There is a philosophy I’ve come to believe about friendship. You are not meant to have dozens of best friends. You are meant to have a handful. Maybe three. Maybe five. Maybe one. But a handful.
"Best” implies something sacred. Something tested. Something that has survived versions of you. What Makes a Best Friend You Ask? For me, a best friend is not simply someone you enjoy. They are someone who knows your story and stays. They remember who you were. They see who you are. They believe in who you might become. A best friend tells you the truth, even when it costs them comfort. Laughs at your jokes — especially the bad ones. Shows up when there is nothing glamorous about showing up. Knows when you need advice… and when you just need quiet company. Can sit with you in silence without it feeling empty.
A good friend might break bread with you. A really good friend might help you move. A best friend helps you move… and still answers your call the next day. An acquaintance knows your name. A good friend knows your job. A really good friend knows your habits. A best friend knows your fears, and guards them.
There were seasons in my life when I introduced someone as my “best friend” long before I truly understood what that meant. In grade school, it was the kid I had a knock-down, drag-out fight with every other day. We survived scraped knuckles and playground drama. I survived the pussy willow right of passage. We survived the early passing of his mother. We survived what I’ve often called my own “Nightmare on 86th & Wornall.” Trauma bonds feel permanent when you’re twelve. But time has a way of clarifying things. We didn’t stay linked. Perhaps we weren’t best friends after all. Maybe we were great sparring partners.
In high school, I was certain two guys would carry that title for life. We were inseparable, until we weren’t. Once the gravitational pull of girls entered the equation, the sacred “bro before…” philosophy quickly dissolved. No villain in the story. Just growing up.
Then came the fraternity years. The men I pledged Kappa Sigma with filled a void I hadn’t known how to name. Not having a brother at the time, I found something that resembled one. Brotherhood by oath. Brotherhood by late nights and shared foolishness. Yet only one has remained steady since that night we met in the back row of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Kansas City in 1978. Mike Sinak has held one of the five sacred spots since 1980. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just steadily.
Over the years, trusted colleagues—teachers and principals—have hovered near that category. Two, in particular, deserve at least honorable mention. They have seen the unfiltered versions of me in faculty lounges and crisis moments alike. They have stayed true.
Then there’s my brother Darrell. We share the same first name, but more importantly, we share understanding. I met him less than a decade ago, and yet he has become one of my best friends. Sometimes family arrives later than you expected, but exactly when you needed them.
Of course, #1 Best friends honors belong to Tina. She has held the number one spot in my heart and on my best friends list since 1983. Those who know her understand: she has already earned her wings through unwavering love and loyalty. If “best friend” requires endurance, grace, forgiveness, humor, and faithfulness over decades, she defines the term.
That’s my list.
Some of you reading this hold the status of Very, Very Good Friend. And that is no small thing. My Facebook “friend” list grows weekly. Believe it or not, I used to trim it like a bonsai tree—keeping it under 100 as if exclusivity equaled authenticity. Then I grew up. (A wee bit.)
Recently, I posted a picture of two friends from grade school. The three of us together looked like one of those perfectly balanced Disney television trios—the kind that seem destined to last forever because a writers’ room guarantees it.
Real best friends aren’t scripted. They aren’t neat. They aren’t always convenient. They don’t always last forever. But when they do, they are holy ground.
From The Courtship of Eddie's Father came one of the sweetest descriptions of friendship ever put to melody: Let me tell you ’bout my best friend, He’s a warm-hearted person who’ll love me till the end… It sounded simple. Loyal. Steady.
Decades later, Toy Story reminded us through Randy Newman that sometimes the deepest promises are the plainest ones: You’ve got a friend in me… Not because life is perfect. Not because you never drift. Not because you never disagree.
Somewhere along the way, through scraped knuckles, broken hearts, faculty meetings, late-night movies, brotherhood oaths, and 40-plus years of marriage, a handful of souls decided to stay.
If you can count your best friends on one hand and still have fingers left over, you are wealthy beyond measure. If you are on that short, sacred list in my life, (or a person who have been etched in my heart for over a half a century now) then consider this my quiet echo across the years: Let me tell you about my best friend. You’ve got one in me.
