What Friends Do  

It was 1972, and I was 11 years old when my parents purchased their first house. Up until then, our family had lived in tiny and older brick rentals in the suburbs of Washington, DC. 
The house they bought was located in a brand-new subdivision in rural Southern Maryland. This part of the state was vastly different from the urban places we’d lived before. Farms and fields were everywhere. Families here had lived in the same towns – and, in some cases, the same house – for generations. On the other hand, our suburb near Joint Base Andrews was more transient, with military families and government workers moving in and out.  
Our home was a one-story, three-bedroom abode at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was built with all style the 70s had to offer – blue shag carpeting, brown veneer wood paneling, Coppertone-hued kitchen appliances. It all felt so hip! 
In addition to being the first home my parents ever owned, it was a place of other firsts. This was the first time we had a dishwasher, and the first time we had two bathrooms. It was the first time we had a family room, and the first time we had central air conditioning. And living now in rural Maryland meant this would be the first time I would ride a bus to school, as our previous apartments and townhomes were all within walking distance.
One Saturday afternoon, less than a week after we had moved into our new place, there was a knock on the door. My father opened it, and it was his boss and his wife, with a casserole of some kind and a wrapped present. The doorbell kept ringing, and more of my dad’s co-workers arrived with food and housewarming presents. It was a complete surprise to my parents, who I imagine had stretched every last dollar to afford their new home. I’ve never forgotten that act of kindness and generosity. This is what friends do, I thought. This is what friendship looks like. Supportive. Kind. Helping. Loving. 
Just last week, some dear friends of ours from Atlanta purchased a brand-new home in Weaverville. After the closing, they texted us. Everything in their new place – the floors, countertops, appliances, and carpet – was coated with a thin, white layer of sheetrock dust. They were distressed and feeling overwhelmed. Gail and I packed up our vacuum cleaner, towels, a bucket, and cleaning products. We showed up at their door with sandwiches and ready to get to work. 
As we were all down on our hands and knees scrubbing this and that, our friends kept thanking us. “This is what friends do,” I said from a place deep within. As we worked, I remembered that Saturday in 1972 at my parents’ first home and the kindness of my father’s co-workers. This is what friendship looks like, I thought. 
May I never forget . . . and keep paying it forward.

 

Warmly,
Rev Terry