On this Good Friday, I am taken back to a cold, gray morning a few weeks ago. I stood alone at the curb at Dallas Fort Worth Airport, shivering in a light jacket, and feeling hemmed in by the endless concrete of the terminal and the parking garage on each side of me. Other travelers, also standing alone, looked out anxiously as a line of sedans passed slowly by, with masked drivers trying to match the masked travelers with the photos on their phones. One by one, faceless rideshare contractors, paid in contactless ones and zeroes, drove off with faceless home or hotel-bound customers, never to meet again afterward.
My story unfolded differently.
In an instant, the gloominess of my scene was shattered by the smiling face and waving arms of a friend of mine who pulled up to take me home. He got out of his car, gave me a hug, and helped me with my luggage. Soon we were on our way, listening to music and catching up on the goings-on in each other’s lives. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small sacrifice for my friend to make; but until he made it, I had not realized—if only by the anecdotal evidence of my fellow travelers that day—just how rare the everyday sacrifices of friendship have become.