“How are you?” I tilted my head.

“Fine.” But the up-and-down of her nod shifted from side to side. “Actually, I’m not.”

My friend had just arrived after visiting a tube-fed boy in a local hospital.

She withdrew for me bits of his story like stones from a bag: Abandoned by parents. Nightmares about sacrifice to witchcraft, like his siblings. Taken in by an African woman who loved him as a son.

My friend’s face strained beneath the weight of his story, the brokenness around us. We prayed. I thanked her for answering my question truthfully.

“There’s no other way,” she shrugged. “I used to live like that. You can’t do that here. You’ll die.”

It was true. Where comforts and conveniences had stood in my home country, I now possessed no buffer. I could no longer independently muscle through burdens that begged navigation by a whole body.

Painfully real relationships had become vital. Neglecting those, I could easily slip downward into deep shadows.

On the savanna, loners are the first target of an enemy, and the first victims of fatigue.

So I’ve been pressed by Ephesians 4:25: "Let each of you put off falsehood and speak truthfully to his neighbor, for we are members of one another."

In my own body, my stomach communicates with my brain with truth. ("I would really like some dark chocolate.") My shoulders, elbows, and fingers cooperate seamlessly (despite my depressing lack of coordination).

But in Christ’s body? I don’t always convey truth with the same trusting clarity.

I am not always as open with friends as I would like them to be with me.

I am not false—not in the intentionally lying sense—but for the sake of “kindness” I am not always intentionally truthful.

Sometimes, I am gentle, but not faithful; not courageous.

Invaluable resources lie in a tightly-knit community of other women—sharing deep, laid-bare relationships that “do life” together amidst the nitty-gritty. I need women who can function together as dependently and honestly as my own body parts.

Friendships that love intrusively aren’t optional. They’re vital.