While walking the Camino this June, I found I had a lot of time to think. And all sorts of things came to mind during our 150-mile trek.
One was a memory of my time living in Columbus, GA, many years ago. I was working out with a Methodist minister who, in between reps, shared something that’s stayed with me ever since.
He said: “When it’s all said and done, you’ll be able to count your true friends on one hand. If your funerial was 2,000 miles away, the number of people who’d actually show up would fit in a single car—and for most of us, it’d be a subcompact.
That image stuck—not because it’s sad, but because it’s honest. And in that honesty, there’s something quietly beautiful.
Imagining my final moments (again, I had a lot of time to think while on my multi-day trek!), I picture four people.
– The first would be the one who unplugs my life support—not out of cruelty, but because they needed to charge their iPhone. It’s not about me. It’s about them. And that’s okay. We all have someone like that. They show up, but they’re not really present. Still, they do show up.
– The second would be the person holding my hand. Silent. Steady. No words needed. Just love—pure and human.
– The third might be in the hospital chapel, whispering a prayer. Maybe unsure what to say but saying it anyway. That’s faith. That’s friendship. That’s love.
– And the fourth? They wouldn’t be in the hospital at all. They’d be calling the nurse to check on me. They’d be texting my family. Organizing meals. Doing the invisible work of love—the kind that doesn’t seek recognition, only purpose.
This isn’t a story about loss or loneliness. It’s a story about presence. Of how we show up for each other. How we support each other when it matters. It is about the quiet, sacred joy of knowing that even if it’s just four people in a subcompact car, they’re your people.
And in the end, that’s more than enough.
Because love doesn’t need a crowd.
It just needs to show up.
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