Friend, I Will Remember You

I wrote the following for my local newspaper column this morning:

My friend’s words were cryptic, something about sympathy over the loss of your friend, and quickly cut-off by the poor cell-phone reception in our house. I had no idea what she was talking about, and when we finally reconnected, our conversation moved to a different subject – and then we lost the call again. What was she saying? Had a friend of mine died and I didn’t know it? Who?

A quick run through the recent posts on Facebook provided me with the answer. Helen Clifton had died. Helen’s husband Shaw had recently retired as the Salvation Army’s General, the international leader of my denomination. Helen had also been in leadership, serving as World President of Women’s Organizations with the rank of Commissioner, and she ministered alongside her husband, especially advocating for victims of sexual trafficking.

So how do I claim Helen as a friend? Within Salvation Army circles, it’s like a member of the local Republican committee being friends with Laura or Barbara Bush. Helen and I had only met in person a couple of times, and then quite briefly. We’d never shared a cup of coffee or been in each other’s homes, never walked the beach together or held each other’s grandchildren. She lived in London, I lived in Ohio. She didn’t even number among my 1108 Facebook friends, but upon hearing of her death I knew it - I have lost a friend.

We initially connected through a mutual friend about a dozen years ago. I’d written some chapters about the seasons of a woman’s life in Salvation Army ministry, and Alice passed that manuscript along to her friend Helen, knowing of Helen’s keen interest in women in ministry. Helen determined that if she was ever in a position to promote the publication of the book, she would make it happen. She carried that manuscript to posts in Pakistan, New Zealand and finally London, where ultimately her husband was chosen as the 18th General of the Salvation Army in 2006. “Seasons: A Woman’s Calling to Ministry” was published by the Salvation Army internationally in 2007. Helen was tenacious – she got things done.

We began to exchange e-mails, and those e-mails soon touched upon concerns dear to our hearts. We compared notes over our sons’ tattoos. We railed against injustice. We spoke of faith. We rejoiced over the birth of grandchildren and mourned the death of parents. By way of e-mail, we did the things that friends do together. And perhaps each of us hoped that when life settled down for Helen in retirement (scheduled for April 2011), we’d be able to connect more often, perhaps even have that promised leisurely conversation over a cup of coffee at Old Orchard Beach, Maine.

But it wasn’t to be. I heard of her cancer diagnosis a number of months ago, about the time I received a last e-mail from her, quoting these words of the psalmist David: 'I always see the Lord near me, and I will not be afraid with him at my right side. Because of this, my heart will be glad, my words will be joyful and I will live in hope.' Yes, my friend, yes.

Who, indeed, are our friends? What defines friendship in these days when we can become Facebook friends with strangers around the world but seldom chat over the back fence? And is proximity necessary for friendship to flourish? Mary Catherwood might understand: “Two may talk together under the same roof for many years, yet never really meet, and two others at first speech [or e-mail] are old friends.” That’s how it felt with Helen – we connected, and I’m sad that circumstances in both of our lives didn’t allow for more time.

Helen’s seemingly premature death at age 63 brings me sorrow. Not the grief that her family is experiencing, as it is presumptuous of me to claim grief of that magnitude. Shaw has lost his wife. Jen, John and Matt have lost their mum. Their loss is profound. Yet I, too, have lost a friend. John Denver’s song says it for me today: “Friend, I will remember you, think of you, pray for you. And when another day is through, I’ll still be friends with you.”