I am learning that friendship needs a sustained curiosity to last the distance.  Last week I sat by a pool with a couple of good friends. We sat in the shade, ate snacks and swapped book recommendations between dips into the glistening water.  It has been over fifteen years since we forged our friendship. One of us has an appetite for bike riding, another loves attending live country music and the third enjoys ocean swimming. Perhaps these interests have not changed much over the years, but we have. We attend different kinds of churches, have different strengths and have not followed the life paths that we expected for ourselves when we were in our twenties.  Nonetheless, we enjoy a warm curiosity towards one another that has sustained and deepened our friendship. If we had assumed on being the same people that we were when we met, our friendships may not have continued. 

Crisp, sunburned leaves. A shrivelled stem gasping for water. Grey, sandy soil that repels moisture—much like my legs in summer. Toss in a grassless lawn for dramatic effect, and you’ve got a snapshot of my gardening track record.

I once thought it was a brilliant idea to plant baby fruit trees during a 40+ degree January heatwave, straight into what could technically be described as “dirt,” but more closely resembled beach sand. Yes, I was that person. Of the three trees I planted, one heroically died and was respectfully composted. The cause of death? Possibly the soil, the sun, the lack of water—or maybe the tree just took one look at its new home and decided, “Yeah, nah.”

I like to think I’m a curious person. Or perhaps more accurately, I aspire to be a curious person. It’s not because I think curiosity is a moral category. It’s not a fruit of the Spirit. And yet I’m increasingly convinced it’s a trait I want to possess. And in possessing it, I’ll gain something good.