One of the hardest things I’ve had to accept about God is that he desires to be my friend. Father to me as one who was, in a way, fatherless — certainly. A comfort in times of distress — without question. A solid rock in an age of uncertainy — most assuredly. But one who wants to be my friend?

So it was nearly 9 pm when we finally set out for our new home. The U-Haul truck we rented was a 26-foot behemoth, behind which I towed my minivan. Because our street wasn’t a through-street, I decided to park it behind Applebee’s, about 50–75 yards from our house. We departed from there, Cindy in the Sienna with the kids and whatever else we could fit safely. … I became rather proud of myself after navigating the sharp U of the driveway until I realized I wouldn’t be able to clear the small canopy.

We probably could have used more adequate ventilation up there, because it always smelled like Doritos and farts, which one of us constantly tried to combat with his potent vanilla candles. It was a lot like a dorm room, really. Although, we could have used a mini-fridge. And maybe a couch. We had a lot of fun. But it was sometimes a difficult working environment, since we were constantly interrupting each other. … What would you want to update automatically?

After I graduated high school, I worked for a summer at a small restaurant called Chateau Basque, which was like a little piece of Europe in a Wild West town known for its territorial prison that held such outlaws as stage coach and train robbers. Chateau Basque’s owners were just as historically interesting. They were an eccentric, 60-something couple—she from Great Britain and he from the Basque region nestled in southern France and northern Spain.

I have too many Christian friends. Not just now. This has been going on for some time now. I glance through my friends list on Facebook and realize most are church people. Only a handful of them (at least as far as I’m aware) are people who wouldn’t describe themselves as Christians. Not in the fundamental, evangelical sense—though, I’m not even that.

While I am not inclined to bare my soul, I suspect that in the end, if I can save someone the regret I feel now, it is worth sharing this. … To be sure, I understand that would not necessarily mean spending every day with Uncle Dave, but it should look more like love…calling to say hi or to check on him, inviting him over for dinner, and maybe going to a ballgame with him.

Becky and I played together constantly. Sometimes we played with my collection of Hot Wheels, some of which Dad would dig up from the backyard decades later. Other times we played with her Barbies. Yes, I admit I played with Barbies. Cindy thinks that my having played with dolls has made me a more sensitive father. I think it’s made me a better dresser.

Several months back I got in trouble with someone for what I posted on Twitter/Facebook on a Sunday morning, something like: No bling today, I forgot my watch and my Silly Bandz. Guess it’ll have to be all substance today.

… That’s pretty much how our friendship worked. I was her stand-by friend. If she had nothing else to do, she’d call me. If she didn’t have a date on Valentine’s Day, she’d call me to see what I was doing. I think I was always kind of her backup, which is why I was anxious to tell her I was marrying Cindy. I was having visions of “My Best Friend’s Wedding.”

It just needed new tires and paint. He said, “They salt everything up there. You’ll be driving a car full of holes in no time.” So I bought some Rust-Oleum and sprayed it myself, a nice navy blue that contrasted with the faded blue on the sides. We were styling driving across the country. (Do you ever see those cars on the highway, wondering where they’re going and hoping they’ll make it? That was ours.)