Long before there were blogs and email and cell phones, there were little diaries with tiny locks, notes passed discretely in class and great big corded phones attached to the wall of the kitchen. There were summers spent on that phone in the kitchen talking to my best friend who lived only a country mile from me. There were sleepovers and arguments and apologies and boys. There were mixed tapes recorded from the one good radio station. There was cheer camp, piano, singing and did I mention boys? Those were great times.

My friend and I would take turns hanging out at each other’s house. I loved going to hers. She had a cool mom who wore the same clothes we did and didn’t mind if we ate chips in friend’s room. Her house was more current than mine and all of her stuff seemed just a step nicer. She seemed to like coming to my house too, and my obsessive-compulsive mother would follow her around picking up the pieces she left behind. My friend was a bit clumsy then. I was the organized and responsible one. She was chronically late and flew by the seat of her pants. We competed at everything. We were candidates for all the same club offices, queen contests and cheerleading squads. We were in fact chosen as co-captains of the squad because everyone knew the war that would erupt should only one of us get the honor. I always thought she was just a little prettier, a little funnier and a little smarter. And the boys??? They always liked her better. But she was my best friend. That best friend that you fight with one day and defend the next. We did each other’s hair and wore each other’s clothes and dreamed about our futures together. No one could have convinced me back then that we wouldn’t always be best friends. How could anyone else possibly fit as neatly into my life as she did?

The summer we graduated from high school our families sort of fell apart. Hers moved to one neighboring county and mine to another. We were uprooted from our life-long homes and our friendship was the casualty – sort of that innocent by-stander who never knew what hit it. We went to separate colleges and our lives naturally progressed in different directions. We made new friends and married and had kids and grew up. We spoke occasionally – strained little awkward conversations- and that was it.

I had lunch with my friend today. We caught up with each other thanks to blogs and email and cell phones. We only live 20 minutes apart. We hadn’t really talked since our last class reunion. I was anxious and oddly nervous about seeing her. I didn’t want another awkward conversation. I think I was hopeful that I would maybe find my long lost clumsy best friend again. My fears were put at ease the moment I saw her. I had to laugh to myself because this time I was the one who was late and flustered and flying by the seat of my pants. She was sitting calmly outside the restaurant waiting on ME. There was nothing awkward. The conversation began and didn’t stop until we drove away. It was as though twenty years had never passed.

As I sat across the table from her today and saw the title “Dr.” on her name badge it seemed surreal. Our lives have changed so much from the days we spent sitting cross legged on her bed together discussing hair and clothes and boys and listening to Van Halen and Boston cassettes over and over again. Each of us has gone through our share of rough patches since then, and we’ve done it with new friends – different friends – the ones that needed to be there at the time. It seems like an extra special gift to get my friend back now. Now that we’re grown up. Now that we’ve gained a little wisdom. Now that we can fully appreciate what we once had.

I believe life is like a book, each chapter laying the groundwork for the next. Sometimes the characters disappear for a few chapters and new ones take their place. Sometimes there is pain and heartache and loneliness for chapters on end. But in the really good books, the ones with the happy endings, the characters are reunited in the closing chapters.

I think maybe we’re just getting to the good part.