Her birthday was two days ago. But in all the 50 years we were friends, we could never remember exactly each other’s birthdays. She died seven years ago. It’s one of those wounds that never really heals.
She asked me to read this at her funeral. I do not know how I found my voice that day.
I was feeling so shaky, my Richard offered his arm to steady my walk to the pulpit on the altar. But then I spoke in a loud, steady love poem to the woman who stood up for me at both my weddings, who had shared with me her chilren, her laughter, and her friendship…
“My soul sister KB is a Catholic Druid,
And I am a random heretic.
Her god rises like sap in green things;
She takes the wafer at Mass,
But finds communion as well
In the lanes of her herb garden.
I find my god in the soft eyes of friendly dogs,
In iris petals; in book pages marking chapters,
or hiding under the lids of steaming stewpots.
For KB, the trinity is real as brick,
true as the songs her children sing on the backyard swings.
The god we share is alive; we find god in one another’s faces.
And in the tapestry we have woven together, we find
god’s common thread.