The dying art of friendship

If I asked you, "How many friends do you have?" what would you say? How would you quantify that question? Your Christmas card list (assuming you still send Christmas cards)? High school friends? Drinking buddies? Folks you work with? Or would you totally miss the boat, open your FaceBook app, look at your profile photo, and recite that number under your name? It all boils down to how you define that word, 'friend.' And how do you know, without a doubt, someone is your friend? Throughout my life I’ve made several friends, grown out of some, and even married one. Acquaintances and work relationships often blossomed into friendships--high school, military career, volunteer life, church, etc. I am not at a loss for friends. My problem is I often confuse 'friendly acquaintance' with friend, and then I attach qualities and requisites of a friend to people who, through no fault of their own, never meant to be my friend...they were simply being someone and kind, keeping me company. 

So what is a friend? Acquaintance? Social media follower? Confidant? Companion? Bestie? What are the qualities of that person that makes them your friend? Is it how often you see each other? The things you have in common? The American Heritage Dictionary says a friend is "a person whom one knows and trusts, is allied with in a struggle or cause, and one seeks out the society of someone out of esteem and respect;" and the esteemed Merriam Webster dictionary echoes that by saying a friend is "someone attached to another by affection and esteem"(while at the same time saying it's a person included in the list of social media connections.) 

But seriously, do you really need to use a dictionary or Google to define what you consider to be a friend? Ask the smallest child to name one of their friends, and you will get an answer in seconds, so it seems children know a friend when they see one. My first friend…I was five years old, we’d just moved into my nana’s house and I was sad. I was lonely. As I sat on the concrete steps of the front porch I watched as a little girl about the same age as me walked up the sidewalk to the porch, stopped, looked at me and said, “Hi, my name is Tina.  Wanna be friends?”  She was my friend no matter how my day was going. Four years later we clung to each other, sobbing, each one trying to console the other…I was moving…again.  Over six decades later I still remember her name, her smile, her family, and reminisce about all the fun things we did, games we played, Barbies we dressed, and the giggles we shared. I was her friend, she was my friend; there was no doubt about it whatsoever. 

Kids make friends pretty easily, probably because there's no baggage attached, no preconceived notions, no gossip. It's when we get older that making and keeping friends gets more difficult, complicated; for some reason human beings become jaded, suspicious, guarded, and self-centered instead of open, curious, and compassionate. Watch a group of kids in a school lunchroom, a playground, or at an event their parents dragged them to...the children naturally seek out other children, take interest in what the other is doing, and want to join in. Recently I took my 9-year old granddaughter to a community river fest in a small town near our home; the fest included river fun, information tents sponsored by various nature groups, food trucks, and tons of families. Within 10 minutes, Sophie asked if she could go play with the kids by the river; I agreed as long as she stayed where I could keep eyes on her. Four hours later, when everything was shutting down and it was time for folks to leave, kids all over were hugging and hollering their goodbyes, looking as if they were losing their best friends, friends made that afternoon. 

Whether we as a society have forgotten how to make friends, how to treat them, or how to keep them, I do know FaceBook is not the answer.

The narrow focus of self-pity

I struggle sometimes...okay, I struggle a lot...with feeling sorry for myself, when one of my kids doesn't call me for a while, or a friend doesn't reach out, or I feel like no one is listening. And I absolutely hate that about myself. At this point in my life I feel I should not have the self pity monkey hanging out on my back, whispering "oh you poor little thing" in my ear, weighing me down, pushing my head down and keeping me looking at the ground instead of where I am going, instead of looking up to the hills...you know, the hills from whence my help comes from. 

Sometimes, though, a little self-pity does go a long way in helping me see how ridiculous I can be and how narrow my focus is when the lens is zoomed in on my little sad self.

For the record, though, the pain and loneliness are real...I hate being confined to a chair, a bed, or behind a walker. And using a toilet riser is just weird. And I miss my nightly baths.  

For the folks who have taken time out of their busy schedules to see me, call me, check on me, make food...thank you. You renewed my hope in humanity. 

You're killing me, Smalls....

Yes...the small mindedness. The ridculuousness. The tribal mindset and groupthink. The divisiveness. Destroyed friendships. Family separation. Name calling. WHY????

