Can I tell you a secret?

[The following reflection was first published in “The Evangelical Friend” in 1984, but the concepts are still relevant. It’s part of a book of collected stories and essays that will be published in 2026 under the title, “The Richest Kid on the Block: reflections from an ordinary life.”] 

In a conspiratorial tone of voice, my seven-year-old daughter asked, “Mommy, can I tell you the stupid part of a smart secret?” Intrigued, I nodded, and Kristin cupped her hands around my ear and whispered, “Timmy Smith likes me.”

There. It was out. The stupid part of a smart secret. Another shared bond between us.

Secrets are important. Children instinctively know this. I remember often saying as a child, “If I tell you this, will you promise not to tell anyone? Cross your heart?”

I belonged to a secret club in the fifth grade. We had secret names, a secret written code, and a hiding place for our buried treasure (a huge collection of popsicle sticks). We sent secret signals to one another across the classroom and engaged in a secret post-recess contest to see who could hold a mouthful of water the longest. Our club had no theme or purpose; its most crucial element was its secretness. It said, “We belong.”

Secrets have their negative side. They can be used to exclude those who don’t belong. Whenever Kristin invites a group of friends to the house, sometime in the course of the day, some little girl inevitably whines, “No fair telling secrets!” And she’s right. Secrets used to exclude other people are definitely no fair.

Knowing a secret grants a certain superiority. I like Robert Frost’s little poem:

We dance around in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Have you ever been in a group of people who are pondering something that you know the answer to? You’ve pledged not to speak, so can only sit there and silently know. I may be perverse, but that’s my idea of fun, especially if the secret is a pleasant one.

I’m not a child anymore, but I still believe in secrets.

Just the other day I was thinking about a past experience, remembering how important it was to me. I suddenly realized that almost none of my current friends even knows about that experience. There are areas of my life—people I’ve loved, places I’ve been, adventures I’ve had—that are still my secrets. For some reason that knowledge gives me satisfaction. People don’t know all there is to know about me. I have a few surprises up my sleeve.

But having secrets is probably not as important as appropriately sharing secrets. Shared secrets create bonds between adults as well as between children, although we don’t use the same vocabulary. I belong to a small accountability group in my church. Our closeness is measured by the degree to which we openly reveal ourselves within the group. James 5:16 says, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” We try to do this in our meetings, not only confessing our sins and faults, but sharing our joys and dreams as well. The bond between us is growing.

I don’t believe in telling all my secrets to everyone I know. That would be inappropriate, and I would soon have no secrets left to tell. But as I make a new friend and we begin to grow in our friendship, being open and honest about ourselves is part of the process. And keeping confidences is one measure of loyalty in a friendship.

The depth of a relationship usually equals the degree of shared secrets. My husband knows me better than any other person. We’ve talked together, prayed, walked the same paths, wrestled with the same problems. He knows my ups and downs, my pettiness, my joy, my hurts, my dreams. And I know his. Just as with children, sharing secrets is a part of our being best friends.

This carries over into our relationship with God. Although he relates to all of us in community as the church, he also knows and loves us individually. My relationship to God and awakening into his love are unlike anyone else’s. He’s my closest friend and our friendship is intimate and secret.

David writes of the wonder of the intimacy of a relationship with God:

“O Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me.
Thou dost know when I sit and when I rise up;
Thou dost understand my thought from afar.
Thou dost scrutinize my path and my lying down,
And art intimately acquainted with all my ways.
Even before there is a word on my tongue,
Behold, O Lord, thou dost know it” (Psalm 139:1-4 NASB)

In Revelation God promises that to the person who overcomes, “I will give … a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it” (2:17). For all eternity we’ll have a name that will remain a secret we share only with the Father. However our other relationships in heaven will be (and I imagine they’ll be wonderful in the full sense of the word), each one of us will still have a unique relationship with God. We’ll share a secret no one else knows.

If you see me looking somewhat inward, smiling to myself, you’ll know it’s because—I’ve got a secret!

Strange and lonely times

It’s been a strange couple of weeks. I’ve been living on the moon; at least that’s what it felt like. Silent, moving imperceptibly through deep space, with planet earth a distant shrouded globe. (OK, so I’m exaggerating a little.)

We’ve both been facing physical issues, Hal recovering from hernia surgery and putting cold packs on his rebellious neck. Me spinning through our two-room apartment while standing still. We were quite a pair.

With little desire to chat with other people, we kept to our apartment. Isolation is the word. You’d think without the distraction of people or meetings I’d have lots of time to pray or write, which are supposed to be my priorities. And I did—have the time. But I failed at using it in any kind of creative endeavor. I read some good books (and some not-so-good ones), watched some entertaining movies, took naps, and tried to reason myself out of feeling guilty for all of the above.

We broke our people-fast yesterday. It was necessary as I had a face-to-face doctor's appointment in Portland that I really wanted to keep. I needed Hal to drive as one of my irrational phobias is a sense of panic at the thought of driving in a big city (similar to ophidiophobia—fear of snakes; I don’t think the Greeks had a name for fear of city traffic). Thanks to God, Hal woke up feeling good and able to drive.

I really wanted to keep this appointment because I really wanted to meet my doctor.

I became Dr. Preston’s patient in 2020 at the beginning of the pandemic, and we’ve been meeting every few months ever since—all by Zoom.

Dr. Preston threw me a rope of hope back during our first Zoom meeting. It followed four years of trying to figure out what was wrong with me, taking a battery of high-powered tests, meeting with six specialists, and finally having my primary care physician tell me, “Sorry. We don’t know what’s wrong with you. There’s nothing more we can do.”

