Friendship as "I told you so!"

I crave the wisdom that comes with age. Like most people in their twenties, I often feel completely lost. When reading through an old prayer journal the other day, I stumbled upon one that began: “Father, I praise you for my youth. But admittedly only insofar as it passes . . .” What I wouldn’t give for just a quick snapshot of the future to point me in the right direction!

This sentiment always reminds me of something that my grandpa said while celebrating his fiftieth wedding anniversary: “The best part of getting old is that you get to keep all of the other ages you’ve ever been.”

Indeed.

Memory is such a gift. The older we get, the further we can reach back in time to draw upon the lessons we’ve learned. Yet even our most treasured memories—the ones we try to tuck most closely to our hearts—are subject to the elements. They are weathered by time, sterilized (or burned entirely) by love’s fire, and sometimes lost on the seas of change.

So how do we guard against this? I’ve found that the most effective method of preservation is friendship. People who share your memories can gently remind you of the lessons you’ve learned over time.

Last night, I had dinner with a dear friend who’s facing a bit of a bumpy road ahead. There are a few discouraging road blocks in her path and she’s unsure how to navigate around them. While empathy is normally my strong suit, I was completely unable to match the sadness in her eyes yesterday. I’m just really excited for her! Over the course of the six years that I’ve known her, she has blossomed into such a beautiful, faithful, loyal, patient, servant-hearted woman. She is meek in a Sermon-on-the-Mount kind of way—a mysterious virtue which completely eludes me. The hardened soil of her heart is being plowed right now, and that’s always a painful process. But that means that a growing season and a plentiful harvest are right around the corner. I can’t wait to taste and share the sweet fruit which is sure to be born! (I told her this last night, but, because I don’t think she believed me, I’m writing it again. We’ve been through more than one growing season together; as her friend, it’s my privilege to remind her of the changes I’ve seen across her metaphorical landscape.)

Shortly after dinner, when it was my turn to panic about my own life, I called another friend who has known me for over a decade. As I was spinning in rhetorical circles, she cut me off mid-tangent.

Her: Hey, do you remember when I was in your shoes . . .oh, let’s see, 8 years ago? We were 18. Do you remember what you told me?

Me: Um . . .

Her: You told me [x]. Great advice, huh? Now tell yourself that.

Me: These next few weeks are going to be full of "I told you so's," aren't they?

Her: Yes, and I can't WAIT!

In my opinion, that's what friendship is all about.

An ongoing conversation.

Last fall, I went to a concert (alone, because I'm an INFJ and that's the type of thing we do when we want to be around people because they're fascinating but don't actually want to have a conversation). One of the performers was a twenty-something year old man who seemed to have a lot to say about broken hearts and unfaithful friends. During one particularly dramatic song, he stopped, looked out at the crowd, and said:

"If you write songs for a living, then when you write about something that was emotionally traumatic for you, every time you sing it's like punching yourself in the face."

Then he proceeded to sing a song that was entirely fictional, but which had a much happier ending:





My point: writing is personal.


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Shortly thereafter, I met up with my book club to discuss Gaudium et Spes. I was struck by this passage:

"38. For God's Word, through Whom all things were made, was Himself made flesh and dwelt on the earth of men. Thus He entered the world's history as a perfect man, taking that history up into Himself and summarizing it. He Himself revealed to us that "God is Love" (1 John 4;8) and at the same time taught us that the new command of love was the basic law of human perfection and hence of the world's transformation." (emphasis added)

Do you know what that means? That means that God is a writer.


All writing is a reflection of the mind of it's author. If I write something that I believe is true and you read it, you are getting some insight into how I view the world. If you read enough of what I write, then you will begin to recognize my voice. You'll start to know the quirky ways that I describe things, and you'll start to be able to guess my views on a variety of topics (even if we've never spoken about those things before). And if I'm an honest enough writer, you can begin to know me.


So, back to the Word which was with God in the beginning, and which was also God:


I've probably read that passage in John a hundred times, but I'd never thought about God as Author. Trinitarian theology makes it clear that Jesus is God. But we can't interact with God in a tangible, knowable fashion the way that we can with other humans. So by becoming a man, it's like God offered us a summary of Himself. Jesus was accessible; He was something that we could grasp. 


It's like God wrote us a letter describing His heart, and He wrote it in a language that we could understand. And then He mailed that letter to us and let us read it, touch it, question it, and test it. Jesus is God's magnum opus.


My second point: We can know the heart of the Author by reading His Word.


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If it isn't readily apparent by now, writing is my primary means of catharsis. However, as I remembered yesterday after clicking "publish" on a particularly bitter piece of prose, not all writing is worth sharing. 


If you happened to read yesterday's post before I ripped it from the interwebs, know that: 1) I'm sorry for dragging you through that, and 2) though it was perhaps momentarily honest, it was not a reflection of the person I want to be.


My third point: Writing is personal. You can know the heart of this author by reading my work. However, unlike God, whose attributes are knowable because His heart is unchanging, I still have a lot of growing left to do. Please consider all of my writing as part of an ongoing conversation.