Because someone does not like the way someone else voted. Today I saw the most vicious, vitriolic, hateful, vulgar, disgusting, name calling, post shared by a person I hold extremely dear, a freind I have known for 30 years, someone I would do anything for. 

Do I take that post, and others like it, personally? You bet I do. Because it is meant as personal. Others have called "all those Trump voters" racists, misogynists, stupid, and ignorant. Those "Tru

I do not care how you vote. It is none of my business.

I do not care who you have sex with, or if you have it all. It is none of my business.

I do not care how much money you make. It is none of my business.

What do I care about?

I care about my faith. I care about Jesus. 

I care about my family.

I care about civility and kindness, and not provoking anyone with language or actions. I care about the old adage of treating each other as you would be treated, and if you cannot say anything nice, say nothing at all. 

I would love to say we are better than this, that "Americans" can be kind and gentle. That people are not driving around with political hit lists, or destroying police cars and blocking highways. 

Disclaimer: I do not expect a lot of likes on this post. There are not any cute cat videos or granddaughter photos. No flag waving or marching bands.

Independence Day. A day Americans celebrate their freedom from British rule with parades, reading the Declaration of Independence, grilling a lot of meat, and of course, fireworks. A time for fun and family, good memories.

But today I went to a friend's page to see how she is doing ,and saw the most vitriolic, vulgar, hateful post, aimed at dehumanizing others, through the use of four letter words and angry rhetoric, so hateful it actually brought tears to my eyes. I cried. I am saddened by the hate and divisiveness that has become the norm in American society. People are no longer kind. The old adages of "do unto others as you would have them do unto you," and "if you can't say anything nice, do not say anything at all" have all but disappeared.

People are not kind anymore. How you vote or voted defines you as a person, and everyone says whatever the heck they want on antisocial media, and oftentimes in person. Friendships are lost, family members are alienated from each other, and groupthink and autonomy have replaced civility, kindness, and community. Adults--grown adults, mind you, not children--routinely call each other horrible names, all because of who they voted for. It is shameful, juvenile, and uncalled for.

I am so sick of accidentally seeing such horrible things being said by people I thought I knew and respected, even veterans I served with, and especially those who proclaim to be Christians. They put such filth and hate out for anyone and everyone to see, but mostly to spread divisiveness in this tribal mentality world we now inhabit. So sick and tired of it. It makes me sad, angry even, to read or hear such hatred.

Freedom is not a license to shout fire in a crowded theater. It is not celebrated by inciting anger or calling people names just because they do not agree with something you say or do. And no, I am not singling out any one political bent, because as a nation, as "free" people blessed with the ability to elect their own government every four years, to have their own representation, we set a horrible example not only for our children but for the rest of the world.

In 2017, Mark Zuckerberg once said that FaceBook would become the "new church" by giving us all "a sense of community." Hah.
True freedom is not won through reading the Declaration of Independence, wars, riots, protests, government, and definitely not through posts on FaceBook or any other media.

True freedom, freedom from the consequences of sin as a result of our selfishness, is not won, it is a gift. From the Creator through His son, Jesus Christ. True freedom is not "whatever feels good, do it," or "anything goes." True freedom is surrendering ourselves completely to Christ, and then living out Christ's message by sharing the gospel in word and in deed.

In my 70 years on this planet have I consistently done that? Heck no. I am a sinner, but I am a redeemed sinner. God has done so many wonderful things in our lives and taught me so much about patience and waiting. My life (in fact no one's life) has not been easy; it has been fraught with crises and stress, deaths and sickness, lawsuits, and the shunning by family and friends. Through it all (the operative word being "through") God leads the way, and I follow (albeit not always my first inclination--I like to be in control).

In Luke 4:18 (ESV), Jesus said: “He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed.” He is still doing that today, through His followers.

As I look back over these past seven decades, I am astounded and amazed at the beauty of His plan, His will for my life. I would love to share the good news with you, with my friends, with anyone who is tired of the hate, the tribal mentality so prevalent right now. If that is you, I will gladly buy you a coffee, listen to your story, and pray with you.

It would be my honor.

I had no idea...

