L.P. Smith put it this way: “I might give up my life for my friend, but he had better not ask me to do up a parcel.” Another Smith, Zadie, put it even better: “I will do anything for my family except visit them.” Both were kidding of course. Sort of.
The small burdens of life are in fact sometimes more difficult than the major crises. We all show up for the funeral. But we forget the birthday, the weekly call, or the holiday visit. Life is always rushing at us, and while we can rouse ourselves for the big moments, in quieter times we are likely to remain on the couch.
Yet as a giant brick is not a dwelling, a heroic act is not a friendship. Each relationship is built on an accumulation of small acts, as a house is an accumulation of small stones. Emerson taught wisely, “Go often to the house of your friend. Weeds choke the unused path.” Rare is the funeral where I do not hear the lament – “had I only spent more time when he was alive.” Well, right now she’s alive.
Go.
