friendship – PastorPDC.com

Every now and then people come into our lives, leaving a footprint so large, it feels bigger than our whole self. I admit those relationships are rare. I will also admit not all of those footprints are positive. I know far too many people whose lives have been forever altered because of someone whose impact has been violently abusive – physically, emotionally, or spiritually. However, I digress. I have zero desire to discuss the negative footprints left on my back or upon my heart.

I am 46 years old, and over the course of my journey I have come into contact with only four or five people I have totally and fully trusted with every aspect of my life. Considering the thousands of people I have known and encountered, those percentages are pretty small. Of that small group, only one is a part of my journey today. The rest are gone – either deceased or having the trust I placed in them and relationship itself broken seemingly beyond repair.

I met Dave back when we were both teenagers growing up in Georgia, attending church camp together in what must be the hottest damn place on earth (Gordon, Ga.). At the time, I am guessing neither of us suspected our lives would have been so intertwined later in life. Our time in grad school overlapped, and while the congregations we served were separated by geography, we stayed in constant contact and conversation over the last seven to eight years of his life.

Dave died on June 27^th of 2016.

He died by suicide.

I spoke at his funeral; one of several granted that honor. For those last several years, I considered Dave to be my best friend – my “go to” in issues of life and work and of course, the Atlanta Falcons.

Every game day Dave and I would begin our pregame ritual of texting trash talk about the opponent. We both hated the Cowboys (dating back to the 1978 season). We referred to the Saints as “the Taints.” Not surprisingly, that was the nicest of names we had for our opponents. Our dream was to somehow find a way – either by podcast or perhaps selling our souls – to do play-by-play and color commentary of a Falcons game. It would have to be on cable; it would be the most inappropriate thing you have ever heard.

This has been an anxious week and fall for me.

On Sunday, the Falcons play the Packers in the NFC Championship. I want a win.

Falcons Logo, 1966-1989

Honestly, after the last 7 months, I think karma owes me a win. All week – as has been the case all season – I have wanting to pick up the phone and text my friend. To talk trash about Aaron Rodgers. To make awful and offensive jokes and comments about the people of Wisconsin. I have wanted to do that all season – every Sunday or Monday or Thursday or Saturday – whenever the game was scheduled. I wanted to talk about sweeping the Taints and the … the … well, the Panthers.

I am anxious because I want my team to win. I am anxious because I miss my friend terribly, and I wish he were here to share this with me.

On a deeper level, this is not about football.

This is about friendship.

What a rare and precious thing true friendship is. This is also about love. I think love – in its most beautiful and purest form is even more rare.

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has a greater love than this, to lay down ones life” for those they love.

Of those four or five I mentioned earlier, there has been a time (and still is for one), when I have been willing to lay down all that is precious and sacred in life for the sake of the other. I say that, but then again, I have never had to face it. Never have I had to make the decision.

Social media has allowed – if not forced – us to redefine the meaning of “friend.” Today, it could mean someone you see everyday; it could mean someone you have not seen since high school; it can now even mean the person separated by 6 degrees of relationship and have never met. Most often, our friends are those who share our interests and even our core values. While those are often the foundation for friendship, they are not required.

I consider many people who have differing values than I to be friends of mine. Often there is disagreement, debate, and even argument – but there is always respect. There is respect because there is friendship. Because there is love.

It is now 24 hours until kickoff between the Falcons that those #$@%*&$ cheeseheads from up North. I miss my friend and I wish like hell he had been here for the season for us to share. I miss the banter. I miss the inappropriate comments. I miss the celebrations in victory and the agony found within defeat. I hope they win. I hope our defense does unimaginable, biblically based things to the opposing quarterback, that until a few years ago, were illegal in the state of Georgia.

I want them to win. I want them to win for my late father – who was once my best friend – the one who first introduced me to the game of football, my love for the Falcons, and instilled in me the behaviors I exhibit while watching a game.

I want them to win for my children – each who has had to grow up dealing with a father who loves football greatly and when asked if he loves football more than them, has been met with prolonged silence.

I want them to win for me. I want them to win for my late friend, who was one of those few I would trust with anything and everything in my life, and who trusted me equally. I want them to win #ForDave.

