when friend became a verb

Last night, while making an attempt to be understood in the fewest possible words on someone's Facebook post, with questionable success, I became aware of a post searching for a childhood friend's address so he can be invited to our upcoming high school class reunion. Similar to the thinking one uses when one tries to find missing keys, the online conversation had to do with where anyone had seen him last. The last day I remember seeing him was the day of our high school graduation. I remember running up to him out on the lawn and hugging him, knowing that even though we were from the same home town, there was no guarantee we would ever see each other again.

We had become friends perhaps in part because we grew up a couple of miles from each other on farms. Since our parents knew each other and we attended the same church in town, our friendship was convenient if nothing else, especially when we were sent to the Catholic school for first grade and would have to ride back and forth with each other's mother. We spent many hours playing outside as children who grow up in the country do. It was more than that though as we made our way through the difficulties of navigating the school social scene. We were friends with each other when others were not friends with either of us. As long as we at least had each other, it seemed ok. We could add others to our childhood games but there was an unspoken trust of friendship between us that was not broken.

After going to kindergarten through eighth grade together in our small country school across the road from my family's cherry orchard, we headed to the only high school in our tiny town where all of the outlying country schools would offer up their students. Friendship took on new meaning as we were suddenly thrown together with other groups of kids who had known each other since their first day of school. Finding one's place and status was a confusing process and being a one-friend kind of girl most of the time, I often was unsure who to call my friend and who I was better off not qualifying in that way. And even though we often ended up in different places with different people, I knew if I were to ever need anything, I could call on him. He was still my friend.

Going to college changed everything. Some friends were getting married while I was staying up all night studying. Others were taking over their family farms or heading off to serve our country while I dreamed of pursuing something bigger than the confines of small town life. Keeping in touch demanded a great deal of time and effort before modern technology and unless I was coming home and making a point of visiting old friends who had decided to continue their lives there, we would part ways and have only the memories to live on.

High school reunions are a bit of a cliche and yet the older I get the more interested I become in attending. What I once thought I had to prove about success has faded, along with the color of my hair as the gray/white strands are becoming more numerous around the edges of my face. Looking a certain way or having a certain career become blurred like my vision. What once seemed so important has had several decades to change its mind. What remains is a connection with a person who knows me. Someone who remembers what I was like before life happened. Someone I have always called friend.

But now that friend has become a verb, everything is different--again. What was once a term reserved for the most special people in my life, can be applied to a mere acquaintance or even a customer eager to do business with me. We no longer befriend someone. We friend them by requesting that they become our Facebook "friends" and invite them to this somewhat imaginary world of ridiculous posts featuring cats, political statements and motivational quotes. We act as if this is real friendship. We want to believe that it is. Because if it is not, we will have to face the fact that the hundreds of people who have accepted our friend requests may not really be all that close to us. We may only have a handful of people we can call when someone dies or we really need to talk or be reminded that we are loved.

My friend was found on Facebook and by the end of the night I had summoned the courage to invite him to be my friend . . . again.

more

It isn't that contentment is impossible or happiness elusive. It isn't that my hopes and dreams are always frustrated. I don't even let feelings of failure totally overshadow everything I do. But if I'm going to be honest, I need to say that I often want more.

More colors in the sky before the sun starts to peek through the trees at the beginning of another day. More quiet in the morning to so I can consider life before needing to leave my rocking chair, put away my book and start living life in all of its persistently loud, impatient, sound bite ways. Never do I long for more hurriedness or more work. I am not looking for more activities to fill up my calendar. Like my childhood preoccupation with arranging small rocks on the side of the hill near our house to create villages of people, naming them, and forming them into a community, I still like to consider how we can fit our lives together in ways that will meet our needs. It takes time to think about these sorts of things. More time.

I especially long for more on the rare occasion that a conversation takes on a life of its own and cannot be stopped by the hands of a clock, numbers on a screen or even an alarm--the kind of conversation that develops when the tasteless cardboard texture of small talk is replaced by the deep and complicated flavors of something worth savoring. New ideas are explored and laughter ensues. Explanations, reminiscences, and misunderstandings that require a step back and then two steps forward all factor into this grand feast of sharing between two people. One of the reasons I ever studied journalism was because I was fascinated with the process of two people taking turns to talk and to listen. Not the yes or no answers that come with the poorly planned questions, but the full disclosure that comes when someone feels listened to. It is a gift we give when we put aside what we want to say in an effort to let the other person express what is on his or her heart. An act of giving that leaves me wanting more.

