We pass each other like ships in the night.
The most meaningful conversations happen in person, but there’s an ocean in between.
I can point directly back to certain days, times of day, the commons where the walk was, how the sun was, how low the tree limbs were over the sidewalk that brushed my forehead as we walked back home.
I can point directly back to the kitchen counter, the conversation where the truth coming out meant a risk had to be taken, and once taken, the floodgates open. I remember the glasses and the stools and the way I rub my hands through my hair when I can’t think of anything clever or wise or meaningful to say.
And I can point directly back to the table in the restaurant in the airport where the goodbye was looming, and the risk of the sand ticking pushed me through my cowardice to laying out on the table something other than the beer and small talk, but rather laying out the things that had refused to let me go for quite sometime.
But then I got on the plane and flew back across the ocean. Back to work. Back to class. Back to groceries and bills and friends and all the other things we come back to.
Now, like ships in the night, we pass each other. My late-night hour is the twin of his early-morning hour, and across the latitudes we pass usually only a word or two, a prayer or the promise of a prayer. And while the ocean robs two friends of the possibility of walking through that field, sitting on those stools, or leaning over that table, we still know that the other is out there. Moving and knowing. Working and waiting. Watching for signs of the kingdom together.
And we give thanks before the day ends and begins simultaneously.
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