Talking to Strangers: Lessons on Taking Chances
"Do you know the story of how I met your father?" Bill asked me with a smile, his eyes crinkling as they had since I had known him. And I had known him my whole life. Bill was one of my father's closest friends, and their friendship predated my birth. Bill and my dad were prolific storytellers with twinkling blue eyes and life experiences that gave them material to spin a yarn.
Bill, now in his eighties with thin wisps of gray hair, leaned in close and told me how he met my father. I felt a sense of surprise about hearing a story I didn't know. Like only a child could believe, I had thought my dad had told me all his stories. With my father's death just a year in the past and my hunger for any sense of his presence again, I settled in to hear how the lifelong friendship began.
On a late summer morning, Bill was canoeing in the Smoky Mountains when he and his canoe partner saw flashes of light coming from downriver. As they approached the light, they could see the shine was reflecting off a mess kit being rinsed by a man crouching at the water's edge. Closer still, Bill could see the man had set up camp on the river bank and had his canoe pulled up on shore. So, in what would be an almost inconceivable act now, Bill and his canoe buddy pulled over to meet the man washing his breakfast dishes in the river. They just pulled right over to say hello to this stranger on a river somewhere deep in the Smoky Mountains. In our 21st-century world, designed for connection through cyberspace, we are, ironically, more disconnected than ever. I couldn't fathom this event occurring in today's hyper-connected yet lonely social landscape.
Along the river bank and among strangers, the men discovered they all lived in Greensboro, North Carolina, and aside from river canoeing, they also had a love of sailing in common. I wasn't surprised to hear that my dad had a pen and paper on hand while on his solo canoe trip, and the two exchanged names and phone numbers. That decision to pull over to meet a stranger was the start of a sixty-year friendship between the two men.
As I listened to the story, I couldn't help but marvel at the power of this chance meeting and also feel a pang of sadness at how unlikely it would be today. And further, I couldn't imagine that once back in town, either man would call the other and meet for coffee. But that was what happened. As Bill and I sat at lunch, he looked intently at me with tearing eyes and said, "Your father taught me how to camp. He changed the course of my life with his enthusiasm for the outdoors." By this time, my eyes were wet, too, partly from Bill's tenderness as he talked about my father and partly because of the warmth filling my body as I learned how two strangers became friends.
Fast forward to this past summer, also along a water's edge. My family and I were renting a boat on a lake in upstate New York when my husband started a conversation, beyond details of the boat rental, with the young girl helping us. As it turned out, she was from the Lake area but was about to start law school at the University of Colorado Boulder, right down the street from us. Then she and I began to chat, and she told me she knew no one, had never been to Colorado, and was nervous. I asked if she wanted to stay in touch; we could help her with suggestions for hiking trails and restaurant recommendations. Also, I laughed, she could say she knew at least one person when she got to town. I got a good hit off our encounter—the kind where you just knew deep inside you had met a good human. The type of encounter that restored hope for the world you wanted to live in, where people were open, genuine, smiled, and built trust easily. At that moment, the principal of the only high school in town walked by and said hello to her and introduced himself to us. He told her a funny story about one of his kids whom she nannied for and then left with a warm reference to the next time they would see each other. I knew it, I thought to myself. She was a good egg.
We exchanged contact information on our phones with promises to be in touch. Her name was Tea (pronounced Tia), Tea from the lake in upstate New York.
A month later, I reached out when she said she would be in Colorado to see if she needed anything. She replied no, but thanks for asking. I reached out again to see if she wanted to make some extra money dog sitting and running the kids around after school for us, and Tea jumped at the chance.
Tea came over the next week, and I welcomed her into our home. I asked how things were going so far, and she said she was homesick and not sure this was the right decision. I wondered if she had been hiking, to the farmer's market, or tubing down the river in town. No was her answer to all of these activities. "Can I get you something to drink? Let's sit down, and I'll give you a list of activities to help get you acquainted with this beautiful new state you live in." So we drank iced tea and sat at our breakfast table chatting for a while.
When her fun-things-to-do list was long and ample, Tea looked up at me, fighting tears, and said, "Why are you doing this? Why are you being so nice to me?" There was a real question in her voice, a genuine lack of understanding evident on her face. All I could say was, "This is how you make friends; when you meet someone and it feels right in your gut, you take the chance."
Then fall set in, and Tea had come over to pass out candy at Halloween, arriving in full costume with enormous energy and enthusiasm. She joined us for a Sunday pot roast dinner and weekend family hikes. Tea drove my daughter to her weekly piano lesson, and they were developing a close and connective relationship. She was a delight with her bright personality, eagerness, and resilience. My kids adored her, and she now babysat and did odd jobs for us to make extra cash while she was in law school. I got regular photos of her Colorado adventures as she crossed them off her list, and my heart was warm each time one popped up on my phone. Warm because I knew Tea was experiencing wonderful, cup-filling adventures and because there was a connection for her to me and my family in these joyful moments. She felt safe and grounded in our relationship—we had offered her a home away from home. I was reminded of the encounter that could have ended with a contract for a boat rental, but instead, we all chose to take a chance. This idea of trusting, feeling safe in the world, and believing in the abundance around us grounded me and comforted me. This relationship was an emblem of the joy that awaits when we are open and available to say yes to possibility.
When exactly do strangers become friends? I don't have a quick answer to this question. Pull up a chair and we’ll sit over coffee and chat about it.
