We met when the sky went from pink to purple to blue, and drank wine until it darkened, and the stars descended.
The three of us, our friendship spanning years - some of those years the ones we push aside and would rather forget.
The years we chose the wrong boyfriends, or spilled each others' secrets, or wrote the f-word in nasty letters, or ignored each other on the school bus.
The years we weren't yet who we'd be, but the foundation of all we would become.
Those two were present in those years, when the devastation was loneliness, or overstrict parents, or loss of friendship.
I never imagined we'd be here, dealing with devastation unspeakable.
And we talked under black sky about eternity. And we tried not to think too hard, or hope too much. And the black sky wasn't even as dark as the deep hole of loss.
And she said that the word grief came from the Latin word 'to make heavy' and it pulls her to the ground; and then comes the words gravity, and grave.
And it all makes sense, yet makes none.
And we voice the questions but know that we are so finite, and have no right to ask, let alone expect answers to them.
She gets up each day without the answers, and just gets up.
All the while I am thinking about the chapter I read in second corinthians that morning, yet it seemed insignificant now, that distress brings us to God, it turns us around, "gets us back in the way of salvation"*
But this is more than distress, and it doesn't have to turn around yet.
It can ask questions and shout at the universe and feel small.
And I can be there, and I can ache for a friend who knows loss intimately, but I can't be there when gravity pulls and the weight of grief weighs down.
We stood in the ocean, under the dark, my toes digging down deep and feeling the shells.
And life seemed as large as the expansive sky above us. The one that He sung into being, and all I can do is cling on to the promise that there is more when it is over.
* 2 Cor 7