It's been a bit quiet on the blog front in recent weeks for a few reasons.
My mom and her husband, Paul, just wrapped up a three-week visit here. We showed off the Auckland region as best we could, taking them to our favorite beaches, waterfalls, volcanoes and hiking trails. We treated them to a long weekend in the Coromandel, one of the more beautiful spots we've seen in New Zealand, and gave them an inside look at our day-to-day life abroad. Nearly every day of their 22-day visit was filled with something new and interesting.
Adding to the excitement, the Adorables started back to school last week. The new school year starts at the end of January/beginning of February here. In the days leading up to the Big Day, we were busy buying school supplies (which, by the way, are NOT the Trapper Keepers and wide-ruled notebooks we grew up with), making sure uniforms still fit and calming nerves as both kiddos started new classes with new teachers and new friends. They've done pretty well with the transition, though the boy is already anxious for his next vacation. Three days in the classroom were enough for him :)
There's one more reason I haven't posted recently. Last week, the mother of my very best friend all through my school days became suddenly and critically ill, and she didn't recover. I learned from my sister over the weekend that this incredible woman, mother, grandmother had passed away.
I'm terribly sad about the news, my heart heavy for her family and aching to be closer to home. I've spent a lot of time these last few days thinking about my childhood and this woman's special role in it.
I want to share one story about this woman that I think perfectly illustrates the kind of person she was to me.
I always say, everyone should be so lucky to have a best friend like I had in my school days. She and I were incredibly close as kids and spent as much time at each other's houses and with each other's families as we did with our own. Her family was my family, and her mom was my mom, without doubt.
I have so many positive memories of her mother -- her cooking, always so much better than anything we ate at my house, her kindness, her sense of humor, her unwavering support. Last week, when I heard about her illness, I couldn't stop thinking about my childhood and how many of those memories she was in. She was always there, it seemed -- and I never imagined that would change.
I have one very special memory of this woman. When I was 15, I was invited to a school dance by a boy who was, well, not so nice. I went to the dance with my best friend, her mom dropping us both off. I'm sure I wore some flashy pantsuit and a ridiculous hairdo. I had brought a boutonniere for this boy, as you did in those days on special occasions. But when my friend and I got into the cafeteria where the dance was being held, my "date" didn't even acknowledge me. He didn't speak to me, he didn't dance with me. I figured out, eventually, that his invite was something of a mean joke.
Embarrassed, I hid the boutonniere in my locker and tried to stick out the dance with my friends, but I became too upset about the whole thing. I decided I wanted to leave. I walked down the empty school hallways to the payphone near the office and called home. Nobody answered. Cellphones weren't a thing back then, so I didn't have a way to get in touch with my parents. But I knew somebody else who would pick up the phone.
I called my friend's mom -- a number I still have memorized -- and asked, crying, if she could pick me up early from the dance. She said, "of course," and hopped in her car. And if that part of the story doesn't prove what kind of person she was, this part will.
After that phone call, I walked back into the dance to wait while my friend's mom came to the school, about a 15-minute drive. While I was in there, a few of my friends found me and cheered me up, and we started dancing and having fun together. I forgot all about calling my friend's mom, about wanting to leave, and I stayed at the dance until the end of the night.
When we walked out of school after the dance, there she was, my friend's mom, waiting for us. She had sat there for -- I don't know -- an hour at least, just waiting in case I needed her. She wasn't upset that I had wasted her time, or angry that I had called for no reason. She was just glad I was OK. She was always there -- for the family she loved so much, for her daughters, for her grandchildren, and for me. She was always there. And I was so lucky to have someone like that in my life.
After I graduated from high school, I left home and never really went back. My hometown wasn't always a happy place for me, and I found it difficult, at times, to go back even for a short visit. I lost touch with too many people, including my best childhood friend. But when I think about the people that helped me become who I am, that raised me and supported me through years and moments that were, well, not always easy -- I feel incredibly grateful.
For me, this week has been one of our hardest since moving abroad. I feel disconnected, unmoored ... sad.
I'm sad for my old friend and her family. I'm worried now about being so far away during a time of life when more of my friends are likely to be dealing with aging and illness in their families, when my own family will be experiencing this too. I'm thinking deeply about what it means to care for others, to show appreciation for the good people in your life, to love and be loved.
And above all else, I'm thinking about what it means to live abroad during those times when you're just too far from home. There was a period in my life when I didn't think there was such a thing, but now that I've moved about as far away as you can get, I'm wondering if that's still true.
