I have written and rewritten this blog a hundred times already. I'm not even completely sure that this version is going to make it out onto the ether. I have had this heavy load of emotions and thoughts and I've been wanting to set it down and try to make some sense of it. This particular weight has been hard to process. It's really hard to think about exposing these feelings. But here I am anyway, typing and exposing, hoping that the process of writing itself will help heal me.
This weekend I flew back home to California so that I could attend the funeral of a dear friend, Mary Cox. Mary is a main character in the story of my life. My family moved to Redondo Beach about twenty-five years ago so that my dad could be the senior pastor of St. Andrews. Mary, her husband Tom, and their four kids (Amy, Katie, Emily, and Kevin) were very involved members. Our families connected right away and became fast friends.
Amy was my regular baby-sitter, she let my brother and I jump on our parents' bed while we watched Newsies and there was literally no one in the world I thought was cooler than her. Katie, watched me a couple times as well, and I also thought she hung the moon. Emily was a year younger than me and my best pal. We terrorized our sunday school teachers (including trying to fire one, a story for another time), played handball, mermaids, and read baby-sitters club books. Kevin was my little brother's age and although he was never more than an annoyance growing up, he grew up to be someone that I respect, love, and cherish.
The Cox family was my family. Mary and my mom used to throw us all in the car weekly and take us to the beach. We vacationed to Palm Springs together. Every year we all spent a week at family camp, getting dusty and eating those Pine Valley delicacies. Tom and Mary always had a house full of us. We played ping-pong in their garage, ate salsa while trading stories in their kitchen, and they hosted more than their fair share of parties. Mary and Tom taught me how to make a card game an event. Playing hearts with them was not for the weak. That yellow house has seen it all.
Mary was a spitfire. It was said over and over at the memorial, but it bears repeating: that woman knew how to speak her mind. Gosh, this is something I wish I was better at. I'll never forget one Saturday I found myself over at the Cox's and I was waiting on Emily for something (I can't for the life of me remember what). I wandered into the backyard to talk to Mary. She was laying out in the sun, wearing her infamous blue and white polka-dot bikini. I sat next to her while she asked me about school, my relationship with God, and what I planned on doing with my life (I think I was probably around 10). I told her I didn't know and I must have said that too apathetically. Mary sat up, her short hair sticking in all directions and she proceeded to give me a lecture about using my life for something. She told me that my voice matters, that God gave it to me for a reason and I better not waste it.
Mary taught me a lot of things. She taught me how to make the world's best chocolate chip cookies (although, I do think Katie has improved upon that recipe if it's even possible). Mary taught me about fighting for what you want, whether it's a smaller dress size or a college education. She taught me what it means to really hold someone up. When Amy lost her sweet Leah, I watched Mary use every bit of strength in her to hold Amy up and when she first got her cancer diagnosis I watched as she gathered that strength again for her family.
A couple years ago, right after the diagnosis, I was standing in the Cox kitchen talking to Mary. I'd brought over dinner (because that's what we do when we don't know what to do) and she was thanking me. Once again, we got talking about life. She asked me about school (I was headed to seminary in a few months), boys (I had nothing of interest to note), and what I planned on doing with my life. I told her I wasn't sure and I hoped seminary would help me figure it out. She asked if I planned on getting ordained and I told her I wasn't sure. Then she looked me right in the eye and said, "Why not? God has given you a voice Chelsea and you better use it. We need more women in the pulpit. These men need us to point them in the right direction." I nodded, at the time not really thinking much of it. I was mostly shocked that we talking about me when she had much bigger things going on. I asked her how she was and she said she was fine (because that's what you say when you don't know what to say). She said she was worried about her family, she wanted to be there to make sure they'd all be ok and at the time we really didn't think she was going to be there for very long.
This past weekend our church was bursting at the seams to say good-bye to Mary. The church was standing room only. I sat in my pew and listened while people talked about her life and her legacy. I cried while we sang some of her favorite hymns and I laughed when we watched the slide show and I saw what joy she had in those pictures.
Tonight, as I sit on my bed, back in Seattle I can't help but think about my friend Mary. I can't help but think about the mark she leaves on my life. I think her legacy is two big things. The first is her family: Tom, Amy, Jeff, Tommy, Nic, and Kenny, Katie, Jeremy, and Owen, Emily and Mike, and Kevin, Colleen, and JP. The Cox Family- her family and my family. These are people that I can't imagine my life without and I love them with every little bit of me.
The second thing that Mary leaves me with is the knowledge that nothing in this world is as important as my faith. But Mary taught me that's got to be more than just showing up on Christmas and Easter. It means not wasting my life and using that voice of mine. A year from now I'll be graduating seminary and I plan on seeking ordination. I think Mary would be proud to know that she played an important role in helping me get there.
I love you Mary Cox- now and always.
