I remember Dad sitting on the front porch, watching the rain blow across the fields during that first storm after the tornado. I wanted to join him, but the thunder was loud and the wind was relentless against the tarp that was covering what was left of the dining room. 

And I was secretly terrified. 

Like I’m too scared to call her and tell her the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I rehearse it in my head. I write it down. And three months pass. 

But my desire for comfort wittles at the edges of a friendship. “I should’ve talked to you earlier,” I finally tell her.

And I know there are other people I need to call. There are storms I need to face.

But I’ll choose a beat-up house over his safe company on the front porch if it means I can stay dry. 

It’s almost imperceptible the way I stop caring. When she texts me to pray, I try to pray with as little passion and feeling as possible. 

To avoid emotion during the motions of caring.

“The last time I surrendered everything to the Lord, He answered me.” She tells me with hope in her eyes, but I see it as a cautionary tale. 

He answers.

My fear is not a reflection of Him, but my ability to trust Him. 

Like my neglect to call her is not a reflection of our friendship, but my ability to trust it. 

I remember it clearly, him sitting on the front porch. It was the way he faced the storm. “Not without risk,” he tells me, years later. It’s still his motto after two natural disasters take the roofs off his properties. 

All worthwhile things are risky.

And I remember this when he picks me up for dinner. 

When I take a deep breath and call her back. 

When I pray without caution. 

“And he answered, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.’” Luke 10:27