You can't take it with you

Relationships matter above all else

A few days ago I went jogging and stopped in front of my parents’ former home in Holladay, Utah. This was their residence long after I left home for college, so I have relatively few memories attached to that place compared to those I have of Tanner Manor, my childhood home in Southern California. My children, however, remember it as their grandparents’ home. It’s the last place we saw my father alive. So, I stopped in front of the house for a brief moment to feel a little sad about good times never to be recaptured.

My dad used to make reference to the title of a 1936 three-act comedic play entitled You Can’t Take it With You, reminding us that all we can really take with us to the next life is our knowledge, our beliefs, and our relationships. (He was mostly right, but I believe we’ll take our personalities and talents, too.) Of all the things we'll take with us, it’s our relationships that seem to matter the most. After all, the rest of our treasures will feel empty and pointless if we don’t have loved ones to share them with.

So, if relationships matter the most, how should we prioritize which relationships to nurture? We are, after all, mortals limited by time and space. 

Certainly, some of our priorities should align with our familial obligations. We promise to be one with our spouse and, together, we accept the responsibility to rear in righteousness the children given to us. These family relationships take more than a lifetime of nurturing and are designed to bring us joy along the way as well as in the hereafter.

But what of the others we once shared our lives and dreams with? For instance, what of Licia Rose, my best friend from kindergarten until eighth grade? We had no falling out; she simply moved two states away. Without access to social media, we had no easy or convenient way of staying in touch or continuing to share our lives. I wonder, does God make accommodations here or in the next life for us to “catch up” with people who move away either physically or emotionally?

In his book The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell says we humans each have a "sympathy group." Because our capacity to care deeply is limited, this group is limited to about 12 people. They tend to be the people we “devote the most attention to—either on the telephone, in person, or thinking and worrying about.” 

To me, his assertion is laughable. Without including friends, I count in my sympathy group two parents, one husband, five children, and 12 siblings. I also have about 20 in-laws and almost 80 nieces and nephews, many of whom are now married to fabulous people I also love. (And what of my unborn grandchildren?) Sorry, Mr. Gladwell. The number 12 just doesn’t work for me. 

Gladwell further claims that to care intensely about any more than about a dozen people puts us on social/emotional “overload.” After all, he says, “Caring about someone is exhausting.” Tiring? Of course! But caring is also highly energizing.

This past summer I spent many a weekend with my very large extended family as we attended many weddings for several nieces and nephews. These celebrations gave me multiple opportunities to renew cherished relationships. Rather than feeling drained, being around my "sympathy group" made me feel energized. In fact, being with these great people felt like my idea of heaven. At once, I felt a strong present-tense love and security as well as a certain future sense of hope and joy that my family connections will continue. Unfortunately, however, I won’t physically be with them again for a long time. I won’t be laughing, dancing, or feasting with them. I won’t be asking for advice freely of them or giving hugs freely to them. So, what will help keep the relationships alive? The memories? Yes, they will help. What else? Common goals? Perhaps.

I wish I had the answers, but I do know this: relationships do matter most of all, and I want to take all of them with me.