pajamas

This weekend is our annual alumni pilgrimage to Maryland.  Last night we dressed up and drove into D.C. to meet old friends at a new restaurant.  Heels and lipstick, city lights and fancy food.  It was a wonderful break from hospice visits and packed lunches eaten in my car.  Best of all was catching up with forever friends.  We bragged on our kids, talked about our jobs, our vacation plans.  We laughed and teased and hugged.  It was one of those evenings you feel lucky to have.
 I needed it.

This morning we straggled from the guest room to the kitchen in our pajamas.   Bare faces.  Dark allergy circles under the eyes, hair sticking up, sweatshirts and socks to fight the cool of the house.  We perched on bar stools and passed coffee mugs around.  The kids were still sleeping.  The house was quiet.   And the conversation was real.   We know each other's families and challenges.  Faith, frustrations, plans and hopes. The kind of conversations you have when the make-up is off and the friendships are deep.  It was one of those mornings that goes beyond lucky.  And I needed it more.

When I was a kid sleep-overs were a regular occurrence.  If my parents had to be gone, they would grab our sleeping bags and tooth brushes and drop us off at our friend's house.  We would fight sleep and wake up early to get back to play.  I remember summer weeks with my cousins, talking late into every night.  As a teenager I would plan Saturday nights with my girl friends, making caramel corn and watching movies before falling asleep on their couches.

As an grown up, I never plan sleep-overs with my friends.  I like my own bed.  I'm too busy.  And way too tired to stay up late or get up early to talk.  But sometimes they just happen.   And with them comes the intimacy of pajama conversations.

We've had them on blue couches in California, heightened by jet lag and interrupted with trips to the back yard for fresh grapefruit. We've had them in Georgia while yummy vegan pancakes were cooking on the stove.  We've had them in hotel rooms perched on all corners of the bed.  At the lake.  At the beach.  Each time, unplanned.  Unexpected.  But so rich, rewarding, and friendship building.

Earlier this week my friend Jennifer called to talk.  Between hungry children (hers) and nursing home visits (mine) we squeezed a few minutes of conversation in.  "We need to really talk."  Jennifer said.  "This waving to each other across the church once a week is not cutting it."

What we need is a pajama morning.