I just cleaned two, half-eaten muffins off the kitchen counter, and it almost brought tears of joy to my eyes. I know that sounds strange. On one hand, the muffins – while delicious – were not homemade, per se. They came in a pouch, just add water, egg, stir and cook. The significance was in their simplicity and what they came to symbolize. They are left over gifts from my son to his new friends. A sign of hospitality and welcome. A sign of friendship.

Last summer, my family made what was technically our third move in three years. We moved from Georgia to Illinois and then I moved to St. Louis alone to take a job, while my wife and the two children we share together stayed in Illinois. Then this past summer we bought a house and everyone moved back together. It has been quite a journey of transition, especially for my 8 year old son, Liam.

Liam is a beautiful child – filled with love and joy and imagination and humor. He is filled with compassion and care for animals, the environment, and other people, though there’s some political leaders he does not care much for, and he lets his opinions be made known. He has some issues with speech which are being addressed, but he also has difficulty making friends – in large part, I believe, to the depth of his imagination and the ways in which he retreats into himself and into those new worlds he creates in his head.

Liam had some really good friends back in Georgia, and even though he was in Illinois for only three years, he made some close friendships there, as well. Missouri has been hard for him. Here, he is learning what it means to be in the minority in terms of ethnicity and experience. Others have bullied him due to the color of his skin, assuming he feels superior because he is white. It has been a difficult period of adjustment for him, and there are days when you sense the light and joy has diminished from his eyes. Like many of us, Liam feels loneliness at times.

When buying our home, one of his conditions was to live in a neighborhood where other children lived. Right after we moved in, the house across the cul-de-sac was put on the market and all of us, especially Liam, kept a watchful eye as the house was being shown. It was his prayer (and ours on his behalf) that a family with children would move in and he would have the opportunity form relationships with new peers and experience the kinds of friendships many others have.

Our prayers were answered when the house closed just prior to Christmas, and the family moving in had children! Liam and his mother stood in our dining room looking out the window with great joy and excitement! Within days, introductions were made and a play-date was set! The new family consisted of a husband and wife, over 20 years apart in age, her daughter (age 9), and often his granddaughter (age 4). There were promises to get together soon. Liam was over the moon. Every day he asked, “When will my new friend come over?” “Why didn’t she come over to play today?” For him, “soon” meant “now.”

When the day finally came, there was great excitement in our home. It was a Saturday morning, everyone was awake, and as is her Saturday custom, my wife made breakfast for everyone. Included in our meal, a pan of blueberry muffins. Between the four of us, 6 of the 8 muffins were consumed that morning. The other two sat in the pan.

“I know what,” said Liam. “We can save them for August and Jaden.” Liam went into the kitchen and took the muffins out of the pan and with great care, placed them on a small plate and set them aside.

Three hours later, when his new friends arrived it was like a scene from Downton Abbey. Liam showed them in and walked them to the den. As introductions were being made between adults, Liam quietly went to the kitchen, retrieved the plate of now slightly stale muffins, and presented them to his guest with grace and dignity. “We have snacks. Would you like a muffin?”

Both guests took a muffin, each taking a small bite and placed them back on the plate. The muffins were soon forgotten as the children headed to the basement to play and begin creating a new friendship.

“And Jesus, gathered with his disciples, took the blueberry muffin, broke it and said, ‘Take and eat. This is for you. You are my guest, and I welcome you.’”

(1 Corinthians 11:24, paraphrased)

blueberry-muffin There is indeed something beautiful and sacramental about sharing, giving, and hospitality. About welcoming strangers into safe and sacred space with the hope and anticipation that friendship will blossom. Hospitality is about hope – hope fulfilled and hope formed. Sometimes it comes in a place of worship with pastors and priests and smells and bells. Sometimes it comes in the comfort of home with blueberry muffins.

The muffins were never finished. They sat on the counter for the remainder of the visit, and so I threw them away. That is ok. They served their purpose. They nourished a little boy and his new friends. Those muffins led to prayer and hope being answered.

I like to look for the sacred and the holy within the mundane and every day. I think it is to be found there more often than in the high and mighty steeples and sanctuaries. On a Saturday in January, I found the sacred and the holy right there in my living room – in a pouch of common muffins – and in the hospitable acts of a child desiring friendship.

Tag: friendship

#ForDave (#RiseUp)

Leftover Muffins