Many years ago, during my first year of rabbinical school, I co-hosted an ill fated holiday variety show with a fellow student, in which we made fools of ourselves. Our performance was so poorly received that, when it ended, I took cover behind my wife in our Manhattan apartment, convinced my humiliation would destroy me and my future career. A couple of hours after the show ended and I had begun my descent into wounded self pity, someone knocked tentatively on our apartment door. “I don’t want to see anyone“, I hissed at her as I ran into our bedroom. I heard her open the door, then a moment later she walked in to tell me that a friend of mine was standing outside.
“Hey, I wanted to make sure that you were ok,” he said to me quietly when I came out and greeted him.
I have no recollection of how I responded to him that night, only a persistent recollection of having felt unconditionally cared for.
Very recently, this friend and I spoke after we had missed seeing each other, despite being in the same place all weekend long. I had been so preoccupied by a pressing family matter that I decided to lay low and not reach out to him, even though he knew I was there.
“I knew that you were really distracted and needed your privacy. I feel badly that I couldn’t be more helpful to you,” he quietly lamented.
“Just knowing that you had me and my family in your thoughts and that you have our backs is a great comfort,” I reassured him.
These two stories are bookends that bracket the three decades during which my friend and I have shared personal and professional struggles. However, during that time, we have mostly laughed our way through the absurdities of our work in the rabbinate and of our kids’ antics, and he has been generous enough to never stop laughing at my stupidest jokes. Like too many middle aged colleagues carrying the great weight of work and family in separate cities, we do not correspond often, and we see each other even less. Yet, like a fine, seaworthy ship that sails the globe safely, yet only once a year, our friendship has been marked more by steadfastness than by frequency of contact.
My fifties have been a time of fuller acceptance of my life as it is, particularly my friendships. My children’s young social lives are far busier than mine ever was, and their friendships continue to grow numerically and qualitatively. Sadly, I have watched a few of my friendships wither and even die, though not by choice on my part. Slowly, my hurt and resentment are yielding to a more mature understanding that some relationships only continue to grow in the hospitable climates of specific situations and places. Their deaths are allowing me the emotional space to deepen and extend those friendships that have been robust enough to flourish. I have plenty of acquaintances, a number of admirers, and a few detractors. However, I am also blessed to be able to count upon the friends with whom I share something much deeper than email addresses to write the occasional update. Some of these friendships are far older than my rabbinical school years, reaching all the way back to the ravages of high school. Others, particularly a few with other middle aged men, are quite recent. They are a surprising, welcome respite from the fishbowl loneliness that can come with being clergy. They remind me that at an age when I could be at the outer edges of emotional downsizing, I still have the capacity to expand the boundaries of my life and love.
This Thanksgiving, I am giving thanks for friends old, new and true.
Dan Ornstein is rabbi at Congregation Ohav Shalom and a writer living in Albany, NY.
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