I’ve Wanted to Tell You

That title is especially sweet for this post. Because it’s a story I’ve been wanting to tell you, and it’s about a something Hoyt wanted to tell me.

Ohmygeez that man is sweet.

He does not always at first appear so. Because he’s vastly more intelligent, by traditional scales, than you or I. And because, at times, he’s prideful.  But Hoyt is also the man best known as the one who put together half the furniture in my apartment, hung my curtains, has listened to everything I have to say for months, laughs at even my worst jokes, gives me books sometimes, and truly understands me better than (this is not an arbitrary number, there was some faultless math behind it) 99% of people I’ve ever met.

Basically, he’s one of my very best friends and, on that level, I love him. I Philia (like the tattoo on my finger) him.

The part of this story that I tell will be such a small part of it. I hope that someday he writes the rest of it because the more I think about it, the more I am impressed with how protective, caring, prayerful, and wise his thoughts and actions were. Even when I was upset about them, even when I was fearful, he didn’t take the easy way out. He didn’t lie or bolt, he stayed consistent through the crazy and veiled, until the appropriate time, what he wanted to communicate.

Of course if he told this story it would probably involve references to string theory, covalent bonds, and a five-dimensional mobius cube so…you’re welcome for my version.

Hoyt and I are neighbors. He used to be an intern and, for now, lives in intern housing.  We met at the ASCC offices and he started reading my blog about a year ago, passively.  One day he saw me give something away and said, “Wow. I read that you do that, but I kinda thought you were exaggerating.”

That’s one of the first memories I have of him. I actually remember the very first time I spoke to him, but it was a very short conversation of no import in the old Intern Alley at work. I was talking to someone next to him and felt rude for leaving him out of the conversation.

“Hi, I’m Ritz.”
“Yeah, I’m Hoyt.”
“Are you the baby?”
“Are you the youngest? That’s what your name means. It means the youngest of the family.”
“Oh, yeah, I am actually.”
“Well good, then.”

Months later, after the scarf giving incident, and while I was dating Q, we all went on intern retreat together. This is when I remember having an ACTUAL conversation with him and be angered that he would not finish any of the dang songs he started on guitar while we were all sitting around, hanging out.  He then accused me of having the spiritual gift of blowing people up.

In April, while I was going through what I considered tragedy, he remained an appropriate but caring person in my life.  Still not what I’d call friends.

Then during the summer, he had an actual tragedy in his life. He lost his father suddenly, unexpectedly, and was left as the only person to patch together all that was to be cared for.  He had to stay out of town and miss most of that semester’s internship because of it. But we couldn’t bare the thought of him thinking that life would just go on without him, so my friends and I made sure to text most days, praying for him and just letting him know that we cared.

By the time he returned, we were used to communicating, often about nothing, sometimes about everything, most days. It was warm and sunny and sweet and we got used to hanging out (always in groups).

Thus was the basis for what I thought was a solidly platonic, never have to worry about feelings developing, relationship.  Oh how very wrong I can often be….


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