Rummaging through my brother’s bedroom closet (my former closet), I found some old pictures of old friends and I suddenly felt nastalgic about my youth group days and how I was just starting to get used to the concept of “high school”. And I suddenly feel like writing to some of those people from that time in my life; people I have not seen or heard from in ages (for some this is a sad thing, for others, not so much).

Dear Mark Lindberg,

You were a brilliant drummer then, I can only imagine how much more amazing you are now. You disappeared sometime when we were all 16 or so. Rumour was you’d picked up snowboarding and you were too tired to come to church on Sundays. That really made me sad because you brought so much joy to everyone’s day. Especially because of your ridiculousness, your sly sense of humour, and your ability to make the worst joke seem funny. Word has it you’re going to school in Hawaii, studying music, which I always hoped you would. Man, you must be a pro by now. I hope you’re doing well and that you’ve managed to escape some of the addictions you were struggling with. The pot and alcohol will catch up with you if you’re not careful. And of course, I’ve always hoped you go back to God someday, because I remember how much He used you before. Your excessive playing of the song “Holiness” was hard to bear, but you were on fire, nonetheless…

I hope I see you again one day.



Dear Rebecca, the girl who made out with her boyfriend right next to me while I tried to do my homework,

I never understood your obsession with being of Jewish decent and your constant ramblings about witchcraft. I think your boyfriend was Satanic, although he was a nice person. He and I had Tech Theater together and he said some pretty horrible things sometimes. He took the Lord’s name in vain a lot. I particularly remember the smell of you both while you made out right next to me. I tried to get up to leave, but every time I did, you made me stop and listen to more of your Wiccan knowledge. What was that thing you did with your hand and you said you were holding an invisible ball made of fire? I think you must’ve been crazy. I’ve seen you working at Target every summer and whenever I see you, I pretend I don’t recognize you and that you don’t recognize me. Because sitting next to you while Jim stuck his tongue down your throat is not a memory I like to remember.

I pray for you too.



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