Being a caregiver is hard. Being a caregiver of an intellectually disabled adult is even harder still. But being a caregiver of someone who cannot be civil or have any concept of showing appreciation is exasperating. Even though I accepted this appointment as guardian knowing he had limitations, challenges, and behavior problems, I really had no idea how taxing this would be emotionally and spiritually. Over 20 years ago, when our father asked me if I would take care of David when he was no longer able to, I agreed wholeheartedly to be his guardian and caregiver, and asked Dad what I needed to know to take care of my brother.  His answer? "Barb, you have no idea." That was it. I thought, "Well that is a strange answer! That's it? 'You have no idea'? Really?"

Fast forward to the present, I still have no idea what to tell people who ask that same question, so I too say, "You have no idea." Period. Nothing else. Just that.  I have tried to define the person that is my brother, to describe his personality and quirks and issues and care needs. But all people really see is whatever persona David presents upon that first meeting. I had no idea how exhausting and overwhelming this journey would be. To provide total care to a 73-year-old child trapped in a man's body. Who upon meeting anyone new, says, "Hi, I'm David." What does that mean? Who is David?

David is the oldest of five siblings, my sweet brother, and I love him dearly, with all his issues and idiosyncrasies. He was born with his disability, and our mother, who was mentally imbalanced and cruel, abused us all, but most of all, David. When she and our dad divorced, she was awarded custody of us, but after a year she put 13-year-old David, a pillow, and a suitcase out on the porch, locked the front door, and called my dad to come get hi "$%*! son!" as I watched from the living room.  My dad and stepmom took care of him for the next 53 years, putting David's needs above their own, even moving three times to ensure he had the best special needs programs. When Dad's 94-year-old body began to fail on New Year's Day, 2018, David moved in with us; since that time I have been his caregiver, guardian, trustee, and surrogate parent.

By the end of 2018, I knew exactly what my dad meant. Or thought I did.

I had no idea... how sweet David could be. He always remembers birthdays, anniversaries and holidays, and hugs everyone (and anyone) he meets. He loves music, old TV shows, food, bowling, and looking at photo albums. He saves everything anyone gives him, whether a picture, card, memento, or ratty t-shirt; I know because I have had to purge his closet and dresser numerous times. He has photos in his wallet folded so many times the images are barely recognizable. 

I had no idea...about the depth and breadth of his love for music. He owns over 200 record albums (yes, vinyl record albums), both 33s and 45s, and well over 200 music CDs; his most prized possession? His record player. The music genres span not only decades but centuries: classical, jazz, big band sounds, Motown, disco, movie soundtracks, patriotic tunes, crooners, ballads, R&B, soft rock, and some country. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Elton John,  George Gershwin,  Louis Armstrong, the Carpenters, Beach Boys, John Denver, KC and the Sunshine Band, Frank Sinatra, Smoky Robinson, Dean Martin, Michael Jackson, and ABBA are in his repertoire, and he loves to sing along with each, as loudly as possible. Mention karaoke or a concert and he is all in!

I had no idea...how many memories he is capable of recalling in perfect detail: the name of his elementary school, his bowling scores,  Special Olympics achievements, who gave him what for Christmas, and special moments with Dad. One day he recounted a trip to hear the Cincinnati Pops Orchestra in the late 1970s, recalling details about the conductor (Erich Kunzel), the music played (Rhapsody in Blue and some Duke Ellington jazz), and the surprise appearance of Arthur Fiedler of the Boston Pops at that concert. Intrigued, I looked up all the names, and was shocked at the accuracy of his memory recall. 

I had no idea...about the challenges he faces on a daily basis, both physical and mental, and how frustrated he gets because he cannot understand why he has these difficulties. As he has aged, he is experiencing what all of us will experience one day--problems with hearing, vision, and coordination, all of which create a lot of angst. Hell, I don't even understand it because, like David, I too feel my body has betrayed me somehow. Routine and structure are his best friends; any change, no matter how slight, throws him for a loop. He once spent over an hour trying to get his alarm clock to reflect the exact same time as his wristwatch (it was two minutes fast), cutting his hand in the process, ignoring the blood dripping on the dresser and floor, until I took the damn thing away from him, so you can imagine how crazy he can get because his body won't cooperate with normal functions.

