Faith And Friendshipa True Story

My mother's first job and her deepest friendship coincided like a happy fate. She and Doris worked at a pharmacy/fountain in an oddly shaped, narrow building where six streets intersected in St. Paul. Did these converging streets increase business, or accidents? They joked about this, and many other things, possessed of the same sense of humor, the same domestic intentions, the same sturdy moral standards. It was an ideal friendship, and it flourished after their marriages, after each became a mother of a boy and a girl. This was that blessed friendship that parallels the longevity of family ties and a true marriage. But blessings are not immortal. And Doris's early death from cancer was a sword of sorrow that pierced the hearts of the many who loved her. I was too young to comprehend my mother's grief, but I remembered witnessing it. And later, when I understood how grief dogs our lives, I belatedly felt her pain... My Mom and I sat in chairs across the desk from a young priest, the assistant pastor. He kept checking a slim black booklet with gold lettering. His conversation with my Mom was tense, there were no smiles. The issue was very simple: Would our parish church, The Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, allow my Mom to attend her best friend's funeral service? It was a vexed issue, with our family being Roman Catholic, and Doris's Lutheran. The young priest, still consulting the black booklet, finally said, "Bernadine, you can attend the service, but you must remain seated throughout, and under no circumstances can you participate in the Lutheran service with prayers or singing." As my Mom and I sat stolidly in a middle pew, many of Doris's family members greeted her. They knew this had been a beautiful friendship. "God bless you, Bernie, " I heard again and again. And my Mom's repeated "Thank you's" brought tears to her eyes. The theme of the service, those greetings, the minister's sermon was, "They will know we are Christians by our love." But my Mom and, of course, the eight-year-old son beside her remained silent and strangely disengaged. Until a small miracle occurred. Or was it a rebellion? The minister said, "Let us rise and recite the Our Father for Doris's soul." And my Mom stood with her fellow Christians and recited the prayer Jesus himself taught humanity. I quickly rose and joined the recitation with the third line: "... Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven...." I was so proud of my Mom for this gesture of love, which transcended whatever that slim black booklet required the priest to ordain. I am sure an angel hovered near-by my Mom, giving her consolation: "Bernadine, your friend was a good and just woman. She lives now and forever in God's favor." Amen to that.