CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter
This week I read the death notices of two long-time friends. I’ll call them Bob and Andy. Bob’s wife sent me the notice of his death and the details for his memorial service. She knew I would be interested. Although older and more experienced than I, and a writer himself, he was always one of my biggest fans, keeping a file of all my articles published in religious journals. That certainly cements a friendship. We have kept up with each other through all these years, by telephone calls and letters and emails, especially when their daughter died in her 50s.
No one sent me the notice about Andy’s death. I came across it by searching for him on the web. I wanted to see if I could find him, to renew a meaningful friendship, meaningful at least to me. I was too late.
I lost touch with Andy about 20 years ago. His address changed. So did his telephone number and email. He didn’t inform us. We found out when they no longer worked. I asked mutual friends about him. They reported the same problems.
I’ve missed him all this time. Wondered about him. Prayed for him.
We met in college. I liked Andy. He was an interesting guy. His intelligence was a bit intimidating, though. He was the smartest guy anywhere, and he knew it.
He dated, and later married, the second-smartest girl in college. I was interested in dating her myself, but she knew that she was not the right girl for me, and she knew that her roommate was, so she “facilitated” our meeting. I’ll always be grateful.
After college, Andy went to the most prestigious theological school in the country, while his wife went to the most prestigious professional school in her field. Then he got a PhD, and she got another professional doctorate.
They were on the fast track on the high road…but it didn’t go anywhere. Rather than teaching in a seminary, he got a few jobs in small liberal arts colleges, none of which lasted long. She was not able to get a decent job in either of her professional fields. They became increasingly bitter.
I think they were
embarrassed, too. They never said--back when we were starting out, or along the
way-- that they were going to succeed far beyond the limits set upon the rest
of us, their average friends, but they expected to, and we expected them to.
When they didn’t, they didn’t want to face us. They didn’t want us to see them
in their failures. They just dropped out of all their old friendships.
That’s sad. When you’re old, long-time friends are important, friends who share your memories.
We are old. We don’t care now about worldly success. If they had stuck with us, we would have just reminisced together about old times, when dreams were fresh. And we would have comforted one another about the dreams that didn’t turn out, because we all have some of those.
So sad. For them. For us.
John Robert McFarland
This makes me rather sad, also calls me out a bit. For years I didn't go to class reunions because we couldn't afford for me to go. But we could now. There was one at college that most of my closest friends went to. But I hadn't kept track of them really after college, only recently connected with them over Facebook. I don't feel like I've done anything amazing since college (where I was usually the top student in the class). I have gotten fat. I'm more than a little embarrassed about how some things have turned out, and not sure at all that what I'm reasonably pleased with in my life is "enough" some how. And I didn't go.
ReplyDeleteYet at least on Facebook, not one of them acts like I'm "not enough;" only that they are pleased to see how and what I'm doing, and keep in touch. And I feel the same way about them.
Maybe I should do whatever is needed to make it to the next reunion.