I spent a recent Saturday morning at St. Catherine of Siena, a beautiful, sun-filled Catholic church in my hometown — a building I drove by more times than I can possibly count but had never stepped inside before May.

When I was growing up, we attended a tiny Lutheran church the next town over — a building that changed hands almost a decade ago when a dwindling congregation made staying open unsustainable.

But my first and oldest friend, Christina, attended St. Catherine’s with her family. And when her mom died in early April, St. Catherine’s was the place they chose to hold her funeral services. Which is why I found myself there on a recent Saturday morning.

Christina’s mom, Marilyn Backe, played the clarinet and tap danced and wore her hair longer than the other moms. I thought she was one of the coolest people I ever met. I still think that.

There were years of my life when I probably spent more hours at the Backe home than my own, and the thing I remember doing more than anything at their house was laughing. Mrs. Backe took so much delight in our dumb antics and stories and jokes, or at least she pretended to. She had a way of laughing off a lot of moments that, when I look back now, as a mom, were probably pretty stressful. Three squabbling siblings to feed and raise and rein in. A neighbor kid (me) who never seemed to leave.

But the soundtrack of that house, and so much of my childhood spent there, was laughter. That’s a gift you can’t even begin to put a price on. She set a tone and a mood that lodged itself somewhere deep inside my brain, long before I could understand it consciously, about what I wanted home to feel like. What I wanted my kids’ home, once I had them, to feel like. She’s a huge part of why I parent the way I do — with the hope, always, that we enjoy each other’s company above all else.

A few summers ago I visited Mrs. Backe after a long time apart, and she sent me a Christmas card that year. On the inside, she wrote “I don’t remember your husband or kids’ names but I hope you all have a Merry Christmas.” I thought that was the most charming, honest, hilarious thing.

Mrs. Backe’s memorial was the second I attended in May. The weekend before hers, I spent the afternoon at a golf club in Elkhart, Wisconsin, celebrating the life of Roger DuClos, a longtime family friend and absolute gem of a dad who I wrote about in April.

I was able to attend both memorials with my own parents — another gift you can’t even begin to put a price on. There’s something powerful about still having your parents to comfort you when you grieve another parent-figure in your life. There’s something poignant about reaching an age — and a stage in your parent-child relationship — where the comforting starts to be mutual, maybe. Where you’re watching each other to see how the day is going, how the moments are feeling, how the memories are landing.

Meanwhile, my own kids have reached ages — 19 and almost 16 — where the frantic pace of parenting has receded a bit, giving way to more easy conversation, more marveling at their independence, even more of that laughter I so hoped for and so cherish.

All of which has me revisiting something Mary Dell Harrington, co-author of “Grown and Flown: How To Support Your Teen, Stay Close as a Family and Raise Independent Adults,” once told me.

“Our relationship with our young adults will last longer than our relationship with our adolescents and little kids, God willing,” Harrington said. “My mother’s 92. My relationship with her as a young adult and adult has lasted many more decades than when I was a kid. Over time, we’ve gone to being friends and confidants. I’ve asked her for advice, rather than her telling me what to do.”

I love that framing for a million reasons, not the least of which is how it reminds us that parenting isn’t a project that ends when you launch your kids after high school. It’s not a chapter that closes. It’s not an assignment to ace.

If we’re lucky, it’s a lifelong relationship that we get to cultivate and calibrate and celebrate as we go. And if we spend those first 18 years laying the foundation — and the tone — for the next 18 and the next 18 and the next 18, it can be something truly wonderful.

Attending the memorial services of my friends’ parents, knowing that goodbyes and grieving are going to be a growing part of my days ahead — and knowing that means I was fortunate enough to know a lot of love — give Harrington’s advice another layer of meaning.

We raise our children. And we owe them our best, truest, kindest efforts. But they also raise us. We walk through the world side-by-side, until we can’t. Her words, to me, are a reminder that there will be times our kids need to lean on us with their full weight. But there will also be times when we get to lean on them with ours.

I’ve seen that lately. I’ve understood that more fully.

Talk about a gift you can’t even begin to put a price on.

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