He never minds when I text him, send him an email or call him on the phone. “My computer’s acting up again,” I’ll say, with an edge of frustration. His response is always, always: “Let me check my calendar.”
Yesterday, he worked on my computer at his home for two hours with his children playing in the next room.
He’s my very good friend — and, he does not want payment.
So, I’ll take him to lunch next week. It’s not much, I realize.
Life is moving so quickly. I am lucky to feel how important it is to pay attention.
Had coffee with a college friend today. The best thing about our conversation was that we didn’t bring up college. Instead, we talked about what’s going on in our lives today.
This is important, though I’m not sure why.
Small town pal at lunch yesterday mentioned some guy whose reputation for arrogance apparently deflated any chances for success. Somehow the phrase “big time” appeared several times. “Big time?” I wondered.
Turns out she meant the man’s opinion of himself.
It’s curious. The wider we live, the more likely we are to express ourselves in ways that more people can understand.
Not profound. But habits are deeply felt in small towns.
Here’s to good health through loving friendships.
A friend sent me this link just this morning with the note “am so glad we’re in each other’s lives.” Me, too! I thought as I read the article.
I don’t know what I’d do without my friends. My oldest friendship is 46. I remember meeting Becky when we were 5. We don’t see each other often enough, but we pick up right where we left off when we do, and the deep affection is still there.
As is the trust, as it is with other good friends.
The love of good friends is one of life’s greatest gifts. Makes me smile.
My friend, Therese, is one of the best people I know. It’s not because of the great things she does, though she does do them. Rather, it’s because of who she is. Her parents’ imprint on her vis a vis Catholic social justice, her family’s commitment to her brother with Down’s Syndrome, her own commitment to her husband and children — it’s all there, in her warm and soulful heart. Here’s a link to an article she wrote about something she did in January. Note: She was asked to write it by her parish priest.
She’ll probably express some displeasure with me for having outed her. Oh, well.
I have a binder full, maybe two binders full, of letters written on yellow legal pad paper to me from my friend, Therese. One day soon, I will read the letters again, slowly, and then pack them up and send them to her.
Wanting to recapture the letter-writing days of our youth, Therese sent another letter two or three years ago. A gift! I sat on my couch, enjoying every word — Therese’s handwriting hadn’t changed. I hadn’t known, of course, because we’d been emailing by then for about 10 years or so — and I hadn’t saved the emails. The emails, in any case, hadn’t been full of details about Therese’s husband, children, jobs.
In her letters, Therese and her family dance, sing, get serious, cry, camp, ski, be, unfold to me. This week, I plan to sit down with a pen and several pieces of yellow legal pad paper and write a letter to my friend, Therese.
Maybe she’ll write one back to me.
Turns out, Emily Post had much to say about writing letters in 1922.