I mentioned yesterday that we helped a friend move this weekend.  She is truly a beautiful women on the inside and out.

Helping people move is not my idea of fun, but when she told me she bought a new home I didn’t even wait for her to ask.  Instead I said when are you moving, we’ll be there!  And of course, Mr. MPB was thrilled when I said we and clearly volunteered him too.

As we helped her move on Saturday, at one point I stood back and smiled.  I realized, I was witnessing a huge part of her life transition.  I almost felt as though  I watched a beautiful bird find her way through a thorn bush to take flight for the first time.  I was honoured to be there with her as she literally moves on to a future full of love and hope.

The thing about her and I is that we make no sense as friends.  Our paths in life crossed a few years ago through work.  We spent countless hours together, often traveling and even sharing hotel rooms.  We are no where close to being in the same place in our lives – I’m actually probably closer to her children’s age then I am her’s.  We are completely different individuals, in almost every way.

Yet, I almost feel like we were destined to meet when we did.  When we met our lives appeared normal and we were both independently happy.  And yet, we’ve been there for each other through our own individual versions of hell.

The last few years of her life have been hard.  She left a bad marriage with almost nothing more then the clothing on her back.  I stood with her the night she left, she cried in my arms.  She had nothing, and so I showed up with life necessities like mugs, cups and a tea kettle.  I stocked her cupboards and fridge with food.  Mr. MPB and I brought her furniture and he spent hours hanging up curtain rods and leveling picture frames while she and I drank a few too many glasses of wine.  We watched her turn her crappy rental in a bad part of town into a beautiful home.

Instead of spending her first Christmas alone, she joined us – we ate, we drank and we even smiled and laughed.

Today, I can proudly say that she’s survived a brutal divorce with more grace and elegance then I suspect most could muster.  I’ve watched her date new men. I’ve watched her break up with some.  I’ve watched her follow her heart, throw caution to the wind and fall in love again.  I’ve watched her reemerge to a new and happier version of the women she was when we first met.

And yet, all the while, she’s stayed invested in our friendship.  She celebrated pregnancies with me.  When she’d check in and I refused to answer text because I couldn’t bring myself to share our heartbreaking news she’d call Mr. MPB to see what she could do to help pick me back up.  When I called her to chat, she’d listen and she’d offer me a hug and words of advice.

She gets my sarcasm.  She puts up with my dark humor.  She takes my 3am phone calls.  She tolerates my stubborn tendencies.

And more then anything, she knows me and accepts me for the true person I am, just as I do her.  She’s one of the very few people in my real-life who knows about my blog.  She knows about my deepest secretes and my scariest thoughts, the ones I struggle to articulate and even write about.  She questions me and pushes me to dig deeper, but never to be hurtful or judgmental.

When she could have judged, she chose not.  Instead, she made it safe for me to share my most vulnerable self. She encouraged me and supported all of our decisions, even when she probably didn’t agree with them.

She helps me be a better person.

She supports me through and through.

She loves me for who I am, faults and all.  And for that I will always be grateful.

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