The Work of Community

This week, we celebrated our eighth annual Friendsgiving with the small group we’ve shared life with for years.

It felt significant—not just because of the number, but because it marked the last time we’ll host it in this house. A season is closing. A new one is beginning.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on what this group has meant to me and to my family. And at the same time, I’ve been reflecting on what it’s meant to build a life in one place for nearly a decade.

Stay with me for a moment—but one of my all-time favorite TV shows is Veronica Mars. There’s a scene that’s been playing in my mind lately. One character shows up to profess his love and says something like, “I thought our story was epic. Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined. Blood shed. Epic!” And she pushes back—“You really think a relationship should be that hard?”

His reply is what sticks with me:
“No one writes songs about the ones that come easy.”

That scene isn’t really about romance. It’s about commitment.

And strangely enough, it’s one of the best ways I know to describe what this group has been to me.

Our story has felt epic. Spanning years. Plenty of mess. A few near-disasters. (Including one memorable kitchen incident involving taco shells and fire.) We’ve stayed on the same continent—but we’ve walked through a lot together.

It would be hard to fully capture everything we’ve experienced as a group. But what stands out most isn’t the events themselves—it’s the decision to stay.

Years ago, not long after we were married, my husband and I were sitting on the floor of what was then our game room. We’d been part of this group for a while, but we were lonely. We didn’t feel deeply known yet. And I remember trying to convince both of us that this kind of thing takes time—that if we stayed, depth would come.

Looking back now, I can say with confidence: time did bring depth.

But it wasn’t just time.

It was the discipline to stay committed.
The choice to keep showing up.
The willingness to open our door—literally and figuratively.
The humility to accept invitations into other people’s lives.
The decision to work through conflict instead of walking away.
The courage to remain present through dark, messy seasons.

Community like this doesn’t happen accidentally. It’s cultivated.

If you’re reading this and you don’t feel like you have a community like that, I want to gently encourage you not to give up on the idea. Everyone starts somewhere. For many people, a local church can be a meaningful place to begin—but wherever you start, it will require patience and courage.

And if you do have a community like this, don’t take it for granted. True community is a two-way street. It needs care, honesty, forgiveness, and love to keep growing.

The Bible describes this kind of shared life in a way I keep returning to:

“Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.”
(Colossians 3:13–14)