So I intentionally try to be present in the moment, hoping my underlying motive of wanting more can be unnoticed and temporarily extinguished, like a candle put out before it completely burns down. I can then pretend to not feel disappointment when time passes so quickly my ability to comprehend, much less savor, the experience has suddenly come to an end. At some point I have to take a deep breath and recognize a certain amount of pain will always exist in having to say good-bye to someone or for a meaningful experience to end. As the childhood game of hide and seek that I would play with my cousins would finally get going as we would constantly invent variations to make the game more fun, we would always hear our mothers calling us to come back into the house too soon. It is not that different now, except I am the one who has to round up my family to end whatever it is they are doing to rejoin the dailyness of life. The sun has to set and though I become aware that it is time to put all of the ideas and words that dance around in my head all day to bed, they sometimes resist rest and continue speaking in the form of dreams. At three in the morning I awake mid-sentence, transitioning from a conversation I was just having back into the world in which I am supposed to be sleeping.

There remains a longing which cannot ever be satisfied this side of heaven. It is a longing for the conversations to never end--a longing for more.


 

before dawn

I strain to see the lighted face of the old digital clock that has continued to run long beyond its years. Without my glasses, everything takes on a softer shape and I have to orient myself like the visually impaired person that I am. I know the alarm I set on my phone will go off in 15 minutes and I could probably go back to sleep for another half hour, but my mind is prompting me to be awake and I decide to let it, forcing me to get up out of bed.

Quietly finding my robe in the dark and reaching for my socks and Birkenstock sandals, I put on my glasses and head out the door. Though having coffee with my husband is a lovely thing to do on a Sunday morning, I have a very strong need to get outside with the dog to feel the cool morning air on my face, hear the rustling of whatever leaves have remained on the trees this winter day, and witness the last twinkling of the stars before the sun rises to overwhelm the darkness with its light. Something about this time of day fills me with joy unspeakable. The hours are yet a blank canvas and I do not know what will be expressed upon them and through them. Whether the brush strokes will be beautiful and flowing or of harsher tones has yet to be revealed. My imaginary paintbrush hesitates.

I get a big mug of coffee and go to the computer to check to see if there are any messages of importance. The dog curls into a ball in the chair next to me as the sky continues to lighten in anticipation of the dawn. I want to freeze this moment and expand upon it. I want to accomplish any number of things within this timeless space.

My workplace area is cluttered with boxes that have not been unpacked since my last time at the Market before Christmas. There is a stack of papers and books off-loaded by our oldest son who left them here before returning to college. The new silk dress, my exciting thrift store find from yesterday, remains draped over my sewing chair. The closet needs to be reorganized. I need to get back to my work-outs at the gym so some of these clothes will fit better. Endless to-do lists threaten to cloud my peaceful moment and I have to willfully shut them out. This is not a time for work. This is a sacred moment of quiet to meditate on what it means to live this life--not the practical answers for living it.

Just as I start to contemplate whether to continue reading a book I'm enjoying, write a journal entry or better yet, pray--it is Sunday morning after all--I hear the bedroom door open and my husband head for the kitchen to fix his mug of coffee. What has felt like five minutes has been over an hour I suddenly realize. I put aside my solitary tranquility, take another look at the changing colors of the sky and head down the hall to re-engage with my world.

one night

Tables were set up and covered with fabric I had purchased at the Salvation Army for three dollars a bolt. Thrift store plates and glass tea light holders were arranged with ribbon left over from someone's wedding. The downloaded printable letter pendant I had made at home to spell out the sentiment of the occasion was hung in front of the window.

Servers from the catering company, where my teacher husband works his part-time job, transformed an ordinary table into a sumptuous feast. Another table would display the Costco cake and a floral arrangement given by a friend. The bar was set with a variety of beer and wine including my favorites since I was the one doing the purchasing. A variety of jazz music cd's were placed in the queue.

Having run out of the door with the excuse of going to the gym, I now had to change into my attire for the evening: more thrift store finds, save my pearl necklace Christmas present. Hair curled and make-up applied, it was time to dim the lights, start the music and open the door to the arriving guests.

