Dear Rachel,

Today is a very big day. Today I step from childhood, into adulthood (at least legally). But being an adult is not what I want this post to be about (there will be plenty of time for that later). Today I want to tell you about something that happened to me, well, more accurately, someone that happened to me, that totally affected my childhood, teen years, and the rest of my life. Because after she came into my life, my birthdays will never be the same.

I had always loved the idea of a pen pal. It was one of those sweet, delicious, beautiful things that I dreamed about as a girl. So, when I saw that Clubhouse Magazine offered a pen-pal program, I eagerly filled out the little form with my name, address and birthday, and sent it off, anxiously waiting to see who I would be matched with.

Several weeks later, on April 23, 2002, just a few days after my twelfth birthday, I received a letter from Georgia.

Dear Ashley,

Hi! I am your Clubhouse pen pal, Rachel. I just got your name and address today and my mom said I should write you. when I looked at the thing that they sent with your address on it I saw that we have the same exact birthday (4-18-90)!

Now for some questions. What school do you go to? I’m home schooled. What do you like to do (read, sports, ect) I like to read.

Anyway, answer them and write back soon!

Bye, Rachel

It was the beginning of a long and wonderful friendship.

We would soon discover that we not only shared the same birthday, love for reading, and home schooled status, but we were also both the oldest child, we both grew up in the AWANA program, we both loved summer camp, and most importantly, we both LOVED to write. It wasn’t long before our letters grew from one page, to six. We got into an even rhythm of writing. We figured out it took a little less then a week for a letter to get from Michigan to Georgia, so sometimes it wasn’t uncommon to receive a letter every other week from Rachel. Though most of the time my procrastination would get the better of me and I would start letters and never finish them. Finish letters but never envelope them. Or envelope, address, stamp and seal them, but take forever to actually mail them. Rachel was very forgiving. I got into the habit of checking the mailbox every day for that familiar handwriting on an envelope addressed to me. Even when I knew she wouldn't have written because it was my turn to write her, I checked anyways.

Writing wasn’t our only form of communication. Early on in her letters Rachel suggested e-mail. In the early years I never received any e-mails worth mentioning, but with Rachel, I suddenly had something to look for in my inbox. Our e-mails were short and grammatically incorrect on my part (Rachel would always be responding with comments about my spelling, but I didn’t mind) but we had fun with them. We entered full-fledged into the “quiz your friends” fad of coming up with dozens of random questions such as “favorite food?” and “what's your middle name?”. We filled out and passed on every one we got, even making up our own for each other. It was wonderful to get to know the fun and interesting things about each other.

In the later years we turned to a more sophisticated form of communication and we introduced the instant message chat into our relationship. We’d spend hours together online, chatting about who knows what. Between the two of us we never seemed to run out of words.

But even with all this high fangled technology, we never lost our love for the old fashioned, handwritten letter.

You’d expect with e-mail and IM-ing our handwritten letters would become extinct, but if you think that, then you don’t know me and Rachel. Did I mention we both loved to write? There's something about a handwritten letter that says so much more then a computer font ever could. I fully believe you can know volumes about a person simply by the way they write a letter. This is something I learned from Rachel.

During all those years, we did have one phone conversation. Just one. It wasn’t very long, and it was a little awkward. I think we just knew each other so well through our writing that we didn’t know how to relate to each other through actually talking. So we stuck to writing, and it was good.

Every year we would send each other birthday and Christmas presents, usually something we had made. I loved the fact that we were able to share the same birthday, that was, and is, so special to me. We figured out that I was older, having been born at two in the morning that April 18^th day, while she wasn’t born until late at night. My birthdays were always sweeter knowing that she was celebrating too.

We would also keep a summer journal for each other, since we soon discovered that our individual summers were so jam packed with camps and vacations, that we never had time to write down everything that was happening in proper letter fashion. We didn’t start the journals until the summer we were fifteen, but it made a huge difference. We would write about our summers, then mail the journal with our Christmas presents, then return the journal for the next summer in the package with our birthday present.

