I wish everybody could know my friends.

Laura reads every week’s blog post. Sometimes she comments, but always she reads them. Because they are great literature? Of course! Because she always learns something new from them? Naturally. But also—because she’s a friend. A dear friend, one of my dearest.

And there’s Ellen. She looks out for Laura—otherwise: disaster.

Bill, I have known for more than half my long life. He is a man of principle, a man of compassion—most of all, one of God’s most faithful representatives among the messy daily business of human life. Bill is as good a man as I could ever wish to be—but between you and me, I’ll never make it. That doesn’t matter to Bill. He loves me anyway.

I have a friend named Colleen. I knew her father, Bob, who was a great man. Colleen has many of Bob’s best qualities and wonderful ones of her own, including musicianship. She gives of herself and her talents unstintingly. She treats me almost as a spare father, because I was a younger colleague of Bob, who died too young. Colleen is special to me. 

Mike is another friend, one with whom we have traveled to England, the Netherlands, South Africa, and darkest Michigan. He is thoughtful, always well-spoken and well-informed. He is a talented organizer, a deeply committed Christian who often leads groups of young people in meaningful service projects that help out folks in difficult circunstances.

Let me tell you about my friend Greg, and my other friend Peter. They are middle-aged men, probably in their 50s, and lead healthy and vital New England churches. Wonderful guys.

I was talking with my friend Cynthia the other day and learned something I had not known—that years ago she was a military wife, stationed in Panama with her husband, Victor. That was back during the days of Operation Just Cause, when the U.S. was rounding up the dictator Noriega. Very exciting days. Thank God Victor and Cynthia didn’t get in the way of any lethal force. But that was years ago, and they’re in Christian ministry now. 

My friend Laura runs a very successful school for young students in Tijuana, Mexico. Her mother, Juana, was the previous head of the school. This dynamic young woman prepares hundreds of otherwise at-risk young people from poor neighborhoods for meaningful employment in the business arena and the arts. 

My new friend Ynes is a daughter of my recently deceased friend Charles. Charles, all by himself, started a mission school thirty years ago among the Baka people of the eastern part of Cameroon in Aftica. He and his school, now run by his former assistant Beatrice, give education, as well as breakfasts, lunches, clothing—even such a basic thing as registration of their births, which allows them to be citizens of their own land—to hundreds of young Cameroonians. Ynes is helping her father’s school cultivate supporting and sustaining relationships with American donors.

I wish you could know Beth. She is in her nineties now—recently remarried!—and gets around well for a woman her age. I’ve known her for years, known how generous she is for causes she believes in. But it was only last year I learned that in former days, she was one of the first woman pilots for Pan American World Airways. What a wonderful world!

Another friend, Ron, preached a sermon yesterday that would knock your socks off.

I could go on and on. These are only a fraction of the folks I encounter about once a year, occasionally more often, occasionally less often, by attending the meetings of the National Association of Congregational Christian Churches—most of which, in the last forty years or so, my wife and I have attended. 

It’s a pretty good place to find friends who are not only good friends but good people. I am indebted to my faith tradition for giving me this richness of associations. I can only wish the same for you, Gentle Reader.

Perhaps you have noticed—no photos in this week’s blog. That’s because it never occurs to me to snap photos of my friends. I guess I know them well enough that I don’t need a physical image to see them. They’re in my head anytime I want them.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

Your New Favorite Writer