One of the benefits of having been pastor of the same congregation for 33 years is the lifelong friendships I've had the privilege of having. This is going to sound childish, but as I mentioned to some folks recently, I'm at that stage in life where I have little to lose and nothing to prove. When I was much younger, I dreamed of having a lifelong friendship like that of Herb Woodley and Dagwood Bumstead in the Blondie comics. I wasn't enthralled with the occasional spat they had over borrowing tools, and although I enjoy an occasional game, I'm not an avid bowler, but a lifelong friendship with someone you know you can count on was a longing that regularly ached inside me. You might be thinking somewhat unbelievingly, "You were inspired by a comic strip?" To which I would answer, "Darn right!"
I grew up in the suburbs. We knew our neighbors, but just barely. Suburban life to me, had a certain sterility about it. It felt as if life were fractured, with pieces of me belonging to school, other parts of me to church, and still others to family. I had a few neighborhood friends, but in contrast to my wife who grew up outside a small village and to this day is in contact with various high school friends, I've lost contact with most of mine, remedied only recently through Facebook. Still, the connectiveness of a genuine face-to-face long-term friendship isn't something Facebook can provide.
It wasn't really planned, that we remain in one place for so long. It doesn't often happen to pastors in the United Methodist Church. I guess once I landed here, the brass just sort of forgot about me, and I'm glad they did. It has given me the rather unique opportunity to go deep instead of broad. I don't think one can have it both ways. Some have friends all over the world; most of mine are right here within a ten mile radius of my home, and today one of those gave me a very special gift.
I had gone to town to meet someone about being spiritual director for the next men's Koinonia weekend, a retreat designed to help men dig deeper into their walk with Christ. Following that meeting, I made a hospital call on a dear friend, prayed with her and her son and daughter in law who were by her bedside, then picked up a Valentine's gift for Linda. When I got home, my roof was shoveled off, courtesy of my friend Harry, who came over for no odd reason other than he figured I could use his help. Linda said he worked steadily for over two hours, shoveling snow, exposing the ice dam so I could chop it away. Statistics tell us that most men don't have a single deep friendship. I have many, but the best of them is my friendship with Harry. A friend like that can't be bought. He has stuck by me through some pretty deep waters, taken the bullet that was aimed at me, and blessed me with his faithful love for Christ. Herb Woodley, move over; you can't hold a candle to my friend Harry Loomis.
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