One fall day, in 2006, when we were sixteen, we were chatting online, nothing exciting, just hanging out. Rachel mentioned that she probably would have to send my Christmas present late, since she was going to be leaving in a few days for a trip that would take her to Hong Kong, and she would be gone over Christmas. I told her not to worry, since at that point I hadn’t even started filling in my summer journal and could use all the time I could get. Then we started talking about her trip, and she had finally convinced me to join MySpace, since that would be the best way to keep up with her while she was away.

After she helped me get my account set up, she asked me if I’d ever tried typing my name into Google to see who else has my name. We started typing our names in and laughing about all the things I’d supposedly done. There were thousands of “Ashley Padgett”’s who had done thousands of interesting things, but when we typed “Rachel Plog” into the search bar, only one article came up, and it was actually about her, and her plans for a summer missions trip. We laughed some more about it, then said good night and logged off.

A few weeks later, on the morning of December 13^th, I woke up with Rachel on my mind. I reminded myself that I had, once again, let procrastination get the better of me, and if I accomplished nothing else that day, I would write that summer journal! But first, to check my e-mail.

As I logged in, I smiled to myself thinking about my friendship with Rachel. I didn’t know how she ever put up with me, we may have been the same in a lot of ways, but we seemed to have just as many differences. But that’s why I loved her.

I popped open my e-mail page to see a message from Rachel's address, but the subject read “From Rachel’s Dad”. I figured he must have sent a blanket e-mail to everyone in her address book to update them on her trip.

I clicked open the e-mail, excited to see what it said.

The message loaded.

I stopped breathing.

I’d never known what it was like to go into shock before. I did then. It was like slow motion. My vision closed in on the message, but I couldn’t read, I couldn’t focus on the words, those words which must be so wrong. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think anything but “No. No. No.” I couldn’t breath. I tried to reread the message, tried to convince myself that it wasn’t true. After what seemed like years I was able to regain enough sense to call for my mom and show her the message, praying she would read it and say I was reading it wrong. But her reaction told me the truth. She didn’t even have to say anything, I saw it in her face.

In that moment I broke, inside and out, and through tear blinded eyes I re-read the e-mail one more time. “As you know, Rachel went home to be with the Lord on Friday December 8.”

In a crazed state of mind, I Googled Rachel's name. In the back of my mind the memory of our last conversation tugged at me. That day when there was one lone result…today there seemed like hundreds. I learned through the obituaries that while she was in Hong Kong, Rachel's appendix had burst and there were complications during the operation.

The rest of the day was a blur, followed by and even blurrier day as Dad and I jumped in the car and drove overnight down to Georgia. In the e-mail, Rachel's dad had give the details of her memorial service, I decided I had to be there, I would never forgive myself if I missed it.

But even though I knew I had to be there, I was still so scared. What would happen? Would anyone even know who I was? Would her parents even remember that she had a penpal? Was this all a mistake? These questions haunted me as we drove, even walking into the church I was ready to turn back. But I kept going, I had to, for Rachel.

We walked into the church and the first thing I saw was a board covered with pictures of her. I took one look at it and ran around the corner. The shock was back. Dad followed me around the corner. “What's the matter?” he asked. Through harsh sobs I told him that I didn’t even know what she looked like! We had only exchanged a few photos of ourselves, and the three or four pictures I had of her were mostly from when she was nine or ten, before we even started writing! I wouldn't even recognize her if I saw her.

Dad was finally able to console me, and we entered the sanctuary. The service was beautiful, the parts I remember anyway. I watched her parents, looking for her in them, which on one hand seemed odd since I would never know her facial expressions or nervous habits, but on the other hand made perfect sense, since I knew her so well.

After the service was over, everyone went to the fellowship hall for a luncheon and to talk to Rachel's family. I dawdled, unsure as to how they would accept this strange girl who they had never met, who claimed to be one of Rachel's closets friends. As the line grew shorter, I gained a mixture of fear and assurance. I came to her dad first. I stuck out my hand and babbled something about being Rachel's penpal…"The one from Michigan? My name is Ashley, I brought some of her letters. You can look at them.” I watched his eyes, at first he gave me a look of total confusion, then suddenly a light of recognition as he said “Oh! You're the one she was keeping the journal for!” Our summer journal, yes. I had hoped they’d found it.

