The truth is, when we played basketball together we were always on each other's nerves and at each other’s throats. We had completely different game styles, but we were fighting for the same position. You were always way bigger and stronger than me, but I was faster and we hated each other for it. We both were on the B team, which means we always were up against each other in practice and you were a nonstop smack talker. You’d whisper in my ear things like, “I only have to give 50% to stop you.” and I’d get so mad I’d throw my whole body at you but then just bounce off because you were a literal wall.
Coincidentally, we both only made it through two years of college basketball. For different reasons but both chasing a new vice, one could say. It wasn’t until we were off the court that we could put our egos down and really know each other. In a philosophy class, we learned about each other’s humanity and personhood, apart from the game that had defined us for so long and we respected each other undoubtedly. That year was hard though. I saw you slipping away into drugs for the first time, but I didn’t know how to help. I was naive and thought if I ignored it and was an available hand in the aftermath it would all just go away. We spent a lot of time together in the car and in hospital waiting rooms that year.
You were so big, in both body and personality, and you’d squeeze into my tiny car and we’d drive. You’d talk the whole way. You unabashedly shared your story with me, the funny and tragic and scary. I sat and listened but I was reserved. You were a hilarious, loud, punk rocker and I was a clumsy, sheltered, Christian kid. And I didn’t know the value of our friendship yet.
One day you stopped coming to Philosophy class and then stopped coming to campus. I thought I’d never see you again. I called every once and a while to see where you had gone but your phone number wasn’t working. At that point, I assumed our paths were finished crossing. Honestly, our friendship was complicated. I never knew if you called me because you really wanted my friendship or because I had a car and the resources you needed. I don’t think you really knew either. Simultaneously, you wondered if I called you because I really wanted your friendship, or if you were a “project” to me, a non-christian I could convert into a testimony. I don’t think I really knew either. We were both finding ourselves and figuring out how to ask for what we needed. And in the process both using each other and finding deep affection for one another. Coming of age is strange and complicated and I didn’t know how to feel about you leaving. But I did know, philosophy class was never the same without you.
I went on to graduate and moved away. It wasn't until I moved back to Ohio (almost 4 years later) that you randomly called me. You invited me to coffee. You told me that you were in recovery and we caught up and laughed so hard, we cried. I told you how proud I was of you and apologized for not knowing how to help all those years ago. But you just leaned back, smoking a cigarette, and smiled, “It all happened for a reason, Steph.” You’d go on to tell me this an infinite amount of times in our friendship. You see, by this time I had gotten a little more worldly and you had gotten a little more Jesus-y and we belly laughed for hours about how twisted life can be. That day was the first time we prayed together.
Not too long after that, I fell into such a deep depression that I was hospitalized and you relapsed and were in a recovery center. We both had our demons. By God’s grace, we finished our programs within a few weeks of each other and just happened to move into houses one block away from one another. There is not any sensible reasoning for this, other than God. Though we were out of the hospitals we were both very much in recovery. Sometimes you’d text me when you had a low and we’d find a meeting for me to drive you to. And sometimes I’d text you when I was unbearably sad and you’d come to sit in my empty room and play guitar on the floor. You’d sing silly songs in that crazy voice until I cracked a smile. We took care of each other the best we knew how. We didn’t say it often but I know we worried deeply about each other. We were both so sick, and both so eager to recover. In this season, we prayed a lot.
The week you decided to move to Oregon to pursue welding school, I was happy for you but also sad and scared. We agreed that we needed a proper goodbye and that I’d come by the house to see you off the morning of your flight. But our times got mixed up and your ride was early, and by the time I walked up your driveway, you were already gone. Right there I prayed, that you’d find peace and joy and safety on the West Coast. And I prayed that one day I’d see you again.
You never shared many details with me about your life in the West. But you never stopped praying with me. Though you’d never tell me why or what was going on, you’d send me messages, praising God for what he has given you and asking for prayer for the rest. Just a few weeks before we lost you, you messaged me at 8 am and said, “Life is crazy, but I get to see God’s hands intricately woven into my life. But now my dog and I could really use some prayer, Steph.” I messaged back saying that I would pray and asking if there was anything specific going on but I never heard back from you. When I got the call that you left this world, I went back and read this message over and over again, trying to turn back time and will myself to include how much I care about you and how worthy you are of life.
Sammie, I am so angry. I am angry that your ride came early to the airport, and I didn’t get one last stinky bear hug. I am angry that we wasted time in college not being friends, and I am angry at the state of Oregon for not taking care of you. I am angry that even though you were the loudest and proudest lesbian I ever met, I never came out to you before you moved and that celebration was held over a text message instead of in person.
But mostly Sam, I am angry that the illness took your life in the end. I am angry at the parts and pieces of your story that put you on a path to seek comfort in a dangerous place to begin with. I am angry that the darkness won. I am angry at God, that though we prayed for your protection, we lost you anyway. Sam, I am angry that I don’t think you knew how much of an impact you made on my life.
I’ve watched the video of you singing Hallelujah over and over again, and I try really hard to remember that you are without pain now. It is no longer “a cold and broken hallelujah” but a full, heavenly one, for you. I try to imagine you squeezing your dad at the pearly gates. I see you showing off your tattoos to St. David and grabbing St. Paul’s ass, cause that’s just who you are. I imagine you crying at the feet of Jesus, but these tears are not the same ones from the hospital waiting rooms or the withdrawal pain. These are golden tears of joy and freedom. Sam, I am trying really hard to see you there, in endless heavenly glory.
But as for all of us you left behind, it is still very much “a broken Hallelujah”. One of the most difficult parts of faith is reconciling loss and I am not good at it yet. I am not ready to put that piece of faith into action, but my hand is forced, so Sam, I promise to try. You lost a lot in your short life and you still chose faith every day, so in your honor, I can try.
I love you so much, my friend. I wish I said it more while you were in front of me.
Your buddy,
Steph
