Lent 2025 Day 6: Life Isn't About Flawless Filters

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." – Psalm 34:18

My 25th High School Reunion. 2012, Robin was my plus-one

I think what people want to believe is that if everything is perfect—the perfect job, the perfect spouse, house, and dog, the perfect children—then you'll be happy. Maybe.

But no one is ever happy all the time. Happiness is fleeting, and without sadness, you can’t truly appreciate happiness. Without experiencing tragedy, you can’t truly understand pure joy. Life isn’t just a roller coaster—it’s a freakin’ funhouse, a carnival, and one of those spinning rides that make you want to puke. That’s what life is like. A goddamn carnival ride. Mine feels like it is anyway.

This one is hard to talk about because I didn’t answer her last call. It was November 2013.

Robin had called to talk about a movie she had just watched, Blue Is The Warmest Color. It’s a movie about exploring sexuality, falling in love, and experiencing heartbreak and heart ache—the kind that changes you. Robin and I talked a lot when I lived in California, and we kept talking when I moved to Minnesota. She was one of the only friends who braved a Minnesota winter to come visit me. She knew from just my voice on the phone that I wasn’t doing well, that I was homesick, that I needed someone to show up. And she showed up.

She loved tennis and went to the US Open every year. She asked me to go with her that year. I told her I’d see if it worked with my schedule. I didn’t go.

And that was the year she took her life.

I knew. I knew she wasn’t doing well. I knew it in the way she spoke, in the silences between her words. But I was a thousand miles away, and I didn’t know what I could do to help. I listened. I talked. I tried my best to be there for her.

And yet, it still wasn’t enough.

I saved the last message she left me. I listen to it sometimes just to hear her voice.

I don’t talk about Robin enough. Maybe because I still feel guilt. Maybe because I still can’t believe she’s gone. But I know she’s gone. Because if she were here, we’d be on the phone discussing how fucked up the world is right now.

God, I’ve had so much loss in my life, I don’t even know how I get through the day sometimes.

But I do. I always do.

My world is not the same since she left. It is a struggle to make sense of the nonsense, but I persist. Sometimes I think I try to live a good life because that’s what she’d want. Maybe I’m just hoping to find some way to fill the void of her friendship. But it doesn’t work like that.

The void stays.

The missing stays.

Maybe I just ignore it.

I want to believe that her essence, her spirit, her energy—her ancient universal dust—has moved on to the next life, the next dimension, some space-time continuum where she’s happy. Where she’s no longer in pain.

I want to believe that.

But my realist mind just thinks it’s emptiness. That she is gone, and there’s nothing but this stupid void of nothingness.

But still. We carry on.

We carry on the memories of our loved ones.

Their hearts.

Their names.

Their love.

I still look at my phone, hoping her name will pop up. I know it won’t. I know it never will.

And yet, the world keeps turning.

Round and round.

There’s so much more I could say about Robin, and yet, I can’t.

My feelings are tangled. My heart is heavy.

I struggle not to let the grief spill out like a dam breaking after a heavy rainstorm.

I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse to love people so deeply when you know they leave.

But I do know this. Our friendship and loving her was worth it.

And that’s what I will carry.

Lenten Reflection: The Love That Stays

Lent is a season of reflection, of grief, of loss—but also of hope.

Psalm 34:18 reminds us: "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

Grief is the weight of love that had nowhere to go. But love itself never dies.

Robin is gone. But love stays.

Her kindness, her laughter, her friendship—they remain in every memory, every moment I carry forward.

And maybe that’s what faith is. Not answers, not certainty.

Just the choice to keep loving, keep remembering, and keep moving forward.

Even when it hurts.

Life isn’t about flawless filters, curated perfection, or pretending we’re fine when we’re not.

Life is about loving people while they’re here.

And honoring them when they’re gone.

I honor Robin by remembering her.

By living a life that still has room for joy.

By carrying her love forward.

She loved mint chocolate chip ice cream. On her birthday, April 4th, I’ll eat some in her honor. I hope you will too.

Love stays.

Always.

My farewell dinner. I was leaving for Minnesota. 2009.