Best Friends For Never

Yesterday I stumbled upon an article in The New York Times online titled “The End of the Best Friend.” The article describes the efforts of certain educators to monitor friendships and “discourage anything that hints of exclusivity.” Apparently, The Best Friend has become “unhealthy” in our Tolerance-worshipping society. One New York summer camp even employs “’friendship coaches’…to help every child become friends with everyone else.”

Ah, yes, that is the goal, is it not? Everyone being friends with everyone. A sterilized emotional world in which toes are never trampled, feelings never hurt.

“’I don’t think it’s particularly healthy for a child to rely on one friend,” said Jay Jacobs, the camp’s director. “If something goes awry, it can be devastating. It also limits a child’s ability to explore other options in the world.’”

How interesting. Is not a child’s choice of friend an integral part of ”exploring options”? And where do these programmed relationships leave those – like myself – who by nature are not social butterflies? Who flourish in small groups and one-on-one interactions? Will the disappearance of The Best Friend indeed eradicate bullying and cliques – in a word, pain? The logic in this thinking is wrong on multiple levels, but for one, preference does not necessarily equal exclusivity and neither does forced social diversity necessarily result in “courtesy, respect, and kindness to all”.

What about the Bible – are we not commanded to refrain from showing favoritism? Yes, we are – within the context of showing love to the Body of Christ. The Bible also clearly promotes close – not superficial – friendships. In fact, Proverbs 18:24 says that “a man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”

The educators referenced in the Times article miss the opportunity to teach that we can show preference without being cliquish. We can love all while at the same time only opening our hearts to a few.

But how can they teach what they have not known? The article reflects a longing for an acceptance deeper than mere social inclusion. Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we are called to exemplify love to a culture so desperate for it that its adults, acting from a history of pain, will attempt to clone it in the test tubes of childhood.

Timmy: a short creative nonfiction piece

Adults in folding chairs make a ragged ring around the camp fire, laughing at each other across the circle about adult things. It is late afternoon, and to Timmy they have done nothing all day but sit here or take turns prowling around the food table, picking at the Doritos and vanilla crème sandwich cookies. Every few minutes someone hefts to their feet with a good-natured groan and staggers from the group, returning with a handful of pretzels or a pop and settling into their sagging chair again with a sigh. Right now they are playing an adult game which is really funny to them. A man and a woman take turns reading from pink and blue cards and the men complain loudly when they can’t answer a question, while the ladies glance at each other and smile and titter.

Timmy’s little sisters, his cousins and the other children at the campout squeal and giggle in the background. A big kid is letting them play in his Jeep. A pale boy sits in the front seat, yanking the wheel and yelling “VROOM! RRRRRRRR!!!!VRRRROOOOOOOM!!!” as the other kids scramble over the car like ants over a big dropped crumb. Timmy does not play – he needs to collect more sticks for the fire.

“All right, y’all, it’s three to six now,” a lady says. Timmy thinks her voice sounds different.

“Only because we let you have that last one!” a man says. Loud laughter and high-pitched yelling from the women, deep protests from the men.

“Here’s your next question – what finger do you use when applying eye cream?” The lady pauses and looks around. “What finger…do you use…when applying…eye cream?” she says again, slower.

Timmy hears a man’s voice say, “What?! Now, come on! No multiple choice?”

“Aw, no fair – this is rigged,” another man says. The circle around the fire erupts laughing again.

The pale boy yells, “WATCH OUT GUYS! HEY – OH NO! THE POLICE ARE CHASING US!” His sisters giggle and cling to each other in the back of the Jeep.

Timmy hears the adults from the woods where he looks for sticks, hears the kids screaming and beeping the horn. He wants to laugh and play, too. He could be the policeman. He would make a good policeman because a real one has been to his house, he knows how they talk and stuff. But he sees the ashy wisp of smoke rising from the middle of the circle of adults, reminding him that he has a job to do. Timmy thinks that if his dad was here, they would hunt sticks together. Good sticks are hard to find, but his dad would show him the right places to look, he is sure.

Timmy has a picture in his mind of a day when his dad yanked the phone out of the wall. His mom was screaming, and his sisters were crying. The police came to the house and took his dad away. He remembers the policeman’s shiny badge and the hole in the wall and the tangled colored cords sticking out…

“AaaaawoooooOOOOOOOOooooooooo!!!” The sound of a pretend police siren wails from the Jeep. Timmy stoops close to the ground. He finds pine cones and cigarette butts. He finds a discarded ponytail holder from a previous camper. Here’s a stick. It’s dry, so it will burn well, he thinks. He hears the adults laughing some more. They’re letting the fire go out. They aren’t paying any attention.

He walks back to the fire and squeezes between two lawn chairs. A woman looks over at him for a moment: What is he doing? Why isn’t he playing?

Timmy feels brave. The fire is hot, but he is venturing close to it like he has seen the big men do when they put logs on. He looks for the best place to put his firewood, then squats in the dirt and watches as it burns. The yellow flame licks his little sticks and makes him feel proud. Timmy looks up at a girl with red spots on her face and a baseball cap. He wants her to be proud of his sticks, too. “See that stick right there?” He points. “That’s my stick. I put that there.”

“Nice, Timmy,” the girl says without looking. More screams come from the Jeep. The big kid is shaking it and the children are tumbling around inside. The pale boy yells, “OH NO!!!” Timmy just hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans like he has seen big men do and walks past them. The pale boy doesn’t know how to find good sticks. This time Timmy needs to find a big stick that will not burn quickly.