A friend of mine . . .

A friend of mine died this week. He wasn't very old. A "young adult" who should have been just taking the world by the horns. But he was dealt a hand most would say should be folded. He played it out.

He was at once loyal and affirming, child-like and wise, aggravating and demanding. He sort of wedged his way into my life, which really had no place suitable for him. But he was satisfied with wherever I seated him, as long as I seated him. He was a better friend than I.

He was the kind of guy that interrupted a discussion at a Bible study, his hand raised, "Can I ask a question?" "Sure," the leader said. My friend asked, "What in the world are you talking about?"

Or he would go to the altar during a church service, not when the preacher said, but just whenever.

Or he would ask for a ride home, and then want to take a twenty mile detour, or to go to Wal-mart. He would ask for legal advice as we stood in line to receive communion.

But he loved me. He loved us.

I think he is the kind of guy that would have shown up at the stable in Bethlehem. Maybe with the shepherds, maybe with the wise men. He would not have hesitated. He would have jumped to the front of the line to see the new baby. And he probably would have stayed too long. But nobody would have gotten too mad. Because his wonder and his love were real. Not perfect, but real. And that's hard to come by, no matter what century you live in.

And now he has found peace. Or if he hasn't, he'll get somebody to take him there. Thanks be to God.