Becky is my friend. Sometimes I call her my best friend, but then I stammer and back away and try to explain how that could be when, after all, I hardly ever see her. Don’t best friends hang out all the time? Invade each other’s houses for a laugh and a cup of tea and just some time?

We don’t do that. Ever. Well, hardly ever.

The last time Becky came over was months and months ago and I haven’t been by her house in at least a year… and she lives not more than 6 or 7 miles from me.

Best friends?

I’m not even sure if her number is in my cell phone anymore. She changed hers a while ago and I never took the time to relabel the digits with her name. But that’s okay because we hardly ever call.

I got her a Christmas present this year but she forgot but that’s okay because last year I forgot and she remembered. Christmas is weeks and weeks gone by but her present still sits, all wrapped pretty, perched inside my cupboard as if to say, “Let’s go to Becky’s!”

Someday I will.

Like I said, Becky is my best friend. She knows my insides and lets me be who I really am right now. No changes, nothing more than I seem to be and yet a whole lot more than I wish I was.

How does she do that?

Well, we talk a lot, but not out loud. Back and forth with words on screens across the silence. An endless conversation with long pauses in between to ponder and to live, to think and to pray. I spill my heart and she takes it in, dares to let me see hers all unfettered, without guards or walls. We dream, each in our own world, and share our dreams with no one else.

I wish I’d saved them, all these words.

We met, Becky and I, through a friend who saw us both. Sitting by a pool in that sun-splashed land we talked. Kids and loves, books and men, treasures shared. Me straining hard to hear, she struggling hard to say and somehow hearts spoke and spirits heard and we became friends.

Then I had the surgery and my hearing got better and my world bigger.

And Becky got sicker. Some strange diagnosis nobody understands with stranger still ideas of what to do and when it might stop. Her world shrank small.

But we stayed friends. Real friends. Best friends.

There’s just something about Becky, something uncluttered, something safe. She doesn’t need me, you see, not like I need her. She drinks in beauty and gives it away. Opening my eyes to her unhurried world of books and birds and rose bushes she cannot prune… and hope.

This girl is filled with hope.

Just last week the family van broke and got hauled away to wherever vans go when they die. Instead of wailing and praying and bemoaning her bad luck, Becky laughed. She took pictures and wrote memories and brought her kids into the van-goes-to-junkyard party. She let me come too. I’m still laughing at the hilarity of a woman who celebrates such a thing. A woman who creates beauty from what no one else sees the same. That’s Becky.

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And I want to be like her. I want to be free to let go of all I want, to delight in where I am. Now, today.

More than anything, I want her take on God.

He’s everything to Becky. Her provider and her peace, her joy every single day. He’s the reason she doesn’t weep as her van is hauled away with nothing to replace it. He’s the reason she writes her words of hope and real-honest-to-goodness happiness. And I think, really, He’s the reason she’s willing to be best friends with a woman (me!) who rarely gives her a moment of her day.

Becky is one of those rare and lovely women who actually, really believe that God is good and that in His goodness she can relax and rest and trust and delight even when everything all around her goes bad.

That’s Becky. My best friend.

From my heart,


Is there someone in your life who exemplifies a quality you long for?

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