Months of planning were over. Whatever details were missed would have to fly away in the cold night air as the exterior lights shone the way to the door of this rented house built for celebrations. Colder than usual, the screened-in porch would not be able to be used and certainly not the wide front porch that would be charming on a warm summer night. A fire in the fireplace may have been a nice touch but was determined to be unnecessary. Our laughter and cheer would be enough to warm the room.

Time had sped up as the day had worn on and suddenly my husband was walking through the door as the party-goers stood on the other side of the room, their faces beaming with joy as they shouted, "Happy Birthday" and immediately sang to welcome him inside to his party. He would see old friends and new; those he needed to catch up with and at least one he would meet for the first time.

Early considerations for whom to invite for such a grand occasion led to interesting contemplation. By the end of the process I was reminded of the parable of the wedding banquet in which the people who were originally invited had decided for whatever reasons not to attend. The person throwing the party in the story then went out to the streets to invite whomever would come so the celebration could take place. Having no way of knowing who may show up, I invited as many people as I could and was as surprised by who came as who did not. Letting go of expectation, I welcomed each one with a warm embrace.

And though this was a party for my husband, thought out and planned with the full intent of honoring him on a significant birthday, for one very special night I got to be the lady of the kind of house I would dream of having, waited on by those whom I had hired with money I had been working hard to save for months, and honored by friends who love me. I got to throw exactly the kind of party I had always dreamed of throwing.

And it was glorious.  

naturally

My favorite park is going through a renovation, and I'm not sure I like it. It is the closest park to our house so we have gone there for many reasons over the years.

Walking the dog on the trails through the woods has invigorated my spirit as well as the dog's. It has given my husband and I a place to talk as we see and feel the beauty of creation embracing us. The coolness of the woods on a hot summer day is a welcome relief. Gazing upward at the canopy of leaves overhead, I have wondered how many others have gone to that particular stretch of woods to unburden themselves, and whether or not the leaf covering can become a prayer covering, too.

When I began running a few years back, the trails welcomed me to try something I thought would be too difficult. I discovered instead that I enjoyed running on the mulch better than the road and as long as I could steer clear of the tree roots that are often painted so as not to trip the unsuspecting runner, I too could navigate the trails. My dog liked this plan even better since he needs the exercise even more than I do and like me--never tires of the being in the woods.

When the boys were younger we had birthday parties under park shelters. Since all three boys have September birthdays, we would designate a Sunday afternoon in the month of September as the day for the Shores Brother Boys Birthday Bash and would invite all of their friends to eat lunch and have cake. The parties would inevitably transform into some kind of pick-up soccer game after we sang to honor our sons and celebrate their lives.

One year my sisters came to visit and needed a place to camp nearby. The campground at this park was the obvious choice. It is the place for the outdoor senior pictures at our local high school to be taken. It is where I have seen our neighbor who enjoys fishing in the park's lake. It is where we have sat on a blanket in the summer listening to bluegrass concerts. It is our park.

Recently, a new entrance to the park has cut through the trees and paved its way over the grass. Sidewalks to make everything accessible to everyone are being poured, replacing a natural surface with concrete. Though these changes will allow for less traffic congestion during cross country meets, I selfishly think about how I will have to live with this renovation year-round with the regret of someone who doesn't love the color of the walls after they have already been painted. And as wrong as it is of me to want my park to remain the same, I know it is only fair that others be allowed the opportunity to experience it. Once the sawdust settles, so to speak, I will not worry so much about the changes, focusing instead on the twists and turns of the trails that remain in their natural condition--a place where I can go to pour out my heart as the canopy of leaves lift my prayers up to God.

words

Last evening I played the game Apples to Apples in which a card with a word on it is placed in the center of the table as each player lays down a card that will in some way represent that word. The person whose turn it is then chooses the card he or she likes the best. If the card has the word "cold" on it, the person may choose "icebergs" as the best answer if it is one of the choices, but could choose any card from "genetic engineering" to "Mark Twain, " if those are the cards offered by the other players. It may make perfect sense or it may not. It is open to the interpretation of the person making the choice.

What is considered fun in a game, however, is not always so much fun in the real world. A misunderstanding resulting from words not carefully chosen can lead to years of separation in families. A word intended to be funny but not taken that way by the recipient can lead to dismissal from a job. The power of life and death is in the tongue, according to a biblical proverb. Shakespeare said that the pen is mightier than the sword.

