Kelly and I lost a dear friend this past week.
We actually lost three friends to cancer in just seven days’ time. All were too young. All left grieving family behind.
But Dalea Badami was the closest of these to us. We were the best of friends in college as Kelly was roommates with her and I roomed with her soon-to-be husband Jason. I might never have pursued a second date with Kelly had Dalea not patiently asked me about my hesitations; wisely, she knew there actually weren’t any, but that I’d have to figure it out for myself how perfect Kelly was for me.
They stood beside us as we were married and we were inseparable in our early-to-mid twenties. Despite living in different time zones, we always found time to connect and talk. The first vacation Kelly and I took after our honeymoon was to visit them in Texas.
We married so young.
But we were blessed to have each other. The four of us essentially grew up together, finding our footing in this world in unison.
When we learned of Dalea’s passing, Kelly went through photo albums and pulled out pictures of our intertwined lives. Remembering the moments we shared brought gladness to my heart. But it simultaneously brought regret.
In recent years, we drifted apart.
To be sure, this wasn’t negative—there was no conflict between us—we just nestled in to our own lives in different places. Through social media, we were able to watch each other’s families expand and grow up. We’d find small opportunities to meet up every few years and could pick right back up with ease. But even those windows diminished as our kids grew into young adults.
Because of the pandemic, the four of us haven’t been in the same room together in quite a long time. We are thankful that Dalea exceed by multiple years the amount of time doctors originally allocated for her, providing her additional precious moments with her family and friends. But we were still devastated that we were unable to be with her in these hardest of days.
Sadly, I’m not that familiar with the woman that Dalea became. She changed immensely over the years, but I didn’t get to see that happen. How was she different from the woman we once knew when we were young?
Her passing brings about another personal heartache that won’t be easily shaken: a longing for what once was and that which will never be again; the tugging that we should’ve cherished it more.
Old photographs are the very best . . . and also the very worst.
Pictures force us to consider paths not taken.
There’s a lament that accompanies the passage of time. We’re forced to acknowledge that the world spins faster than we can grasp. Nothing ever stays the same. We cultivate nostalgia—and some of us prefer living in it—because we choose to hold on to that which was in favor of what might be.
My reflection here is self-therapeutic but I’m pretty sure other people need to hear it as well.
We mustn’t dwell on missed opportunities.
No doubt, I’d pay a fortune to relive just one of those days we all had together in the 1990’s. And I do wish we had done better to stay connected over the years. But I’m most thankful that we had those moments in the first place.
Growing old and facing loss forces us to consider how we’ve lived. We cannot, however, live in regret for not being able to do it all. We’re not promised time here on earth. We’re just asked to make the most of what we’ve been given.
The time that Jason, Dalea, Kelly, and I spent together decades ago made us; it forged us into the people we are today. I get to remember Dalea even before she was a wife and a mother and also while she was in the very first days of those journeys. In reflection, this was the greatest blessing. And due to the space we didn’t occupy, others were able to take advantage of our missed opportunities to get to know her better. I’m profoundly thankful for the many that were blessed to walk along side her as she hit her stride in her later life.
And now, all those journeys have given way to the best one yet . . .
We were young once. We had all the time in the world. But one day, time will be no more and we will no longer worry about what we’ve missed. It’s why I cherish the words of the apostle Paul who urges us to, “forget what is behind and strain forward toward what lies ahead . . . to press on for the goal of the prize of God in Jesus.”
Grieve for what was lost but give thanks for what was given. We will be young again.
In recent days, I haven’t been able to shake the following hymn of faith from my mind. This George Jones version (full disclosure: we really liked country music back then) allows me to reminisce fondly on those times we spent together.
I have heard of a land, on the faraway strand
'Tis a beautiful home of the soul
Built by Jesus on high, there we never shall die
'Tis the land where we'll never grow old
When our work here is done and the life's crown is won
And our troubles and trials are over
All our sorrow will end and our voices will blend
With the loved ones who've gone on before
Never grow old, never grow old, in the land where we'll never grow old
We Were Young