The Friendship that Wouldn't Die

 

I still think of you
and the way you leaned into the world,
as if it opened for you on command.
You walked through the hallways
I only passed along the edges of,
trying not to be seen,
trying not to want more
than the small space I’d carved out
for myself.

But you, in your short life,
Crossed that invisible line
as if it wasn’t there at all.
You talked to me like it was the most natural thing,
Like friendship didn’t need permission
or nice clothes
or matching lives.
You made it feel easy
to believe I was someone worth knowing.

Our friendship was a quiet thing,
held between two mismatched worlds.
You had the kind of confidence
that made people follow you,
and I had the kind that made me disappear.
Still, somehow, you saw me.

When you left,
I stood outside the edges again,
not at the funeral,
not in the photographs,
not in the stories people told
about who you were.
I had nothing good enough to wear,
nothing that said
“I mattered too.”

So I pretended.
I nodded like you were just another name
in a long list of losses
this world hands out.

But the truth is
I’ve carried your memory longer
than anyone there ever will.
You haunt me
in the best way,
a memory that won’t sit still,
a voice that still knows mine,
a friendship that lived in the shadows
but never felt small.

Some people leave a mark
by being loud.
You left yours
by seeing me
when no one else did.

And I’m still here,
holding quietly the memories of you
the world never knew were mine.

wcd

Easter and a New Sunrise

 

Easter reminds me that love went farther than anyone thought it would.

Far enough to redeem people who are still figuring things out,

still growing, still trying to live with a little more grace than yesterday.

The resurrection wasn’t just a dramatic moment in history.

It was a promise kept,

a quiet way of saying that endings don’t get the last word,

and that what feels dead and hopeless can rise again.

Because of that, hope gets another chance.

We get another chance.

A fresh start doesn’t have to be dramatic;

Sometimes it’s just the next small step forward.

And Easter doesn’t stay inside a sanctuary.

It doesn’t belong to walled-in churches or labels,

or the habit of deciding who qualifies.

If anything, it pushes us outward,

into a world that’s worn down, worried,

and looking for something steady to hold onto.

Our part is simple, even if it isn’t always easy:

carry the hope we’ve been given

into the places where it’s missing.

Not with speeches or pressure,

but with lives that look a little more loving,

a little more patient,

a little more like the One we follow.

If Easter means anything,

It’s that love still has work to do,

And we get to help it find its way into the world.

wcd

My Quiet Rebellion

 

I’m getting smarter, I suppose,

But not in the loud, triumphant way they promise you when you’re young and sprinting,

But in the slow‑burn way that sneaks up on you when you finally step off the racetrack,

And realize the world keeps running laps toward a finish line that really never mattered.

People think age makes you soft in the head. They talk slowly, raise their voices like you're underwater, as if you can’t hear the game they’re playing or see the angles they think they’re hiding. Funny thing is you see more now than you ever did. Clarity is the one gift time hands out for free.

At church, I’ve become a kind of pleasant ghost, not unwelcome, just invisible. Folks look past me. At least at the grocery store They pause long enough to let me go ahead in the checkout line. A small courtesy for becoming a man the world no longer rushes.

And then there’s the mirror, That traitor. I catch my reflection in a window and do a double take, wondering who let that old man borrow my posture, my eyes, My quiet disappointment. Takes me a second to admit It’s just me, weathered by the years I didn’t feel passing.

I meet new people and feel this strange urge to hand them my résumé to explain that I used to be someone with edges and purpose and a name that meant something in certain rooms. But the truth is, I’m tired of auditioning for a role I’ve already played.

Some days, the sunset calls my name a little too sweetly. The idea of slipping out quietly, letting the world keep spinning without my weight on it... It has its appeal. But I’m not done yet. Not disappearing. Not apologizing for taking up space.

So here’s where I’ve landed: I’m choosing the soft rebellion of no longer giving a damn, not in bitterness, but in liberation. A quiet, complete release from the need to be seen, understood, or validated.

I’ve lived enough life to know who I am. And that, finally, Is quite enough.

wcd

Newsroom Anchors, Just Shut Up!

The headlines keep barking from the corner of the room, like they’re trying to remind me the world’s on fire again. I let them talk. I’ve lived long enough to know they’ll still be shouting long after I’m gone.

Seventy‑five years! Imagine that.

A number that once sounded ancient

now fits me like an old jacket:

broken‑in, frayed at the cuffs,

still warm in the right places.

But there’s no denying it,

Somewhere inside, a little clock ticks.

Not loud, not dramatic,

just steady enough to make itself known

When the house gets quiet

and the news anchors start their nightly sermons

about everything falling apart.

Funny thing is, I don’t feel done.

I feel like I’ve finally learned the shape of myself,

Finally figured out how to carry the weight

without dropping it every few steps.

And now time decides to tap me on the shoulder

like a waiter clearing the table

before I’ve finished the last bite.

Still, the sky softens at the end of the day,

And I soften with it.

The world can rage, the news can howl,

But I’ve earned this calm,

this small, stubborn peace

That comes from knowing I’ve made it this far

And I’m not done watching the sun go down

on my own terms.

wcd