An Unspoken Prayer: Evolution of a Friendship

Tenley and me at the cherry blossoms last year - 4 years into a lifelong friendship.

Why is Kathy holding that baby? I think to myself as I see my slight, blonde friend swaying back and forth with a baby I’ve never before seen.

“What’s with the baby?” I prod as I come up beside her.

“Oh, hi,” Kathy shrugs, “Tenley is giving a talk today and she asked me to hold Troy.” She nods down at the baby boy in her arms. He looks to be about 3 or 4 months old.

Who is this poser Tenley? Why would she ask my friend Kathy for help? I’m the one with a baby, not Kathy. I feel a prick of jealousy, but I don’t want to let on that I have no idea who Kathy’s talking about. She obviously thinks I know this Tenley.

A few weeks later, at a church gathering, I see Tenley sitting at one of the concrete picnic tables with her husband and baby boy. People are milling around but no one has snagged the seat next to Tenley and her family. I whisper to Dustin, “We should go say hi to that new couple.” We are quick to welcome new comers, so Dustin doesn’t think this is out-of-the-ordinary. I am, however, partly fueled by the desire to know whomever Kathy knows. I don’t want to be left out in case she’s moving on to new friendships. After a slightly awkward introduction, we move away politely.

Months later, it seems that I haven’t seen Tenley at church, or elsewhere for that matter, so when she calls me, I am surprised.

“Hi Sally. This is Tenley.”

I haven’t forgotten her unusual name, so at least I don’t embarrass myself by asking, “Who?” Instead I talk with her like we’re friends. After we exchange the normal niceties, she asks if I know anyone who would like to do a babysitting exchange with her. She’s an apartment manager, as am I, and needs a babysitter for a couple of hours a week to complete her management tasks.

Why does this girl even care? The job is lame. It’s not like it has to be done well, I think. Then I surprise myself when I hear something else coming out of my mouth: “I would love to do a babysitting exchange with you! I could use a few hours a week to take care of our apartment building as well.”

I can feel the look on my face questioning my words. After all, my face knows better. I don’t like babysitting. The only child I love is my own.

The babysitting exchange is born. Tenley drops 6-month-old Troy at my apartment on Tuesday mornings for 2 hours, and I pick and choose between various mornings, afternoons, and sometimes I opt for a date night babysitting trade instead. Usually it’s pretty easy besides the fact that Troy never will hold his own bottle so sometimes I have to juggle feeding Troy a bottle and nursing Claire. Other than that Claire and Troy enjoy watching each other and over time, they begin to play.

Because the kids like each other well enough, and because we have something in common (apartment managing) we decide to try a play date where we all hang out for a morning. I’ve never really hosted a play date and the only one I’ve ever been to, the mom served us all a gourmet lunch. I’m not sure what protocol is so I decide I should serve lunch, too. I open a can of soup and then try to make lunch seem a little more gourmet by broiling the ham and cheese sandwiches. Tenley only eats about half of the lunch and leaves early because Troy is fussy. I figure we should just stick to the babysitting exchange. We don’t really need to be friends. The set-up we have works. Why force more?

Before long, we’re hanging out every week. Then Tenley asks all of us to come to dinner. Then we ask their family to come to dinner.

Suddenly I realize that Tenley has become my best friend.

Later, Tenley says something in passing that makes me wonder if something is wrong. I don’t get the chance to ask her about it. It stews in the back of my mind. I can tell by the way she mentioned it that she doesn’t actually want to talk about it, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I should have at least asked her if she wanted to talk about whatever is bothering her.

I'm picking Claire up from an afternoon at Tenley’s. I’m 8 or 9 weeks pregnant with Avery (baby number 2) and feeling nauseous. I think I’ll just dash in to get Claire then hurry home to make dinner. My morning (day) sickness begs to be fed often and dinner time is no exception. When I get down on the floor to pick up Claire’s various socks, shoes, and stuffed animals, I remember that I should tell Tenley that we can talk about whatever is bothering her any time, so I do. She resists, but I push just a little, and then we really talk. I talk through the nausea because all that matters is that Tenley needs me. I have the thought that this moment in our friendship is probably one of the reasons I introduced myself at the party and then said yes to babysitting her baby.

Even if it was just so we can have this important conversation today, it is enough.

A little over a year and dozens of playdates later, my beautiful Claire is diagnosed with Leukemia. My world shatters and amongst the pieces I find wonderful friends. Tenley and her family are the first visitors to the hospital. She immediately seems to have a great respect for Claire’s new immunity problems. I know she won’t visit if she or Troy has the sniffles or a scratchy throat. I trust her. She calls me every couple of days just to check in. She seems to understand when I shut down socially.  

One day when we can’t go anywhere because of Claire’s compromised immune system, Tenley and Troy give us a ‘heart attack.’ We watch them through the large living room windows. They tape colored, paper hearts all over the window. Some are covered with obvious Troy scribbles. Some have happy writing from Tenley. Still others have photos of Claire and Troy from our camping trip earlier in the summer. I ache to be helping them heart attack someone else. I wish fervently that we didn’t need it, but try to enjoy it just the same.

