Today's Monday Mourning is from Lucy Bennett.
In elementary school, a boy in my grade asked to borrow my brand new YoYo Ball to play with at recess. In his excitement at my saying yes, he whirled it around over his head and promptly smashed it into a hundred pieces against one of the many pine trees encroaching upon the concrete block where kids liked to play four square. I chased him around, probably crying, but he was too fast for me to catch.
When we were reintroduced about a decade later at a church event, I recognized Josh by the mischievous smile he always gave, sly but genuine. It's the smile that made you feel like something was hidden from you; with Josh, it was only all the good things yet to come.
For the next five years we would revolve around each other like twin suns. Our relationship and our love for one another operated like a binary star system might: blinding, messy, and ultimately unsustainable. A truth that could only be learned with ample time and space.
What I came to know best about Josh was his easy ability to fit in anywhere. He was a chameleon—not in that he could act a part to fit in, there was no game he was playing at, no ulterior motives—he truly managed to fit anywhere and everywhere. The depth of his sincerity, his genuine kindness to others, came as naturally and easily as breathing, allowing this innate ability.
Josh was a football player, a theater performer, and a steadfast participant in chorale of any kind. He dabbled in poetry and art, loved movies and video games, and was constantly tinkering with a hundred other small projects. Like a bottomless well he yearned to be filled, yet he always wanted to make space and time for more.
While juggling all these other things, while we attended completely opposite schools and lived nearly an hour away from each other, Josh still managed to be the glue that held me together through some of the darkest times of my life. I will never forget it: the myriad of ways he was so much more than just a "high-school ex-boyfriend," so much more than what our relationship seemed in the minds of others.
The world lost a great measure of kindness when Josh died in a fatal car crash nine years ago. He was only twenty-two years old. In his absence, it’s the least I can do—the least we could all do—to help fill that endless well with sincerity, with curiosity, and with easy, freely given laughter.
Wow. :( Beautiful words Lucy. Thanks for sharing Josh with us.