I had eight minutes between meetings, and I was a mess. I had just walked out of a phone meeting in which a mother described her son’s recent, brutal murder. I was about to walk into a meeting with a local politician.

My body gently shook as I strove to compose myself. I was down to seven minutes before my next meeting, and I couldn’t even think straight. My phone came out, and I dialed a close friend who lives incredibly far away. He also works at a high stress job, but he had said to call if I needed him. I needed him, but he didn’t answer.

Five minutes. The phone rang. “Hey,” says my friend when I hit talk. “I took my break so we could talk. What’s up?”

I spend four minutes and forty-seven seconds pouring my pain through the phone into my friend’s patiently listening ear. With 3 seconds to spare, I slid my phone into my pocket and welcomed the politician as he walked in the door.

Pastors absorb pain. They talk with husbands about potential divorce proceedings and wives about abandonment. They listen to the stories of abusers and the abused. They counsel parishioners through self-inflicted devastation and uninvited loss. Through each conversation, the pastor’s goal is to keep his heart open and receptive so that he can both love the person and hopefully hear from God.

Listening can be exhausting work. Loving can be heart-wrenching. God has not created a single man or woman to engage in that work independently. Caretakers need confidants. Pastors need secret-keepers and sorrow-sharers. They need men and women who live outside their church context, who are far enough removed to be disinterested. They need safe places to share the pain, experience acceptance and feel heard.

Deep friends take intentionality, though. I have talked to the friend I mentioned almost every week for the last 20 years. We have racked up thousands of hours of talking about everything from changing diapers to buying homes, from dying relatives to reading books. We have intentionally chosen to share life together, and I am grateful. It wasn’t the first time that I’ve called him freaking out, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Twenty years and countless hours later, I know that he welcomes my call. I don’t question his willingness to talk, and I don’t feel indebted to him for his willingness to interrupt his work-day to listen to my rant. Perhaps that’s because the mutual debt is so great that a little more owed on either side is hardly noticeable.

If you want to get a deeper look into this friendship, check out our podcast.
On The Phone With Josh – available wherever you enjoy listening!