Letting go: Another view

Yesterday I let go of a friend. I fought it all the way.

Yesterday my friend was buried after a short but extremely ferocious battle with cancer. We were the same age.

Sandee had passed away one week before. None of us were ready. Not her sister, nor her father, nor the extensive network of friends she had accumulated during her extraordinary life.

And certainly not her son, the light of her life, the infant she'd adopted as a single parent when he was three days old. How could 12 short years with her prepare him for her absence?

Sandee was nutz about her son. She radiated love for him, in every look and in every conversation. Yet his addition to her life only magnified the light Sandee beamed out every day.

Sandee had enjoyed a successful career as a journalist before moving into the world of Public Relations. She sought a lifestyle with better hours and more stability. The transition was part of her preparation for the role she knew she was destined to embrace: Mother.

She saw no greater calling. And not just for herself. This woman of boundless, centered faith created a ministry at her church to support caring adults who were drawn to adopt African American children, especially boys. She knew that there were all kinds of families who could nurture children and raise them to reach their potential.

Sandee and son were quite a team. Her love was unconditional, and she loved him enough to set boundaries and expectations. Her confidence in his future was unlimited.

At the beginning of his eulogy, Sandee's pastor did something I'd never experienced before. He asked the congregation to rise and "give God a hand" for blessing us with the life of Sandra. The applause went on for almost two minutes. The catharsis was immense.

And in that moment of celebration, in an environment filled with light and love, an environment that was so authentic to the spirit of my friend, I let go of my anger at the loss of her physical presence. I let go of the Sandee I had known. I realized that her spirit would stay with all of us. She would never let us go.