The tears come more easily these days; I freely admit it.  Still, more than three times in one day used to mean that something was fundamentally wrong.  Trauma, illness, pain, or some such ordeal must have been experienced to cause such a flood of emotion.

None of those is in evidence right now.  But, there have been tears today—several times.

I saw her in the parking lot at the grocery store we sometimes call Smallmart—the lady I once compared to Jesus as He washed His disciples’ feet.  She, weak and uncertain of her own future, had taken the time to help my sister in a terrifying situation in life.  And with her aid to my sister, I was helped as well.

But today, she thanked me for what I wrote about her over a decade ago.  Tears came as I reminded her of how precious her gift was.  Precious to a woman coming to grips with the physical realities of cancer.  And, precious to a man who needed to learn a lesson in having a servant’s heart.

A gift never to be forgotten.

Home again this afternoon, I pulled the mail from the box at the street.  There was a package I hadn’t expected.  The handwritten note inside brought the tears once more.  My old friend thanked me for my tactfulness in a recent situation and for my friendship.

I ruined his life.

Okay, that’s a little over the top.  I was present at a poignant moment a few weeks ago when my friend realized that he had come to the end of a longtime calling in life.  Physical changes are making it impossible for him to do his work effectively.

I tried to be gentle.  It’s not my best attribute, but I did try.  And, he thanked me.  For that, and for an earlier time in our history when we worked through a difficult issue together.

I will treasure his letter.  More than he could know.

But can I admit something to you?

I don’t know what I’m doing.  I didn’t then.  I don’t now.

I’m just now learning how to be an old friend.  (Emphasis on the word “old”.)  I have no expertise in being old. And, I’m not always that good at being a friend, old or otherwise.

But, about being old…

Nothing has prepared me for the losses.  Or the pain.  Or the silences.

As often as not, I feel as if I’ve lost my way.  I started, in my youth, with dreams and plans.  Some of them were met and exceeded.  But now?

I’m not always that sure of my directional skills.

My friends, a young couple who love to walk the wooded trails, the rock-covered pathways, crossing rivers and traversing mountains (I’ve written about them before, you know), are doing a “thru-hike” of the Appalachian Trail this summer.

They started in Georgia a few months ago.  Today in Maine, they passed the 2000-mile mark of the 2190-mile effort.  I am in awe.

I call them a young couple, but in truth, they are deep into middle adulthood, and I’m amazed at their bravery and strength.  And yet, I see the vulnerability in her writing as she sends reports to their cheering section, back home.  Tears have come to my eyes more than once as I’ve read the description of their soon-to-be-completed attempt.

The closing words of her report today had the same effect again.  For the third time on this day, I had to wipe the bothersome fluid from my eyes upon reading the sentiment there.

“The AT is going north, but in my heart, I’m walking home.”

I understand.  Oh, I’d never attempt the Appalachian Trail myself.  But I get it.

I’m making a thru-hike of my own, you see.  So is everyone I know.

And, it doesn’t always seem I’m going in the right direction when I’m only trying to get Home.

There’s a map, but sometimes I think the road signs aren’t written in a language I understand.  I took to the road, so certain of my route, but along the way, I’ve become a touch insecure in my sense of direction.

I sat with my PhD buddies at coffee last week and we talked about the changing topography—the shifting landscape.  We agreed it’s not so easy to read the signs anymore.  And, I’m not just talking about failing eyesight.

But, as worried as I am about my companions who think I can be trusted to write the correct words here, or to treat them with the respect due to old friends on the road, I am still certain that the One who began this work in us will see it through to completion. (Philippians 1:6)

He won’t leave us at mile 2000 when we’ve got just 190 more to go.  Even if we’re headed in the other direction, He is faithful.

Faithful.

There’s a reason I’ve mentioned friends and companions so many times in this little essay.  It may be obvious to some of you already.

We are intended to walk the road home with folks who can be depended upon to love us, to correct us, and even to carry us if need be.

“Two are better than one,
Because they have a good reward for their labor.
For if they fall, one will lift up his companion.
But woe to him who is alone when he falls,
For he has no one to help him up.”
(Ecclesiastes 4:9-10, NKJV)

We need each other.  It is our Creator’s design and even His delight.

We sharpen each other, as one piece of iron sharpens another.  We keep each other out of the ditches alongside the lane.

And, we just love each other.  Year after year, day after day, minute after minute, we care for each other as He does for us.

And, we walk each other home.  Sometimes in pain.  Often, through sadness or sickness.  Trembling in fear, we throw our arms around the shoulders of our companions and just walk beside them.

Walking home.

With our family.

My mother-in-law used to get a little mixed up in her directions.  When telling a story, the dear lady would want to indicate the direction in which a building or other such place lay to her listeners, but she couldn’t remember it easily, so she’d just include every point of the compass in her description.

“It was north-south-east-west.  Oh, you know!”

We do know.  And, we can help each other get where we’re going.

Even with tears in our eyes.

Home.

 

“Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.”
(from The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

“Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins.”
(1 Peter 4:8, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2025. All Rights Reserved.