Friendships don’t blossom out of nowhere. It had been my experience that they developed out of proximity, shared interests, good fortune. It was rare to choose a lifelong friend, but, choose, I did, on a Sunday morning in 1998.
Our family had just moved to a small mountain town in northern New Jersey where I knew no one outside of my home other than the realtor who had sold us the house. My husband had been transferred to a nearby office, my children were starting school, and, soon I would be alone in this unfamiliar environment where it was not uncommon to see a black bear at one’s bird feeder.
We explored the new town: the antique stores, the library, the ice cream shop near the lake, the coffee shop on Main Street. I felt like a visitor, passing through on her way elsewhere. We attended a number of churches, but hadn’t found one that felt like home until we landed at the little white church across the street from the coffee shop.
My family of four sat toward the front nearest the windows. Still feeling disconnected, I looked to the front of the church for something to anchor me: the familiar cross, the keyboard, the pulpit. The worship team walked out, testing the microphones, checking in with one another about songs and whatever it is that people discuss in whispers. It was then that I saw her.
She had blonde hair, an attractive smile, and an effervescent personality that made it hard for her to stand still. She was part of the team, and yet, she seemed uniquely independent. When the music started, she began to sing, and her voice was like that of an angel—a gritty, accessible, free-flying angel. I was certain that if this were 1969, the woman would have been at Woodstock. I knew I had to meet her.
After service, I tried approaching her, but she was surrounded by people. I waved, nodded my head in an appreciative manner, and politely bowed out. I thought about her all day. That blonde woman.
In the early evening, my husband and I took our children to a small neighborhood lake. While they played in the sand, he and I sat on a bench near the water. Waves of sadness were beginning to wash over me—feelings of not belonging. Lost in my thoughts, I looked out onto the water. From across the lake, an object came into focus, a rowboat gliding in our direction. It was a comforting site, a slow, methodical movement across the sun-drenched water. As the boat got closer, I noticed there was one person inside, steadily rowing, rowing, rowing. It was the woman with the blonde hair.
She pulled up to the dock, wrapped the rope around a cleat hitch, and walked over to a nearby bench. With a rapidly-beating heart, I said hello, and when she seemed approachable, I introduced myself, telling her how much I had enjoyed her singing that morning. Her name, I learned, was Cathy.
We spoke for over an hour—eventually sharing one bench. I generally take my time with new friendships, assessing their reliability before sharing too much of myself. But, she and I trusted one another immediately. There was a heart connection that allowed us to both speak and listen. In the early days of our friendship, our conversations revolved around raising school-aged children. Through the years, those conversations evolved to deeper matters of mothering adults, and nurturing grandchildren. We have allowed ourselves confessions without judgment, admissions without explanation Always there was room for our own interests and the sharing of dreams, paint colors, gardening tips. There were tears, and always raucous laughter.
After eight years, our family moved to Maryland and eventually to Delaware; Cathy remained in New Jersey. Distance was never a deterrent to our friendship, no matter the miles. Sometimes we’d meet halfway and spend the day shopping and having lunch in New Hope, Pennsylvania. In summer we’d meet at the Jersey Shore. We’d visit in each other’s homes. She’d share irises, wild geranium, astible, purple coneflower, black-eyed Susan, and primrose from her garden, and I’d plant them in the soil of my new home.
Though much has changed over the 23 years of friendship, what remains is our love for one another.. What continues to grow from the roots we established on that park bench on a lake in a mountain town in northwestern New Jersey, are the strong branches of a well-established friendship, and the blossoms of shared hopes and experiences. I am reminded of the choice I made while sitting in that little white church on a Sunday morning, and I am forever grateful.