A friend died

yesterday. A new friend. Somebody I wanted to know better. And now it's

too late.

For a year

now, my husband and I have been members of the community club in Gay.

We meet once a month, except during the summer. Members share a meal and

catch up on local, and not so local, news. Then we all go our separate

ways until the following month.

Glenda, the

wife of the club president, is my friend who has died. At each meeting,

Daniel and I shared a table with Glenda and Jerry.

At first, I

found it odd that Glenda did not eat the meal that was prepared by the

host families. In time, I learned she was fighting colon cancer. In her

own way. On her own terms. She was an educated patient. Very informed

about her disease. Very determined to beat it.

She fought

hard. She fought in the name of Christ. She fought with all her might

and exhibited a phenomenal faith. She couldn't bear to leave her grandchildren.

She wanted to see them grow up and marry and become all they will become.

Some would

say she lost her fight. I think it is those of us who are left behind

who know real loss.

I know it has

been very hard for me to get into this column today. I feel sick inside,

disappointed with myself. I had known the first time I met Glenda that

I wanted to get to know her better, yet I put it off. I am sorry I did.

There is no

more constantly recurring theme in my writing that that which serves as

a reminder of how short life can be. You know I know better than to put

off certain things.

Glenda and

Jerry, Daniel and I, and three others were on the host committee for the

November community club meeting. She and I talked several times about

the menu. Two weeks ago I went to her home to discuss the upcoming meal

that we would prepare. I took her a red rose from the bush at my side

door.

When I handed

it to her, she stood, walked across the room and placed it in a lovely

crystal vase on the living room coffee table. As she settled breathlessly

back into her favorite chair, she told me her doctors just had given her

bad news. The tumors were growing. Fast. Only months were left, at most.

They had just told her that very morning. It was my first time in her

home.

We talked about

death.

That was only

two weeks ago. Not months. I waited too late to really get to know Glenda.

As late as last Saturday, she was determined to participate in meal preparation,

even if she had to ask her daughters to make dishes for our monthly meeting.

I said no. I insisted that she focus on her health and let her daughters

focus on her.

I wanted to

go to her side. I wanted to take advantage of the time I knew she had

left. I wanted to know her better. But I stayed away. I knew the short

time she had left belonged to her family, not to me.

So I cooked

pork loins and cheese biscuits in preparation for our meal of the month.

I coordinated with others who had offered to assist with the meal. I prepared

a short program. We had the meeting. Glenda was unable to be there. I

missed her.

On Sunday,

yesterday, Daniel and I took a long walk, then settled in to watch the

Falcons and Steelers. I had wanted us to ride over and check on Glenda

when the game was over. She only lived three miles away.

The call came

while the game was in overtime. Once more I was reminded that death waits

for no man or woman. Glenda had died in her sleep while Daniel and I had

been watching the game. I didn't even know she had gone