This past Monday my best-friend-since birth made a stop in our quaint little village to visit with Kevin and me. She, along with her husband and their adorable almost-four-year-old son, had been traveling the New England countryside for the past few days and had made plans to drive a bit out of their way to stop at our house. I was beyond thrilled. 

It’s not often enough that Elizabeth and Melanie get to be together again. In the good ‘ol days of our youth, if we weren’t at home we were together. Our parents parented both of us. Our siblings were quite indistinguishable. We spent hours playing Barbies, talking about American Girl dolls and listening to Michael W. Smith. We were Sunday School buddies, VBS leaders, and youth group attenders. We stayed up too late watching Mrs. Doubtfire, I threw up at her house on more than one homesick occasion, and she choked down a green bean that my parents forced upon her. And, in case the message wasn’t clear in the introduction, we were literally friends from birth. Our moms were in the same birthing class together way back in 1985. Yep. No kidding. 

The great part about our friendship is that, though it’s been nearly 10 years since we were the inseparable pair, we’ve maintained our connection. Roots. Through her marriage, my leaving for college in Michigan, the birth of her son, my wedding day, her new jobs, my various ministry callings, their first (and second) home, our move to New York. Still friends. Forever. 

Our visit in our cozy living room was easy and comfortable. Some laughter interspersed with deeper conversation, funny comments from little Owen, and stroll to the Erie Canal. After getting to spend more time together than we had hoped for, we even got to share lunch together at the local family restaurant. 

The goodbyes left me wishing we were next door neighbors. Maybe someday.