From the moment I first saw you, I knew you were different to everyone else. Your demeanour, simultaneously awkward and comfortable in nature, caught my attention in the few places I saw you. I had no idea who you were and you never really stuck around to interact with anyone else, so I never talked to you—not that I think I would have back then. It’s funny to see how all that has changed.
Like a warm grey, you espouse a distinct presence that is far different from most people I interact with. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not an uninviting colour! I most definitely enjoy your company, basking in both the stupid and deep conversations we have. I admire your desire to share the gospel and I appreciate your willingness to lend an ear as well as the biblical wisdom you give. I’m also honoured to have heard your testimony in full, especially since you don’t like to talk about yourself. As the night goes on, I understand the weight of your words more and more; it’s honestly heartbreaking. I can’t imagine how you must have felt at the time. And even though I know this is all behind you, I hope that in recounting everything, it didn’t bring you back to a dark place.
Like charcoal to paper, you conceal what’s beneath with ease. It’s almost impossible to get anything out of you, but lately, I feel like that’s changed—you know, just a little. It’s as if you have put charcoal to the page of your artbook, but instead of the hard lines that end up in a picture that clearly separates black from white, you have begun drawing softer lines that blend more easily and reveal much more nuance.
I don’t get to hear much about you, but when I do, I’m honestly touched that you allow me to know more about you. In sharing your testimony, I’m sure you touched the hearts of others too. And more than anything, I am so glad you are alive and here in front of me.
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