Last night I asked for a friend.
She didn’t hesitate for a second, just appeared shouting “I’ll do it!” with so much enthusiasm I actually believed her.
I haven’t believed in anything wholeheartedly for a while, but with her arms around me squeezing so tight I knew I couldn’t float away and my head on her chest in the same way it used to be when we were teenagers and the first boy broke my heart, I was cared for.
Not the kind of obligatory care like when you mention being sad and somebody asks, “what’s wrong?” like they’re reading a script I guilted them into writing.
She wasn’t going to let me go until she was sure I was safe, until my mind decided to leave me alone for a while longer.
“I’m just trying to do what Jesus would do if he were standing with you instead,” she whispered and laughed at herself for it, but I didn’t.
I thanked her and replied, “He is.”
There was no need in explaining why I showed up at her house on a random Tuesday afternoon when I hadn’t driven down her road in years, though I remembered it like a sort of homecoming.
She looked at me as though she’d been waiting all along for a friend just like me, and that’s exactly what I needed.
To be needed just as much.