Guest Blogger Week: A Love Story

I had a chat with a friend today who has the best problem I’ve ever heard. She is so in love with life at it’s present that tears come to her eyes in the strangest moments, even as she fills out envelopes. Yet she spoke in nervousness because, as with all things delightful, she feared the notion this given time would give way to coming times that wouldn’t bring tears like she knows them now. So I shared a lesson I have learned time and again. We never want to lose precious times or things we treasure, yet a part of life is doing exactly that. The beauty in that broken dish is that losing things we cherish helps us to taste the bitter so we can better relish in the sweet. If she cried joyful tears everyday soon she’d cease to notice.
I know this truth inside out. I found my soul mate years ago and as it turns out she wasn’t mine to keep. We met in a journalism class in high school. On the outside you’d never peg us for commonality and yet somehow we defied the odds. I was a football player, class clown, above average thinker who slept through tests and yet posted As on the fridge. I lived life on cruise control. And she was a hard working, studious civic leader who organized shelter drives and kissed babies. And yet, we became friends. Great friends. We spent those last years of high school becoming close in a way I’ve never really have with anyone else. There was a completeness in what we shared. In those moments when the weight of exceptionality pressed on her, my laissez-faire gave her back rubs. I will always remember the day we sat in the rain as she cried, completely overwhelmed; holding her and letting words wash away into subtly shared silence. Watching drops of water always take me back to that moment. Her drive motivated me. Her compassion inspired me to love outside myself. We were a sun and moon, making time as we passed. 
College came and we set off on different trails. She set off to become a teacher and I a youth pastor. Distance separated our presence but we withstood. Our friendship grew and flourished. When we found ourselves home we had pancakes dates. I’d make her promise to wear her pjs and not shower and she’d come over early to make pancakes and sit on my couch, talking and laughing. I remember the time we were feeling adventurous and dumped cinnamon into the batter and from then on cinnamon pancakes were our thing. We’d dance about the kitchen speaking in our language, licking the spoon and staying on burn control. I’d challenge her to pancake flipping and always made sure she won. She never could beat becoming overwhelmed and so her back always wore knots of honor and I’d gladly roll up my sleeves and go to work. I knew her back well and so my hand always knew the trick to rid her of her woes. And soon, of course, I found myself wanting to flip cinnamon pancakes and rub out knots for the rest of my days. There was such a beauty in her tussled hair and unpainted face that made me wish mornings could start with that look peeking from the covers. I guess you’d call it love. But my heart told me it was bigger than any word I’d ever heard and too complex for Webster and all his friends to make concise. 
Eventually I could no longer contain how I felt and so I spoke. In fact, I spoke a lot. I played the only hand I held and prayed I’d win the pot. But I didn’t. Six years had passed us by. Too many pancakes, stories, and knots to count. I was completely unraveled in her stitching and yet, as fate would have it, she wouldn’t have me. She loved me, of that I’m resolute, but her math didn’t not yield the same result. Some people are fortunate enough to keep their soul mate for themselves, I have to share mine. It is a weird resolution I find futility in trying to relate, but I understood. As I said, what we shared was grander than what we call love. There was no essence of lust, rather a simple purity of aroma. While my outsides would most likely be unable to contain my insides if one day she became solely mine, there is a peace that persuades my delight into a joyous contentment in having her at all. Rarely does buried treasure stay with the one who uncovers it. We are best friends even now and we will always be. And there’s plenty of light left in the sun for us to share a sunset should life give way to that.
And so I share this, my offbeat love story, for my friend afraid to lose her tears and for any of those out there afraid to lose theirs. When we let the fear of loss rob us of today’s gain, we hold nothing in our hands. I love my pancake lady for what we share today in light of what we’ve had and in spite of what we could have. Cry on friends, cry on.
Written by Patrick