at the hearth

When I was a senior in high school, getting ready to move to Colorado, I obsessed about my friends. I made pledges to them and to myself that I would not lose them, that while we may be more than a thousand miles apart that we would continue to walk through this life together. I may be forced to move away from them, but I would never find friends anywhere else that compared to them or that I would love and trust more than they.
For nearly a year after I moved, I was on the phone often, and spent even more time at my desk in my dorm room writing letter after letter. I met many new people my first year in college. Many I grew to care about deeply, but I would not allow any of them to wedge their place into my heart and replace my original friends.
During this entire period, my father would try to impart his wisdom upon me so that I would not miss them so greatly. He has never been able to see me in pain. “The only people that will truly love you and stay with you throughout your life are your family. Your friends that seem so important now will fade away, you will lose contact, and drift apart. I understand how you feel. I loved some of my friends in the same way that you do when I was your age, but none of us stayed together. We were friends for that time in our lives, and that is good. It is ok that it ended too. Your family will always love you and be here for you.”
I told him how my friendships were different. Besides that I had never really seen Dad with friends. He never went and did things with friends. Mom and Dad had some close couple friends, but nothing that compared with the depths of my friendship. And, as far as ‘your family are the only people who will always love you and be with you. . .” As if! And if that is so, Lord help me! Talk about a life sentence.
A few months beyond a decade later, I am resigned to concede to the truth of Dad’s words. It doesn’t even really make me that sad. There are friends from childhood I talk to every few years and catch up with on the surface, and there are others I haven’t spoken to since my first year in Colorado. We broke our pledges of undying friendship. Honestly, I still count them as friends. We went through childhood together. That is a gift no other person can receive from me, and that position deserves a spot of honor. Ashton has been the one exception to that rule. He was my best friend since seventh grade and remains so to this day. Yet, we only really get to talk to each other once a month, and are lucky if we see each other once a year. Then again, he doesn’t apply to the rule: he is not a friend anymore. He is family.
I am surrounded now by friends that know me deeper and truer than at any other point in my life—men and women that I would give my life for in a second. I am aware that many of us may not be friends, or at least in constant contact, several years from now. While that causes me some sadness, it is really all right. As much as I fought accepting it, I have to admit that it is true. Some people are only meant to be in your life for a time. You are only meant to be in some others’ lives for a time. It may be brief or over and extended period of time, either way, it is numbered. You share yourself, you share your thoughts, you share your love. You change each other’s lives permanently, and then your paths separate and you go off to share love with others and affect others’ lives. A select few will remain close throughout the span of your lifetime, sharing in every joy and every sorrow. While it may not be the way I would have designed things, there is a simple yet mystical beauty to it all that seems natural and good.
I have also grown in understanding my family as family was meant to be experienced. It is no longer the fear of losing friends to other places and other people that hurts me anymore. I have a new fear, a new realization. A realization that when it occurred, proved to me beyond any other experience that I was an adult, that my childhood was gone. I realized my parents are getting older. I realized my time with them is limited. At one point in my life this would not have upset me to such a degree, at least with my father. But time and circumstance changes us all. My hate for my father turned to apathy. That apathy gradually turned in to full-fledged love. He has softened as he has matured. While we have discussed all the things in childhood I blame him for and that anger me, I can now look at them from his perspective. While I don’t necessarily think they were always the correct or right things to do, in nearly every circumstance, I can see how he was acting out of love and doing what he felt would benefit me the most.
One day, I will be the oldest generation of my family, and unless my brother marries and produces offspring, the family name dies with us, as we are the only male children in the family. One day, I will not have my mom to call when I am upset. At some point, I will not have our daily phone conversation to look forward to. One horrible day I will not be able to hear my Dad fill me in on all the family gossip and taste his fried chicken with mashed potatoes and white gravy. One day, I will have to face reality, my joys and my pains, on my own—no more constant hands, advice, or unconditional love to fall back upon. There will only be my brother and I, and we will be left to our own devices, for better or worse.
I never understood the fear of growing old before this realization hit. What if I never find a man that I love enough to spend my life with, or that loves me enough to spend his life with me? What if we do find each other and then he is taken by cancer, a stroke, or a semi-truck? What if. . . Talk about intentionally finding things to worry about.
Our lives are brief, even when the moments of pain and tears seem never-ending. We weave in and out of relationships with others. We do our best to live meaningful and happy lives. Along the way, a minute portion of the people we love join the ranks of our family. And at some point, though, even our family leaves us, even if they use the excuse of death to do so. Eventually, we are all alone.