The sickness of heart that is the lot of all, the loneliness that not even the voice of a friend can dispel, and the grief that seems to stop the pulse of life itself find their final meaning in this compulsion toward the divine. We are sometimes driven out not knowing whither we go, not knowing the purpose of it, but only knowing through sheer necessity that here we have no abiding city, or home, or life, or love, and seeking a city, a home, a life, a love that has foundations.

The Art of Being a Good Friend
Hugh Black