Last week, Ann and I were packing for a trip to Austin when my back trouble returned and made traveling impossible. The pain and accompanying stress were discouraging; not being able to go to Austin brought hurt of a different kind.

Our old friend, Joe, was turning ninety, and Ann and I had planned to join his family for a celebration. On Saturday morning, there was going to be a memorial service for our old friend, Armistead. And that afternoon, there would be a remembrance ceremony for our old friend, Walle. Missing those momentous events has been hard, and it happened while the suffering in Ukraine was becoming excruciating.

Armistead was an Episcopal priest who was my pastor, liturgy disputant, and dear friend. He and I were in our late twenties when he taught my confirmation class. He baptized one of my sons, performed Ann’s and my marriage ceremony, conducted funeral services for people who were dear to us, and was an ever-present help in trouble. He was a tall man with long arms, and in times of special need he supplemented the traditional laying on of hands with an arm around the shoulders. Over the last few years, we enjoyed an increasing number of email exchanges and telephone conversations – often just to visit, the way old friends do.

The other day I was looking at the wall and feeling his loss when I got a text from my friend Vic. “Heartbreaking events in Ukraine [which are] difficult to watch. I’m a tired old man, but the unknown outcome of this causes me to lose sleep. We are living in very dangerous times.” But then, “Keep the faith, brother. Spring is just around the corner.” Vic is a lapsed Catholic. I doubt he meant “keep the faith“ in the way Armistead would have. Nonetheless, it was as clear as it could be – that was Armistead speaking.

Walle and I were friends for sixty-four years. In 2020, when he was in rehab following hip replacement and some other issues, I spent a couple of hours with him most afternoons. We were both getting along in years, and his health problems were serious. We talked for hours, the way good friends do, especially when time is about to be called. We were utterly comfortable with each other. He was my brother.

A month or two ago, I got a call from a mutual friend, John. Walle’s cancer had metastasized, and he’d been admitted to a hospice facility. Covid made flying risky, and I mistakenly thought Walle would hang on until the pandemic abated. As he got sicker and less able to communicate, John kept Walle and me in contact almost as if I were there. He called me often with reports of Walle’s condition, and he held the phone in front of Walle for facetime calls until the end. He assured me that Walle heard what I said even when he seemed to me to be unconscious.

I had known John for years, but we had been acquaintances rather than close friends. In the course of Walle’s final weeks, that changed. We began to get on the phone now and then and talk about nothing and everything. Walle knew I was going to need a friend like that, so he sent me one.

Today as friends and families of these two good men have gathered to celebrate their lives and bless them on their way, a verse from the Gospel According to John has been much on my mind. As the time approached for Jesus to be crucified, he promised his disciples a gift beyond measure. “I will not leave you comfortless.”