On Friday in the midst of a conversation, someone told me I wasn’t very sentimental.
At first, I laughed it off. Then when I left, I got in my car and started to cry.
For the next hour, I drove to old places I used to wander when I lived at home, like my favorite park and coffee shop. I drove past the high school I went to on my way back to my house.
And you best believe I remembered it all.
When I walked into my bedroom, I pulled out a box that I have under my bed. It is filled with notes and cards, drawings, tickets from events, and photos — all the random things people thought I didn’t notice (like the “Hi, I love you”‘s on pages in my school notebooks when I wasn’t looking, and the handwritten letters I read a hundred times whenever I received them).
After I looked through each piece, I sorted them and read them. All these beautiful notes and letters and memories and all I could see were these few:
“I can’t describe how awesome you are and how happy I am that I know you. Stay awesome, beautiful, special and amazing – B”
“Seriously through, I’d be an absolute mess without you. Thanks mom 🙂 – K”
“You are my best friend for life. I love you.”
There were more, too. All from friends who held such significant role in my life yet are no longer in it, and so I couldn’t look anymore.
There were friends who chose drugs over me, relationships over me, and felt judged by my faith; and too, there were friends whom I chose my own pride over them.
This isn’t a post with an encouraging conclusion, I am struggling to find one to give and in turn one to find comfort in.
All I know is this:
