About the time I was going into junior high, the church I grew up in hired a new youth minister, who went on to become our pastor.  His oldest son was a couple of years younger than I was, so we didn't have classes together in school.  But, by my last two years of high school we had become inseparable friends.  Most nights that did not precede school days found us in the same place.  When we took our coolness on the road, I drove; he handled the radio/tape deck (that's right, don't act like you didn't have tapes).  We ran on the cross country and track teams together.  We had awesome victories, and there were times when we were humiliated.  Girls came and went, but whatever the day brought, it never changed things between us.  His name was (and still is) Jeremy. As a sophomore, I had finished third at our district championship meet in the 800 meter run, and the two guys who had beaten me were both seniors.  Needless to say, I was pretty pumped about the next two years.  But, my junior year brought troubles on the track, as I struggled to run as well as I had the year before.  I worked myself sick in practice day in and day out, but couldn't seem to break the slump.  When it came time for the district meet I was still not running very well.  Sure enough, when the race ended I crossed the line in sixth place and ran a horrible time.  To make matters worse, I was beaten by one of my teammates who had played around all year and never attended practice.  That day he ran the 800 meters faster than I ever have...still.  I was crushed; I was furious.  I don't think I cried, but I felt like it.  (Yes, I took my sports a little too seriously in those days.)  My coach tried to console me, but I just went and crumbled on a bench on the infield.  Soon, Jeremy sat down next to me without saying anything.  I began to rant to him about how hard I worked every day, and the other guy skipped practice all the time, and I try to do the right thing, and what's wrong with me, etc.  Jeremy patiently let me finish, and then he laid some wisdom on me.  "Do you want to trade lives with him?" he asked simply, without any irony or frustration in his voice.  I don't remember whether or not I answered, but I didn't have to.  He was right, and that moment changed everything.  I walked away from that envy and never looked back.  And, like every other race, school day, church youth activity, or whatever else, it ended with us together, brothers, listening to Geoff Moore and the Distance's "Friend Like You" in my car's tape deck, riding off into another sunset, iron having sharpened iron.