I had two friends join me this week.
One flew in on Tuesday night. The other arrived Wednesday afternoon. And we spent two full days together. Maybe two and a half. Three. I could break it down into hours, minutes, moments.
It’s an incredible feeling because I’m 60 years old, and I’ve known one of these friends since I was 8 years old.
Tim Blaikie was my neighbor in High Bridge, New Jersey. He lived right behind me.
And here we are.
We still spend time together. Our families are still friends. Both of our parents are still alive. My father is 87. My mother is 86.
There’s something about sharing that much life with another person.
Tim flew in from Pennsylvania just to be together. To share some meals. To walk and talk. To catch up.
And I got to show these two friends the sights and places that make Springfield and the Ozarks special to me.
My other friend, Eric Helsel, Tim and I got to know in high school. We went to a big regional school, and he came from a different town. We all played lacrosse together.
For Eric, I’ve known him for 47 or 48 years.
It’s hard to describe what it feels like to spend time with people who have walked alongside you for that long.
We talked. Reflected. Checked in on one another. Made sure each of us was okay. We talked about our careers, our lives, and the transitions we’re all experiencing.
We’re at an interesting stage.
For so long, we’ve gotten our identities from our jobs.
Who are you?
What do you do?
Those questions have always seemed connected.
But what do we say now?
The thing I want to say more than anything is this:
I am… friend.
I’m a friend to my old friends.
And I’m a friend to my new friends.