for Charita - an unofficial eulogy

She was the coolest girl in youth group and I was the transplanted Alabama bumpkin in my Scout Finch era, but she opened her willowy arms and welcomed me into her world. We were joined at the hip but she was much more hip that I. She tied her shirts above her belly button and I wore smocked yellow gingham baby-doll tops. She layered graphic tee's (before we called them that) with snap-front brown and orange color-blocked western shirts; I dressed in homemade granny prints. She wore high waisted-jeans with a madras plaid shirt and matching flat-top hat. I did not.

We danced around her room singing this new song called Crocodile Rock by a guy named Elton. We invented the big birthday cookie - sorry, Great American Cookie Factory - we were first! We "sold" the Brinegar's house almost every weekend. And we cruised down Stratford Road, looping between The Triangle and Putt-Putt over and over before pulling into Thruway to see The Pink Panther Strikes Again (Does your dog bite?) Matt McH filled out the long bench front seat between us - birthday triplets, born the same week in January, celebrating the freedom of being 16. Charita drove. Of course.

Our faith stories were written by the light of campfires across the state from Lurecrest to Laurel Ridge; in the icy stream that ran beside the Pass family's mountain cabin; in the warm sands of Wrightsville Beach. We rode on church busses that broke down frequently, forded streams and carried all us sojourners deep into the rare air that was Calvary in the 70's. We sang and dreamed and had no idea how special it all was. We were innocent and wise. And wonderfully wonder-filled.

Haiti opened our eyes to the world - as much as a chartered plane and matching brown polyester dresses allowed. Poverty and need rolled past the bus windows as the missionary's son tossed nickels into the street. The Iron Market was frighteningly exotic, the home of the voodoo woman was just frightening, and we came home a little shaken. We had painted the rooms of an orphanage and Haiti had inked herself onto us, a bittersweet tattoo. We grew up a little there. And before long we grew apart.

Different plans, different cities, different paths. I went to Raleigh, she went to Randolph. I bounced around, she stayed put. I read on the beach, she parasailed. I went to seminary, she went skydiving. She never aged out of cool girl status. Frequent messages, infrequent face to face times. Thankful today for every message and moment. Wishing there had been more; wishing there could be more to come. Her last message a few weeks ago held hope of seeing each other this summer.

She spoke a little in her last days, I'm told. "I love her," she said upon hearing my name. This gift has shattered me. And put me back together.

She was Laverne. And I was Shirley. These are the names we called each other ever since we sang the TV theme song in the camp talent show one year. Until last Friday. Charita Teal is now officially the coolest girl in heaven. And I am still the bumpkin who loves her with all of my 16-year-old heart. Goodnight, Laverne. Love, Shirl. Selah.

That song we sang? It's called Making Our Dreams Come True.

1–2–3–4–5–6–7–8,

Schlemiel

Schlimazl

Hasenpfeffer Incorporated!

We’re gonna do it!

Give us any chance, we’ll take it!

Give us any rule, we’ll break it!

We’re gonna make our dreams come true-we’re gonna do it!

Nothing’s gonna turn us back now.

Straight ahead, we’re on the track now!

We’re gonna make our dreams come true-doing it our way!

There is nothing we won’t try,

Never heard the word “impossible “.

This time, there’s no stopping us- we’re gonna do it!

On your mark, get set, and go now.

Got a dream, and we just know now-

we’re gonna make that dream come true.

And we’ll do it our way, yes, our way.

Make all our dreams come true, for me and you.

Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel