1 of 3
If God had a deeper purpose in mind for my friendship with Nancy Bayless—a gray-haired, sun-wrinkled, bent-over grandmother—I wasn't going to hunt for it. He could bring it to light if he so chose.
So he did.
It all began when we traveled together with a small group of women to a conference in Colorado. I knew the other girls well, but Nancy was a newer friend, so when we got our room assignments and I was paired with her, I was silently disappointed.
Would our room be uncomfortably quiet? Did Nancy care which bed she slept in? Did little old ladies have any idiosyncrasies I should anticipate? (It was probably a good thing I didn't realize she took her teeth out at night.)
I asked her what she wanted in a roommate. "Just keep the sink clean," Nancy said. Believe me, I watched every hair that drifted onto the porcelain, sweeping it out before it had time to get comfortable.
Nancy put me at ease quickly, though, and, like a magnet, drew the other girls into our room. I soon discovered she was the party girl, the one you needed to be with when you were feeling shy.
After Colorado, where Nancy and I found we got along well, some deeply hidden wanderlust took over, connecting us like Lewis and Clark. Our husbands gave their blessings, and soon opportunities to attend other conferences—for writers, for women—came our way. Off we went in my Jeep with only a few "rules for the road": Take the scenic route if possible; make the other's bed when she's not looking; and always, always get ice cream when you stop for gas. I never expected to have a designated passenger (I was the driver, she the supply sergeant), particularly a little old lady.
While I didn't look at Nancy as a mentor, before long it became apparent she loved me and was concerned about certain qualities in me. It all came out one day on the road in a spirited discussion about positive versus negative attitudes.
"What makes you think I'm such a negative person?" I asked.
"You try too hard to cover every angle of what we're doing," she replied. "You know, 'Now if we do that, we need to make sure we take care of this first.' That kind of stuff, like you're anticipating a problem."
"I'm thorough."
"So am I. I just don't worry or talk about it all the time. It takes all the fun away."
I stewed on that one for a while.
"Annnnd," she started again, "how can you believe in God the way you say you do and be so worried about everything? You approach life with a frown on your face!"
I was trying to process all this, very aware of the frown on my face, when she said lightly as we crested a hill, "But I'm not trying to analyze you. That's just how you are."
It was true. And right then a perfect illustration of our disparate attitudes presented itself. Tooling along in my newly washed car, we came upon a shiny red, double-bedded truck kicking up dirt as it sped along. At exactly the same moment, Nancy said, "Oh, what a beautiful red truck!" and I said, "I hope it doesn't get my car dirty."
 E-mail this page   Print this article  Post a comment |
