There's been a boy around my house a lot lately. He's got a lot going for him.
Since last September, he's fed me Chinese, Mexican, or Applebees on an almost weekly basis.
He knows the difference between Coke and Pepsi - and he knows that if he ever dares to bring me Coke I'll probably smack him.
He knows which select Disney songs I'll sing along to and he plays them practically incessantly.
He finally understands that when I ask him which shoes match my dress best, I'm serious, and if he doesn't answer me I really will follow him around the house until he makes a decision (and I'm also serious when I ask him to smell my shirt and tell me if it smells like wet laundry).
He knows better than to take my word for it when I say, "Oh yeah, I know how to get there," and he GoogleMaps it for me anyway.
He's adjusting to the fact that even if I'm totally not hungry, if he's got food I'm stealing some of it.
He's pretty much a professional at getting me to stop chattering and do my homework, and he keeps track of how much I have to do each week so I don't forget anything.
He's coming to terms with my intense hatred for meatloaf even though it's his favorite.
He knows that I will always, always order something way too spicy for my taste buds - just because it looks good on the menu, and he makes sure the waiter brings a glass of milk for me when I set my mouth on fire (after he warns me repeatedly that jalepenos are still too spicy for me).
He sits through hours of NCIS and Blue Bloods and Simon and Simon - even though they all bore him practically to death.
He pays attention and brings my mom presents on her birthday - but he won't let her feed him potato chips yet because he's too tough and macho man for that still.
He knows that when I'm upset, asking me what's wrong will probably earn him the death glare - but he does it anyway because "you don't make sense."
He knows the difference between my sad cry and my happy cry.
He knows that when I was five I had the biggest, most embarrassing crush on the guy who is now our best friend (well he's always been my best friend but y'know I'm better at sharing now.).
He knows how quickly my feelings get hurt and he's felt the sharp end of my tongue on more than one occasion.
He knows that I'm mostly just a lot of noise and sparks for about 45 seconds, but I fizzle out after that burst of anger and not much damage is typically sustained.
He knows that I can out-eat him anywhere except at a Chinese restaurant, and he knows that if he asks what I want to eat the answer will probably be Subway or pizza.
He brings me coffee from the gas station down the street every single Sunday morning. He's even started adding creamer for me (I have yet to convince him that all creamers are not equal though).
He's been there through every step of my college education so far, and he pushed me almost as hard as my parents - and he didn't flinch when I told him that in five months I want to move eight hours away to go to a new school.
He knows me.
He loves me.
But guess what?
He does not yada me.
Yada is the Greek word for God's deep, intimate, loving knowledge of us. The kind of intimacy that knows every hair on my head and the exact spot where it changes from my awkward brownish roots to the beach-blonde that I'm still trying to grow out. The kind of intimacy that goes beyond just listening to the complicated emotional strain going on in my family - the kind of intimacy that already knows and understands and sees an ending.
The kind of intimacy that wrote my entire story and knows the ending lines by heart.
I cannot fathom that. I can barely fathom the love of this boy that I hold so dear.
The thought that there is a greater love than this just blows my mind.
And that's a happy place to be.