A Letter

Matt, When I drove that Chevy compact that could fit in your pocket, rocketing down Interstate 40 into the foothills of the North Carolina Appalachians, I didn’t know it’d be just like old times. Well, old times with a much spicier aroma—was that cardamom? The good thing about old friends is that it doesn’t take long to rekindle community. There is a friend that sticks closer than a brother.

I was disappointed when you told me Ashley wasn’t coming. There are few women as salty as she, as salty as my fish and chips, as salty as the folk band with the bad drummer. Ashley’s one of the good wives—compliant enough to be biblical, defiant enough to be interesting. Kevin might describer her as “hoppy.”

There are things that aren’t worth saying out loud. Well, maybe they are, but you know them already. There are times when words are trite and even then only barely so. We skipped most of those pleasantries and caught up on life. We shared new stories about the broken, the redeemed, and the somewhere in between. You spoke miracles of your marriage, realities of your faith, volumes of honesty. You reminded me that with even just a little bit of wisdom comes great sorrow.

Great joy.

Great brotherhood.

And some pretty good beverages, too.

Thanks for driving to Hickory. I won’t long forget it. __________________________________________

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