As I began my drive from Waco to Brownsboro yesterday, I was a little nervous to tell you the truth. I didn't think I'd be, but I was. I hadn't seen most of my classmates in over ten years. I was scared I wouldn't remember many people. Worse, I was scared there wouldn't be many people that remembered me. And the biggest fear of all was the fear that people WOULD remember me, but wouldn't care to talk to me. Because that was, and is, pretty much the only true source of fear for those in high school as well as those of us ten years removed from high school. Not that people wouldn't know you, but that people do know you but consider you irrelevant.

But somewhere around Murchison, which is the last little town before Brownsboro, I had this thought: Who gives a flying fuck if I'm ignored at my reunion? Do I really have anything to lose? The following names and faces began to appear on the screen of my psyche: Tim, Ben, Kyle and family, Tracey, Wesley, Susan Matthes, Jason and Christy, Blake, Robert-- and I realized that there are people with whom I have cultivated many years into building a safe place of community around me, and I've got everything, relationship-wise, I could ever need. This thought freed me up to really just be myself and fall headlong into having a good time at the reunion.

With this out of the way, I became comfortable about seeing my old friends, but I wasn't expecting a whole lot. I was expecting to enjoy seeing everyone, but not to really be emotional or too excited about it. I mean, after all, I shouldn't feel weird about not gelling with people I haven't seen in ten years. We've all been many places, experienced more stories, had more pains and joys, ten years worth to be exact, since high school.

Something very interesting happened though. My heart became very soft to the touch when people started to walk up. Yeah, it'd been ten years since I saw them, but one thing I forgot was this-- For many of my classmates, I'd spent thirteen years of my life with. THIRTEEN FUCKING YEARS! There were also about half a dozen that I had gone to daycare with since I was born, bumping that number up to 18 years. That's a lot of time.

And suddenly the ten lost years were no longer important. The fact that I have worked for a U.S. Senator, been overseas, had a wonderful college experience, have a good life now, meant jack shit. The only things that mattered were 15-18 years worth of stories. Being back at Lamplighter, playing in the sandbox with Hallee and Matt and Trista and Joyce-- that mattered. Being in Mrs. Oliver's kindergarten class, anticipating which learning center I'd get to go to that particular day-- that mattered. Being in Junior High, joining up with the Brownsboro elementary students such as Tracey and Kevin and Cliff, that mattered. Playing spades in Government with Susie and Benji and Misty and George mattered. At that moment, band trips and summer rehearsal mattered immensely. And really, above all else, what mattered was us creating a safe place, putting behind us all the differences and fights and the deeming of relevance, and genuinely showing care for each other. Showing sadness at the dissolved marriages. Showing we care about each other by the passing around of babies. Asking about parents. Sharing the lives we live now.

Relevance at that point was irrelevant. What was important was that we were fully there in the moment.