To all the girls and boys I’ve loved before.

You’re lawyers, teachers, doctors, physical therapists, PHDs, moms, dads, economists, marketing specialists, financial advisors, accountants, community activists, professors, farmers, social workers, authors, nurses, program managers, pastors, counselors, leaders, students, journalists, interior designers, missionaries, soldiers, radiologists, musicians, strength and conditioning coaches, admissions specialists, artists, and so many other things I’ve probably forgotten. You’re a marvel, a wonder, a walking miracle! I’m so proud of you.

I’m proud of who you’ve become and how you’ve gotten there. I’m proud of the struggle, the confidence, the blood, the sweat, the tears, the joy, the victory, and the defeat. All of it. Your stories are good ones and I’ve been honored to be a part of them, even for a bit. I’ve counted it the greatest joy of my life to be your friend. And, when I say friend, I mean it. It’s no secret that I’ve always struggled to be friends with my peers. I’ve never found it difficult to be your friend, though- I hope that it has been equally easy to be mine.

You’ve blessed me with your laughter, wisdom, stories, skills, and taste in music. Y’all all think I’m a much better cook than I actually am because you’re used to eating campus food and/or you can’t cook yourselves. You’re grateful for the tiniest things and recognize any hospitality as the wonderful miracle that it actually is. You crowded the living room of my apartment and filled all the spaces of my giant house. You crashed on my couch, lived in my house, borrowed my car, and forgot which bin was for the recycling. You’ve borrowed my clothes, babysat my daughter, watched my dog when I was out of town, and drank all my seltzer water. You’re terrible at strategy games, you love Smart Ass, and you believe that lime green freezie pops are the best.

You taught me so much and shared some of the most formative years of your life with me. For many of you, the years you shared with me were the most difficult of your life, so far. You learned to take responsibility for yourself and your actions. Some of you learned to take responsibility for leading others. You learned when to say “yes” and when to say “no”. Some of you built healthy relationships with your families and others broke up with your boyfriend or girlfriend (I’m not good for anything if it’s not a breakup). It is no small thing to do the things that you have done, to become an adult.

When I met you, I was barely an adult myself. Over the years, I’ve learned a lot because of you. You pushed, challenged, and strained me in ways that nothing and no one else ever could. I was forced to put my faith to the test in more ways than one and I was never disappointed. Your ever-changing culture and profile was maddening. Every time that I thought I had you figured out, something changed. Every time that I thought I was getting traction, another wrench was thrown into the works. Every time I’d meet a goal, another disappointment was around the corner. The hits just kept on coming, for eleven long years. But rarely from you. From the outside and from those who should’ve known better, but not from you. For the most part, you were grateful, kind, and generous. Sure, you drove me crazy and didn’t listen to me at first, but you rarely treated me unjustly. And, when you did me wrong, it was more due to your immaturity or the poor leadership of others than to malicious or unjust motives. When you realized you were wrong, you apologized. You were learning and growing, just as I was.

The thing about growth is, it’s painful. It’s not linear. And, unless you know exactly what’s going on, it often doesn’t make sense. I doubt that it would make sense to me, if I were a seed, to be plunged into the dark earth so that I could die. I doubt that I’d understand that it was only by this death that new life, a plant, could come forth. I hope and trust that my story here has been like a seed. I feel like I’m dying (or is it just that I would rather be dead than walk through all I’ve been through?), but I know that there is new life when I leave here. This season is dead. How I have been myself in this season is dead. And I’ve read The Lord of the Rings too many times to think that anything other than life and hope are on the other side.

So, this is my final word to you. As your friend, big sister, mother, aunt, pastor, leader, whatever, I want you to know how much I have enjoyed my time with you. I want you to know that it is no small thing what you have trusted me with. You’ve told me your greatest fears and deepest, darkest secrets. You’ve divulged scary family history and traumatic events. You’ve called me after devastating news to ask for advice and help. You’ve invited me into some pretty desolate moments and it’s been my honor to bring help, hope, light, and truth with me into them.

If I could take a few more minutes of your time, I’d love to encourage you to do one thing and one thing only for the rest of your days: never give up. You’ve listened to a cumulative total of hours of my explanations on the Gospel and the Bible. I believe it’s the most helpful story there is. I still believe that it’s all true. I know that many of you do not, but if you trust me at all and if I’ve got any sort of street cred with you, I beg you not to give up. Keep asking questions. Keep seeking truth. Keep getting angry, sad, frustrated, and whatever else you need to be, but don’t give up. He (God) is faithful, trustworthy, and true. He can take whatever you want or need to throw at him. He is patient. He is kind. And he is waiting on the other side of your questions, doubts, fears, faith, and hope.

Don’t let the unkindness, injustice, and flagrant incompetence of others discourage you. I want you to know that I have been treated with unkindness and injustice. I have been the victim of the incompetence of others more than once. I have been slandered, gaslighted, maligned, and abused during my time with you and, often, because of my time with you. I do not say this to gain your sympathy, we both know that that is not my way and you know that I don’t want it. I say this so that you will understand that when I tell you not to give up, it isn’t some foolishly optimistic platitude. It is an encouragement born from both the pain and the hope at the center of my soul. I have tested the truths that I’ve proclaimed to you and found them truer and more real than I ever dared hope when I began this endeavor. I found the hope of the Gospel a solid and firm foundation, a hiding place during times of turmoil, and an anchor for my soul when everything around me was being blown to bits. I found the person of Jesus Christ to be kinder, more compassionate, and gentler than I first believed. I found God the father to be more trustworthy, creative, and intentional than plain religion will allow. I found the Holy Spirit in sunrises, rivers running, and moving across the waters of your heart as I spoke to you. 

It was all real. It was all profound. And it was all worth it.

Please, if you’ve made it this far, don’t give up on your questions. Don’t give up on yourself. Don’t give up on the world or the people in it, either. And, mostly, don’t give up on God. 

Thank you for reading and for being my friend. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. Thank you for being the light and the good in the past eleven years. I’m so proud of you and I’m in your corner forever.

Much love,

Em Brown

P.S. I may not have a couch room anymore, but I still have a guest room. And a cell phone. Call me anytime.

P.P.S. For the love of God, read The Lord of the Rings.

P.P.P.S. “I love you and I like you.”