Jamal: Part 2

I gripped the door handle; I could be faster than a four-year-old if I had to be.

A boom car zipped by us. The noise snatched the little boy’s attention from his task.  

I knocked on the window. “Hit the button again, Jamal.”

More clicks, but not the right ones. Let the next one be it. He pressed again. The knob popped up, unlocking the car. In a fraction of a second, I opened the door. Jamal abandoned the keys and scrambled into his booster seat in the back. He tugged at the seat belt. I pulled it into place and clasped it for him, and then we drove off.

The harrowing adventure had spanned five minutes, and the story had concluded with the best of all possible endings. I adjusted the rearview mirror and looked at my passenger.

He gazed out the window and then at me. “Can I have candy now?”

The last thing an active boy needed was sugar, but I had given my word. “You sure can.”

Each weekday morning, my girls helped me awaken Jamal for preschool. We dressed him, fed him, and walked him to the bus stop at the end of our block. His groggy start to the day turned more vibrant with each step. And before the bus arrived, he entertained us with his knock-knock jokes and dance moves.

One morning while we waited at the corner, Jamal danced his fastest for us. Then the bus pulled up with a hiss, and the door screeched open. His smile vanished.

“No, no, NO!” Jamal’s feet stuck to the pavement.

“C’mon, buddy.” I lifted him up to the bus steps. “You had a good time yesterday.”

“No!” He kicked one foot up on each side of the open bus door and locked his knees.

“It’ll be fun, Jamal,” I said, still holding him under his arms. “You’ll come back to me soon.”

He braced himself against the door. The girls and I coaxed him with ideas of all the fun he might have at school.

“I gotta go, ma’am,” said the bus driver. “Can’t wait any longer.”

I stepped back and set the little boy down. “Okay, Jamal. You can stay with me today.”

The driver closed the door and drove away. The girls’ eyes widened as we all walked back to the house.

Fresh awareness lit Ricka’s face. “You mean you can do that?”

“What?” I said.

“Refuse to go to school like that.” Flicka’s words were slow, thoughtful. A smile crept onto her face. “I didn’t know it was possible.”

I cocked my head. “Don’t even think about it, girls.”

“The dad’s home!” Jamal hollered to me one day as Husband pulled up in front of the house. The dad.

I straightened shoes by the door. “Maybe he’ll play basketball with you again.”

The boy buzzed out to Husband—emerging from his truck—and from the window, I watched him bob in front of my man, tugging on his arm. The two of them came inside the house, and minutes later, they headed to the back yard to play basketball. I stepped outside to snap some pictures of their game.

Jamal dribbled the ball, then zinged a look at his opponent and laughed. “I’m gonna beat the black outta you!” He stepped closer to the basket, squinted at his target, poked out his tongue, and shot. The ball swished through the net.

Husband chased after the boy, stole the ball, and pulled out his jab steps, pump fakes, and dribble drives. Soon, the kid’s moves slowed. “A tired puppy is a happy puppy,” I remembered our dog trainer Mimi saying.

Back in the house thirty minutes later, Jamal splayed out on the living room floor. Then he crawled over to where Husband sat, climbed into his lap, looped an arm around his neck, and tussled Husband’s naturally curly hair. “You’re a nappy head too.”

A smile played at the corners of my man’s mouth. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” He pressed his forehead into Husband’s. “Just like me, Dad.”

Thirteen days with us, and then Jamal was gone. The day he left, I chatted with the host mom who had taken in his five-year-old brother. I had gotten to know her during the little boys’ play dates.

“So how did it go?” she asked as she stood on my front porch.

I pictured Jamal, a busy boy—amped up even more by his nebulizer treatments. I remembered his shining face, peering at me through the car window; his obsession with yogurt and basketball; his affinity for our whole family—but especially for Husband. I recalled the smell of the Moroccan hair oil I’d rub on his head after his baths, how he slept hard and long after his active days, and how he relished eating chicken skin—dragged through ketchup—more than the chicken itself. I had learned an adult should never relinquish control of her keys to a four-year-old, and once in a while, everyone deserves a personal day away from the demands of life and preschool. I had also learned that this kind of hosting would leave its mark—deep grooves in our lives that would never heal—but we’d do it again anyway.

The look on the woman’s face mirrored what I felt. I drew a deep breath, and let it go. “It was good.”

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Jamal: Part 1

“We have an unfilled urgent need,” the placement coordinator said on the other end of the phone line. “If you’re willing, we could use you now.”

During the previous weeks, we had completed the paperwork, the background investigation, the home inspection, the interview with the social worker, and the online training to be a host family for Safe Families for Children. We were fresh and ready to go.

“Tell me about the situation,” I said.

“There are two little boys. A four-year-old and a five-year-old. Their mom’s fine with separating them. Choose one, and the other one will stay in a host family near you.”

“Hm.” I flipped between the options, but it didn’t matter; whomever I chose would be the right one. “We’ll take the four-year-old.”

The coordinator explained that the boys’ mother had assumed the job of raising her ten-year-old sister after their parents had died on the same day in two different parts of Chicago. She was staying in a shelter in Minneapolis with the kids and struggling to cut through the fog of her days. Her to-do list was daunting: secure housing, find a job, raise her sister and her two boys, grieve her losses. A respite from her active little guys might help, she had said.

The director of Safe Families for Children drove Jamal, the four-year-old, to us the next day. In our living room, he stuck to her side while she pointed out his luggage and taught me how to operate his nebulizer. My girls—ages 8, 11, and 12—edged closer to him. His eyes glinted with curiosity as he watched them.

Dicka touched his hand. “Do you like basketball?”

Jamal’s face split into a smile, and he nodded. Soon, he darted out the back door with her.

Before bed that night, I read to him while the girls clustered around us. Together, we followed the adventures of Little Bear, Curious George, and Frog and Toad.

A tear trickled down his face behind the nebulizer mask. “I miss my mama.”

“I know, hon.” I closed the book. “We’ll call her in the morning.” I snuggled his stuffed dinosaur next to his cheek.

The next day, Jamal perked up. He ripped around the house, switching to a new activity every two minutes. One of those activities was nosing around inside the fridge. I whisked him out, but not before he snapped up his second yogurt of the day.

“This is the last one, okay? You just had yogurt an hour ago.” I steered him into the dining room. “And sit at the table to eat, please.”

He spooned up the creamy treat. Then the girls burst through the door from school. Jamal begged them to play basketball with him. They dropped their backpacks in the middle of the floor and scampered outside. Minutes later, Ricka stuck her head inside the house.

“Jamal just threw up in the back yard, Mom. I think he had too much yogurt.”

“Oh boy.” I followed her outside.

An empty yogurt container sat on the patio table. Jamal dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and bolted back into the game.

“You threw up, Jamal?” I said.

“No.” He swiped the ball away from Dicka. “I just spit.”

“No more yogurt today.”

The little boy whooped as Flicka chased after him. “You can’t catch me, Jo-Jo!”

I smiled at the nickname and passed through the gate, interrupting their game. “Did you hear me, Jamal?”

“Yeah.” He shot the ball, then flicked his gaze at me. “Can I have another yogurt now?”

One afternoon, Jamal and I left the house to run some errands. I smiled down at my little shadow. He watched me lock the front door, his focus glued on my keyring.

“Can I do it?” He tugged on the hem of my jacket. “Can I try?”

I flicked a finger under his chin and chuckled. “I already locked the door, bud.”

“Can I open the car?” As we walked outside together, he danced a jig around me, his eyes shining. “Let me open the car. Please?”

I recalled the girls’ intrigue with keys and how they had years earlier begged to do the same thing. Where was the harm in a kid learning a little independence?

“Push this one.” I pointed to the unlock button on my key fob, and he snatched the keys out of my hand.

He unlocked the passenger side door of the car, scrambled inside, and yanked it shut. I jogged around to the driver’s side, but before I could reach the door, I heard the click of the automatic locks.

Uh oh.

I did some quick math and added up the facts: A four-year-old boy locked inside my car—with my keys. And me outside my car—with no keys.

Jamal got the giggles. I pasted on a smile.

“Hey, let me in.” I rapped on the window. “We’ll go get some candy—and more yogurt. Sound good?”

He pressed his lips against the glass and puffed his cheeks out. Then he laughed as if he had performed the funniest act in the world.

I slowed my breathing, the plastic smile still stretched across my face. “Jamal, open up, okay?”

After another second of amusement, he stared at the key fob and furrowed his brow. Then he looked up at me.

“See the picture of the little open lock on there? Push that one,” I said.

He poked at the fob, but the doors locked again. He shrugged and shook his head.

How could I expect a little boy to understand the symbol of an unlocked padlock? “It’s the other button. Try it again.”

He tapped the unlock button. Nothing. He probably hadn’t pushed it hard enough. Think.

Maybe Husband had left his extra set of keys at home today. But the kid had the house key too, and I couldn’t let him out of my sight long enough to find the spare key hidden in the back yard, go back inside our place, and search for the extra car key that may or may not be on its hook by the back door. An icy thought froze me: Jamal held the key that also drove the car, and if he had ever watched an adult put one into an ignition…

“Jamal, I have an idea.” I clapped to draw his attention away from the keys. He pushed his face up to the glass and peered at me. “I want some candy—you do too, right?—so listen carefully. See those buttons on the door? Push one of those, okay?”

Jamal jumped into the front seat and stabbed at a few knobs on the dash.

“No, here.” I pointed down at the door.

On his first attempt, he hit the lock button again. I poised my hand on the door handle. Maybe his next try would save the day.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Book review: Assault on Saint Agnes by Joseph Courtemanche

I first saw Joe Courtemanche in early 2014 in a class at a writers’ conference in Colorado Springs. I recognized him as an Operation First Novel contest finalist for his thriller, Assault on Saint Agnes. With Tennyson’s hairstyle and Longfellow’s beard, Joe already wore the look of an author. I had read he lived in Saint Paul, so after class, I threaded my way over to him and introduced myself as a fellow Minnesotan. Then he invited me to join his writers' group back home, promising good speakers and chocolate at every meeting.

Over the months, Joe talked about the travails of publishing, but as a man of faith and laser focus, he pounded the rocky path anyway. He shared his manuscript with many beta readers—his wife, patrons of Mickey’s Diner, homeless folks, and more. And he listened to them and polished his writing to a glossy sheen. By 2015, Assault on Saint Agnes won the Genesis Award, and by early 2016, Joe’s baby was published.

Joe had served as a former police officer and Middle East/North African analyst and Arabic linguist in the United States Navy. His expertise informed his writing, and I couldn’t wait to find out how. I snapped up my autographed copy at the March writers’ group meeting and hustled home.

“I’ll read to you,” I said to Husband. “Like I did back in the day when our love was new and the kids weren’t around.”

He settled into a chair. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The first chapter plunged us into Bobby Kurtz’s world, the air pungent with burnt gunpowder and the floor strewn with shattered glass in Saint Agnes Church in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Minutes earlier, a team of terrorists, including a suicide bomber, had rained down horror during Mass. But they hadn’t counted on Kurtz—in the right place at the right time—ruining their day.

After the attack, Kurtz is dragged away—as a suspect and not a hero—but is soon pulled back into his former life as a "spook" (intelligence operative) where he helps a shadowy government agency in its plans to crush terrorist cells bent on destroying the Twin Cities’ power grid. But will Kurtz and his team obliterate the evil before it destroys them all?

As the book progressed, I increased my reading speed, flipping the pages in a race against time along with Bobby Kurtz. Husband hollered out a “Nice!” here and there, and the mounting tension made me forget all about my cup of coffee. I waited until the end to rub the knots out of my neck and shoulders; the last time I had needed a massage after a book was when I read Andy Weir’s The Martian.

In this debut novel that hits the ground sprinting, Joe Courtemanche serves up snappy dialogue that helps take the edge off the layered crises, but the familiar Twin Cities locations and plausible details about Homeland Security and the military made me wonder if the author knows something the rest of us don’t.

Husband read my thoughts and chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s just fiction.”

*Joseph Courtemanche's novel Assault on Saint Agnes launched on April 18, 2016. Get your copy from Amazon here today. (And listen to the audio sample, read by Joe.) 

