Honestly, Sandie

Gemstones 19/30

Unakite is a stone made from separate minerals that never lose themselves. Green epidote. Pink feldspar. Clear quartz. Each one is still recognizable on its own, but together they become something stronger than they ever could have been apart. It’s durable enough to be used in buildings, walkways, and even the steps of the Smithsonian. Most people pass right over it without giving it a second thought, never realizing they’re standing on something built to last.

Her baby daddy handed me a tiny torn piece of white paper with her name and phone number written on it.

“Would you call her?”

It was… strange.

I didn’t know him all that well yet, and I definitely didn’t know her. Looking back, I think he saw something in both of us that we couldn’t see yet ourselves. She’d been through a lot. Life wasn’t exactly staying between the lines, and she probably needed someone who wasn’t interested in fixing her or judging her. Just someone willing to show up.

The little piece of paper sat for about a week before I finally sent a text.

“Hey, this is Sandie. Your baby daddy gave me your number and told me I should say hi.”

She answered that she thought the whole thing was weird too… but she also couldn’t shake the feeling that she should text me back.

Girl.

Same.

That little scrap of paper is still pinned to my bathroom wall.

It makes me smile every time I notice it because who could have guessed that something so ordinary would become the beginning of one of the friendships that would leave fingerprints all over my life?

She came into my world carrying a lot of weight, but that was never the first thing I saw when I looked at her. I saw a mom who loved her kids. I saw someone funny, stubborn, smart, and wildly capable. I saw someone worth knowing.

Life wasn’t a straight line for her. There were seasons when she seemed to be finding solid ground. There were seasons when I lost track of her for a while. Then she’d find her way back into my life again, and we’d pick up where we left off.

There was never a scorecard.

There was never a speech.

Just another cup of coffee, crunchy ice, and chips and salsa waiting if she happened to stop by.

During our internship, we spent months together almost every day. We’d sit through the lessons, then spend hours cleaning, organizing, setting up for conferences, tackling projects, and doing whatever needed to be done. She was raising little ones, staying with friends across the river, somehow getting herself and her youngest daughter ready every morning and still showing up ready to work.

She wasn’t much of a rule follower.

Neither was I.

That probably explains a lot.

One of our internship challenges was hiking Badger Mountain.

I was not excited.

The younger ones were marching up the trail carrying on full conversations while I was over there negotiating with my lungs. They kept talking about the beautiful view, and I remember thinking, “I’d love to look around, but right now I’m busy trying not to die.”

I finally turned around and said, “Get behind me and don’t let me stop walking.”

She did.

Every time I slowed down, she was right there.

“What do you need?”

“You can push me if you want.”

She laughed, but she stayed behind me all the way up that mountain.

That’s who she was.

She had this quiet way of believing you could do something before you believed it yourself.

Those months gave us so much more than an internship. We learned each other’s stories. We challenged each other. We didn’t always agree. When she decided it was time to leave, I tried talking her out of it because I still believed staying was the right thing to do. She listened to me with kindness, but she also knew what her family needed. Years later, I understand that conversation very differently than I did back then.

She taught me something without ever trying to.

Sometimes wisdom looks like knowing when it’s time to go.

I don’t know where life has taken her these days.

I don’t know if she’s drinking coffee every morning or if she still asks for crunchy ice.

I hope she still smiles when someone sets down a basket of chips and salsa.

What I do know is this.

She still has a place here.

Some friendships don’t disappear because time passes. They simply wait without demanding anything. They leave the porch light on. They keep a seat at the table.

If this ever finds you, I’ll still answer the phone.

I’ll still have chips and salsa.

I’ll probably have crunchy ice too.

This song, Growing Sideways, made me think of us. Not because our story has been perfect, but because growth doesn’t always happen in a straight line. Sometimes it happens sideways, in circles, in seasons, and through people who quietly keep believing you’re worth waiting for.