Thirty years ago, one skinny little eight-year-old walked up to a skinny little seven-year-old—and with a single matter of fact statement began an unimaginable friendship.
“Hi, you must be Brad.” I said as I walked up to the place where he sat, sticking out my hand. A sandy-haired youth with blue eyes looked back into my green eyes before sticking out his own paw with a “Yep.” That’s all it took. We were best friends by day’s end.
These days we have the kind of friendship that guys like Morgan Freeman make movies about and rake in the millions. It’s a friendship measured in decades not moments because it is chock full of moment after moment stretching across decades.
Recently someone on social media said, “describe your best friend in one word.” I wrote “Brad.” It’s that simple. I love him. He really is my brother from another mother. But we’re not perfect.
We’ve fought like brothers at times. One time we actually fought, like with punches and headlocks and stuff, over fifty cents and a Slush Puppy—at church camp. One time he cussed me out pretty good because I skipped our college radio show to smooch with a girl.
It’s the kind of friendship where I can tell him if he’s being an idiot and I expect the same. And when one of us does it we stop to pay attention. Because it’s impossible for Brad to offend me. Love between brothers is supposed to be too big, and too strong, and too powerful for something as wimpy as offense to affect.
Our love for one another is a lot like these guys in the Bible named David and Jonathan. David was a shepherd kid God had put on the royal fast track. Literally he went from being a shepherd to being declared as the future king of Israel. Jonathan was the current prince of Israel. His dad was the king and not much of a fan of David. But that didn’t stop David and Jonathan from being friends.
They were such good friends that at one-point Jonathan put his life on the line for his pal David. In a fit of jealousy-fueled-rage concerning David, his own father hurled a spear at Jonathan. Jonathan grieved for his pal David. He protected his friend. Years later when Jonathan and his mean old dad died in battle David became the king and took care of what was left of Jonathan’s family.
I’ll admit most of my life I’ve felt a lot more like a shepherd than a king. It’s probably because of all my time around cows. But I am a King. It’s literally my name. Brad has never treated me like a shepherd. He’s always saw the king in me. He helps me to see it in myself.
Good friends do that. They see what’s there inside us that is unseen. They speak life. They encourage. Sometimes it's with a word. Sometimes it's with a good cussing when we step out of line (or skip a radio show). Brad is my friend. He’s my brother.
Another cool thing that happened once was when Jonathan took off all his armor and his sword and gave them to David. He gave him a fancy ring too. All of this was Jonathan’s way of saying he wasn’t David’s enemy. He was willing to be vulnerable to him.
Friends do that. They open up. They lay down their secret armor. They give the one they are choosing the power to hurt them. They trust.
I would trust Brad with anything. I do trust him with everything. And doing so I know gives him the power to kill me. Maybe literally. Maybe just emotionally. But what I know about Brad is that he’s the guy willing to catch a spear for me, and vice versa.
Once when we were kids we were playing summer baseball like so many boys in our part of the world do. They were late hot evening games. They took place at our local ballpark to the fanfare of raucous parents, friends, and peers.
There was another Brad at these games. Not my Brad, a different one. He was bigger, older, and I guess for a pubescent nearly teenage boy he was also meaner. Big Bully Brad decided he was going to throw my Brad in the creek intersecting our ballpark. I saw the whole thing about to go down.
All wrestledom would have erupted in applause, and Hulk Hogan himself would have-fived me at the ensuing drop kick that resulted from the sight of my friend’s pending submersion at the hands of Bully Brad. I don’t even remember thinking anything. Just my little feet pounding across the gravel lot into the grass before leaving the ground to deliver sweet chin music Shawn Michaels’ style. At least that’s how I remember it.
I remember a friendly intervention. The stuff of legend. The kinds of things that friends do. Like when Han Solo returned in the Millennium Falcon to fight off the Empire in Star Wars. Like when Forrest Gump ran into the Vietnam Jungle to save Bubba. I also remember Bully Brad getting mad, picking me up off the ground, and tossing me through the air into the creek like Andre the Giant flinging a featherweight.
That’s ok. I was always bad at baseball anyways. However, while I was terrible at baseball Brad was amazing.
