You have to be a certain age to remember a song of that title. If you have to ask, you are not old enough. I have just spent the weekend with people who are. They are my friends from high school. Actually, many of us have been friends from even before that. We go back as far as kindergarten. If I tell you how many years that is, I am giving away their age. We will just say it is more than three decades (I know -- I see you laughing).
Such a joy it is to have this weekend to look forward to each year. We don't party all night as maybe in times back. There are several who no longer join us. They cannot. They are candles in the wind. Some people finally feel comfortable enough that they stay longer with the group than previously. They do not just drop in for a few hours and leave. They stay for the entire weekend.
Yes, we tell stories. Some of the stories are what has happened this year since we saw each other last. Some of the stories as the same old stories; we've heard them over and over ... and over. (You know who you are.) There is insight into the person by virtue of the story being told. We love the story almost as much as we love the person.
One addition to this year's experience: The wall chart. Immediately upon arrival each person was queried by the person who had prepared the wall chart, and responses duly noted. Did you marry a classmate? Were you a cheerleader or twirler? Are you bald? Do you dye your hair? Were you named Man of the Year? (Note: this was a sort of trick question.) Can you sing the school song? Do you like Steve? (Another trick question.) Did you ever date Jeff? (And yet another trick question.) And finally, do you want to plan the class reunion? (The final trick question.) Now do I know what is to be done with the answers to these questions? No, I do not. But there are a lot of "X" marks, and I know that at breakfast this morning we discussed what we will be having to eat next year when we meet again. Gumbo. And I am bringing cake -- because we are all going to be celebrating an important birthday. I'm not saying which one.
I had a special conversation at dinner last night with one of my very closest friends with whom I spent much, much time in my years growing up. We do not get to see each other much now. When we do, the bond is immediate, just as strong, and as though we just saw each other yesterday. We were sharing our meal with a friend who is a minister and just returned from Africa after spending 25 years as a missionary. I did not know him as well back then -- in fact we worked together for one year at the local grocery store. It was his first year to attend our little group gathering. He was remarking how much he appreciated feeling welcome back in 11th grade and here again. One thing that cannot be faked is love. It is true and good and kind. And it cannot be hidden.
That is what our group has that is so special. We love each other. With all our quirks, bald heads, dyed hair, and oft-told tales, we truly love each other. We have families of birth and families of choice.
We need to gather each year with this family of choice. It reminds us of whence we came. It reminds us that one of us may not be here next year, as we are so painfully aware. So when we say good-bye we are also saying I love you and I truly hope to see you next year or maybe sooner, and secretly thinking "and I hope it is not at someone's memorial service."
So when I got in my car to drive back home and the song, "Time Passages" came on I got a little wistful. I am not the kind to live in the past ... there is much to be done today ... but there is a piece of my heart that stays with each of the others in my group that gathers this weekend each January.
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