Today is what should have been the 59th birthday of my friend Sheri. We met at age 5, had chicken pox together, were in school together right up through high school, went to the same church, were baptized on the same day. We had sleepovers and illicit cookouts on makeshift stoves in the backyard (I still have bacon-grease scars on my shoulder from that one). We made up plays, hiked, read Archie comics, and threw balls for her poodle. She served at my wedding reception and helped me conquer the ivy at my parents' house.
We remained close even after I moved to Canada. Sheri would come up to visit almost every year, her aim to see Canada in every month of the year. When she came, she would always want to help with a project of some sort---digging up rocks, helping host a book-signing table, whatever---she was always up for an adventure. I took her to Highland Games and Mennonite markets, a cement bunker, and our crazy old church. She took me on adventures to New York City, to Park City. She liked to walk and explore, and we'd pick out which house we'd each buy so we could stay neighbours forever. She was always content to do puzzles or watch old movies or just sit and read, which is a lovely trait in a guest. You never felt you had to entertain her, but could just be yourself. When someone is that low-maintenance, they become an integral part of the mesh of your life. They become a sister more than a friend.
Last April, Sheri came to visit and we stayed at the church, taking long walks along the lake and throwing the ball for my dog Brio. She spent a lot of the week feeding me, teaching me to eat healthier. I'd envisioned going grocery shopping with her, but she arrived with her rental car already stocked with food (so that I couldn't insist on paying for it). She was a night owl and I get up at ridiculous hours before dawn, so she slept in the upstairs vestry, and we could each keep our own hours as we liked. The perfect person, in other words, to hang out with.
Our birthdays are close together, and we were cooking up ideas for a grand adventure for our 60th birthdays next year. We'd landed on the plan of going to Norway. But shortly after she returned home, Sheri was diagnosed with cancer and passed away just a few weeks later. Knowing that her 60th birthday wasn't going to happen, I whipped out a PowerPoint "documenting" our trip to Norway as if we'd gone, with pictures off the internet and stick-figures of me and Sheri drawn into them with Adobe. She reported that she and her husband went through the slides and laughed, especially over the picture of the two of us running amok through the streets of Stavanger. My personal favourite was the one of us doing swan dives off a lookout point into a fjord.
Sheri had the ability to make people feel loved, remembered, and seen. She had the uncanny ability to remember things (whereas I struggle to remember my own name on occasion). She could recall everyone she ever met and what they liked and the names of their grandchildren, and she was generous with the gifts that perfectly matched the recipient. She devoted her life to service, throwing herself into her church callings, taking care of the people around her, making me realize how narrow and self-centred my life sometimes is. Even in her last days, she made sure the quilt she'd started making for her daughter was finished by a friend. She doted on her family, turning every occasion into something memorable and special, and making each person feel treasured.
Sheri has gone on her next great adventure without me, but wherever she is, I'm sure she's serving and laughing (and talking) and putting together fishponds for angels and planting lemongrass and coaxing God into trying kelp in His pancakes. And likely throwing balls for Brio. Happy birthday, my friend. Miss you.
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