When I drove away from Tampa for the last time, I bawled. Ugly cried. I cried for several miles out of town because...
Yesterday was one of those days when my shortcomings and sinful-nature-fruits just kept popping up...
Thursday night I tried really hard to play hostess at my apartment. The same apartment where all of my...
Saturday I helped friends move.
I heaved a hundred clothes-heavy hangers into my trunk. I artfully packed the art into the back of an SUV. I carried boxes and furniture, baby gear, and socks up and down a sloping driveway.
It wasn’t until I picked up the top drawer of their dresser, filled with papers, mementos, and jewelry and all the things we hide from thieves by placing them in the most obvious of places, that I realized what it meant to move a friend.
Before, I thought helping move a friend was living love.
At that moment I realized they were living love, too.
Asking friends to help you move makes you vulnerable. Your friends will touch every single thing you own. They will pick up your toilet brush. They will see the size of your shoe collection. They will flip through your books as they take them to the truck.
They will see your house naked, dirty baseboards and corner cobwebs now exposed.
They will clean out your refrigerator and your pantry. They will know which brand of peanut butter you buy and how many bars of chocolate you keep on hand in case of emergency.
I realized Saturday that couples get married without knowing as much about each other as I now know about my friends.
And they’re okay with that. Because they love me.
Love isn’t simply about service. It’s also about intimacy, and the quickest road to intimacy is vulnerability.