There was no roast turkey on the table. No mashed potatoes or elegant appetizers, no caviar, no elaborate desserts. Not a table linen in sight.

Instead, there were three bagels and a scone, some water, some coffee. A whole bunch of paper napkins.

A five-year-old alternately worked on a craft project, nibbled his scone, and constructed buildings out of Legos. A one-year-old lounged in his stroller next to the table, gobbling up bagel pieces, flipping through board books, tossing Cheerios to the far reaches of the surrounding booths.

And there were two friends. Two women who love sharing breakfast together, but don’t often get the chance.

And that made it a feast.

My friend and I met at Panera this morning for a long-overdue bagel-and-chat session. We met four years ago, when our two older boys were in preschool together. While the boys formed a friendship consisting of Imaginext and bicycles, we built our own friendship on the foundations of (among other things) shared faith, a love of books, a belief that one can never have too many journals, and a thorough enjoyment of Panera.

New obligations, a new baby, and the increasing complexity that life automatically throws at everyone mean that we don’t meet for breakfast as often as we used to. But when we do, I’m reminded why I love it so much.

Though L. only allowed us 45 minutes of chatting (a vast improvement over his usual 10-minute restaurant limit — in part, I’m sure, because there was an interesting 5-year-old to observe), we feasted. It was a delicious buffet of encouragement, heart-sharing, commisserating, and understanding. We talked about our kids and how parenting is changing as they grow older. We discussed emotions, baby sign language, personal struggles, cholesterol, after-school activities, housekeeping, Bible study. Our conversation touched on everything from candles to crying to the weather.

Life gets busy. And it’s easy — at least it is for me — to put off getting together with friends for far too long. I get absorbed in the day-to-day: household tasks, paying bills, baby and child care, sneaking in naps. And I forget how much my soul is refreshed by a few minutes with a good friend. Some conversation over a bagel and coffee fills me up in more ways than one. Yes, I enjoy the yummy carb treat, but my heart feasts as well, on the sustenance that comes from true friendship.

I hope you have such a friend, and I hope the two of you get together for a feast very soon.

As I flipped through the local TV channels today, there was one consistent theme. Across the bottom of the screen for all four-or-so channels ran those helpful weather warnings. Today it’s Flash Flood Warning, with a handy map of all the local counties blinking green, yellow, green, yellow.

I can’t hear the words “flash flood” without remembering something that happened 12 years ago.

It was about 1 a.m. and I groggily realized that the phone was ringing. Back in those days — younger days, thinner days, newlywed days, and most significantly, days before kids — I actually slept well. Unlike now, when the slightest noise catapults me from asleep to awake, I then slumbered peacefully. And all night long, in fact. Amazing.

Anyway, the phone was ringing. Now I’m one of those types who tends to not answer the phone if I’m in the middle of something. If I have a baby on one hip and am stirring the tomato sauce with my free hand and the phone rings…they’ll have to wait. If I’m reading blogs paying the bills and the phone rings…they’ll have to wait. My philosophy is: they can leave a message. If it’s urgent, I’ll hear the message and jump into action. If not, well, we can chat later.

But when the phone rings at 1 a.m., it’s either a very wrong number or an emergency. So my plan was to answer the phone. But I must have slept through the first four rings because by the time I swung my legs off the side of the bed, I heard the answering machine pick up. At that time, we lived in a small 2-bedroom apartment, and although the answering machine was in the other bedroom (read: room for the computer and the futon), I could hear it clearly, since it was really just a couple feet away. And here’s what I heard (after my cheery “leave-a-message” message):

“Katrina! I need you! Katrina? Katrina!!”

I knew the voice. It was my friend, Carrie (names have been changed to protect the innocent people who may or may not like their names broadcast on my blog, just to be safe). And she sounded desperate. I stumbled for the phone and picked up.

Carrie and her husband, John, lived in an apartment much like ours — a small apartment building, housing four or six individual units. Like us, they lived in a semi-basement unit which meant that the front of our apartments were underground, while the backs somehow had doors to the outside. The difference was, Carrie and John’s apartment was in a valley, while ours was not.

That night, they’d gone to bed as usual. It was raining, which was nothing new where we lived. But they awoke sometime after midnight to find that their bedroom had become a swimming pool. Water was up to the mattress, furniture was floating around, and it just kept rising. The rain hadn’t stopped and flash floods were in full effect.

I didn’t need to hear any more. “Come over now.”

And as I prayed for them, I set about rummaging for towels and dry clothes. I converted the futon into a bed and put some sheets on it. I woke Chad to let him know that they’d be coming, and then waited while they made the 15-minute drive to our apartment. Carrie and John arrived, soaked and scared, exhausted but unable to relax. Understandably. We stayed up and talked for a while about what they would do next, what we could do for them. And then we all climbed under our respective covers, though no one got much sleep that night.

In the end, the water had gone up about 5 feet in their apartment. By the time they got in the next morning, the water had gone down, but there was a line of grime along every wall. Furniture was upended and ruined. They had to start over. Chad and I did what we could to help. Insurance helped. There was some FEMA money distributed to those affected by the flood. And they got through it.

If there was more we could have done, we would have. Because they were our friends, and we know they would have done the same for us.

That got me thinking, today. Now, at this stage in my life, who are my “flood friends”? Who could I call at 1 a.m. to say “I need you!”?

In a physical emergency (flood, fire, etc.), I know there are many I could call, many who wouldn’t mind being awakened to take us in and dry us off. But what about emotional emergencies? Who could I call if feelings, emotional pain, trials, or relational tragedies were threatening to drown me? If the things I hold on to were suddenly (or even slightly) upended?

I’m so thankful to be able to say that I have a few precious, treasured friends like that. Friends who would take that call in the middle of the night. Friends who would pray with me, sit with me, cry with me. I’m grateful that God has placed those dear friends in my life.

I hope you have some “flood friends,” too. Maybe we should let some people know that we’d gladly be flood friends for them — that they can call on us anytime and we’ll be there, with a dry towel or a hand to hold.