Most of my rituals are practiced in solitude: morning prayer, daily exercise, flossing. My two communal rituals involve food: our family’s evening dinner and the eight-eight meals I’ve shared with the same three women over the past twenty-two years. While I’m hopeful that our family dinner is not simply about replenishing calories, I’m certain those eighty-eight meals are about something more.
Kimberly, Margaret, Beth, and I all attended a small church in downtown Boston during the mid eighties. We had such similar backgrounds, temperaments, and faith journeys that friendship was inevitable. They were the obvious choice for bridesmaids and not long after they proceeded me down the aisle, we decided to make the relationship more intentional by connecting for dinner once a quarter. At the time, I had no idea how this soon-to-be ritual would teach me the meaning of friendship.
(L to R, Margaret, me, Beth & Kimberly)
When we gathered around the table in the now defunct Chinese restaurant, I was pregnant with our eldest son—the one who got married last summer. No wrinkles defined our faces and no gray hairs poked defiantly upwards. Our bodies were trim (with the exception of my swollen midsection) and powerful.
That first night, we picked spicy noodles and greasy rice off each other’s plates as we shared our doubts, fears, and triumphs. Though surely no one was listening, we huddled around the table, dropping our voices, apparently concerned about what others would think if they overheard our stories.
To read more about this twenty-two year tradition and what it’s taught me about friendship, please click the link to Cara Meredith’s site.
To read more on relationships, check out this leadership article.