Stack of Gifts

Yesterday morning I had a delightful phone call from a friend, one of those conversations that warms the soul immensely. Last evening I had another call, equally enjoyable, from yet another friend. I’ve been thinking since on how different these two friends are, yet how much both mean to me.

They are an eclectic assortment of individuals, my friends, each quite different from the next. An octogenarian friar, an executive secretary, a lawyer, a children’s librarian, an exhausted mother of two autistic children, a retired army colonel, an archivist, a horse breeder - those are the sorts of descriptions by which my friends are known in the world.

I know them differently.

Each has a story, unique, rich and deep.

One has just started treatments for cancer, yet cancer does not define her and never will.

Another owns a wine and olive shop in Belize, and would be the first in line if you needed a kidney and she was a match.

A third visits wounded American military personnel, bringing them small homey gifts like fresh-baked cookies, and the comfort of a friendly face.

Yet another gently cares for his wife, and her twin sister, who are both terminally ill, while struggling with serious health problems himself.

One is steadfastly conservative, another radically liberal. Some have taken holy orders, while others profess no religious faith at all. A few are poor; one is quite wealthy.

None of them look alike.

So what is the common thread?

We help each other laugh, especially when, as one of them says, yet another meteorite strikes.

That, Oh Best Beloved, is a precious gift.

“With the fearful strain that is on me night and day, if I did not laugh I should die.”
Abraham Lincoln