THE LITTLE THINGS

We met up with our old friends Linda and Jack the other day, a couple we hadn’t seen for six years. They moved to the area to be close to their children and grandchildren, since Jack was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I was a little anxious—we’d drifted apart mostly due to distance and priorities, but also a growing sense that our world views were different. They’re more theologically conservative than we are, and, I imagined, more politically conservative too.

What to do if we differed on the big things—how to change our immoral treatment of immigrants, what to do about police brutality against blacks, how to get people to vote for somebody sane? Ed says I’d make a terrible politician because my every emotion shows on my face, and, though I’ve been working on communicating with other minded folks, I was afraid I couldn’t maintain my composure if our lunch conversation with our friends turned to those questions, knowing words like “horrific, disgusting, appalling, evil, nasty, sick, and wrong” could easily pop from my mouth before I squelched them.

We arrived at our friends’ place. We hugged. We met their grandchildren. We ate. We talked. We talked about retirement, how fast the time goes, how the day disappears before we know it. We talked about family, how it’s everything to us, how our happiness and relief that “the kids are alright” is at the forefront of our gratitude. We talked about how satisfying it is to volunteer our professional skills in classes and workshops, how, when money isn’t involved, it’s so much fun! We talked about the medical system, agreed that we encounter a ton of  compassionate, helpful people on our increasingly frequent doctor visits, and that the system itself, in terms of communication and efficiency, is awful. We talked about church, how much we enjoy and get strength and inspiration from ours, how Linda is looking for a church in her new home.

At one point, I looked at Ed and Jack grinning at each other and at Linda bringing watermelon slices to the table, and I knew this was not the time for big discussions. And we talked some more—about creativity, Linda’s sewing, my writing, how much they feed and sustain us. We talked about how distressing it was for Jack to be told he can’t drive anymore. Jack told stories, the same ones he used to tell, and we laughed like we’ve always laughed, both at the stories and at how, word for word, they were exactly the same as we remembered.

Ed and I left, relaxed and happy. On our way home, we noted how, other than one short moment when my eyebrows went up just the teensiest bit as Linda described the church she wants to find, we didn’t talk about the unrest all around us and didn’t mention the nightmare in residence in D.C. Didn’t even mention it. Wow.

Sometime, we’ll broach the big, hard topics with our friends. But when we do, I believe whatever we find will be secondary to our commonalities as humans doing what humans do—struggling to get this life thing right, grateful for the gifts that soften the struggle, grateful that the little things are big enough to connect us to each other.

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