I Have Never

„I have never!“ has been one of my most frequent thoughts over the past week. So many new experiences, so many conflicting feelings – it will take a while to process them all.

A.’s brother messaged me last Thursday and told me that him, her mum, and a few of her closest friends would be spending the whole of Saturday at her apartment in Tartu, cleaning and packing. I was welcomed to pop by for a chat, he said. I would not have missed this for anything. So me and K. drove to Tartu that morning, and the closer we got to Tartu the sicker I felt in my stomach. I didn’t know what to expect or how seeing her place would affect me, neither did I know how long I should stay there. Is it just a formal visit to pay my respects? Is it something else? Long story short, I ended up staying there for four hours. And it may sound eerie but it was a wonderful day. It was a day of much needed closure and peace. I helped as much as I could. We went through all her closets and shelves and drawers, we sorted and packed and threw away, we kept important things, we reminisced. We cried a little but we mostly laughed, and the whole bunch of people I had either never seen before or had not seen for a very long time became unusually close.

The picture of the apartment was sobering, of course. She still had food in the fridge, and clothes drying, her work stuff and handwritten notes all over her desk together with her laptop. And all the other things as well – I had never seen, let alone gone through someone’s things like this. Methodically. All her life, just there for everyone to see. Only she herself was missing.

I came home late that evening and looked around in my own apartment with changed eyes. And it wasn’t some pious „Oh, vanity of vanities, these things don’t mean anything“ thought. Some of my things mean a great deal to me. It was more like, „Hmm, I wonder what books they’re going to keep and which preaching dresses they’re going to chuck out when my life is over and my family are packing my things.“ Ever since that Saturday, I have been eyeing my things with a new sort of curiosity. I have never known this feeling before.

And yesterday we said our goodbyes and laid her to rest. I knew it would be a very small and private gathering so I didn’t entertain any hopes of being there myself (her family had only a vague idea of the closeness of our friendship). But her mum asked me to speak at the funeral service which was – except for my five minutes – a non-Christian service. I have never felt more honored and touched by a speaking invitation. Never. Of course I’ll come, of course I’ll speak! But then followed a couple of days of almost utter desperation. Because I have never felt more inadequate as a preacher. Usually words and sermons just pour out of me. But not this time. I wrote and rewrote, I thought and changed my mind, I sweated and in the end I actually cried. Out of sheer frustration for not being able to write down words more meaningful or eloquent. I wish I could have done better for A. But I did what I was capable of and spoke the words I had in front of her open casket. It was bloody horrible and yet, so soothing.

We ended the day at her mum’s, eating loads of take-away food and laughing even more, and together with her family and three closest friends, I felt like I belonged to A.’s world in a whole new way. I don’t know what they thought of me – I was the odd minister who didn’t drink wine with them and who asked for a vegetarian dish – but for me, it was as if a new shoot had sprung up from the place where only a dead stump used to be. 

I think that’s the main reason I believe in the existence of God. Because He is, new beginnings replace dead ends, new shoots replace old stumps, and new joy replaces loss and grief.

 

In Memoriam

My best friend passed away this afternoon.

When I think of A. and when I compare us two, I can't believe we managed to strike up such an awesome friendship. Because in so many respects we were the complete opposites. She'd wear leather boots and short skirts and have piercings (and a tattoo). For the better part of these 15 years I knew her she'd have fiery red hair but the latest fashion was to have 1/3 of her head shaved and the other 2/3 dyed black and green. She would drink beer and have boyfriends and listen to metal (my limit of listening to her music was about 10 seconds). She was the cool one, the one who would turn heads on a street. And I was the neat pastor's kid who had never done a stupid thing in her life and had never tasted beer and who listened to classical music. But we happened to study linguistics together in Tartu uni and somehow - I can't remember how - by the end of our first BA year, we had struck up a friendship. By the second year we were inseparable - and remained so until her dying breath. We made this awesome tandem at the uni, and we were brought together by similar work ethics (man, could we study hard!) and by mutual love for languages and linguistics. We both graduated from the MA studies with distinction, she continued and graduated from the PhD studies later, I became the infamous deserter (our professor never forgave me) and switched to theology. 

I remember sitting in a big and fancy uni hall with flowers in my hand, listening to her defence speech and seeing her earn her terminal degree, bursting with boundless pride. Dr A. J.!

She was amazingly smart and witty and loyal. We never called or messaged each other much, but whenever I was in Tartu, we would sit in our favourite cafe for endless hours; and time would lose all meaning. 

There are some people who become the fixed points, the landmarks in one's life. And so much of who you are is defined by these important relationships. A. was one of these 'fixed points' around which I could build my life. She helped me navigate and make sense of so much of what happened in life. So I am not only going to miss her terribly, I will also miss the relationship we had, and who I was in that particular friendship. That part of me is now lost, too, and it will never be restored. For example, A. was the only person to call me Mervikene sometimes. Now, -kene is a diminutive suffix in Estonian that conveys the meaning of utter tenderness; you would address or comfort a little child using -kene ending. In her very last message to me, that's what she called me. Now there is no-one left in the world to whom I am Mervikene, and that makes me cry bitter tears.

Without this 'fixed point' of A.'s friendship, I feel like I'm floating, drifting. I don't quite kow who I am. And I don't know how I will ever be able to brace life's storms without her support and witty comments. 

The Covid rules prevented me from seeing her in hospital but I was very lucky to be able to send her my last message of gratitude through her brother. He wrote me this evening and told me she had received my message just before she died. For this, I am eternally grateful.

Rest in peace and light, my dearest Anni. I will always love and miss you. 💔