When we bought out house on the lake fifteen years ago, there was a resident living on the property that I didn’t have the heart to evict. It was a beaver. He had carved out a nice home inside one of the Styrofoam floats underneath the dock. In the early morning, I would go down to pray and sometimes hear him scratching or snorting underneath the boards or see his wet footprints on the surface of the dock boards.
Initially it would give me the willies. I was a little wary whenever I approached the dock. In the dark early morning hour, I would rotate my headlamp right and left and brandish a walking stick just in case he decided to emerge from his sub aquamarine world, leap upon the dock, and attack. He never did.
After several years of peaceful coexistence, I relaxed. I actually became comfortable with his presence, maybe even happy to have a nearby companion. If I didn’t see him for a couple of days, I would begin to wonder where he was. Like the father in the parable of the prodigal son, I would gaze longingly down the cove waiting to see his tale-tale ripple on the horizon returning from an all-nighter – I presume partying with his friends on the nearby, uninhabited Goat Island.
I even named him. Justin. Justin Beaver.
I noticed a pattern. In the summer, Justin would mostly disappear. Around August he would start making periodic visits. By November, he became fully entrenched in his winter home.
Last year, I decided to replace the floats underneath the dock. After over 30 years of use (and maybe a little beaver damage) the dock was sagging and looking miserable. This destroyed Justin’s winter habitat. For the beaver lovers out there, do not fret. Up and down the cove are dozens of other suitable habitats for a lone beaver to spend his winter (but maybe none quite as posh as a well-insulated Styrofoam bubble.)
There was a sad, unexpected consequence of this decision. It’s mid-September and I haven’t seen the beaver in a long while. I actually miss him. I look up the cove expecting his return each morning but see nothing but empty, still water. Sigh.
These feelings of longing remind me of my other lost friendships, not with critters but with people. The pandemic has completely restructured my ‘habitat’. One day I am out doing a lot of fruitful foraging, and then the next I find I have no safe, familiar place to return.
The pandemic is reshaping not just our physical habits of where we live, work, pray, and play. It is reshaping our emotional connections. Friends we enjoyed being with now have no safe place in our altered habitat.
The dock of our world is under construction. Maybe it was sagging and a little unsteady and needed a remaking in a few places. There are signs of good even in the midst of tragedy. Faith tells us that no matter what the circumstances, God will have a hand in making it a better dock – more welcoming, stable and sustainable.
As we patiently wait for the construction to be complete, we should also look to our friends, especially those with whom we have lost touch. Some friendships are based on place and circumstances – tennis buddies, Rotary pals, work associates… But there are true friends that transcend convenience and mutual benefit. There is an emotional connection, not just a physical, that nourishes our spirit and enriches our life.
Who are those special friends with whom you’ve lost touch? Is there a way to reconnect?
Thank you so much, Scott