I write this from a very wobbly table on my back porch. Tonight is one of my final nights living in my college house.

Every blog post I’ve written over the years, I’ve written with an intention to present it to an audience; to my funders, my friends or my familiars. This time is different. If you’re going to read this, it’s worth mentioning, this one isn’t for you. I’m not writing this so that you’ll see what I see, or so that you’ll walk away with some calling to a moral epiphany. I’m writing this for me. I’ll probably use dramatic wording and be overly expressive to a point that, were you reasonable, you’d write off as dramatic and overly expressive. My message to you is this: Forget what you think you know about me. About us. Leave what you’ve witnessed at church, at parties, at any interaction with us at the door. Step into my shoes; and mourn.

 

Three distinct times I’ve sat on this porch in the sound of silence.

Three distinct times I’ve perched myself in one of these 6 chairs, each with a vice in my hand.

Three distinct times.

 

When we moved in, our first dinner was shared at this table. When we moved in, our first awkward exchange as roommates who “kind of liked each other” was had. When we moved in, we were cordial but suspicious. Each brought to the table our own, a potluck of sort. We brought our assumptions about what it meant to be a “good roommate” and our assessment of what it meant to build community. We each approached our coming year with hesitance born of self-preservation. Rightfully so, I think.

What I brought to the table was a bit different than the contributions of my peers, I think. Looking back, I came in longing for it all to be false. Longing for the stories of college roommates that I’ve heard from siblings, family and friends to be wrong. I brought to the table my own insecurities, my own shortcomings and my own crippling fear that community would never come.

I came into college wanting to find my groomsmen. Sitting here at this table, I’m confident I’ve found them. I wanted a place to call home, a home to call a sanctuary and a sanctuary in which to laugh. I brought to the table an intimate fear that my place in this chaos would never be found. I wanted a group of men to wade through darkness and light alike, to the extent that we could cry together.

 

Three distinct times I’ve sat on this porch in the sound of silence.

Three distinct times I’ve perched myself in one of these 6 chairs, each with a vice in my hand.

Three distinct times.

 

One was that dinner because it brought into motion the unfathomable plan of a very generous God.

The last time I sat myself on a plain to South Africa, I left Denver international airport knowing I wouldn’t be making my return flight. Truth be told, part of me still hasn’t returned. The part of me that I brought to that first dinner, the part of me that longed for community and feared it all the same, got left behind. It was broken into pieces and given to the men in South African Prisons who have spent their whole lives feeling exactly that. The part of me that I brought to that first dinner dwells in the cells of Pollsmoor prison, its fingers grasped around the cell bars, longing for brotherhood with those whose hands its next to. The broken. The weary. The mes’.

After returning from Africa, I sat on this porch for a second time. I sat in the sound of a Thursday morning silence as the world woke up around me. I sat with a vice in my hand as my mind churned away at nothing. I sat, neither happy nor sad when I heard a high pitched and heartwarming laugh behind me. I turned to see my roommates.

As I mourned what I had left behind in Africa, I had the privilege to see through a smudged glass door exactly what I had returned to. My family, my home and my sanctuary, in which I can laugh.

I sat at that table a very different person because of what I had experienced in Africa. I sit here now, desperately fighting to keep a dying cigar lit, a different person because of what I have experienced here.

To Ian, Drew and Mike. I am a better man because of you. I am a better person because of you. I am able to love better because of you and let me be clear, THAT IS BECAUSE OF YOU.

The cigar has died. The chapter has ended and the book has been closed. Our time in this home has come to an end and, while normally id fight to see the “bright” side… I am proud to say that we’ve built something that I am afraid to let go of.

 

I love you gentlemen, I’m proud of you and I’m thankful to have experienced the most authentic and wonderful community with you over the past three years.

 

Looking forward,
Dan Monnet