Later, when Claire has to be hospitalized, I arrive home from the hospital to take the night shift at home with Avery. I get home late and exhausted. I eat a dark, lonely dinner. Less than half an hour later, there is a soft knock at the door. It’s Tenley. She’s holding two cups of Starbuck’s hot chocolate. With the liquidy chocolate, she offers her company and a listening ear if I need one. I accept them all gratefully.

Now, a couple of years from that moment of crisis, I think back to the beginning of a friendship. I think of the playdates, the babysitting, the shared meals and outings. I think of my fatigued heart with blood continuing to pulse painfully even though I would much rather be dead. And, I think of the relief a friend can bring. I assume Tenley thinks I was an answer to her prayer when she moved to Seattle with a newborn and some challenges of her own, but I know better.

Tenley was the answer to a prayer I had not yet prayed.

Joy Triumphs Over Pain

Claire July 2011: Our first amazing month for over a year.

“We decided that divorce would never be an option,” President Tucker confided to the Marriage class.

In the front row, his wife Pat, nodded her agreement. It was evident to all in attendance that Paul and 

Pat Tucker had not only fallen in love more than 40 years ago, they had chosen to love every day since. Without knowing their romantic ‘how we met’ story, without hearing the trials they had inevitably encountered and overcome, I felt the power in their marriage and in their words. Marriage was a choice and they had chosen well.

I admired the Tuckers immediately upon meeting them at church five years ago. President Tucker, in particular, made me feel at home our first week there. He taught Sunday School, and amazingly, he learned the names of all the new couples. All twenty-five of them. I soon realized he did this every year with each new batch of graduate students. During our first class, Dustin whispered in my ear, “If I closed my eyes, I would think your Dad was teaching the class.” I agreed completely. He sounded just like my dad – mannerisms and doctrine both. Even if I didn’t sound or feel like either of President Tucker’s two daughters, President Tucker was A father, much like my own.

And Pat. I loved Pat as only a kindred spirit can. When I bought the chocolate chip cookies that she sold at a service auction, I insisted that it come with a baking lesson. I wanted to be her friend. I soon discovered that Pat had kept a daily journal for decades without fail. I also have stacks of journals. So Pat, like me, was a writer whether she knew it or not.

When Claire was diagnosed with Leukemia in the summer of 2010, Dustin called President Tucker to assist him in giving Claire a priesthood blessing. Pat came with him. Upon their arrival, Pat gave me a motherly squeeze and President Tucker shook my hand gravely. The tears collecting in my eyes dripped out onto my cheeks like a slow leak, my throat too tight to speak. With understanding that can only come through personal suffering, the Tuckers expected no explanation and simply listened to the beautiful blessing. Afterword, President Tucker said that he had felt the truth of the words “You will be healed” given in Claire’s blessing. My strained faith felt immeasurable comfort knowing that this Man of God had been given a witness to Claire’s healing blessing.

On Saturday March 10, 2012, I learned that my beloved Tucker family was to face one of life’s most difficult trials. The trial of the unknown. Pat was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer.

I discovered the news amidst a gathering of women, busy with service. I was sure that my ears had deceived me and that Janet, the bearer of the news, had either meant a less intimidating disease or a different person altogether. 

I shook my head as if to disagree with her. Then, questioning the validity of her report, I said, “You said Pat Tucker, right? Pat. Tucker.”  I emphasized both names with a nod of my head just to be sure Janet understood the weight of putting the name ‘Pat Tucker’ with the diagnosis ‘Ovarian Cancer.’ 

Although Janet is no stranger to grief herself, I think my visible mourning at the news overwhelmed her. She hugged me and moved on. I walked the ten steps to my post at the ironing board where several women were gathered. One of them glanced my way to say hello. She easily saw the emotion on my face.

“Are you okay?” she asked with great concern.

I brushed my tears away. Taking a deep breath, I was about to answer that I was fine, but the deep breath brought no relief.

“No. I’m not okay. You’re not going to be okay either once you hear this news.”

I went on to share the crushing information about the Tucker family and searched the faces of the other women for the emotion I was feeling so strongly. But, I didn’t find it. These women were not as deeply affected as I was. One reached out to give me a hug to comfort me.  One reassured me that ‘if anyone can do it, the Tuckers can.” And still a third asked me, “Are you guys close to the Tuckers?”

For several days, I felt devastated at the news. I was not sure why I was so profoundly affected other than that I know something of what her family might have been feeling - shock, fear, incredibly overwhelmed, full of grief, and many other emotions that are so powerful even on their own that together, they are just that: devastating.

Later I pondered this experience. Admittedly, since our own traumatic experience with Claire’s diagnosis, I am much more sensitive to bad news. I now know firsthand what it means to say, ‘my soul weeps.’ No other description is full enough in moments like these, and I have found that my soul weeps for other people who are handed some of life’s more difficult situations. Maybe my acute reaction has something to do with the love and admiration I feel for the Tucker family. Maybe it’s that it was a cancer diagnosis, just like Claire’s. Or, perhaps, I was simply feeling their pain.  Whatever the reason, I hope that I am one step closer to understanding what it is to mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.

I’m happy to report that my dear Pat Tucker finished her cancer treatment the same week Claire finished hers. Her cancer is now in remission. In March, my heart was overcome with sorrow, and today it sings with a joy that surpasses the pain of yesterday.