After that another blur began, but this was a good one, a very good one. I was introduced to Rachel's mother, who introduced me to several people, who introduced me to several more people, and so on. I felt as if I had the same conversation with everyone “So all y’all were penpals for how long? And all y’all came all the way from Michigan? And all y’all had the same birthday!? Oh my, well that’s just so great! Make sure all y’all get some fried chicken!” And while I didn’t have much opportunity to eat any food, I was overfilled with the healing that came from meeting the people of Rachel's world, and sharing memories of her with them.

Soon I realized that it was getting late, and the only people left were Rachel's family, a few aunts and uncles. I had finally healed enough to look at the pictures, I drank them in, wanting to memorize her face. Rachel's dad came up behind me and talked about a few of the pictures, then he asked if we’d like to come home with them and see her room. I turned to Dad, of course he said yes.

I could say so much about her room. It was Rachel. a large bookshelf stood against on wall FULL of books, half of which we had discussed at length, the other half I didn’t even know she liked, but I knew them all. I could see many traces of me there as well, the things I’d sent her on shelves and the walls. A basket of yarn with scarves she was making. I was wearing one of the same yarn, her last gift to me.

On the bed was a laundry basket full of notebooks. Her prayer journals. There were so many of them. Her dad excitedly picked one up at random and encouraged me to read it. I started crying again. The journal he handed me was one that I had sent her as a gift a few years before. It was now full of her familiar handwriting, and her conversations with God.

I may not have known her face, and I may not have known what she sounded like, but I knew her voice very well, I could hear it clearly through her words. I read of all the things she had written me about. I couldn’t put the book down. This was the Rachel I knew. As I read the journals, her family looked through the letters I had brought. Something her dad said as he was reading will stay with me forever. He said “You probably know Rachel in a completely different level then anyone else ever can.” I never realized it until that moment, but it’s true.

Before I left, they gave me the summer journal, telling me that she had written it for me, and she would want me to have it. I was so glad, I would have understood if they wanted to keep it, but in a way, it was the last letter I would get from her.

I opened it up to the first page of that year.

Dear Ashley,

…like last summer's stuff, I’m going into a lot of detail in stuff more for my sake than yours. Because someday, I want to be able to look back at this notebook and remember everything. Both good and bad. I want to be able later on in life to look back and see how I’ve grown as a person in these pages and after them. You know? I want to be able to say “Wow, this is where I was when I was 15 or 16 and this is where I am now.” Cause life is a journey. And I have no clue where it’s taking me this summer, but I want to remember it.

Rachel

But Rachel no longer has the need to look back, because she can look on the face of the One who made her, the One who wrote the story of her journey long ago.

Rachel found her way to her journey’s end, and she walked it well.

But my journey kept going. It was, and still is strange. I have never quite broken the habit of looking for letters in the mailbox. But I have learned through my friendship with her, just how important letters are to me, and I have been able to use that to grow and strengthen so many other friendships.

And earthly friendships aren’t the only ones that have been affected by the love of letters that Rachel taught me. Soon after her death, I realized how much I depended on her, just to write about what was going on in my life, to get it on paper and make it make sense. Suddenly I didn’t really have anyone to write. But then I realized. I have never seen Rachel face to face, I have only even heard her voice once, I had never touched or hugged her, but I knew her, how well I knew her. And what I realized is, I have never seen God face to face, I have never heard His voice, never physically touched Him. But I know He is.

So I started writing letters to God, I have filled many journals with letters to Him, and I read His letter to me in the Bible. My friendship with Rachel, helped me understand how wonderfully well you can know someone just through the written word, and this understanding helped me to develop a deep, meaningful friendship with my God. He is no longer a distant being to me, but a close friend, always near, always listening.

This year we would have been writing for nine years, almost twice as long as we did. But, even though I miss her, I find so much joy in the fact that I know, when my journey comes to an end, I will find her waiting for me. And I will run to her and hug her, and, for the first time in our friendship, we will meet face to face. I hope they have letters in Heaven.

But for now, this is my life, and life is a journey. I have no clue where it’s taking me, but I want to remember it.

Love,

Ashley