I had no idea...how much I would learn from this "intellectually developmentally delayed" brother of mine, the joy and laughter he would bring to our lives, yes, amidst tears and frustration. The three of us--Alex, David, and I--enjoyed life together, a life of moments ordinary but made special because we shared them. I learned more about myself and my faults through my relationship with my brother than I learned from any other person; some of the things I saw in myself were not so pretty...but to David, I was always his "amazing, beautiful, best sister ever." Seeing him with new eyes--actually the eyes of my much younger self, when he was simply my big brother--I realized how special David is, that he too was created in God's image.

I had no idea...how much I would miss him when he was gone. 

Death Knell of a Friendship

When I was seven years old we lived in my nana's house on a little street in a nice neighborhood where there were lots of families with children and we'd play outside with each other; my best friend lived next door--Tina Tenunfeld. We played dolls, walked to school together, and swore we would be friends forever. That was 1962. We moved the following year and I haven't seen her since.

Starting in fourth grade, I attended St Clare elementary school for the next five years, then McAuley High School for freshman and sophomore years and was friends with four other girls for those years; we hung out at each other's homes, were in Girl Scouts together, passed notes at school when the nuns were not looking, and went downtown to go shopping on weekends. We were convinced we would get married and have kids, live on the same street, and grow old together. That was 1970. Never saw those girls again.

In 1971, I changed schools in the middle of my junior year in high school because I moved in with my dad and stepmom--that was rough because the school was huge, with over 1,000 kids in the graduating class. I got on the school bus on my first day, and sat in an empty seat by a window. At the next stop, a girl with long, dark red hair got on, laughing and talking to everyone else on the bus; she sat down next to me and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Jenny!" That was the introduction to a beautiful friendship--we were inseparable! I was maid of honor in her wedding (to which I was over an hour late!), and we were such good friends she refused to start her wedding until I got there, breathless and crying. We still send each other Christmas cards, connect occasionally on FaceBook, but other than that, nothing. The last time I saw Jenny was probably 25-30 years ago. We were "best friends."

Through the years, I have met thousands of people, become acquaintances with many, friends with some. Friends have come, friends have gone, but few have remained through the years. Some have simply moved away or grown apart, with only 3 or 4 leaving as a result of a disagreement or misunderstanding. But most? Well they simply outlived the friendship due to not having anything in common. Right now I probably have less than 10 really good friends--people with whom our friendship is an easy, fluid thing. We understand each other, celebrate each other's joys and cry together over loss. We laugh, joke, pray, and honestly would do anything for the other. I cherish these friends and the relationships we have. At my age, great friends are worth their weight in gold.

Sometimes, however, someone who seems to be a friend, maybe even a "best" friend, is not what they seem, or our lives bifurcate so abruptly that the friendship becomes strained. Communication that was once easy and effortless becomes less frequent and mundane. Phone calls and video chats are replaced with text messages and tags on FaceBook posts, and this person you thought was your BFF turns out to be someone with whom you have nothing whatsoever in common, nothing but having known each other for two decades or more. But you hang on, resuscitating it, even shocking it with the defribbilator paddles every so often, in a futile attempt to keep it alive. Finally, however, you realize there is nothing more to be done. There is no cure, no magic elixir, no miracle that can revive this "friendship." And you look back. And realize you wanted a best friend so badly that you yoked yourself to a person with whom you had nothing in common. Sure you had fun, you loved each other's company, but in the end, you were both so diametrically different, so toxic to each other, it was a wonder it lasted as long as it did. 

The older I get, the more I realize what a true friend should be. A true friend shares commonalities; in my case, we must share a love for Christ.

"Know this: In the last days perilous times will come. Men will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, slanderers, unrestrained, fierce, despisers of those who are good, traitors, reckless, conceited, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having a form of godliness, but denying its power. Turn away from such people." (2 Timothy 3:1-5)

"Cast out the scorner, and contention will go out; yes, strife and reproach will cease." (Proverbs 22:10)

"Make no friendship with an angry man, and with a furious man you will not go, lest you learn his ways and get a snare to your soul." (Proverbs 22:24-25)

You’re never too old

Wait, what? How old am I??? 

Seventy. That’s right. Seventy years on this beautiful planet God created for us to enjoy.  Seventy years of laughter and tears. Seventy years. Let me say that again. Seventy years. It blows my mind! I don’t feel 70, although I have no idea how 70 should feel. I don’t think I look like I’m 70. My hair isn’t grey yet—the bonus of being a blond. Sure I wear progressive bifocals and hearing aids, I get a new age spot every other week (usually on my face), my feet, hips and butt have spread, and Newton’s Law is proving itself on a lot of other body parts. But to have the privilege to wake up every morning for the past 70 years is amazing. 

