she is WAY more than martha

I am Blessed with a capital B to have many close friends. I have girlfriends from childhood, from college, from my long exile in Indiana, and in my new life in Portland. But I have a small group of girlfriends with whom I've grown up practically (and in some cases literally) since birth. There are six of us, and our fellowship runs deep and wide. My friends have, as people tend to do, grown up and changed and changed again and grown some more. The dynamics of our friendships have evolved, but I can say with confidence that we love each other fiercely and loyally. We don't always agree, we don't always share common interests or values - although we've certainly shared common boyfriends (cue great joke drumming noise) - but we care about each other and we respect each other. We would move mountains to rescue each other from the pit. I love and admire these women so much that I've decided to write a tribute to each of them. Whitney is first.

Whitney and I were born into our church at the same time (that paints an interesting mental image), but we weren't "besties" in grade school. Whitney moved away in the fifth grade. One of my rare crystal clear memories of that age is Whitney's going-away party at Roller Magic, that sanctuary of glitter stickers and giant jawbreakers. At the end of the party, we requested "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx. (side note: I will love that song until the day I die.) I so vividly remember all of us skating in a long line, grasping hands with the person on each side, and singing along through our choking sobs as we circled the smooth wooden floor again and again. I love that memory because, juvenile as it was, it perfectly illustrates our bond.

I had little contact with Whitney while she lived in tiny Paul, Idaho and I grew up in the big city of Nampa. She moved back to our town in the summer after our sophomore year (sorry Whit, if I have the timing wrong). We immediately became glued at the hip. I don't remember becoming friends with her, exactly, I just know that nearly every memory of high school from then on involved Whitney in some way. We had such fun together. We staged elaborate make-believe Miss America contests, complete with costumes, an opening group number, and variations on the talent of interpretive dance (Whitney's whale sounds dance was a highlight). We learned that the song Innagoddadavita (I had to look up how to spell that) was actually fourteen minutes long, way too long to dance to, so we sped it up on the record player and caused bodily injury in the process. Whitney and I went on road trips in her white Geo Metro, trips that took us 45 whole minutes away to Ontario, Oregon, to see her oral surgeon. (I've never before wondered why she had to see an oral surgeon in Ontario, but I am now.) We spent hours painting various esoteric quotes on the walls of her bedroom. We laid on her floor in tears, listening to Candlebox and knowing that we were the only teenage girls experiencing true emotional angst. We traveled together to Seattle to preview the college we wanted to attend, but when Whitney was immediately accosted by a homeless man who asked her if he could drink her urine (quite politely, to his credit), I knew that my dream of going away to college together might not happen.

We had our down moments. Whitney began dating someone briefly after I broke up with him, and when I found out I felt pretty betrayed. Never mind that he had already dated three of our friends, or that they wound up getting married and making adorable babies. I was very angry with her for awhile for not coming away to college with me, and hurt when I learned second hand about her engagement. It was a tough time for us.

But our friendship persevered, and when I moved back to Nampa my sophomore year of college, we grew closer than ever. I spent nights with her in her cinder-block-walled married housing apartment, where we played Nintendo half the night and fell asleep to Empire Records. After I was married, we took long walks every day and talked for hours about the adventures of being a young wife. Or, we met up go for a long run at the lake, but wound up eating Blizzards on her couch, instead. I still love Blizzards, by the way.

Whitney is delightful. She is impossibly smart (much smarter than me, which pains me to admit), ambitious, funny, spontaneous, creative, slightly neurotic, and wonderfully loving. She has grown tremendously in Christ, but there is no one with whom I would rather share my least Christ-like moments. She is a terrific mom, even though she thinks she is terrible. Her son is brilliant and loving and obeys at least 30% of the time, which is saying something for a five-year-old. I still can't believe she had the nerve to have a kid so much sooner than me, but at least her new daughter Adeline can marry my son.

Whitney and I live hundreds of miles from each other, but with a phone call from her, it feels like no time has passed. I like to imagine us in fifty years, driving a responsible speed down the freeway (safety first), singing along to "My Sharona," on our way to DQ for a cold treat.