My friend Bronwyn went home to be with the Lord on 16 March 2023, following a long battle with breast cancer. In the days following her passing, I was looking through my archives, trying somehow to trace the well-worn path of our friendship. I could only find one picture of the two of us in a frame. It seems we were too busy to actually take photos together. I do, however, still have numerous letters and cards she wrote to me over the years. In celebration of her life and faith in Jesus, I chose to pen my farewell in letter-form, as was our tradition.

“Bronwyn Emma Exner: wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend.”

Friend, I was blessed to be in that last category.

We first met in the winter of 2008, on an orthopaedics ward round. You, the intrepid occupational therapist; me, the green intern. That first time I saw you on said ward round, you were wearing a headwrap. I, too, used to wear headwraps, but I’d never seen a white girl rock one. In fact, in a moment of cognitive dissonance, I reasoned you must be a reaaaallllly light-skinned Muslim girl (it was the only thing that made sense; we were in Paarl, after all). Then I heard that your surname was Exner, and I was confused again. Jewish, maybe?! I carried on with my day, and my many assumptions.

Until you came up to me one day. With PURPOSE and DIRECTNESS. (I saw the same glint in your eyes when you tried to get me to buy a wetsuit for surfing later on. It was the tell-tale sign that you had decided on something. And you weren’t going to let it go.)

Anyways, you said, “Hi! I saw you at your church on Sunday. We should have coffee sometime.”

And in that short exchange, a couple of surprises:

1. A fellow Christian!
2. A fellow English speaker! In the very Afrikaans town of Paarl!
3. What just happened? Did she just forcefully yank me out of my shell?!

And so began almost 15 years of friendship: over brownies and coffee at Spur on a Wednesday night. (I think Spur was the only restaurant open at night at Paarl Mall.) On that first date, I learned 2 (or 3) more things about you.

Firstly, you loved Jesus. Deeply.  

Secondly, you had ditched Franz to spend an evening with a stranger, an unusual thing for a young married woman to choose to do.

Thirdly, you let me in on the story behind the headwrap. At 25, you had already done battle with breast cancer, and had come out on the other side.

Meeting you boggled my mind more than a little. Here you were, a young woman, who had walked through the valley of the shadow of death – as a Christian – and you were boldly proclaiming the Lord’s praise on the other side. You shattered my delusion that being a follower of Christ means a life free of pain, sickness or trials. (I know. What Bible had I been reading?) You blessedly challenged my theology, by just being you. I’ve said (well, written) it to you before, but I’ll say it again: I cannot overstate the deep admiration I have felt for you since the beginning of our friendship.

You and Franz had recently moved to Paarl too, and were in search of a church home that Sunday y’all spotted me at church. You eventually found good family within Paarl Valley Baptist church community, but because you had DECIDED to befriend me, I became an unofficial member of both the Paarl chapter of the Exner clan, and the Baptists.

You were a fireball of energy, and roped me into so many activities. So. Many. Activities. Braais, dinners at home, Old Testament survey classes, even a hike up Table Mountain. All the activities that you can imagine would make an introverted and sedentary person cringe.

You boldly confronted life, while I was content to tiptoe around the edges; and you dragged my skeptical self right along with you. We were almost comical opposites. My reluctance was surface-level only. Secretly, I really enjoyed seeing you live, and being part of it all. Except the sports. An entire me in the church volleyball league was never going to happen, sis.

You generously allowed your couch to become my regular post-call crashing place (sorry, Franz). You also liked to experiment in the kitchen. Sometimes, literal science experiments. (Ma’am, that kefir??? Your rusks were straight fire, though!)

Thank you for allowing me to share in it all, as if I were part of the family.

When we found out the Bean was on his way, the beginning of the family you had cried out to the Lord for, like Hannah, I joined in your joy and excitement. (Confession: I may or may not have tracked the weeks along with you).

The day your eldest was born, and you were excitedly recounting how at some point after the spinal went in, you couldn’t swallow properly, but that the spinal was now wearing off, and how wonderful was the IV pain medication…You were overjoyed, I felt mild horror. (Ma’am, how were you excited that you had a high spinal?! Your youngest’s birth was much less eventful. Thankfully.)

When I was accepted into a training post at UCT, you were cheering me on. And fed me during exam crunch time. Thank you, friend.

When those yearly follow-ups that you had with your oncologist came back clear: joy.

I remember asking you once how it was having to go through that yearly appointment/process of scans and medical examinations. You said, “It feels like I have a sword at my neck, that I could get bad news at any moment. But in a way, it’s a blessing. All of us actually live with the sword of mortality hanging over us. I just happen to keenly know it.”