A recommendation led me to Dr. Juliette Preston, a neurologist at a research hospital and head of their Headache Clinic. In that first meeting, having read the results of all the tests and hearing me talk about it, she diagnosed my condition as vestibular migraines. Just having a name for the Thing was huge. Having a doctor who believed me was even more huge. We’ve been meeting since, experimenting with vitamin therapy and medications, both of which are giving scant results so far, but hope is strong.

I was not disappointed by our face-to-face visit. This doctor is a warm, caring person, and being in the same room made it real. She is also a brilliant research physician, part of a team searching for answers. Hal and I returned home renewed in spirit and decided to eat in the communal dining room where we had a good conversation with a couple who had just moved into the retirement community.

It feels like our time of isolation might be over.

I have a meeting this morning and while I don’t particularly enjoy committee meetings, I like the people in the group, so I’m actually looking forward to it. And tomorrow a friend and I are going on a mini-vacation, a few nights in a motel facing the Columbia River. We plan to do nothing but nest, look out the window, go out to eat, and probably have some good conversation. It’s refreshing to have something to look forward to.

Reflecting back, I can see that times of solitude are sometimes necessary. And sometimes we find ourselves experiencing an isolation that’s not necessary or good. (We were edging toward that place last week.) But whatever the case, relationships are always necessary. As Barbra Streisand sang, we’re “people who need people.”

I need periods of quiet every day. That’s my personality and it’s necessary for me to be creative in prayer or writing. But if I’m not in active face-to-face relationships, isolation is sterile. Uncreative. I need the rhythm of quiet and engagement.

I think of people, many of them here in the retirement center, who are isolated through no choice of their own, people with health issues, or people who shy away from social engagements. Sometimes and in some seasons, I’m tempted to close myself in my apartment. But I have a choice.

How can I encourage my sisters and brothers without being a pest? How can I be a better friend?

I need to keep reflecting, which I’ll do in quiet. And then do something, which will be out in the neighborhood.

Hunkering down

In May 2016, with the help of our friends, we moved the last boxes of hoarded treasure over to our new home in the trees of our chosen old growth forest. We would finally experience life in a retirement community. This was no longer a prospect for someday out there. It was to be our home. Now, and probably for the rest of our lives. Both a sobering and giddy thought.

Our two-room apartment is on the fifth floor. A wall of windows overlooks trees, hills, and an expanse of ever-changing sky. The view certainly welcomed us home.

(We’ve moved many times over the years. My first question when about to occupy a new place is not about size, room arrangement, or other practical issues—Hal asks those questions—but what can I see out the windows.)

One of our first experiences as newcomers was writing the largest personal check of our lives and handing it over to the smiling administrative assistant. Actually, we were happy, too, partly because our old condo had just sold, making this adventure possible. But most of our joy was based on faith. This was the right move. Wasn’t it?

In truth, it took a while to actually feel at home. One thing I was not expecting was being overwhelmed at the number of white heads, walkers, and wrinkles everywhere we looked. We were surrounded by old people! This is pure irony, of course. Who did I think I was? Or was becoming?

This strange distress showed me that I had brought with me my own stereotypes of old people, and they were not all positive. For the past few years, I had squirmed when I thought other people were ignoring me, patronizing me, or classifying me as insignificant because I was over 60. And here I was, projecting these same attitudes.

The cure for stereotyping is getting to know people. It’s also the best path toward feeling at home in a community. Slowly, we discovered that our new friends and neighbors were not old people. They were just people. Interesting, sometimes complicated, and often very funny people.

Our fifth-floor neighborhood was even better than the view at helping us feel at home. The larger retirement community is divided into different neighborhoods, each a microcosm of the whole, with its own unique ways of living together. We’ve felt so blessed to be part of the fifth-floor family. From the first day, people went out of their way to welcome us: a bright sign on the door, a basket of goodies (healthy stuff like dark chocolate), but mostly people introducing themselves, inviting us to eat with them, and leaving us alone when that’s what we needed.

The wild-life in an old growth forest can be incredibly diverse. We discovered that to be true on the fifth-floor. As we got to know our neighbors, we found that we were surrounded by some rare and beautiful birds. My red-headed neighbor across the hall was one of the most colorful and enthusiastic. We discovered that in our early seventies, Francie, Hal, and I were considered the kids on the floor. Most of the others were in their eighties and nineties, some approaching 100 years old. For me, still getting used to being 70, someone calling me a kid was not at all offensive.

Down the hall, Bob and Connie invited us in for a visit. We discovered that Bob had served more than 25 years fighting forest fires in California, not as a volunteer, but as a fulltime employee of the Forest Service. 

On the other side of the floor, we got reacquainted with Marie, a friend from college days. She was still as well-dressed and stylish as I had remembered. She showed us photos of herself and her late husband dressed in their helmets and leather suits; they had traversed the nation numerous times on their Harley-Davidsons. As if that were not enough, Marie had also been a professional clown. People have a habit of surprising me.

We met Phyllis who, as a young adult, had served in Africa as part of the Peace Corps. She and her husband spent the rest of their lives active in work for social justice. Now widowed and less mobile, Phyllis continues to change the world by email from her armchair. We met retired teachers, pastors, missionaries, and truckers. Everyone a treasure trove of stories.

Now that we’ve been here on the fifth-floor for five years, it still feels like a family, but in a more realistic sense. Any family has its share of squabbles and challenges. Some people are naturally grouchier than others. Others may not be grouchy on the inside; they just look like it. Sometimes political views clash, and we have to learn with whom we should not mention certain issues. So, we learn to deal with it. Just because we’re all a certain age doesn’t mean we’re all wise or mature. But this gives friendship the chance to grow deeper, become more tolerant. I guess I’ll never stop learning how to do that.

With all these rare birds flying around us, we’ve finally hunkered down, learning to be at home in this old growth forest.