The image a person creates has as much to do with the words that person chooses to use than with his or her actions. If I tell you that I love you with anger flashing in my eyes and a tone that betrays the beauty these words are meant to bring, even if I'm doing something nice for you, the message is not one of love but of something else. If I, however, tell you that I love you as I look into your eyes and speak with sincerity, even though I do not come bearing gifts, the message has a greater chance of being believed. We trust with our hearts and our minds. We believe the words that make us feel a certain way. If we've been lied to, we develop a discernment for sorting out the dishonest words that do not carry the same weight as those told in truthfulness. It is a learned art to know if a word spoken or written is what it claims to be.

What gets confusing is when someone speaks in a sweet tone with a pleasant expression but the words are not at all kind or pleasing. The Southern expression, "Bless your heart," often fits this description. It sounds nice but just under the surface is the kind of mockery, gentle or otherwise, that I would rather do without. "I just hate that for you," is another phrase that usually means the opposite as the person saying it realizes that she has somehow avoided the fate you are now left to deal with.

Words of gossip can take on lives of their own as the excitement of something said in secret is transmitted to another willing participant. Though these messages can be somewhat interesting, I find they often fall far short of communication as a whole as I am left wondering--in what tone of voice was this message originally given?--what was the context of these words and what exact words were spoken?--who is the source?--and where do the allegiances of those involved lie? I then have to ask myself whether or not this message is believable. How do I know it is true? Who is going to prove it to me? What implications are there to believing a message told in secret? Will the repeating of that message by other "informed" individuals begin to shape a belief I did not previously have? And if so, will that new belief have any resemblance to the truth?

Can we ever really know what is in another's heart or mind? Aren't we left to depend on each other to express how it is we really feel? We have to rely on words and interpretations that have been formed through years of learning to trust and to believe. We can blame and accuse or we can give each other the benefit of the doubt. We can jump to conclusions and then share our limited and questionable findings with the next unsuspecting person. Or we can patiently seek out the person we are being told to see in a different light because of the way our minds have been shaped by the interpretations of others, and put an end to the endless speculation by merely asking, "So what do you think?"

listening

As a writer and a woman of faith, I spend a considerable amount of time taking into consideration the possible conclusions one may draw while reading my words and looking at my life. Even if there is understanding, there may not be agreement. Each one of us has a unique perspective at times requiring a certain measure of reconciliation to achieve peace with one another. This, however, does not always happen.

Without a word spoken, I can sometimes sense tension forming like ice on the edge of a pond in winter. A voice raises an octave as lips tighten. Even if a smile is attempted, the eyes betray the expression, revealing true feelings. It is then a waiting game. Will the person admit to the bad feelings and look for ways to settle the differences, or will he or she withdraw from communication altogether?

As an observer of people, I find it fascinating to watch a drama between two people who are at odds with one another unfold. To see one walk past the other without as much as a backward glance establishes the purposeful isolating action. To then witness the painful expression as eye contact is deliberately made, makes me wish I could run over yelling, "Time out" and get the two people to talk, even if they can only agree to disagree. But this doesn't happen because I don't have the ability to control people. Not even God wants to do that. He leads us and guides us. He speaks to the hearts and minds of those who will listen. To those who will not listen, he very quietly waits, as though there is a door separating that person from himself. It may be a matter of time before the person lets him in. He will wait as long as it takes.

I find it interesting when I hear that someone believes God has called her to accomplish a certain mission. I find it even more interesting when the mission God has me on is in direct opposition. Is God speaking to either of us and in this case, which one? Wouldn't it seem that the one with the most peaceful solution would be the one actually hearing from God? Maybe we all define peace differently.

So, wanting to live a life worthy of the calling of God, I wait. I wait for those who harbor anger and bitterness in their hearts to hear God's tender voice on the other side of that door. I wait for those who want to pretend there are no problems even though their eyes betray them. I wait for a new revelation of God's love that can be made known and understood. I wait for a greater opportunity to serve. I wait, knowing that there are no easy answers. All I know is that winter does not last forever. There will come a springtime and a thawing of all that is frozen. As streams of living water are eventually released to flow, my prayer is that we can step into that stream of life together, having heard his call and willing to be reconciled for the greater good.

But first we must listen. Is that knocking that I hear?