The Lost Art of Friendship.

BY HEiDI PRAHL

Lover of Jesus, my family, really good coffee, and all things Chicago. I’m a living, breathing paradox.

It was early Monday morning. I was slipping into the sleek white bathtub in our new condo in the city, still on a slight high from the previous weekend’s events. 

We were settling into what I thought was our dream condo, close to the heart of downtown. We spent the weekend at a food truck rally we had walked to, eating spicy street corn and crispy empanadas. On our way home, we’d stopped for exotic cocktails at the Instagram-worthy Bohemian restaurant at the end of the block in a city that stole my heart a long time ago. And now, here we were in the heart of it all. Doing life. Feeling like we belonged.

As I settled into the warm bath water I felt the need to pinch myself. Is this my life? 

Later that morning, I was doing the dishes when I heard a key in the backdoor. Soon, I saw my husband standing there with a distressed look on his face. I’d come to learn that his job was no more. Very out of the blue, without warning, eliminated.  

And just like that I was pinching myself, asking if this was our life, for a new reason. 

A sweet, kindhearted friend heard the news and asked to take us to dinner. We sat around plates of gooey macaroni and cheese, juicy burgers, and dimly lit votive candles and talked about what had happened and what the future held. 

Then, our friend surprised me by asking when our housewarming party would be. You see, I’d been so excited about our recent move and living our dream that I’d promised we’d be hosting a housewarming party as soon as we got settled. 

Confused by his question, I told him there was no way we could host a party now. Not with the uncertainty of what the future held. We couldn’t possibly spend any extra money right now. Certainly not on a party.  

But it was more than that. I didn’t want to face everyone. Shame told me to hide. Not to let people see our struggles. 

I’ll never forget what happened next. He looked at us and said, “It doesn’t have to cost much. You can ask everyone to bring something. But right now is exactly the time you need to be with people. To have friends around. To have something to look forward to and to be with people who care about you.”

My fear told me to hide. Run away. To shut everyone out and walk this uncertain journey on our own. I’d learned growing up that there’s a certain shame in needing people. Or accepting help from others. You make your bed, you lie in it. Alone. 

But that night, our friend essentially joined hands with us and reminded us that we weren’t alone. And that hard times are exactly when you need the presence, comfort, and company of those who love you. 

I learned an important lesson that evening. When things were seemingly “good,” I had no problem sharing our excitement. Our dreams. But when the tide changed and everything shifted to unknown, uncertain, and downright scary, my first instinct was to shut down and shut people out. Even, and in some instances, especially, those we care most about. 

I was reminded in this fast-paced, filtered, social media world that real friendship is more than just strangers who like your Instagram photos and only see your highlight reel. 

It seems to be a lost art these days, true friendship. I think we’re so accustomed to only sharing our highs with a watching world and suffering the lows with our camera screens turned away from ourselves and our lives. Not to say there’s not a time for suffering alone, on your knees, just you and God. I knew that part. I was well versed in that kind of suffering. But this was new. This concept invited others into the hard parts of our story and shone a light on the not so pretty reality of the moment. 

A few weeks later, we did hold the party. At that point, my husband had a few leads on a job but nothing certain. We’d spent many of the days leading up to the party in tears, gripped with fear and uncertainty, but our friend was right. We did need something to look forward to. And we also needed to be reminded to let people in when it felt the hardest.

It turned out to be quite a lovely evening. We asked everyone to bring a dish to pass and ended up with so much yummy food. One friend brought pans of her mom’s famous mostaccioli and garlic bread. Another brought fruit salad and another brought trays of fudgy brownies and sprinkled cookies. We had sloppy joes and cranberry glazed meatballs, and we sipped apple cider cocktails as we told jokes and shared stories. 

But even amidst the chatter and laughter and kids racing around, it was still there. The tension about the future. The fear and uncertainty. I’d be dishonest if I said for that one night we forgot all of our troubles. But that’s actually the point. Our friend encouraged us to invite others right into our troubles. To let people in when it felt most difficult.  And that’s exactly what we did. And it felt good. Tender, but really, really good. 

And so I go from that night with the reminder that there’s no shame in needing people. It’s okay if others see our blooper reels or our bare, tearstained faces. Burdens are, well, burdensome. Heavy. They aren’t meant to be carried for miles and miles solely on our own backs. I go from that night more tender with my own heart and inspired to pursue this lost art of friendship.