To Julia, my sister in all the important ways. Happy birthday.
"What are you going to do to celebrate turning 40?"
You said it so cheerfully and so naturally. Like turning 40 is a good thing.
"Uh, I, um . . . " I didn't want to say that I had been avoiding the idea and was hoping that 40 might pass unnoticed.
"It's such a milestone, don't you think?"
Yeah. One I'd been thinking of rather too much lately.
"I don't really know . . . " I stammered. But I listened to you joyfully taking command of your own birthday and just diving in. And I started to wonder.
Maybe I could relish turning 40 instead of regretting it?
And today is your day. Your 40th. (I'll be joining you soon.) And while you are very far away today, I'm thinking over your words and the heart they reflect.
This heart is one I cherish. It's a heart you freely gave me all those years ago in the desert of teenage loneliness. I had lost my best friends and was starting a new school, terrified, shy, despairing. I remember my mom asking, "What about Julia? Maybe she could be a good friend."
You were the girl I had seen around town all my life but had never really spoken to. And I don't remember how it happened--did our moms set up a meeting?--but we did meet, finally, and my definition of friendship changed forever.
You were the one who always knew how I was doing even when I didn't say. You were the one who ate lunch with me every day, always told me everything and listened to everything, went on long walks with me and talked about God. You were my confidant when I got my first boyfriend and then broke up with him six weeks later. You and my sister threw me a surprise 18th birthday party when I thought no one noticed (that was one day I wanted to celebrate!). You left for college in California and faithfully wrote me letters--real letters, long and honest and meaningful. You remembered everything I told you and always asked about the important things. And in all the years since then, though we both have families of our own and live thousands of miles apart, you are the friend who is there. Present and engaged in my life, real and honest, checking in with a call or a text at least once a week.
You are the one who encouraged me to start writing. In fact, this very blog is a promise I made to you.
And today, celebrating you, friend, I have realized something new you have taught me. As you have grown older, my love for you has grown deeper and more beautiful. The memories in our friendship have become the foundation stones for something much more significant and lasting. And you yourself--you are more radiant, more giving, more alive than I have ever known you. Those teenage years of pouring into me were only the beginning of the life of loving you would lead.
I have been looking at turning 40 like a door closing, a passing away of something I can never have back. And of course that is true, in some sense. But you have helped me to see that I don't need to mourn the past. And I don't need to dread the future.
It is time that makes us truly beautiful. Like a tree with roots searching ever deeper and branches yearning ever toward the light, we are shaped by our journey into the daughters God intended for us to be. Unless we stop seeking. Unless we stop hoping. Unless we stop living intentionally, choosing the blessings of each day. Choosing to be in the moment. And when the moments are difficult, that is our cue to draw in deeper, to live even more purposefully.
Maybe it's no accident that we share the same name, and that our names mean "youthful." We may not have youthful bodies, but we can choose youthful spirits even as we remember how far we have come. Anyway, who would want to go back to those high school days of drama?
Thank you for celebrating our turning 40. I'm thankful for you, dear sister. And I'm looking forward to 40 more years of friendship.
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