My closest relationships are like a pair of well worn jeans. The ones that I can’t wait to put on when I get home. The ones that have thinned so much; I should no longer be wearing them in public, yet at times, I do. Throughout the years, the cotton has stretched to the edge of its capacity and the hue has faded, lighter than I remember. They have picked up paint from mission trips, and are frayed from play. They are limping along and ready to bust a hole in all the awkward places. I kick them to the floor at night, toss them in the dryer (warm equals clean (thanks for the tip mom)) in the morning before putting them on for another day. They are the perfect pair that move with me, the ones I no longer have to train to be great jeans, they are great jeans.
These jeans resemble my best friends. Those that know me, I mean really know me. Often times, they know what I am going to say before I speak. They know who I used to be, who I’ve become, and can see who I desire to be. They stretch beyond the call of duty into unknown places. They are investors in my life, even when at times I try to shut them out, they remain firm, standing their ground walking beside me and sometimes leading me out of the pit of despair. They hold me accountable, inspire my walk in the Lord, challenge me to reach beyond my fears, comfort me when I struggle, love me when I am being unloveable, and encourage me to just be me.
And when the time comes when these jeans or friendships reach a permanent retirement, others will never replace the adventures I’ve had with them. Both will always remain, well worn.
Keystroke Stories 