April is my favorite month of the year. How could it not be? An abundance of flowering plants are in full bloom, trees are leafing out along the highway, and the dread of freezing rain or a late frost has been replaced by the promise of renewal.

It's also my birthday month, along with those of a number of friends. And I was looking forward to putting together a joint celebration. There was much to be grateful for as I looked forward to going to Oak Island for Easter. But, my plans unexpectedly changed.

My brother and sister-in-law have lived on Oak Island for 30 years. I had recently been extremely happy to learn they intended to stay there. In the troubling interval since my father passed away last September, that had loomed as a question mark.

Since they seldom travel, I was surprised but pleased to hear they were going to be away at Easter. Jean has family in Valdosta, Ga., and they had been begging them to come down. I assured them I was delighted they were going. After all, I had every reason to rejoice and be glad.

Unofficially, Easter Monday is the start of my own personal planting frenzy. And, during the day, I had rigidly resisted the urge to check the growing number of messages on my answering machine. I had taken my shower and set the table before I got to the third one. My longtime writer friend and N.C. Writers Conference roommate, Betty Hodges, had passed away earlier in the day.

On Saturday, April 10, I found myself sitting once again beside Annella Roxanne at St. Phillip's Episcopal Church in Durham. Ruth Moose and Valerie Yow, from Chapel Hill, were two rows in front of us. We had all attended a memorial service there in December for Betty's husband, Ed.

She was in a wheelchair, but still inspiring as she fought what would be her last battle with ovarian cancer. How easy it had been to accurately predict she would be gone within six months. Perhaps that was why we were accepting and painfully composed.

But then, during Holy Communion, Annella leaned over to grasp my hand and whisper, "There's Shelby."

I don't know what it was about seeing Shelby Stephenson, a poet and teacher at UNC Pembroke, that caused both us to start crying. Was it his farm-boy face and ragged gait? Was it his unruly reddish-blond, graying hair or the familiar rumpled tan suit? He had driven from Johnston County because, as he said when we gathered in a circle after the committal, "Our numbers are dwindling." The reason was in those words.

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in The Village Chapel and explaining to a steadfast member why I had missed the previous Sunday service. When I told him I had been at the Harness Track Races, he volunteered that he used to go to them before his first wife passed away. Then, he said softly, "It was another season in my life."

I celebrated my birthday for a month. And, as for the big affair, it was more than I had hoped. The finale was a trip to Durham to see "Wicked" at the Durham Performing Arts Center. It was a treat for another birthday girl, my best friend, Suzanne.

The play wasn't what I had expected for a Broadway musical. It was only occasionally funny. And the closing number about meaningful relationships was so touching that both Suzanne and I wiped tears from our eyes.

April was a season unto itself this year and will be long remembered for bringing forth once again its beautiful and bountiful garden of budding and ripening friendships.

And for another, though lovingly attended, that grew soil bare - wilted and turned to dust.

Contact Southern Pines writer Lois Holt at lholt79@nc.rr.com.