We met at a Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators conference in Denver in the early 1990s. The attraction seemed instant, although we were total opposites. Mary was subdued and sophisticated, dressed in a skirt and silk blouse, wearing sandals. I was a point-blank country gal, wearing worn western boots and denim. But when we discovered that we both lived on the Western Slope, five hours from Denver and only two hours apart, we formed a pact

Lou Dean

Every month, we’d take turns traveling to one another’s home and spend the day editing our work. That first visit to Carbondale, when I arrived at Mary and Wally’s lavish home at the foot of Mount Sopris, I learned that Mary’s husband, Wally, was an ordained minister. That reality made me nervous. Not that I was a heathen, exactly, but at that time in my life, I still had many questions when it came to faith and a ton of issues concerning my dysfunctional family.

Over the next decade, Mary and I became like sisters. My immediate family was shattered when I was seven and Mama left our Oklahoma farm. That abandonment unraveled the core of my security and brought many more heartaches with it as the years passed. By the nineties, when I met Mary, I was in survival mode, living alone in an isolated area called Blue Mountain in northwestern Colorado, working a day job and pursuing my dream to write. I’d learned to trust my animal friends more than most of the humans I’d encountered.

By then, I’d published many articles and was pursuing my first book. Mary had just sold her first book. The difference in our backgrounds and life experiences led to the perfect writing chemistry. We had a knack for editing and improving each others’ work.

Mary had more experience critiquing than me. I learned quickly that she could be stubborn when she was right about a revision suggestion. “Think of me as your first reader,” she would say. But other times, she would hover over me with compassion and encouragement when I struggled to write about my broken family.

Mary and Wally appeared at my home on Blue Mountain the day after I called and told her I’d lost my beloved older brother. He’d died tragically after a bar fight. I was in shock, separated from other family in Oklahoma. Mary helped me plan a memorial service near my mountains, a scattering of ashes where Wally officiated.

We had a knack for editing and improving each others’ work.

A decade later, Mary and Wally supported me after my younger brother took his own life. Through the passing of years, Mary listened to my bitter spewing of anger toward God. “Where was God when Mama left? Where was He when David committed suicide?” She always came from a place of love and peace, and because of her ability to listen, I slowly found trust in the Lord she loved.

Mary and I wrote, rewrote, discussed and fussed our way through seven published books apiece, knowing that without each other, we might never have achieved so much. We became members of The Colorado Authors League and traveled together annually to Denver to attend their awards banquets

In 2001, both of us were nominated for the CAL award for Young Adult Fiction. Mary and Wally attended that ceremony while I rode my donkey across the state to promote nonviolence in the schools.

Mary later told the story of sitting there at the CAL banquet when they announced me as the winner for young adult fiction. She said her first reaction was joy. She stood up, went to the podium and accepted the award for me, telling our writing community that she was my Spirit Sister.

She said she went back to her seat and suddenly realized that I had beaten her for the CAL Award.Several months later, over a glass of wine, Mary admitted to me and her pastor husband that when she had returned to her seat, sitting there at the CAL banquet, she’d experienced a sudden flash of evil that flushed her face red with jealousy and a hateful thought, “I deserved that award, more than she did.”

The last several years of Mary’s life were spent in a care facility in Boulder.. Shortly after she lost her beloved Wally, her health took a drastic downward spiral. We still communicated by phone, and I often cried after those brief conversations. I could tell she was growing tired of the battle.

Up until the very end, Mary always asked about my work, what I was writing. I knew it had to be extremely difficult for her to no longer be able to write. The creativity seed that the Lord had planted in us always demanded attention and constant cultivation. I prayed she would soon be free from what I imagined to be creative torment.

Of course, when the news of her death came, I felt the great weight of loss. At the Celebration of Life ceremony, one of her many admirers compared Mary to a bumblebee: “Sometimes warm and fuzzy, then passionate, then nurturing.”

The day after Mary passed, I took my dogs and went for a hike in the hills near my Blue Mountain place. It was early May and cold.

Mary had loved her visits to my isolated acre in northwest Colorado and had always been eager to walk with me in the sagebrush hills, but after a few days she’d always smile and say, “Sister, you know I love you, but it’s time for me to return to civilization.”

Walking along, grieving over Mary that afternoon, I began to sink into a pit of self-pity.Who would be around to discuss my writing projects? Who would bring light to the darkness of a garbled draft? Even more painful, who would hold my hand during the tough life challenges ahead? My Spirit Sister was gone.

Up until the very end, Mary always asked about my work, what I was writing.

I wiped at a tear and tried to shake off the grief. During times of despair, Mary often began reciting her list of blessings. I took a deep breath, determined to get a grip. “Thanks, Lord, for all of the many wonderful times in our 30-year friendship. Thanks for putting us together. Thank you, that Mary is no longer suffering and that she is with Wally and at peace.”

Suddenly a huge bumblebee swarmed inches from my face. I took both hands and tried to protect myself, but the bee seemed determined to get my attention. It lingered. I swatted, gently, trying to make it move on.

In desperation, I stumbled several steps forward, swatting, trying to discourage the intruder, but it lingered, very close to my face. When the calm returned I stood, slightly shocked. Pulling my jacket closer, I stared at the distant snow-covered peaks. It had been below freezing the night before. I hadn’t seen one honeybee in my yard and hadn’t planted my garden yet. The grass was barely green around the edges of melting ice and there were few flowers. Bumblebees didn’t usually appear until late summer in these parts.

Then I began to smile. At the end of the Celebration of Life service, Mary’s daughter, Ruth, had read a poem often read to comfort survivors, “I Am With You Still.” entitled, “I am with you still.”

I give you this one thought to keep

I am with you still—do not weep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow …

“Thanks, Lord.” I whispered. Then louder, I said, “I feel your presence, Mary, my dear friend! Only you could be a bumblebee in the mountains in the snow. You are with me still.”

— Mary Peace Finley grew up along the Arkansas River near Bent’s Fort, graduated from the University of Denver and was a 1994 finalist for the Colorado Book Award for her YA novel, Soaring Eagle.