“It’s been too long since I’ve had a conversation like this,” he said.
It was one of those cold gray days that would be miserable come February but that in November still carried a sort of crisp promise of the impending Christmas season. The perfect sort of day for long conversations over cups of espresso. We settled in accordingly, curling up on sofas and armchairs, nibbling on sweet-spicy, cinnamon candied almonds.
We knew one another well or barely at all. The guys had been friends for a long time. She and I had as well, though our friendship was recently renewed after years apart. I’d met the others just this weekend.
But this morning we’d shared bread and wine in the bare sanctuary of the little Evangelical church, and this afternoon we’d shared bread and wine (and pasta and soup and home-made tiramisu) in the cheerful sanctuary of the homey kitchen. And shared worship and shared family time make for quick familiarity even with the barrier of a foreign tongue.
Now, with our hosts busy about their afternoon business, the other young people spoke English for my sake. I envied their easy fluency in two languages, but was thankful not to be straining my ears and my memory to follow Italian. In English, our conversation could range from the church service to our travels, from plans to anxieties. We discussed loneliness and the desire for belonging as comfortably as we speculated over international population density and the materials of home-architecture in different parts of the world. Ideas and opinions about music and art and literature, philosophy and government and theology, all flowing into one another through that near-mystical association that sometimes arises so spontaneously in the “right” mix of personalities.
And in the conversation I was happy. But the joy was edged with sorrow, with a knowledge that we all live so far apart, that this perfect fellowship between the four of us would last only a few hours, would probably never exist again. There is something, in such moments, that highlights the loneliness of so many other moments, moments of being alone, or worse, not alone but still outside.
But then, “It’s been too long since I’ve had a conversation like this,” he said, and I saw that the others were thinking the same.
And I realized, the pain of the joy also is shared. Here, at least, I was not being admitted into a world of fellowship that was common to the others. I was not the only one who felt more often out than in. And somehow that made the loneliness less lonely. It had been too long. It would be too long again. But it would not be forever.
For each of us there would be other moments, in other places, with other people where we would again think “it’s been too long.” We can’t hold on here to that easy feeling of belonging, but someday we’ll know it again. And for this afternoon, at least, that hope is enough.