*Follow Joe's blog, and watch for his future novels too: www.commotioninthepews.com

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The truck

“Why don’t you take the Honda?” I said on Tuesday to Husband as he headed for the door. “You have a few kids to transport, so it makes sense. I only have to pick up Flicka at the train. I’ll take your truck.”

As soon as the words had left my mouth, regret settled in. Husband’s twenty-two-year-old pick-up—a battered Ford F150 with almost 300,000 miles on it—had given him some unwelcome surprises at inopportune times. Hopefully, its fickle attitude wouldn’t surface with me.

“Sounds good.” He strode from the house with Dicka and her friend who were dressed for boxing lessons.

After he left, my thoughts meandered from the pick-up to dinner. I had a plan for the meal, but lacked two ingredients. I would need to make a quick stop at the grocery store downtown before Flicka’s train arrived at the station.

I drove into the pristine and silent underground parking ramp of Whole Foods, the truck’s noisy steering pump announcing my entry. The grinding whine drew a look from a shopper who was making a beeline for the doors. Then the pick-up moaned even louder as I wedged it into a parking spot. I turned off the engine. A Lexus crept into the space next to me, and then a Prius tiptoed in on my other side. One of these kids is doing her own thing.

I entered the store, gathered my items, and waited in a checkout line. Flicka texted: I’m here. No problem. The station was close. I’d be there in under five minutes.

When it was my turn to pay, the cashier held his mouth in whistle position; his eyes twinkled as he scanned. He caressed my bag of parsley, a tender smile playing on his lips as he keyed numbers into the register. He spoke kind things about the corn starch I had quickly plucked off the shelf. And as for the crunchy pea snack I had tossed into my basket at the last second, he and I shared the same delight in the savory treat, he said.

The checkout had taken longer than expected, so I picked up my step on the way back to the truck. I climbed into the driver’s seat, stuck the key into the ignition, and turned. Nothing. Not even a glimmer of life.  

I texted Flicka: The truck’s dead and I’m stuck in the WF ramp. How about you walk this way?

I noticed the red mark on my phone’s battery app: 18%. Uh oh.

Flicka answered my text with a phone call. “Where is Whole Foods again in relation to the train?”

Worried about my dwindling battery, I gave her directions. She voiced her uncertainty about my whereabouts. “Start walking. I have to call Dad, and then I’ll walk to meet you.” I clicked the phone off and called Husband. But Dicka answered his phone.

“Dad’s in the meeting.” Ah, yes. Ricka's softball fundraising meeting. “Want me to get him?”

“Yeah, you better.” I explained the issue. She promised she’d relay the message and then hung up. A few minutes passed. I hopped out of the truck and started walking to meet Flicka. Finally, I spotted her a block away, heading toward me. My phone rang. Husband.

“Truck won’t start?” His voice was even.

“The battery’s dead or something.” I waved to my girl—now across the street from me—and she waved back.

“Okay. Open the hood.”

“I can’t. I’m out on the street meeting Flicka. But I’ll be back there in a minute.”

“You have to wiggle the wire on the left terminal on the battery. Then it’ll work.”

“Okay. Gotta go before my phone dies.” I punched the off button.

I recalled the times Husband had started his truck with a screwdriver and the occasions when he had needed to hit the starter with a hammer first. It all reminded me of driving through my college years in a Honda Accord that almost reached a half a million miles before its demise. I toted around a box of spark plugs in those days, and when needed, I could swap them out in minutes.

Back in the truck in the parking ramp, Flicka sat in the passenger seat while I searched for the latch to release the hood, illuminating the dark belly of the cab with my phone’s flashlight.

“I can’t for the life of me… Oh, there it is.” I pulled a lever. “Nope. That’s the brake release.”

She and I poked around under the dash, but came up empty. Her cell phone charge was lower than mine, so I used my own phone—its battery now registering 12%—to dial Husband. He answered before I heard it ring.

“Did you get it started?”

I groped around near the floor. “I can’t find the lever to open the hood.”

He guided me through the process. Once it popped, I ended the call and jumped out. I fiddled under the hood until the owner of the Prius returned, but I avoided eye contact; I could figure this out on my own. Or not. The driver backed out of his spot with as much sound as a fly rubbing its wings together on a summer day. Then his car whispered off and out of the ramp.

I wiggled the left cable on the battery—the right one too, for good measure—and hopped back in behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, and its shrieking had never sounded so sweet.

Dinner on Tuesday night was only a little later than I had planned. The vehicle issue hadn’t caused much stress for anyone. Neither Flicka nor I had lost charge on our cell phones, but if we had, we had been in the vicinity of other humans anyway. The weather had been pleasant; the walk toward my girl had been quick and painless. And Husband hadn’t minded missing five minutes of his meeting. In total, a bland time had been had by all.

Often in life, things happen and we move on, almost entirely forgetting about them by the next day—and certainly without garnering any lasting truths from them—because they were really no big deal in the first place. Not all vehicle mishaps are disasters, and not all stories have morals. But this event brought enough words to create a blog entry.

So that’s something.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Lala (our dog) and her day with my camera

I caught Lala with my camera the other day. She tried to nudge it under a blanket before I could snatch it away. But I won. I saved her pictures, though, and typed up the captions she dictated to me. I hope you enjoy them. Happy spring!

I hear someone outside, but Flicka and our friend are in my way.

I knew I heard balls!

I can't get out of the gate, so they brought them to me.

Dribble, dribble. (I do that too, but over my water bowl.)

Looks like Mom's growing something new for me to sniff. Oops! Dad's calling.

Now the girl's doing show-and-tell.

If I could get out of the yard, I'd chomp that thing.

Something's new in the alley. Mom's excited because it's green.

No more chips. But the bag's still tasty.

But my favorite thing of all? My BFF on the block, Frog. She came to say hi and made my day.

Daisy

“We have to call Animal Control,” I announced to my family at the dinner table one evening during the summer. “That poor dog barks day and night. I wonder if they give it any attention at all.”

The men from the rental duplex across the alley had confined their dog inside a makeshift shelter in their driveway. The animal had barked through most of June and into July. A plastic tarp draped the top of the structure, but on rainy nights, the incessant howling ripped me to pieces and left my nerves raw.

Flicka swallowed a bite of bread. “I just saw the dog out the other day for a minute before they put it back in. It’s gotten pretty skinny.” She glanced at me across the table and then did a double-take. “Mom, are you crying?”

I bit my lip and reached for a bowl. “We have more salad here.”

Husband eyed me. “Don’t call Animal Control yet.” He finished his last bite of meatloaf, tossed his napkin on the table, and stood. “I’m going to talk with them first.”

He left the house, but returned from his visit only five minutes later. “They’re trying to get rid of the dog, they said.”

“What does that mean?” I straightened from loading the dishwasher. “Starve it to death? Let the summer heat kill it?”

He shrugged. “That’s all they said. Let’s just wait and see what happens now.”

The dog didn’t bark anymore after that. And Husband’s visit with the neighbors signaled the end of the flashes of black fur I had seen between the slats of wood in the crude shelter. Although the people across the alley still had their pit bull Daisy—who had come to play with our Lala numerous times—I hadn’t seen much of her in the past couple of years. Maybe their days of dog ownership were over.

Then one day the next spring, I heard some shouting that drove me to the kitchen window. Our gate stood open, and two boys from across the alley tore around in our back yard, whooping at Daisy who was relieving herself near my flower beds.

I stuck my head out the back door. “Why is she in the yard?”

Barking, Lala shoved into the backs of my legs, desperate to join the mayhem outside. I blocked her exit; I didn’t have time to chaperone a doggy playdate today.

“She came in on her own,” one of the boys said. “And we can’t get her out again.”

I stepped outside. The boys pulled sticks from our fire pit and ran at Daisy, jabbing at the air and hollering. She dodged their every move, her tail whipping back and forth.

I clapped and put on my perkiest voice. “Daisy, come! Come here, girl!” She bounded toward me, her lips and ears flapping and her tail beating the air. In that moment, I caught the sparkle of life in her eyes: exuberance, innocence, mischief, longing. Just like the kids who owned her. I gave her a scratch behind the ears and patted her flanks. Then I herded her through the gate and into the alley. “Boys, go put her away now.”

They sprinted after their dog, and I headed inside. Minutes later, though, Daisy was back in our yard, exploring every inch. This time, she emptied her bowels, and I sighed. The boys reappeared, and even though their methods had failed the first time, they again waved their branches in the air and screamed.

I joined them outside. “Is your dad home?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you tell him to come over and get Daisy?”

One of the boys jogged back to his place. The other stayed in the yard and used his stick to joust with an imaginary opponent. Daisy pawed at the tender grass, kicking up dirt still damp from the latest rain. Soon, T.J., the boys’ dad, sauntered into our yard. He yelled at his dog; Daisy zoomed in the opposite direction. Then he picked up a stick and charged at her; she evaded him. When he zigged, she zagged. Finally, he and the two boys chased her out.

The next day, Husband and I picked up the girls from school. As we neared our house, we spied a dog, loose and nosing around on a lawn at the end of our block.

“Isn’t that Daisy?” Husband said.

“Yeah. Pull over.” I unclasped my seatbelt.

He stopped the car, and Dicka and I hopped out. With some coaxing and clapping, we lured the dog back to our place. The kids from across the alley shot hoops in our driveway, but when Daisy zipped through their game, they didn’t seem surprised to see her. Then T.J. emerged from his duplex. Was he going to retrieve his dog? Had he noticed she was missing? Instead of coming over, though, he stood on his back step and watched us.

I approached him while Daisy poked around nearby and sniffed at the garbage cans. “We found her a block away in someone’s yard.” I splayed a hand on my chest. “I’m glad she wasn’t hit by a car.”

“Shhh,” T.J. said, a cigarette dangling off his lip. He caught my hand and stroked it. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I withdrew it and with a half-smile, I shook my head and walked away.

That evening, I stared out the kitchen window. Our driveway was empty; only an abandoned basketball remained from the day’s games. And our yard was still; no more Daisy or boys with sticks.

“Maybe the next time we see Daisy wandering, we let her be,” Husband said over my shoulder, his voice low.

“Yeah, maybe.” I sighed.

“You can’t fix everything.”

“I know.”

He was right. But like Daisy’s tail, hope wagged anyway.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The small things

“I’m taking the dog for a walk.” I clipped the leash on Lala. “Anyone want to join me?”

“I will.” Flicka stepped into her shoes by the door, and we set off together.

The first walk of spring always revealed what winter had tried to hide under its pristine covering. But now, after the melt, we witnessed the naked truth of inner-city living: old chip bags and candy wrappers speckled the sidewalks and four months of doggy-doo peppered the boulevard in front of that one house. Not dampened by our surroundings, though, we breathed in air that hinted at gardens and sandals, barbecues and bike rides. And as Lala trotted along between Flicka and me, her nose twitched; her world of smells was new again.

A couple of blocks from home, I spotted two young men standing up ahead on the corner. Soon, we would reach them, but since Lala was uneasy near strangers when on her leash, I planned to cut across the street before getting too close. One of the men motioned to me, though, and called out something I couldn’t decipher. I had been approached before on that corner; I hadn’t had spare change on me that day either.

“I didn’t catch that,” I said to him when we were closer. Lala’s fur stood in a ridge along her spine.

“Do you live on this block?” His gaze darted to something behind me, and urgency was etched in his expression. His friend shifted his feet, wearing the same anxious look.

“No.” I furrowed my brow. “Why?”

“There was a baby in the street back there.” He pointed behind us. “Maybe you could get him?”

I squinted in the direction he indicated and glimpsed the jerky steps of a toddler in a green coat across the street and a half a block away. The little one climbed onto the curb and wobbled to a standing position on the sidewalk. Just then, a van pulled up next to us. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing four women inside.

“There’s a baby outside alone back there.” The driver’s words came out choppy as she thumbed to the same location. “Did you see him?”

The men nodded.

“I’ll go,” I said.

The woman in the passenger seat jumped out, her mouth a straight line. She jogged across the street toward the spot where we had all spied the baby.

