“Near death by drowning,” that was the official diagnosis. It's been nearly a month since I slipped off a cliff on Mayne Island and slowly began to drown. We were there on our staff weekend away. Anna and Joyce were ahead of me on the trail, heard a noise, turned around and saw me fall. I had hit my head on the way down and lost consciousness. Joyce scrambled back and into the water, and was soon followed by Anna and together they were able to turn me over. They yelled for Jack who was further ahead and while Anna called 911, they pulled me onto the nearby rocks. Chris soon joined them as they waited for help to arrive.

It is somewhat of a miracle that I walked out of the VGH ICU 5 days later. But the story isn't so much about how I nearly died or the coast guard hovercraft that sped me to the  emergency room, the intubation, the central line, or the salt water that filled my lungs. It isn’t even about the acts of heroism all around me or a healthcare system that responds to crisis. It is the story of thick friendships that were there at every step. Friends who were ready waiting at emergency, friends who had to wait with worry for news, and then scores of friends who held the buoys throughout the unknown. Friends who hold the memory for all that I cannot remember and friends who are as family for the family that cannot be present.

I woke up to a room full of friends, to the memory of familiar voices when my eyes wouldn’t open and the gratitude of seeing faces that were carrying worry that I didn’t know to hold. Friends that would sing a favourite song, friends that read to you when you cannot, and friends who simply sit in silence with you. For me, they are colleagues, housemates, neighbours – friends, who are family.

None of this surprises me. This is the community I have, the amazing people that do life together. Friendship built long before a crisis has gone by, at tables hosted and extended together, in memory layered in communal rhythms, shared space, sacrifice and welcome. I recognize the privilege it is to be part of a community that centres itself around friendship.

What a wonderful invention friendship is! It’s good to have friends. We are wholly undeserving of this kind of friendship, but I very much wish it for everyone.

This will be my sixth year in community at Jacob’s Well and there are a few things I’ve learned on what it takes to be and make a good friend, the kind of environment that fosters deep friendship. It certainly isn’t the heroic, the erudite or the long suffering. It is more often than consistent rhythms of showing up, being over doing, making room and building trust.

Brené Brown famously employs the allegory of the marble jar as a story of trust.

I'm surrounded by full marble jar friends. The kind of friends that, of course, do the heroic thing and jump into the water when I'm drowning. But also the kind of friends who are kind, even when someone else is rude, knowing that their rudeness is built out of mistrust in a world that sees them as other. It is friends that week after week make room at a community meal with new friends that walk in the door. Friends that make room for each other, pour coffee, and share what they have. It is also the person who has no time for the bully and will stand in the gap every time someone is mean to someone else. I'm surrounded by full marble jar friends. Scores and scores of them. And I get to be in a community that is a catalyst for making more and more of them. And what a privilege that is. For everyone that walks into the well, they get to do life, even if it is for a few hours with a group of people that would jump in the water when they're drowning. And that is a gift. A gift we have received and hope we can keep giving.