God continues to surprise me with his goodness and challenge me with his will for my life. Here I am, 70, and he still has plans for me! How amazing is our God that he trusts his work to an old woman! 

When Helping Hurts

A few years ago I heard about a book titled the same as this blog post, and I remember thinking, "what a stupid title for a book!" I mean, how does helping hurt? Who does it hurt? Who is being helped? Who is helping? Well, turns out the authors wrote about how to help  alleviate poverty without hurting the poor, all from a Christian perspective. Never read it myself--I am not in missions or dedicated to alleviating poverty, so it never appealed to me. However, when I sat down tonight to blog more about the situation in which I am embroiled right now the words "when helping hurts" seem to be the perfect intro.

Everyone needs help, whether they want to admit it, ask for it, accept it, or not. When I was growing up the radio was filled with songs about it: Simon and Garfunkel built a Bridge over Troubled Water, the Beatles could always Get by with a Little Help from their friends, Bill Withers told us to Lean on Me , Louis Armstrong croaked about What a Wonderful World we live in, and Carole King assured us You've Got a Friend.  (Yes, I am dating myself with those references, and I am sure there are more current ones...but I am comfy with the oldies but goodies.) 

Not only will everyone need help with something or someone at some time, but most of us in the human race want to help, especially those we love, the less fortunate, victims of disasters. Most of the time we offer our help sparingly, rationing out whatever resources (time, advice, money, energy, shelter, physical needs, etc.) we can give without hurting ourselves, and then go back to living our lives. 

But what about when someone needs more help than that? More than the clothes I outgrew, extra canned goods from the pantry, a couple hours a week, or a few dollars I would have spent on some silly Amazon purchase? What if someone needs all of me? What if I have to completely shift my focus, redefine what is important to my life, rethink my goals, and retool the vision of my foreseeable future? What then? How do I put the brakes on my life, my wants, my vision, and my (yes) selfish, comfortable habits and reroute my life without resentment, grief, anger or pain? And, more importantly, how am I going to hide all those feelings from the person(s) I am helping? 

When helping hurts. 

Lamenting and grieving...both are intertwined with any changes we make, buit especially with sacrificing oneself for another. To not recognize how essential and natural grief is would be pointless, creating resentment or providing ineffective, inadequate help. Helping by sacrificing ourselves, our wants, our needs, our dreams, does hurt, and to deny it is just plain stupid and hurtful to ourselves; it would be like telling people at a funeral to not cry, or to dismiss the sadness a friend feels when he does not get the job he wanted. So I count my blessings, yes, but I also count my griefs, my losses, my sadness, and ask God to help me give them to Him to relieve--because God knows. We have no farther to look than the cross, the place on Golgotha where God sacrificed His only Son to help us to realize how much that helping hurt God, Jesus, and those around him that day.

Not only does helping hurt the helper. Helping often hurts the person being helped: guilt, shame, embarassment, depression, a sense of failure, anger...all of these emotions bubble up to the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest hint of an offer of unsolicited help, even help that is desperately needed and sincerely wanted. If you have ever been the recipient of a truly heartfelt, selfless act or gift, you know what I mean. We want the help, we know we need that help, we appreciate the help, but damnit we would much rather be the master of our own ship, and do everything ourselves with no help unless we ask for it, and then only from those who have no problems themselves (ha!). It boils down to pride. Simple human pride and our obsession with wanting to be in control. Accepting help takes away the control, bruises our pride. 

When helping hurts. 

What am I learning through this season? That sacrifice is hard, helping unconditionally ain't easy, and I am not as magnanimously unselfish as I would like to think I am. Change is hard, I am stubborn, and I still have a few idols in my life. When someone I love hurts, helping her hurts us both. We both need help from above to resolve it by giving it to Him.  That is the hard part...giving up the grief, the hurt, and the loss. Humbling--the more I grow, the more I realize how prideful I can be, and how often I try to tell God how this "helping thing" should look.  

Just celebrated my 70th birthday, too...you'd think I would know better by now. 

"And he said to all, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it." (Luke 9:23-24)