I waved to the two men. “You guys are the best.”

Then Flicka, Lala, and I took off too. But where was the little one now? We scanned the sidewalks and street. Nothing. He couldn’t have wandered too far. We caught up to the woman from the van.

“He was just here.” She scowled, putting her hands on her hips. “Now he’s gone.”

We scoured some nearby yards together. As the seconds ticked by, worry squeezed my chest.

“Over there.” The woman pointed to a house.

Inside the home—and standing at the picture window—was the baby in green. He pressed his forehead and palms against the glass and stared back at us.

I blew out a sigh, and concern fluttered away. “Thank goodness.”

The driver of the van circled around and picked up her friend. Then Flicka, Lala, and I walked home.

Each day holds small things we hardly notice. Cups of coffee and hot showers; dog walks and brushes with strangers. But in a slice of time and three blocks from home on our first walk of spring, our lives had intersected with the lives of six others, and in an instant, our priorities melded. The small thing that day wore a green coat and rattled the lives of eight people for two minutes on one block in north Minneapolis.

Maybe the small things aren’t always so small.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Self-control

*This blog installment ends the nine-week series on the fruit of the Spirit. To enjoy the posts again, visit here.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.

Crash!

I jumped up from the dining room table where I had been enjoying a conversation with my visiting sister-in-law and ran to the living room window to make sense of what had happened on the street in front of our house. Husband flew outside to investigate, and I followed on his heels. I stood on the sidewalk in my bathrobe and bare feet at 10:20 p.m. on that Friday night and watched the offending vehicle squeal off, its engine revving. Husband sprinted after it all the way to the corner. The car lurched and sputtered, but even in its damaged state, it gained ground and hurtled away.

Dicka watched the shenanigans from the front steps. Husband jogged back and hollered to her. “Grab my phone for me, will you?”

She scurried into the house and out again, handing him the phone. He jumped into his pickup and sped off.

After I called 911 to report the incident, my sister-in-law and I assessed her van, sitting out front. No damage. Next, we checked the other parked cars. The one belonging to our neighbor had been smashed in the bumper, its rear tire now flat, and we later learned the impact had pushed it a car-length up the road. The collision had shattered glass everywhere and strewn large hunks of plastic and other pieces of car in the street—most of which belonged to the runaway vehicle.

Later, Husband told us about the pursuit. The car had maintained its speed even though it had lost a tire and its rim had turned sideways. He followed for a while, but lost sight of it. Then some onlookers pointed him in the right direction. He picked up the car’s trail again and followed the scratches it had carved into the asphalt. The grooves led him over some railroad tracks and back to a location eight blocks from our place. He spotted the guilty car parked in an alley driveway, guessing the driver had disappeared inside the home.

Husband parked nearby and waited for the police. Before they arrived, though, someone from the house emerged with a flashlight, assessed the battered vehicle, and swiped the light’s beam at Husband’s truck. Then the person scuttled back inside.

At last, the police came and gathered more details from Husband. They had received four 911 calls reporting the same hit-and-run, they said. Then they pounded on the door of the house. No answer. They called for a tow truck, and soon the rumpled vehicle was hauled away.

The next morning, Husband gathered up the mound of debris left on our street and tossed it into the bed of his pickup. He drove it to the same house from the night before and unloaded it in their driveway.

“They can throw it away themselves,” he later told me with a shrug. “We don’t have room in our trash can for all that.”

Maybe the hit-and-run driver had been under the influence when he crashed into the parked car. It wasn’t the only account that week of reckless drivers demolishing parked vehicles in our neighborhood; the north Minneapolis Facebook pages teemed with similar stories. I shook my head at the thought of restraint running amok and spraying glass and car bits around in the dark. And it reminded me of those who dove into altercations that spilled onto the streets, littering our neighborhood with jagged words and shards of anger. Then I recalled more occasions where I had witnessed a lack of discipline. I thought of parents who left their preschool children alone at the park to play and of those who threw tall kitchen bags stuffed with garbage out of their car windows as they drove. Why couldn’t people control themselves?

But then memories of my own actions that week pricked me.

Did I think I was better because my lack of restraint was quieter, disrupting fewer people? I hadn’t rammed my vehicle into a parked car, but a few days earlier I had gobbled up a stunning amount of tortilla chips in one sitting. I hadn’t stood in the middle of the street screaming obscenities at anyone, but I had coaxed Flicka to binge-watch episodes of The Office with me on a school night. I hadn’t deserted little ones at the park, but I had frittered away time decluttering the top drawer of the buffet when I should have been working. And while I hadn’t chucked my trash out on the road, I had spent more money than I needed to when I was out shopping.

“I had to use the Kohl’s Cash before it expired,” I explained to Husband even though he hadn’t asked. “And I saved 30% with that other coupon.”

He chuckled. “Or you could have saved 100% by not buying anything.”

Self-control: the ability to pull the reins back on oneself. Age doesn’t naturally bring it, and sometimes the young ones have it—like my sister Coco who, as a child, saved her holiday candy for months. Knowing my sweets were long gone, she hid hers in her underwear drawer and positioned some rubber spiders to stand sentinel, hoping to incite enough fear to keep me out of her stash.

Maybe we haven’t mastered self-control. Maybe we’re even wrecks with it, hoping to eventually dominate our weaknesses even though we’re nowhere near it yet. None of us has arrived, but with each new day, we all have another chance to practice.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Gentleness

(Conclusion of last week’s installment, Faithfulness.)

She stared at her feet. The sun danced through the open door, and his shadow passed through it too and stopped in front of her. I’ve made such a mess. How could he come here? Then she felt a finger under her chin, raising it. He was too good for her house, her gaze, but she looked at him anyway.

His eyes—worn at the edges—smiled. “I’m here.”

She bit her lower lip; the reality of her surroundings stabbed her. Floor boards warped from storm waters, tiles shattered by abuse, and wallpaper beaten up by life—a far cry from the glorious architectural model he had created, sitting outside the front door. She tightened her muscles, bracing herself for the accusations.

Instead, he pointed to the kitchen. “May I?”

She nodded, and he bustled into the other room with his tool bag. A tool bag? She hiked an eyebrow and followed him.

