The Sanctuaries That Sustain Us
The places we go, and the people we keep, when the world grows cold
The two old men met regularly for breakfast at the local café.
They sat on the outside patio where one of them smoked and they talked about careers and politics and faith. One was a retired pastor who co-founded a local Christian school. The other was an attorney and former mayor who led the effort in creating the city’s high school. They were elder statesmen of the city, though newer residents knew nothing about them, because change and modernity have little time for history.
The two contributed much to their community, but that mattered less than their deep and enduring friendship.
During my years as a local police officer I’d see them often, holding court in the shadows of the café’s side patio, far from the madding crowd of diners and noise and distractions.
They’d often lean in close to one another as if whispering long-held secrets or deep confessions.
I used to wonder what old men talk about in the winter of their lives, when careers wane and kids have grown and the cadence of life resembles the serenity of fog drifting through a park, passing slowly to reminisce and bask in the wonder and splendor of it all.
My life and career had just begun, but for these gentlemen time had grown thin.
They seemed to cherish their breakfast ritual. It was a refuge to welcome their lifelong friendship. The café servers would tell me how close the men were, how they’d drink gallons of coffee and hold marathon conversations.
Sometimes they’d embrace before leaving.
My dad always said cherish your friends.
Friends are gifts in life who touch you more deeply as the years accelerate and your past evaporates and you’re left wondering where it all went. Friends are the ones you count on when everyone else is gone and the world’s indifference comes into unwelcome focus.
Friends are like a warming campfire to escape the blizzards of life.
That’s what the café patio was for the old pastor and the graying attorney. It was a campfire where two old friends could huddle about the fire’s warmth, maybe share a blanket over their shoulders, and stave off the chill of aging and loss and the specter of mortality.
The attorney died first of cancer at age seventy-seven. Cigarettes probably caught up with him.
The pastor died nine years later at age ninety-one, surrounded by family. I like to think that when he crossed over that great expanse between this world and the next, his chain-smoking buddy was waiting on the other side with open arms.
And maybe they found a café with outdoor seating.
Friendships are sanctuaries.
Friendships are places of refuge between life’s commitments and obligations. And like any holy place, friendships need to be maintained and protected. Because jealousy and one-upmanship and neglect and insecurity and ingratitude can creep in and quietly do their damage.
If you don’t vanquish those forces they will threaten even the most sacred friendships. And lost friendships are a sad thing that can lead to loneliness in the winter of one’s life.
Friendships take effort.
People get busy or tired or neglectful. They take friendships for granted, which is dangerous, because people can walk away, and because no one lives forever, and you might run out of time.
Don’t neglect your sanctuary.
I meet a group of old guys every Wednesday in a local sushi joint.
They’ve been meeting for many years. I joined the group about eight years ago. I’m the youngest among these aging lions, and I’ve grown to cherish their wisdom and stories and grounded views of life.
We celebrated our friend Joe’s eighty-ninth birthday at one of our recent lunches.
Joe still goes to the gym every day and has all his wits about him, but he says there are balance issues now and his voice grows softer every year.
I remember in my twenties spying old gents in coffee clutches and pub gatherings and wondering what these stooped agelings would talk about, maybe slipped discs and uncooperative prostates.
But I was wrong.
Old men do commiserate over the indignities of aging, but such topics are mere ice breakers. The good stuff comes later. Talk of children and coffee in sunlit gardens with beloved spouses and dreams realized and others lost and mortality and regrets and most of all, for the ones who have allowed wisdom into their hearts, appreciation for life and longevity and love.
Joe blew out his candles, laughed at our terrible singing, and dove into his dessert.
The twinkle in his eye could be summed up in one word.
Gratitude.
A few years ago my wife and I booked a trip to Scotland.
We signed on with a small tour group of about ten people led by Mario and Shannon. We stayed in bed and breakfast spots, castles, and bespoke hotels. We piled into two mini-vans that zoomed all over the country, from Edinburgh to remote stretches of countryside and even the Highlands.
Our group breakfasted every morning together and at the end of each day we’d reunite for dinner. Sometimes we’d dine out, but often Shannon, a talented chef, cooked for us. And we’d sit around the table and share stories of our adventures past and present. And we’d laugh and sometimes even cry and we began to feel very much like a family.
Near the end of the trip our group enjoyed a luxury three-day cruise aboard the Glen Etive.
We dined together each evening, made stops along the voyage to motorboat ashore and visit a whisky refinery and other sights. The rest of the time, when not napping in our quarters, we’d read in the ship’s library or climb upstairs to the top deck and take in the breathtaking scenery.
One chilly afternoon I set aside the novel I was reading and ventured above deck.
There I found my wife and another lady in our tour group. They were seated together, sharing a blanket, contentedly reading and enjoying the fresh air.
I lifted my camera and took a photo.
Looking back on that trip, it occurs to me now that strangers can become sanctuaries too.
You can travel and dine together with strangers and before you know it they become like long-lost friends, people you can laugh and cry with, people you’ll hug when your journey is over.
And it doesn’t matter if you stay connected or not.
Companionship and human connection are sanctuaries we all need. They’re most easily found in family and close friends, but they also exist in the eyes and hearts of people you don’t know, people who, like you, crave the warmth of a campfire to escape the blizzards of life.
Offer to share your blanket.
Sit down beside them next to the fire. Let them know they’re not alone, that we’re all in this together. And then, in that blessed sanctuary, look into their eyes and you’ll see it.
Gratitude.
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So beautiful once again and so very true. I have reconnected with a couple of high school friends, enjoy my long time friends and keeping in touch is the best.
I just took the leap and have decided to join an art group planning on going to Tuscany this June, to enjoy painting in the beautiful countryside of Tuscany. I’m totally excited and perhaps make a few new friends along the way.
I wii be 86 and love growing older and grateful to be enjoying every day.
Once again John you are truly an inspiration to all of us.
Blessings my friend
Grace
I am grateful I found your posts. I so appreciate your ability to connect moments in different times and settings that perfectly model and live your theme. And your themes are the stuff of a fulfilling, grateful life. Blessings.