Today, I had a break through...sort of. I never realized how a certain time of the month (only in March) I feel really yucky and sick and like I want to crawl into bed and never ever get out again. I realized today why I feel that way around the beginning of March. On March 2, 2004 (the year I graduated) one of my sister's really really close friends and others in Portland, died in a car crash. It was hard on me because he was suppose to graduate with me that year, and we sat beside each other in the back of our 2nd block class (History). He always, always, sat on his legs, never his butt. And he always talked while the teacher was up front, or read a book and tuned the teacher out. He had a habit of skipping, and he lopped when he walked. David Kyle McGee. I get sick whenever March comes around. I never knew why, but I do. His nickname was Scooby because he loved Scooby Doo. He always reminded me of Steve Martin, and whenever I see him, my chest squeezes and my heart hugs itself. I guess that place will always be there inside, the guilt that I should've been a better witness in class. He was sitting there for a reason, right beside me. It hurts to this day, 5 years later. It's not as bad as it was, granted, but I believe it's there as a reminder to never forget how fragile this life really is. I pray I never forget how quickly a life can go.
"A wave tossed on the ocean, a vapor in the wind"
I'm loved by a Mighty Mighty King. That alone soothes me.