satellites connect us

Sometimes in life, some event scatters a cluster of friends outward from a shared space and common timeline.

-High school graduation.

-A church youth group slowly ages out -- going its separate ways, ending up worlds apart.

-A team finishes a season.

-Last night of summer camp.

-A best friend from elementary or middle school moves away in the summer.

-The final night of a play, after striking the stage.

-End of a spring semester of college.

-College graduation.

 

Like an exploding star of memories and matter, what seemed like one friend nucleus becomes multiple paths, spreading outward ... and away.

 

"You don't have to go home, 

but you can't stay here" -Semisonic, 'Closing Time'

There's an excitement to these new paths. 

 

There's a poignancy to stepping off the old paths.

Maintaining these ties to our once-clustered loved ones takes intentionality that it didn't once require.

 

"Nothing gold can stay," the poet reminds us. "A time to keep, a time to cast away," the writer of Ecclesiastes tells us.

The proximity we shared (and sometimes took for granted, though honestly, we didn't mean to) wasn't meant for forever. Goodbyes come at some point. Our times together become scattered.

"I guess this is growing up" -Blink 182, 'Dammit'

But: we're not without some hope. The metaphor of you and your friends scattering like an exploding star--forever outward and away--thankfully isn't the most accurate metaphor. It just can't be.

Why: because, Lord willing, there will be times to reconvene. There will be times to re-gather. There will be times to mourn together, to be together, and to laugh together, in a shared physical time and place again.

My vote for a more accurate metaphor is this: maybe we're more like a satellites orbiting a moon.

 

Times will come when our links to our friends gets tenuous. They disappear to the dark side of the moon (so to speak), and our signal contact gets interrupted. From other people's perspectives, we go around that side of the moon as well. But they (and we) can come back around. Our signal contact gets restored.

It's something exceptional when you and your people reconnect. The most unexpected tears of joy I let out on my wedding day was in our receiving line, seeing my dear college friend Vicki greet me and my wife. I knew she'd be there, so her presence wasn't a surprise. A vital, lovely, loyal friend from such a formative time of my life, traveling such a long way to witness a life milestone of mine. We once saw each other every day, but those days are gone. Seeing her there mattered the world to me. I'll never forget it.

The orbits can align again, for a time. 

We do get some say in where our orbits steer us.

So hold tightly to each other while you're here, and you're together. Enjoy the now. Don't worry that it feels like it's slipping away too fast; you can't help that.

It's doesn't have to be the beginning of the end. But perhaps, it's actually the end of some beginning. 

Different can still be good, but it'll rarely be the same sort of good. It'll be a new, usually unanticipated sort of good. Prepare to make effort to stay in touch. Don't let sporadic contact dishearten you for long. Send a text. Write the note. Make the drive. Book the travel. Walk together. Tell them when something makes you smile because it reminds you of them. Send a text again.

There's just nothing like old friends.

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" -Semisonic, 'Closing Time'

peaking

We love the defying-the-odds stories, stories of second and third chances.

The true stories of athletes craftily finding ways to still compete (here, here, & here, for example). 

 

The true story of professional ballerina Wendy Whelan, who brilliantly kept on performing years past the typical age of ballerinas.

Or the true story of pro boxer George Foreman. He lost his boxing championship to Muhammad Ali at his peak physical condition of 25 years old...

then retired soon after, totally left the profession for 10 years...

...but regained the same boxing championship, about 20 years after losing to Ali.

 

Not just athletes, of course.

There's the true story of singer Mavis Staples, all of 71 years old when she won her inaugural Grammy ... even though she'd received her first Grammy nomination four (!!) decades earlier. 

I could go on with more examples. 

There's a reason we gravitate to these stories. It encourages us to hear examples of triumph with people who succeeded, despite not being at what we might presume is their peak condition.

For me, these true stories relieve me. I hope they relieve you as well.

 

They remind me that should an opportunity come my way, and even if I KNOW I'm not at my best, there still could be a way to work it out. It's a relief to remember that I can still have off days. 

 

You can have off days as well. Doesn't mean all is lost.

We don't know when our chances will come with whatever God would have us pursuing.

And yes, of course: we should try to make much of whatever chances we're given. But it's false to believe that we're gonna blow it unless we're at our absolute best.

Real-life examples remind us this isn't true. Real-life examples from ancient times and places remind us this isn't true.

So this is why I love stories of a near 50-year-old champ, a quinquagenarian ballerina, or a 71-year-old Grammy winner. No doubt they were not as sharp as their younger selves. 

 

Mavis's voice couldn't lilt about the higher notes like it once could. 

 

Wendy's joints required more upkeep than her 23-year-old self. 

 

Big George couldn't bounce around the boxing ring as deftly as his younger self.

They weren't at their peak. But they were still good enough for when the opportunity came. 

Whew.