Your answer, and your faith in God’s goodness and His perfect will, stuck with me. I might also have passed your words on to others without your knowledge. Your words and life held a weight and authority that I admire. Still.

When the yearly follow-ups were downgraded to a 5-year follow-up: joy again. And probably another coffee date at your place.

Work and family eventually took me back to Tshwane (at least it wasn’t Witbank this time), and with the distance, we were only privy to glimpses of one another’s lives. Updates on the boys growing up, Franz being ordained into the ministry, the end of the Rusty and Biscuit era.

And then.

The news came that your journey with the oncologists would need to resume.

Of course, you had many moments where you verbalised your annoyance, mostly at being restricted from doing stuff and being outdoors; living.  But praise for the Lord’s unending goodness in the midst of trial, was nearly always the next phrase out of your mouth. To me, and anyone who had the honour of knowing you, you were an example of joy in affliction, of patience in suffering.

You were determined to take on this new battle on your own terms. To be able to live as much life as you could, to be as present with your 3 guys as possible. To search for as many alternatives as you could find, so as not to be constantly worn down by chemotherapy.

And you lived, friend.

With a single-minded focus that above all, Jesus would be glorified through your life.

Your final Instagram post (the one where you revealed that you were entering the palliative phase, preparing for the rough landing, as you put it) ended with you imploring all who saw your post, to put their trust in the saving work of Jesus Christ.

In our last text message exchange, your last concern and prayer request, was not for yourself, but for you husband and the children. Your last Instagram story post, was a picture of those two young men, the ones you loved and desired way before they became a reality.

You lived.

And your children will stand and bless you.  Her husband praises you. “There are many virtuous and capable women in the world, but you surpass them all.” 

Your memorial service was beautiful, friend. There was a profusion of Barberton daisies (I’m sure you planned that). The hall was full of people whose lives you had touched, who walked those final months with you.

There was a roving mic during your memorial. Many people spoke. Of how you impacted their lives, and pointed so many to Christ, our living hope.

It was so strange seeing your mom and dad, twin sister and brother, without you in the mix. It was haunting, and yet comforting, to hear the echoes of your voice in your sister’s.

Your firstborn, our erstwhile Bean (when exactly did he get this big?), shared yet one more story of your determination, this time, to get on a surf board, your last December.

Franz’s eulogy… well, there was a point during his eulogy when the rain on the corrugated roof sounded like an applause, almost drowning out his words. Like the Lord Himself planned it.

Your youngest gave me a marshmallow egg afterwards. You taught him well.

I’m sorry, friend. I didn’t trust myself to speak that day. I chose to rather write you one last letter (sorry, I’m still long-winded), like we’re having another coffee date in our old age.

As I was looking through my archives for photos I have of you, I came across one of the many cards you gave me, this one from 2009. You wrote 2 Peter 1:1-14 at the end. So, I went ahead and read it again (one time for my homegirl).

Simon Peter, a servant and apostle of Jesus Christ,

To those who through the righteousness of our God and Savior Jesus Christ have received a faith as precious as ours:

² Grace and peace be yours in abundance through the knowledge of God and of Jesus our Lord.

³ His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. ⁴ Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature, having escaped the corruption in the world caused by evil desires.

⁵ For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; ⁶ and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; ⁷ and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love. ⁸ For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. ⁹ But whoever does not have them is nearsighted and blind, forgetting that they have been cleansed from their past sins.

¹⁰ Therefore, my brothers and sisters,^[a] make every effort to confirm your calling and election. For if you do these things, you will never stumble, ¹¹ and you will receive a rich welcome into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

¹² So I will always remind you of these things, even though you know them and are firmly established in the truth you now have. ¹³ I think it is right to refresh your memory as long as I live in the tent of this body, ¹⁴ because I know that I will soon put it aside, as our Lord Jesus Christ has made clear to me.

And now, these words have clicked into place, like you’re speaking them to me in 2023 again. Like Peter, you were that friend who would refresh my memory, and remind me, us, of the calling we have received, as we await our welcome into the eternal kingdom of our Lord Jesus Christ. (And that verse 14 is hitting a little too close now, friend.) What a rare and precious gem you were. You have run your race. You are at rest. You have no more pain, only joy in His presence.

You lived.

And you have surely heard Jesus say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant…Come and share in your Master’s happiness.”

You now form a part of that great cloud of witnesses of whom the Apostle Paul wrote, cheering us on to throw off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that easily entangles us; passionately yelling that we should run with endurance the race God has set before us, keeping our eyes on Jesus, the Author and Perfecter of our faith.

And we, who watched firsthand how you ran your race, will continue to encourage your sons, and one another, to do the same. 

Until we meet again, dear friend.

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