I got a new phone.
I kangaroo-jumped over all thirteen models that have debuted since my last update.
It kind of makes me sad to say goodbye to the device that served me so well for so long. Not only had it survived a 12-mile trip up highway 59 on the back of a Nissan Sonata, it helped me organize and facilitate a dozen small groups, a children's camp, and a senior adult retreat. It captured who-knows-how-many baskets, pitches, tackles, and awards. It was with me for baptisms, weddings, funerals, and groceries. The calculator had crunched budgets and checked homework too. I found a house on realtor and sold the other on zillow. Kindle, Audible, Words with Friends. Hilarious and helpful text threads sit beside hoarding stacks of emails. All in a pocket, ready to go.
What a rich farewell.
As I load a brand new small group into the sleek new model, I notice that even with a factory fresh start, there remain a few of my contacts with no last name. Just plain "Rebecca". Plain "Lauren". Plain "Rhonda". Remnants from my first phone with its Friends & Family plan which allowed me to connect with ten people of my choosing for free. Everyone else cost 25 cents per minute.
With only ten primary contacts, there was little need for last names way back when. Especially considering the labor intensity of tapping the 7 button three times to even access an R.
Through the years, the plain names have persevered.
Lauren lives a few hours away now. We saw each other out of the blue a couple summers ago when we happened to choose the same lake community for vacation. We met at the pool like we had planned it. Bobbing in the shallow end with ball caps and sunglasses, we briefly volleyed a few updates on our families then plunged happily into a lengthy discussion of philosophy and education. She is much younger than me, but she has taught me loads about ministry all the while modeling a calm independence that shapes my own courage and contentment. She is goals.
Rebecca lives terribly far away. I dream of the days when we shared Creme Brulee candles, episodes of 90210, and sizzling bean dip in our scratched-up skillet. She married my brother the month before I married Philip. They would drive over for game nights and BlueBell then spend Sunday afternoons lounging until John Madden was the only conscious voice in the room. She beat me to marriage and parenthood, but what a gift it is to walk the path so closely, just a step or two behind her. She leads with humility, grit, and a surprising amount of goofiness. She is simply the greatest.
I see Rhonda every week. I see her three kids whom I nannied and their spouses just as often. We don't have to meet for lunch or talk on the phone as if our friendship were a plant in need of water. We thrive as spring-fed evergreens. Rhonda was there when I birthed my babies. She is the first to cry when one of them starts kindergarten, or trusts Jesus, or gets engaged. For decades we have crafted and worshipped and whispered hard truths. Along with quiet wisdom and quick laughter, she has consistently offered me love, mentorship, and a standing invitation to be exactly me. She is a gift.
I have lots of lovely Laurens in my life now, a few especially fun Rhondas, and some of the sweetest Rebeccas you can find. All their last names keep things neat and tidy in my new phone, while the plain names are still there too. To stay.
They remain and remind me of how far we've come and how incredibly rewarding the journey together can be.
Make new friends, but keep the old . . .
