anyway, and I was inclined to look upon this as a discouraging sign from the heavens, but she laughed it off and in an effort to salvage the experience asked: “Would you like to exchange writing prompts once a week?”
And so we got to know each other slowly, and yet so well that it’s hard to believe four years can accomplish so much, and from so great a distance. Sarah lives in England, the land of fairytales, in a cottage in a cathedral city. True story. She comes to see me, and I have longed, especially in uncomfortable times, to run off to her, like the heroines in the Austen novels who escape to their friends by the sea or Bath, and yet the story always follows them, you know, and things get better. So would the story follow me and things get better in the city of the water meadows, where five rivers converge, and swans gather on the banks, where the evening light still rests on King Alfred’s White Horse and casts long shadows at Stonehenge, where a gentle rain hits the windowpane of the room where Sarah sits and writes to me.
She is thinking very carefully, and loving very deeply. She is perhaps unhappy, because of these things. I have leaned very heavily on her, even from such a distance. Someone told me the other day that a single person has no household to observe as a testimony of their character. They don’t know Sarah, or this mystery of the kingdom yet, how God takes a barren woman and makes her the mother of children, how He raises the valleys and is near to the brokenhearted. But I do, and it is grace. She has kept me well. She applies the promises of God to me, and in this way especially, she loves me often more than herself.
She is the one who introduced me to Elizabeth Goudge’s The Dean’s Watch, and Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead, novels that changed me. It was Sarah who sent me The Good God, by Michael Reeves, when I wasn’t sure He was and Robert Capon’s The Supper of the Lamb, when I was hungry for a feast. And it was she, the blessed girl, who gave me the poetry of Malcolm Guite. His words have been mile markers for us along the way, in pain,
When they are memory. In time to come
When we speak truth, then they will have their place,
Telling the story of our journey home,
but you and I both know by whom its lent
and that it’s right here in the dirt
where we’ve both been loved and hurt
that Love Himself has come to pitch His tent
All this has kept us, with simple words, mindful of the beauty just beyond our reach, but not forever. Sarah came to see me a month ago today. She bravely slept in the back of my 4Runner while I drove the interstate for six hours to Franklin, Tennessee, where we sat in a crowded auditorium, and shivered together with a glimpse of the joy we will have in fullness one day soon, in these words by Andrew Peterson:
Does Jesus our Messiah hold forever those he loves? He does.
Does our God intend to dwell again with us? He does.
I plan to walk with Sarah through the rest of our lives, and I know there will be many marked days, joyful and sad, but I’m not sure any moment in this vale will surpass the sweetness of singing with her and beside her that night. Except if it was the moment, in hectic Atlanta traffic, when I looked at her in the rearview mirror, and she winked.
I know that our friendship is not unique. It is as ordinary as that red wheelbarrow. You know, the one that so much depends on. There are many thousands of them in this old world, many countless eyes searching through open windows, calculating the time of day across the world, wondering what a friend is doing at that moment, wishing they were there doing it too. “The words are purposes. The words are maps,” as the poet says. The words between us, since that first email four years ago, were purposed, beyond our knowing of it, to reach each other’s hearts…. and the map? The map is of our journey home.