I love you, Suzy," he'd say as he wrapped his bony arms around my neck. Danny was the only person who ever called me Suzy. Our moms had met when we were toddlers, and in the years that followed, we became inseparable. Danny was my best friend. And at age 10, he was dying.

I first realized Danny was sick when I was 8. I was spending the night at his house while my mom was in the hospital giving birth to my youngest sister. During the two days I was at his house, Danny lay on the couch, vomiting repeatedly into a plastic garbage can. I thought he had the flu.

A few weeks later, I learned that Danny had a brain tumor. "Danny has cancer," a friend at school told me. "He might die." "No," I said. "He's just got a tumor. The doctors can take it out." I didn't understand how serious his condition was -- that the golfball-sized brain tumor was malignant. In the months that followed, Danny underwent brain surgery and chemotherapy. The surgery was successful, and he began to recover. But several months later, the cancer returned.

As his condition worsened, I recalled all the hours of fun we'd spent together when he was healthy. We played hide-and-go-seek, swam in his family's pool and worked puzzles. Playing house was another one of our favorite pastimes. "Suzy," Danny said, "Someday we're going to get married and have a farm with lots of cows and sheep and chickens and cats and dogs." We always assumed we'd get married when we grew up.

One time, while we were playing, Danny discovered a half-inch piece of copper pipe under the heater in the hall. He eagerly extended the make-shift ring. "Will you marry me, Suzy?" he asked, flashing me his most endearing smile. I allowed him to slip the piece of pipe on my finger and wore it proudly for the rest of the day.

Sometimes, when I arrived at Danny's house ready for a day of play, I found him in his room reading his Bible. "Just one more chapter, " he would say. I would wait impatiently, wondering at his diligence. Sometimes he read the passage out loud to me or told me what he'd learned that day.

His enthusiasm for God's Word spilled out into every part of his life. Around the house, he was helpful and obedient. He faithfully attended Boys Brigade, a Bible club for young boys at our church. On Sundays, he took notes on the sermon. I often heard him proclaim at random moments, "I love Jesus." And he did. I began noticing how he lived his life to please Jesus and began modeling my spiritual life after his.

Danny's spiritual fervor was matched only by his playfulness. One night the two of us belted out "The Farmer and the Cowman Must be Friends" from the musical "Oklahoma" at the top of our lungs in opera voices. Then we giggled hysterically at ourselves until our sides hurt, and we fell to the ground in exhaustion. We often sat on Danny's porch swing, and I laughed at the silly stories he concocted.

But my once playful and energetic friend now spent his days lying on the couch with piles of blankets covering his thin body. When I visited his house, I would go to the couch and give him a quick kiss before running outside to play with his sister. "You're the best sister a guy could have," he'd say, smiling weakly. By this time, I knew he was dying.

But Danny wasn't afraid to die. He looked forward to it. He told me he was looking forward to seeing Jesus. Several months before his death, he told his mom, "Don't be sad when I die, Mom. Just think of me as being at my best friend's house."

Danny Barshinger died of cancer at the age of 10, but his short life profoundly impacted me. He accepted me as I was, even when I was obnoxious or selfishly demanded my own way. He showed me how much he loved me through his kind words and selfless actions. And he modeled Christ-like character that has inspired me to walk devotedly with the Lord.