Short Term Friend
I met Joe when I was in my late 20s. He was in his 40s and was dying of cancer. We worked for a chain of clothing stores in New Jersey. He managed their flagship store and I was one of the buyers. Joe invited my friendship notwithstanding our age difference and ignoring the hideous fact that I considered my position more important than his. For some reason he enjoyed my company. Perhaps he got my jokes or thought he could help this young guy who was pretending to have it all together. Maybe it was because I didn’t seem to mind his colostomy bag or wasn’t even put off by the common knowledge that Joe’s days were numbered. I don’t know why Joe sought out my friendship but I’m grateful that he did.
In the rare free time we had, given the demands of family and a retail schedule, we would try to grab a beer together or attend a local high school football game almost always when our wives were working. Joe did his best to keep pace with my drinking, which in those days was pretty furious. I believe he did this – not out of some adolescent sense of competitiveness - but rather to minimize the embarrassment I should have felt.
On one of the few occasions I remember actually listening to Joe’s stories, he described some of his friendships to me. He recalled the formation and enjoyment of several friendships and the betrayal of two friends that still gnawed at his core. In one of those moments when Joe’s wisdom pierced my consciousness he said, “You know, friendships are hard work – and worth every bit of it.” I’d never thought of friendship as hard work until that moment. But I now believe he was right about that. Any relationship of depth involves listening, compromise, sacrifice, movement, and a sincere and even joyful willingness to lift up the other person - any real friendship, that is. Because in a real friendship there is that mysterious presence that motivates that willingness – that beautiful, miraculous, and transforming thing we call love. And in the midst of love the power of listening and the willingness to change is sacred.
I haven’t known a lot of friends like Joe in my life – friends that were friends – not because of my job title, or who I knew, or how predictable I might be as the party drunk, or the guy most likely to pick up the check – but rather were friends because they may have seen in me something of themselves – something of the hope they didn’t have – or the strengths I didn’t have that they could provide; friends that felt something alive in themselves because of how we were when we were together and were willing to overlook the other things about me that were difficult; friends who gave up something of themselves in order to allow me to shine or, best of all were glad to encourage me in that same enterprise of mutual love and friendship. Joe was a friend like that. There are others in my life like that too – not a great number, but you don’t need a great number of real friends. One or two in a lifetime would be enough of a gift. How fortunate any of us are who have more!
Joe died about two years into our relationship. The knowledge of his immanent death and the shortness of our shared history didn’t allow for the bumps and betrayals of ordinary friendships. There was a kind of purity to our friendship knowing that it would be shorter than most. So the Joe I knew may not have been the same man others knew. Maybe Joes’ thinly veiled purpose of developing and mentoring a new and perhaps purer friend skewed my experience of him, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we might all try to be more intentional about our relationships – even if we have to pretend we have very little time.