Tending the Fire

Imagine life as one long night around a campfire.

People will find their way to your fire at different times.

Some pull up a chair and stay for a few minutes.

Some stay for years — sharing stories, making memories, and becoming part of your life.

Some leave earlier than you expected.

And a rare few will still be sitting beside you when the fire is nothing but glowing embers.

But you wouldn't blame the fire every time someone got up and left.

People have places to go. Lives to build. Families to raise. Dreams to chase. Seasons to walk through.

Friendship works the same way.

We're quick to take distance personally. We wonder what changed, what we did wrong, or why someone who once felt like family suddenly feels like a stranger.

And sure, sometimes relationships end because of hurt, mistakes, or people simply growing apart.

But sometimes nobody did anything wrong.

Life just moved.

People get married. Kids come along. Careers change. People move. Responsibilities get heavier. Priorities shift.

Their chair being empty today doesn't erase all the nights they sat beside you.

It doesn't erase the laughs, the lessons, the memories, or the part they played in your story.

Your job was never to make everyone stay.

Your job is to tend the fire.

Keep it burning.

Keep welcoming people in.

Keep making room for another chair.

Keep creating a place where people can show up exactly as they are and feel like they belong.

Because every time someone gets up and walks away from the fire…

There's someone else out there looking for its glow.

A strong village isn't measured by how many people never leave. It's measured by whether you keep the fire burning when they do….

I found the above via a social media post recently. It has so many meaningful attributes and the way I think about my time around the backyard firepit.

Anyone who knows me well knows how much time I spend in my backyard. It has become one of my favorite places. Not because of the fire itself, but because of what seems to happen when people sit around it.

No two nights are ever the same.

Sometimes there are ten people around the fire. Sometimes there are two. Sometimes it's just me. The topics change. The people change. The season changes. There are nights filled with laughter and ridiculous stories, and there are nights when the conversation goes somewhere none of us expected when we first sat down.

And sometimes I send out an invitation and people can't make it.

That's okay too.

I've learned not to measure friendship by who accepts every invitation. People are busy. They have families, careers, responsibilities, struggles and lives that I may know nothing about. An empty chair around my fire isn't a judgment on them, and their absence isn't something I take personally.

There will always be another night.

But for the people who do show up, there is something I have come to really cherish about what happens around that fire.

We talk. Really talk.

Not the surface-level conversations that fill so much of our days. Not just business, sports, weather or whatever happens to be going on that week. If someone wants to go deeper, that chair is always available.

We talk about life. Marriage. Kids. Business. Failure. Success. Fear. Regret. Mental health. Relationships. Aging. Dreams. Mistakes we've made. Things we're proud of and things we wish we could do over.

Sometimes I'm doing most of the talking. Other nights, I'm doing most of the listening.

And I've realized that when the conversation is genuine, it almost doesn't matter which side you're on.

The speaker and the listener usually both leave having learned something.

There is something about sitting outside, staring into a fire, that seems to remove some of the walls we carry around during the day. Maybe it's because nobody is staring at a phone or sitting across a conference table. Maybe it's the darkness. Maybe it's the quiet. Or maybe it's simply knowing that the people sitting beside you came there because they wanted to be there.

Whatever it is, people tend to talk differently around a fire.

I've heard stories I never would have heard anywhere else. I've shared things I probably wouldn't have shared anywhere else. I've changed my perspective because of conversations around that fire. I've laughed until my stomach hurt. I've listened to friends going through incredibly difficult seasons. And I've had people listen to me through some of mine.

That's why the idea of tending the fire resonates with me so much.

Over the years, the chairs around my fire have changed.

Some people have been there dozens of times. Some only once or twice. Some were part of one season of my life and aren't around nearly as much anymore. New people have found their way into those chairs. And there are a handful who I suspect will still be sitting there with me many years from now.

I cherish all of them.

Because friendship doesn't have to last forever to have mattered.

A conversation doesn't have to change your life to have value.

And someone doesn't have to sit beside your fire every night to have been an important part of your story.

Maybe that's one of the things I've come to appreciate more as I've gotten older.

Stop counting the chairs. Stop worrying about who left. Stop keeping score of who accepted the invitation.

Just tend the fire.

Keep inviting people.

Keep listening.

Keep talking about things that matter.

Keep creating a place where someone knows they can sit down, grab a drink, stare into the flames and say what they actually think or feel without being judged.

And appreciate whoever happens to be sitting in the chairs that night.

Because seasons change. People change. Life moves.

But there will always be tremendous value in a warm fire, an open chair and a conversation that goes a little deeper than the surface level.

Hope to see you soon.