Community-- the lost art

A much-beloved college chorale director once said something I'll never forget. He was describing the actions of former students who came back to town and said things like, "Oh, Mr. Harris, we were just in Lynchburg last weekend, and we almost came to see you, but..." He smiled that particular smile-- and if you've ever seen one, you know exactly the smile I mean; it's devastatingly effective-- and said, "If it's a priority, you'll do it."

I mention it now because, based on Mr. Harris's assessment, maintaining community just does not seem to be a priority for most of us any longer. Somewhere among the text messages and rollover minutes and cheap e-mail, we've lost not only the art, but the desire to remain connected to one another. We've forgotten what it all means.

For example, I have a dear friend whose primary means of communication for many years was to e-mail me other people's messages. Whenever I saw her name in my inbox, I knew I was just a click away from sampling whichever bit of inspiration, humor, "chicken soup", or moral outrage was currently making its way through the Internet. Yet I had no idea what was going on in her life, and she had no idea what was going on in mine. Repeated inquiries such as "Long time no hear from-- so how are you doing?" received the sorts of responses I might expect to get from a distant maiden auntie, if I actually had one: "I am well. I think of you often. Take care of yourself." Recently, she sent me another posting, this one a humorous poem about how we should be pleased to get yet another forward, because it means that someone is thinking of us. While I'm always pleased to know that someone is thinking of me, I sometimes feel vaguely cheated that twenty years of friendship doesn't usually earn me anything more than a quick click.

I had a similar discussion with members of our small, supposedly close-knit community church. After twelve years of dedicated attendance, I was dismayed to find out that my self-described "church family" considered me worthy of a lovely sendoff when I moved out of state, but not of keeping in touch with me once I'd left. The letters I sent might as well have been tossed into the ocean in bottles for all the response I received. My great move backfired and I ended up returning home after less than a year, but it was six months and a healthy dose of Christmas responsibility before I could set aside my indignation and visit the church I'd once called home. When I jokingly called my former choir mates a bunch of schmuck-oids for not writing, I was airily assured by one member that she hadn't seen her best friend in 25 years. The following Easter, the choir director told me how much everyone had missed me. When I asked rhetorically why they hadn't written, I got met with a smile. One of Those Smiles. You know the one.

It's not just me. I recently participated in a forum where alumnae of my alma mater were concerned about the lack of response from their "adopted students" on campus. During a time of extreme crisis, the alumnae had reached out to offer support and morale to those in need, only to have their cards and letters completely ignored. The supreme irony is that the crisis was likely caused in part, and certainly worsened, by college administrators treating the offers of alumnae assistance with the same disregard. It's also interesting to note that the perceived decline in enrollment corresponds neatly with a decline in beloved college traditions, such as the gradual move from family-style dining on college china to the impersonal card-swipe that entitles today's students to fill their own generic plates.

While I try not to bring up problems without proposing solutions, I have to admit that I have no easy answers for this one. The pace of today's life often means that we have barely enough energy to take care of our own needs, let alone spend active time supporting relationships that seem to be self-sustaining. The truth is that they are not self-sustaining, and neither are we. Our lives are better when we live them together, and when we truly realize this, we will be willing to make the commitment. It doesn't take much. Somewhere between the quick click and the message in a bottle lie the few words that will hold us together for another hour or another week. The form and even the content is less important than the act. Make that act a priority. You won't be disappointed.