These Are My Friends (Text of a card I sent to my friend, Mark Natzke)

***Mipps knew that my car - the silver bullet - a 1994 Prizm with 255,000 miles on it - was dead. He knew that my family couldn't live with one car. He knew that we were in a bind. And he knew what it means to be a friend. He helped me get a car.


These Are My Friends

That's what my Dad said one summer as we pulled away from a house. We drove close to 1500 miles that summer, from New Orleans, up through New Hampshire and back down through Indiana. At each place, the door opened, the table was laid, beds were made, and laughter and true joy abounded.

So Dad pulled away from the Herrs house in Keene, New Hampshire and he stopped the car. Up to this point, this meant 1) He forgot or lost something (a genetic trait he lovingly passed on to me) 2)One of us was going to get the beat down (a genetic trait he lovingly passed on to me or 3) He was going to announce that he and mom were going to have another baby (Another...you get the picture).

But he went off the menu that time. He turned to us and said, "These are my friends. Now, show me yours."

Wow. That's setting the bar high. The Herrs had taken us to their private lake and we had climbed a mountain and picked berries. All 12 of us.

So, I can say with absolute pride that I have another trait my father passed on to me. A friend who loves like Jesus. Who has given beyond any comprehension. Who has been at my side through all of it.

And, so, last week as I explained some stuff to Kellen, you know what I said? I said: Imagine if you and Andrew (classmate) were still friends in 30 years. Could you be? What would it be like? This is my friend. Show me yours.

No word can say what you mean to me. Kids and wives and divorces and implosions aside. Nothing I, a professional writer can say.

But you're a part of the story now, a genetic trait I hope to pass on. Thank you, friend. Thank you.