He worked throughout the afternoon and evening, replacing the kitchen cabinetry and countertops, installing a marble sink and new faucet, tearing up the old tile and laying the new. Stunned by his precision and artistry, she observed his quick work. But it was soon too much. Exhausted, she dragged herself into the living room, sank down on the dusty sofa, and curled up in a ball.

She awoke to one small lamp glowing in the room. The darkness outside snuffed out the rest of the world. What time was it? Had she slept hours—or days? He appeared in front of her, holding a tray, the same smile from earlier playing in his eyes. “Eat. And then we’ll talk.”

He feeds me too. She devoured the delicate pastry crust, filled with savory vegetables and meat, and drank the juice that tasted like exotic fruits with honey. Had she ever been so hungry or thirsty? Finally satisfied, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

He settled into an armchair near her. And then we’ll talk. Her heart sank. Would the shredding words come now? After the kitchen renovation and delicious meal, would he slice her to pieces for all her sins? But then he spoke, his voice rich and musical, and explained his plans for her house. Only the best for his beloved, he said. Warmth filled her chest.

He stood and extended his hand to her. “Come. Let’s go for a walk.”

But the old fears slithered in again; things out there in the dark had snatched her away before. “I’d rather stay inside.”

“I’m here.” The soft eyes; the steady gaze. Love in flesh.

She put out both her hands, and he drew her to himself. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she didn’t know why. He thumbed them away.

“Okay. We can go now,” she said after a moment.

One night, she tossed and turned in bed. She thought of her old life and the marks it had left in her soul. Then Regret climbed onto the mattress next to her, and it was just as well; she had made her bed, hadn’t she?

The next morning, ragged from the sleepless hours, she held her cup of coffee in the sunroom and stared at a wall. But then he sat down next to her, and memories of Regret skittered away.

She set down her cup and grasped his hand. “Thank you.”

“I have something to show you.” He stood and led the way up the spiral staircase and into the ballroom on the second floor. She hadn’t visited that room in a while; her hips had begun to hurt too much for the climb, and she was satisfied living on the house’s first level anyway.

He escorted her to the east side of the room, which was covered with windows. The early sun flooded the space, drenching the parquet floor.

She looked through the glass and furrowed her brow. “But this is a different view.”

“Yes.” He ran his hand along the wood trim and then eyed her. “I washed the windows.”

A cluster of ladies walked at a brisk clip on the road beyond her driveway. And then a young man and woman ambled by, pushing a baby in a stroller.

She tucked a piece of her hair behind an ear. “Have they always passed by here?”

He nodded. “Always.”

“But I haven’t seen people out there before.” She stepped closer to the glass, squinting.

“You weren’t looking.”

But her eyes were open now.

Over the years, he mended the house, room by room. He breathed new life into the old and restored the broken pieces to wholeness. The neighbors noticed the change.

“Good work.” They smiled and congratulated her. “You’ve really pulled it together.”

She held up a hand. “No. It was all him.”

The years creased her face, but his beauty in her life was louder. Her joints grew achier, but his strength was enough for the two of them. They shared coffee in the mornings; they strolled together on the gravel road or in the garden in the evenings. She tried to recall her life before him, but her old self was too blurry to make out anymore, and so she released it for good.

One day, she received news from her doctor—the kind of news a person dreads throughout life and then hears at last.

She twisted a tissue in her hands. “How much time do I have?”

“It’s hard to say, really, since everyone’s different.” The doctor bunched her lips to one side. “Six months?”

“Oh,” she said, her chin wobbling. But as usual, he was sitting beside her, and so she turned to him. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

His eyes smiled again. “I’m here.”

“What did you say?” the doctor said, cocking her head.

“Nothing.” She stood, looping her purse on her arm. “Thank you.”

While illness gnawed away at her life over the following months, the house became more beautiful. In his gentleness, he worked at it, because as long as she drew breath, he had a plan.

“This is hard,” she said one day on their walk. She plodded along. Everything hurt now, but if she stopped moving, she worried she might never move again. “And I’m scared.”

“I know.” He curved his arm around her, pulling her snug to his side. She heard his heartbeat.

“Don’t leave me.”

But his eyes still smiled. “I’m here.”

She squeezed him back as much as she could. “I love you too.”

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Faithfulness

“I love you,” he said.

But she frowned and shook her head. He had said it so many times that his message trickled off, and she didn’t hear it anymore—like a waterfall so beautiful the eye grows tired of it. To accept a love like that required action, and she didn’t want to be forced to do anything to pay it back. She gritted her teeth.

She ignored what she heard around town about his affections for her, but the buzz became too much, and so she abandoned her old house in the country, her town, and him—not that she had ever been with him. From a young age, she had just thought she should be.

While she struggled for a different life in a far-off place, word came back to her about him. He worked in construction and renovations, and she heard his hands dripped blood for her. But it must have been intended for someone else, whatever it was he was building when he hurt himself. Why would he create something special for her? She was already gone.

She sought love elsewhere on her own terms—the kind of love that matched hers—and found it came in many packages: messy, frightening, exacting. But all of those loves took her farther than she wanted to go and kept her longer than she meant to stay.

At last, she left them all. But the years were eaten up, and she was dry, used, and her looks were faded. Now who will want me?

Then through the grapevine, she again heard talk about his faithfulness. Maybe the story of his love had always been told, but because she had come to the end of herself, her hearing had sharpened. They said he wanted her, he had built something for her, and it was finished. And now he waited for her to come home.

She was curious.

One day, she hopped into her car. She would drive back to look at the old property. Maybe the thing he had made for her—the thing that had caused his wounds—was waiting there.

After many hours, she steered the car onto the familiar, winding road. And there it was: her old, broken-down house. She pulled into the driveway, put the car into park, and stared. A wave of failure washed over her. She had never been able to maintain it alone, and it was worse than ever, this home she had never invited him to enter. He had knocked many times, but his love for her was too pure—too undeserved—and her place was always such a mess. She sighed. But then something caught her eye. Off to the side, in a pool of sunlight, was a small structure. She squinted. What was it?

