But I sensed this evening wasn’t merely a one-off event; it was the outgrowth of an institution that the Daskams had refined over two decades. Their Sunday evening dinners—kicking off the week by breaking bread with community—were a powerful liturgy. It forged identities not as individuals or nuclear families but as parts of a collective of believers who think deeply and discuss intentionally. Their conversations shaped their thoughts, values, and interests.
The Daskams’ absence left a hole in their community. It changed the dynamic. Who could replace Brian’s intellectual curiosity and nerdiness or Keri’s sweet wisdom and baking? “These kinds of friendships come only once in a lifetime,” Emily told me. And for some people, never.
Perhaps not. The Daskams had tried in Washington, and they had come back. But what I saw in Denton were the fruits of 20 years of structured gatherings pumped with many unstructured hangouts.
I flew back to LA with a hole growing in my heart. It wasn’t a terrible feeling; it was that I’d seen with my own eyes what I longed to have for me and my family. I also felt comforted by the Daskams’ struggles in Washington. I wasn’t alone; building community is hard.