I struck out a lot, but I had this great metal bat someone had gotten me as a gift. It even had its own name painted on the side. “BIG STICK” was etched in bold white letters on its black body. I loved that bat even though I never was great at using it. Brad though, he excelled with it. It was a weapon shared between us.
Shortly after college when some redneck jerk stole my first car I wept. Not for the car. The car was worth less than $500. I choked up because I thought the Big Stick was still in the trunk where I kept it in case of the zombie apocalypse.
Turns out I was wrong. Big Stick was safe at home in my room on the family farm and the thief instead made off with the Rambo-sized bowie knife I liked to call “Pig Sticker.” The one I probably could have gone to jail for keeping under my driver’s seat in case of a Nazi invasion. I decided I could live with that.
I still have the Big Stick. It rests right where it has for the last thirty years. It sits propped against the wall right next to my bed every night. It’s my first line of defense in case any zombie sized baseballs break into my house.
The Big Stick still bears the marks of action. Marks put there thirty years ago by a boy who excelled at something using the prized possession of his best friend. Every time I pick up Big Stick, I’m reminded of nearly a decade of summers shared with my closest friend. I’m reminded of summer games and late-night talks. I’m reminded of Super Mario Bros., BB guns, and countless sleepovers. I’m reminded of this amazing man that is a permanent fixture in my heart. He’s just as vital to me as my own flesh and blood, and in many ways even more so.
A few years ago, Brad and I started our own families. When my second son was born, we decided to name him Jonathan. Several months later Brad and his wife had their second child, and first son, and do you know what they named him? You guessed it, David. Now every time I pick up that bat, I anxiously await the day my Jonathan can share it with David.
You might not have a friend like that. But you could. Sometimes all it takes is enough bravery to start a conversation. What if instead of staring at our phones while waiting in line in the grocery store, we engaged the people around us? What if we risked the possibility of embarrassment in face of the opportunity of a lifetime?
Thirty years ago, I could have gone to church like I did practically every Sunday. It would have been completely normal for me to just go and be there and then go to Pizza Hut for lunch like we always did. I can’t really begin to describe how glad I am it wasn’t that kind of normal Sunday. I have a lifetime of memories that are shaped by four words, “you must be Brad.”
What are your four words? Where will you be? Who will you say them to?
Risk it.
Let’s be honest here please. If we choose to do it, we will crash and burn. There’s another four words I had the courage to ask a lot of girls in my life, “Do you like me?” and this isn’t a book or a story about any of those answers. Thank God!
No, I mean seriously. Thank God I asked, but I also must be thankful for the answers I didn’t like along the way.
Ask. Risk. Try. Do.
If you’re fourteen or forty. Life wasn’t made so you could suffer through it alone. If you don’t risk finding a friendship that is measured in decades you will wind up missing some of the best parts of yourself.
Do you know what an eight-year-old boy learned from a seven-year-old boy? The power of the word “friend.”
The joy and memory. The companionship and camaraderie. The countless moments that compelled me to find more friends.
The joy Brad brought into my life was a diving board sending me sailing into an ocean of possibilities. An ocean called friendship. I’m convinced that one fortuitous relationship instilled in me a consideration for people I may have never known otherwise.
This world around us can be nuts. People seem so mad at each other all the time. They say hurtful things, do hurtful things, and think hurtful things. I’m so convinced what the people who are hurting others need is to find their Brad. Because friendship can be the setup for so much goodness.
About fifteen years ago I was standing in a hotel room in Missouri when my phone rang at about 10:00 PM. It was Brad. He was facing a crisis of the soul.
Two weeks ago, I got some unexpectedly devastating news. I picked up my phone and texted Brad. Because friendship can bear the weight of one another’s struggles, difficulties, and mistakes. Real God-given friendship is strong enough to take it.
Brad and I don’t have the market cornered on friendship. But we do own our brotherly bond. There’s nothing perfect about us, but our friendship is perfect.
Each of us are still busy becoming who God made us. We are students of what God is teaching us about ourselves and the ones we love.
We know we’re works in progress. We are each finding our way through the epic journey of faith, family, and friends. We’re getting there together because of four words, “you must be Brad.”
Find your Brad. You can do it.