When a teenager, say 14, 13, 15 years old, is surrounded by his best friends in a safe neighborhood, stable neighborhood, happy families, and a faithful church. The last thing on his mind is that in 60 years he will

Stand before the family of his friend and speak at his funeral.

We didn't know it at the time, Sydney and I and others.

We didn't know it at the time because we just took it for granted that from

1956 to about 1964 Bradley Boulevard in Greenville, South Carolina was Paradise.

Nobody locked their doors at night.

We all played games and ran through the backyards after dark and nobody called the police.

I actually drove my go- on the streets of the neighborhood.

Four blocks to the south, to the northeast was White Oak Baptist Church, the worshiping

relational hub of my life, Sydney's life, our friendships.

And at the center of that cluster of people there

was Sydney and Billy and Joel and Carol and Nancy Ponder and others.

He lived four doors down from where I lived.

We never played in parks because our yards were our kingdom and were the canyons and prairies of the western

wildness and you could shoot each other there.

One of the reasons I'm here this afternoon is

because that little world of friendships, it wasn't big at all, it was

a little world of friendships, was more precious, more powerful, more significant in my life than I knew at the time and then most people know today. I felt very much an outlier at Greenville

Junior High and Wade Hampton High School, for whatever reason.

And with my circle of friends and with Sydney,

I was loved. We wouldn't even call it love that would be squishy and goosey and you know teenagers don't talk about loving each other but it was you wouldn't be

ashamed to talk about it today. We were at home with each other. The thought that you

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