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True
friends are as rare as lightning in a blizzard—and just as dazzling.
I’m friendly. I can talk to a
total stranger and hopefully make them feel at home. I can negotiate
the proper party mingle, and can even be quite witty with a plate of
cheese and crackers in my hand. But as far as enjoying many deep-down,
bosom-buddy friendships? Only a few have brightened my life.
When I lived in Nebraska I had
one particularly good friend, Katie. She and I met while we were both
appearing in the chorus of Annie at the community
playhouse. Within minutes of meeting each other, we fell into the easy
rhythm of lifelong friends. We listened, we laughed, we gave advice and
kept secrets.
But then, after seven years of
friendship, I moved to Kansas. And I missed Katie. She was as bad a
letter writer as I was, so we made do with a few visits and phone calls
(this was in the olden days—before e-mails and Facebook). Without
contact, we drifted apart.
One day, feeling rather sorry
for myself, I prayed that God would bless me with another bosom-buddy
friend. I knew I was asking a lot, and I was pretty much resigned to
having a life full of numerous acquaintances but
few sisters when . . . the name Katie
popped into my head.
“No, God. Not Katie in Lincoln.
A new friend, here in Kansas.”
I didn’t think about my prayer
until two weeks later when I went to a Christian writer’s group for the
first time. It was a wonderful evening. Their openness and willingness
to talk about how they had experienced God working in their lives was
true inspiration. After the main meeting, when we sat around drinking
iced tea and eating goodies, I found myself next to a woman who had the
most beautiful freckled skin and red hair. And when she smiled . . ..
We got along famously, our laughter and camaraderie drawing the envied
notice of other members. “You two act as if you’ve known each other
forever.” That’s what it felt like. Friends forever.
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I
went home thrilled to have found a new friend. The next day I wrote her
a note, taking a risk by exposing my hopes that our friendship would
grow and even putting myself on the line further when I recounted my
prayer for a best friend. I sent the letter, feeling foolish,
vulnerable—and hopeful. Oh, well. If nothing came of it, I wouldn’t be
any worse off than I was before.
A few days later, she called. My
note had made her day. We met for lunch and talked for two and a half
hours over burgers and fries. To have a friend I could talk to about
God and family and writing . . . she was truly an answer to prayer.
And not surprising . . .
Wait for it . . .
Her name was Katy.
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