She sprang from the car, her eyes trained on the form. As she approached it, she could see it was made of wood. An architectural model. A replica of the dilapidated house that stood only yards away. But it was different. Beautiful windows replaced the dingy, slanted ones of the original. She peered at the craftsmanship of the miniature: the trim work, the crown molding, the costly tile, the exotic wood floors—everything she wanted. He had thought of it all. Even the smallest details were healed.

As she drank in the hope, something rustled behind her. And then his warm gaze settled on her back. For the first time, she wanted it. But she couldn’t turn around now; she hadn’t showered that day or put on makeup. So she dashed through the old house’s unlocked front door, slamming it behind her, and dropped onto the tattered sofa, creating a plume of dust. Her heart pounded.  

A knock at the door. The familiar knock.

There was nothing left for her, so she stood, strode across the room, and unclasped the door.

“Come in,” she said.  

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Goodness

“You’ll have some sugar twists,” she said to us kids.

Hosts usually shaped those kinds of sentences into questions, but not at that old farmhouse. Grandma’s sugar twists were a foregone conclusion and meant to be washed down with ample amounts of hot cocoa.

That day and a thousand days like it, my siblings and I scrambled into chairs around Grandma’s Formica kitchen table while she lifted the cover off a container of her baked treats. Then she scooped some homemade cocoa mix into plastic mugs for all of us. Her slippers scraped the linoleum as she shuffled the few steps to the wood stove to fetch the screaming tea kettle. She returned and filled each of our cups with hot water. With the job accomplished, she settled into her chair.

“Now let me look at you.” Grandma’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she watched us eat. Then she reached into her craft basket and pulled out her newest tatting project. 

My brother brushed crumbs from his mouth. “How are you doing, Grandma?”

“I can’t kick about a thing.” She smiled, poking the tatting shuttle in and out of the strands of thread she held. There was nothing dainty about Grandma’s hands, but delicate art came from them anyway.

Gifts flowed from her crochet hook, knitting needles, and sewing machine too. Because of her industrious hours, lacy snowflakes hung on our Christmas tree, and slippers and scarves warmed us. And long before Mattel introduced the black Barbie, Grandma had sewn us dolls of many colors.

Besides the treats and gifts, Grandma doled out her own brand of medical attention, when needed. And one summer day when I was ten, I needed it. Some of us cousins had wanted to swim in the ditches, but we hadn’t thought to bring swimsuits to Grandma’s. She found us some T-shirts and boxer shorts, though, and solved the dilemma. So, in Grandpa’s old underwear, we swam through the culverts that ran under the road, and we slimed around in the cattails. After we had exhausted our fun, I felt something scratchy in my eye. I complained to Grandma.

“Go lie down on the davenport.” She dug around in a kitchen drawer.

I followed her instructions, placing my head on the armrest of the couch in the living room, and waited.

In a minute, Grandma hustled to me with a wooden matchstick in her hand. “Now hold still.”

A match? What was going to happen to me? And would it hurt?

It all went so fast; she picked up my eyelashes, tucked them around the matchstick, and rolled up my eyelid.

“I can’t blink.” I squirmed. “This feels funny.”

“Almost through.” Grandma’s finger came at my eye and brushed out the offending speck. Then she unfurled my eyelid and let me go.

As a child, I thought about Grandma, the producer of treats, homemade toys, and thirty-two cousins for my entertainment. But as an adult, I thought about Grandma, the woman. She had given birth to eleven children whom she had raised with Grandpa in Newfolden, Minnesota, in an old farmhouse made up of different additions—completed over the years—and cobbled together into one dwelling which was nestled on a plot of land in the country. And there, Grandma developed a reputation: she befriended anyone and cooked for everyone. Neighbor ladies would tote their children to her for visits that lasted all day and into the evening. She housed people who had suffered car accidents and house fires. And when her kids’ school bus went into a ditch across the road during a blizzard one winter, all the students trudged to her house where she fed them creamed peas on baking powder biscuits until their stomachs were full.

One day in the 1960s, the county social worker drove out to Grandma and Grandpa’s place to ask them to be foster parents. They declined. Their home was too small, they said, and not nice enough. But the man said it was perfect, and knowing Grandma’s heart, he added that if they couldn’t take in kids, those troubled ones would be sent away to a home for juvenile delinquents. After the social worker’s visit, my grandparents gained more children whom they loved for the rest of their lives.

Grandma’s goodness marked her days. She was a sounding board for many discontented wives and floundering people. She mailed hundreds of greeting cards each year, wrote letters to those who were in jail, and sewed quilts for mothers whose babies had been “born out of wedlock”, because churches didn’t throw baby showers for them in those days. And for two years in the 1970s, she took care of several of my cousins—and their baby sister, born two months early—when their mother died of leukemia a few weeks after giving birth.  

In 2001 at the age of ninety, Grandma passed away. Mourners grieved the loss of her and the loss of her prayers for them. But stories of her bolstered us. Some called her “the neighborhood social worker.” One friend said, “When she looked at my children, she saw they were people.” And another told the story of when her three-year-old boy met Grandma. Enthralled by her from the start, he had whispered to his mother, “Is she Jesus?”

Goodness comes in different forms and in some unlikely times and places throughout our lives. But in the days of my childhood and beyond, goodness was never far away; it lived on a plot of land out in the country in that old farmhouse.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Kindness

We arrived at La Gare Montparnasse, one of Paris’ six largest train stations, after a three-hour train ride from La Rochelle. Dr. Janis, our chaperone, disembarked with us nine college students. We had spent the previous six weeks that summer of 1994 in a study abroad program, and now our adventure was almost over. One night in Paris, and we would all go our separate ways.

Right there on the platform, Janis—as we called him—caught our attention one last time with a flamboyant wave of his arms. He lowered onto all fours and kissed the quai, pronouncing himself libre of his responsibilities. Then he stood up, brushed himself off, and walked away, leaving us with our overwhelming piles of luggage.

To save our dwindling francs, we chose to take the metro instead of a taxi to the youth hostel. But we were unwise in our planning; each of us had three monstrous suitcases to manage, made heavier and more unwieldy by the added weight of purchases we had made during our stay.