"Best” implies something sacred. Something tested. Something that has survived versions of you. What Makes a Best Friend You Ask? For me, a best friend is not simply someone you enjoy. They are someone who knows your story and stays. They remember who you were. They see who you are. They believe in who you might become. A best friend tells you the truth, even when it costs them comfort. Laughs at your jokes — especially the bad ones. Shows up when there is nothing glamorous about showing up. Knows when you need advice… and when you just need quiet company. Can sit with you in silence without it feeling empty.
A good friend might break bread with you. A really good friend might help you move. A best friend helps you move… and still answers your call the next day. An acquaintance knows your name. A good friend knows your job. A really good friend knows your habits. A best friend knows your fears, and guards them.
There were seasons in my life when I introduced someone as my “best friend” long before I truly understood what that meant. In grade school, it was the kid I had a knock-down, drag-out fight with every other day. We survived scraped knuckles and playground drama. I survived the pussy willow right of passage. We survived the early passing of his mother. We survived what I’ve often called my own “Nightmare on 86th & Wornall.” Trauma bonds feel permanent when you’re twelve. But time has a way of clarifying things. We didn’t stay linked. Perhaps we weren’t best friends after all. Maybe we were great sparring partners.
In high school, I was certain two guys would carry that title for life. We were inseparable, until we weren’t. Once the gravitational pull of girls entered the equation, the sacred “bro before…” philosophy quickly dissolved. No villain in the story. Just growing up.
Then came the fraternity years. The men I pledged Kappa Sigma with filled a void I hadn’t known how to name. Not having a brother at the time, I found something that resembled one. Brotherhood by oath. Brotherhood by late nights and shared foolishness. Yet only one has remained steady since that night we met in the back row of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Kansas City in 1978. Mike Sinak has held one of the five sacred spots since 1980. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just steadily.
Over the years, trusted colleagues—teachers and principals—have hovered near that category. Two, in particular, deserve at least honorable mention. They have seen the unfiltered versions of me in faculty lounges and crisis moments alike. They have stayed true.
Then there’s my brother Darrell. We share the same first name, but more importantly, we share understanding. I met him less than a decade ago, and yet he has become one of my best friends. Sometimes family arrives later than you expected, but exactly when you needed them.
Of course, #1 Best friends honors belong to Tina. She has held the number one spot in my heart and on my best friends list since 1983. Those who know her understand: she has already earned her wings through unwavering love and loyalty. If “best friend” requires endurance, grace, forgiveness, humor, and faithfulness over decades, she defines the term.
That’s my list.
Some of you reading this hold the status of Very, Very Good Friend. And that is no small thing. My Facebook “friend” list grows weekly. Believe it or not, I used to trim it like a bonsai tree—keeping it under 100 as if exclusivity equaled authenticity. Then I grew up. (A wee bit.)
Recently, I posted a picture of two friends from grade school. The three of us together looked like one of those perfectly balanced Disney television trios—the kind that seem destined to last forever because a writers’ room guarantees it.
Real best friends aren’t scripted. They aren’t neat. They aren’t always convenient. They don’t always last forever. But when they do, they are holy ground.
From The Courtship of Eddie's Father came one of the sweetest descriptions of friendship ever put to melody: Let me tell you ’bout my best friend, He’s a warm-hearted person who’ll love me till the end… It sounded simple. Loyal. Steady.
Decades later, Toy Story reminded us through Randy Newman that sometimes the deepest promises are the plainest ones: You’ve got a friend in me… Not because life is perfect. Not because you never drift. Not because you never disagree.
Somewhere along the way, through scraped knuckles, broken hearts, faculty meetings, late-night movies, brotherhood oaths, and 40-plus years of marriage, a handful of souls decided to stay.
If you can count your best friends on one hand and still have fingers left over, you are wealthy beyond measure. If you are on that short, sacred list in my life, (or a person who have been etched in my heart for over a half a century now) then consider this my quiet echo across the years: Let me tell you about my best friend. You’ve got one in me.
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