The other day I was reading The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry with my youngest son. Whilst he was drifting off to sleep, I sat in silence, lost in the Little Prince’s encounter with the fox. I’m currently preparing a Cursillo, and perhaps that’s why those words struck a chord with me so deeply. I’d started by reading them to my son, but I ended up feeling as though they were speaking to me – to what I’m going through and to the friendship we’ll soon be offering to others. That simple lesson on how to forge bonds made me think about how we’ll support them afterwards, in the Poscursillo period.
The Little Prince wants to play, but the fox explains that first they need to build a bond. That will take patience: sitting a little way off at first, leaving room for silence, and drawing a little closer each day. Then he asks the Little Prince to come back at the same time. If he knows the Little Prince will arrive at four o’clock, he’ll start feeling happy from three o’clock onwards. If the Little Prince turns up at any time, he won’t know when to prepare his heart.
What a beautiful way to explain friendship: to come to have someone to look forward to.
I thought of the hugs at our closing ceremonies, of the shared joy and of the sincerity with which we tell someone they can count on us. And I thought of the day after. When they return home, to their work, to their difficulties. They carry what they have experienced within them, but they need to discover how to make it part of their life.
I believe that is where our friendship begins to take on its true depth. That embrace needs to be sustained. The person to whom we have proclaimed that God loves them must find amongst us a place where they can continue to share their journey.
The fox offers us a first clue: to sit down. To set aside time simply to be there. It seems like little, until we try to find that time in our diaries. We want deep relationships, but we struggle to be consistent in them. We long for trust, even though our presence may be uncertain. We offer our friendship enthusiastically and then leave it to be nurtured once we’ve finished everything else.
I include myself in this. Sometimes, when we think of someone, we realise how long it’s been since we’ve heard anything about their life.
The fox also asks that there be a certain distance at the beginning. Having shared a Cursillo does not mean we can take for granted a trust that needs to grow. Every person has their own story and their own pace. Perhaps, before speaking to us about their prayer, they need to tell us why they are exhausted or what is worrying them when they get home. Listening to them brings us closer to the concrete reality of the life in which they are called to encounter Christ.
Accompaniment requires this sensitivity: drawing near only as far as the other person can welcome us, whilst remaining available. There are confidences that only come after many simple encounters, when someone has been able to see that we truly care.
We also need to learn the art of silence. We may feel at a loss in the face of pain we do not know how to ease. But we can simply be there. Listen without rushing to offer advice. Allow the other person to finish expressing what is on their mind. What a relief it is to find a friend with whom we do not have to pretend that everything is fine.
And then, return.
Because bonds are forged through time spent together. The intensity of an encounter can open our hearts; consistency helps us to entrust them. A phone call, a coffee, a conversation we pick up again. Remembering what they told us and asking about it. Small gestures that say: there’s a place for your life in mine.
That’s why I’m moved by the fox’s joy before the Little Prince arrives. The encounter is already with him whilst he waits.
I would like our group meetings to have some of that joy. So that, in the midst of a difficult week, someone might think: soon I’ll be with my friends; I’ll be able to share what’s happening to me and lay it before the Lord together with them. There, devotion, study and action become a shared life, amongst people who help one another to recognise Christ and follow him in their own environments.
The Ultreya, too, can be that place where someone is delighted to see us and where the witness of others restores our courage to carry on.
Rites are necessary because they give the gathering a setting and a rhythm. But they need our care. We can meet every week and barely listen to one another. Friendship grows when we pay attention, when we remember a concern, and when an absence prompts us to take an interest in the person.
If someone stops coming, perhaps they need to know that we still care for them. That they can return with their doubts, their weariness, even with those things we find hard to understand. Our friendship needs this selflessness so that the other person feels free and welcomed.
I think of Jesus drawing near to the disciples on the road to Emmaus. He walks with them, listens to their despondency and helps them discover a hope they thought was lost. I would like us to learn from Him this way of walking alongside others: to enter respectfully into the other person’s story and share the journey, trusting in what God is doing in their heart.
Every day, at the same time, a little closer: that is how we might remember the fox’s lesson. Every friendship will find its own rhythm. The important thing is to give it time, space and continuity.
Perhaps, as we read these lines, a name will come to mind. Someone we hugged at the end of a Cursillo and told that they could count on us.
We can give them a call. Find a moment. Sit down beside them and listen to how they’re getting on.
And then, come back.
Until we both have the joy of preparing our hearts to meet again.
De Colores.
Raúl Gonzalez Hurtado
Diocese of Córdoba (spain)
