faith unfaded

They lived next door to each other, separated by hedges and pride.

John and Charles Ringling — two of the seven Ringling brothers — helped build one of the most recognizable names in American entertainment. Together, they commanded elephants, acrobats, orchestras, and applause from thousands. But in their personal lives, a disagreement grew quietly between them, until time did what time always does when we assume there will be more of it.

They stopped speaking.

No dramatic blowup. No final confrontation. Just distance. Silence. The slow hardening that comes when pride convinces us we’re justified in staying away.

When Charles became gravely ill, John didn’t send a message or wait for an invitation. He ran — literally leaping hedges — to reach his brother’s bedside. They had forgiveness, yes, but more than that, they had grief. Years of silence collapsed into mere minutes, and whatever reconciliation came was painfully brief. Charles died shortly after his tearful brother arrived.

John made it in time to say goodbye. Not everyone does. And even when you do, there is no getting back the years you lost.

There’s a tension we don’t talk about enough in faith circles: the difference between necessary boundaries and unnecessary estrangement.

Yes, there are times when cutting contact is an act of wisdom. Abuse, addiction, ongoing harm — those lines matter. But there is another category we often confuse with self-protection: petty disagreements, wounded pride, score-keeping, punishment disguised as “peace.”

Those are the separations that haunt us.

I’ve lost relatives I never even argued with — I just assumed there would be time later. Life gets busy and we have the best of intentions. But the clock keeps ticking.

I’ve also lived long enough to recognize the ache of being on the other side of Cats in the Cradle — reaching out, offering time, receiving silence in return.

All I can control is my side of the door.

I can choose not to weaponize absence.
I can choose not to let pride write the final chapter.
I can choose to keep offering presence, forgiveness, and grace — even if it’s not returned.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Romans 12:18

Sometimes peace doesn’t look like reconciliation.
Sometimes it looks like leaving the porch light on anyway.

Because hedges grow fast.
And regret grows faster.