My Real Friend


I am in the Miami airport, on my way to Spain to visit Daughter #3. This is an airport I passed through many times the twenty years we lived in South America.

The first time I was here was when our little family was moving to Bolivia in 1984. That Daughter #3 was an eight m.o. baby.  Our flight was delayed into the wee hours of the morning and that baby cried a lot, poor thing.  She just wanted to lie down in her bed.  And so did I.

Three years later, we came back through Miami to North Carolina. When we landed (I can still see it in my mind’s eye) that same daughter leaned forward in her seat, her bright three-and-a-half y.o. face smiling, and her happy little voice calling across the aisle:

“Mommy! Mommy! We’re in Your-ami!”

It is nice to be back in My-ami again.


Do kids have imaginary friends anymore?

What does it say about a child who plays with imaginary friends?  Does it mean he/she is more creative?  Is it a sign of intelligence?

I wonder.

My oldest daughter, who happens to be very creative and intelligent, had two imaginary friends, named EeeEee and Foofoo.  When she was a pre-schooler, her friends lived underneath the dining room table, and the sad thing was, while she was playing nicely with EeeEee and Foofoo, she was not nice to her little sister.  Daughter #2 was not allowed under the table.

I can’t remember if EeeEee and FooFoo moved to Bolivia with us . . .


I myself must be creative and smart, for I, too, had imaginary playmates.

When I was about 8, I had an imaginary horse. I’ve forgotten his name, sadly. All I remember is commanding him and galloping on him all around our Wisconsin neighborhood of empty lots and fields and tying him up at a basement window wells.

If you never lived with a basement house, you may not know how much fun it was to play in those ‘wells.’ My brother and I made a cereal box cardboard periscope and those wells were submarines.

And that reminds me of all the fun we two had with our dad’s belts and strings, playing telephone repairmen on the old metal swing set. I was not an inside-play-with-dolls kind of girl.

Another time I will have to tell you about The Valley of Red Chief where my brother and I spent hours playing.

But back to imaginary friends.

When I was in 5th grade, living in East Texas, I had imaginary girlfriends. Twins. I can’t remember their names either, but I do remember the old abandoned house where they ‘lived.’ It was about two blocks from mine.

If I wanted my imaginary friends to come play at my house, it took me four round trips – eight blocks of bike riding – because only one girl at a time could fit on the back of my bike, you see.


Okay, I gotta go. Boarding for my Spain flight has begun.

Goodbye, MY-ami. It’s been fun.

Today, like often, I am traveling alone.

But not alone.

Some people may think Jesus is only a figment of a child-like, creative but unintelligent imagination.

He is invisible, true.

But He is not imaginary.

He is as real as the wind.

As real as love.

When you know Him, you feel His presence.

He is a real Person . . . with me always, wherever I go.

Ami in French is ‘friend.’

Amigo is how they say ‘friend’ in Spanish.

Jesus is mon Ami. Mi Amigo. My Real Friend.









3 thoughts on “My Real Friend

  1. Thank you for sharing about Your-ami, your precious daughters and imaginary friends. “Now unto Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, (even the three generations there in Spain represented today), for ever and ever! Amen!


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