We scraped together our ingenuity, inventing ways to make it through the turnstiles before they closed on us, and we devised techniques to get on and off the train in the twenty seconds the doors stood open at each stop. But despite our best plans, all but one of us made it onto the train at the first station. We darted frantic looks at each other and at our lagging friend who struggled to load her carrying cart onto the train. As she strained, red-faced, the warning buzzer sounded. Five seconds left. Two of us lunged for the door, hoping to help her board. But would we make it?

Just then, a man inside the train reached out and lifted her cart inside for her, and she scrambled on after it. The doors closed. I steadied my breathing, contemplating the close call.  

When it was time for us to get off, the doors opened, and the countdown began. Twenty seconds to unload our burdens from the train. But someone removed our suitcases for us and set them on the platform. How could they have carried off those behemoth nightmares so quickly? I scanned the area, but couldn’t find the helper—or helpers—who had saved my friends and me.

After three trains, two transfers, many sets of stairs, and almost two hours of travel on the metro with our ridiculous baggage, we arrived at 151, avenue Ledru-Rollin, our clothes drenched with sweat and our hands swollen.

That evening at the Bastille Hostel, I reclined in my bottom bunk and remembered the kindness of the strangers on the train who had helped us that day. It was probably nothing for them, but their assistance had made life easier for nine traveling students.

Early August’s driving rain assaulted the pavement in the church parking lot. So many cars this Sunday morning in 2004, and I hadn’t arrived early enough for a front row spot. I pulled the car into an open space and turned off the ignition. For fifteen seconds, I considered my exit strategy. Husband was working, so I’d do this thing alone. After forming a plan and summoning the courage, I jumped out, looped the strap of the diaper bag over my shoulder, and poked my head inside the back seat.

“See how hard it’s raining, girls?” I glanced at Flicka and Ricka—my four and two year olds—in their car seats as I detached three-month-old Dicka’s infant seat from its base. Rain pelted my lower back as I worked. “Now listen. We’re going to get inside the church fast. You two hold onto me as we walk, okay?”

My oldest ones released themselves from their seats and scrambled out of the car. Flicka grabbed onto the hem of my shirt, but Ricka scuttled off toward the nearest mini pond. A vehicle rolled by a few feet from her. My heart lurched.

“Ricka, come back.” I hooked the infant seat on my arm. “I don’t want you getting hit by a car.”

My two year old looked at me. “Okay, Mama.” Then she examined the puddle again and tapped her toe into it.

Lightning split the sky, and thunder cracked. I locked the car with my gaze glued on Ricka. She scampered back to me and clutched onto the edge of my shirt. We began our trek across the parking lot, pointed for the door. But on the way, the torrent soaked us, and the baby sputtered; the canopy of the infant seat kept out the rain as well as an open window. I shook the wet hair from my face. Hair styling and makeup application was all vanity anyway, I told myself.

“Can you have thunder without lightning?” Flicka skipped at my side, tugging down my shirt with each hop.

“Hm. I don’t know.” I side-stepped a pool of water. “Maybe not?”

Ricka, distracted by another puddle, dropped her grip on me, and I tossed a prayer into the soggy, grey sky. Please let us all just get inside. We hobbled at a snail’s pace. Only twenty yards to go…

A man exited the church doors, popped open an umbrella, and bounded toward us.

“Looks like you could use a little help.” He held the umbrella above my head as he walked with us.

I laughed, imagining black lines of mascara streaking my cheeks. “You have no idea.”

During the service, I recalled the kindness of the man with the umbrella. It was likely nothing for him, but his gesture improved the day for one mom and her three kids.

One day in 2014, Husband drove down Fremont Avenue on our way to the store. He squinted at the car ahead of us. Then he flicked on the headlights, flashing them back and forth. Brights, dims. Brights, dims.

I furrowed my brow. “What?”

“They left their cell phone on their bumper.”

Before reaching the stoplight at Dowling Avenue North, the driver pulled over to the side of the road. Husband drove up behind her, put the car in park, and hopped out. He plucked the cell phone from the bumper of the vehicle and headed with it to the driver’s side. The woman rolled down her window and spoke with him. Husband handed her the phone, strode back to our car, and slid into the driver’s seat.

“How did it go?” I said.

He shrugged. “She was happy.”

Later that day, I thought of Husband’s kindness toward a stranger. It was nothing for him, but maybe his help made life less stressful for the woman who got her phone back.

A hand to lift a heavy suitcase off the metro, an umbrella over the head of a struggling mom, willingness to stop long enough to return a cell phone. The world brims with people’s small deeds of kindness. They don’t make the news, and they aren’t dazzling enough to be captured for YouTube. But for the giver and receiver, those little actions tear apart boredom, shake up apathy, and dent a person’s jaded outlook.

Big opportunities to save someone may never come. But every day the small needs of others speckle our paths and invite us to act.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Patience

“Why didn’t you buy four bags instead of three?” My girl skewered me with a look in the checkout bagging area at IKEA. Her tone had an edge that cut me right in the feelings.

I had spent the previous three days painting a sophisticated grey—the hot color choice of teens and tweens everywhere—over my girls’ pink, yellow, and turquoise bedroom walls. And that morning, I had doled out a chunk of money to each of my offspring, explaining they could spend the allotment for their bedrooms however they liked at IKEA. Before the shopping trip—while everyone was in good spirits—I had announced the ground rules, promising to dock any gripers $5 per complaint. So help me if they’re not grateful after all I’ve done, I had thought while counting out the cash into their hands.

But it had been one of those weeks, and now this with something as silly as an IKEA bag.

I leveled my gaze at my girl, my voice as smooth as the Svenbertil chair I had seen on display. “I made a mistake. I bought three bags for our stuff—and not four. We’ll figure it out.”

But she craved the final say, and disrespectfulness waltzed in with her words. I bit my tongue and shoved our cart of purchased goods into a corner near the elevator to the parking ramp. I crammed every last item—bedding, pillows, lamps, and curtains—into a couple of the blue bags to make the point that two bags could hold everything. In fact, three was superfluous, I hoped to demonstrate with my vigorous stuffing.

“Why are you in such a hurry, Mom?” my lovely asked.

I drove the cartload into the open elevator—wishing Husband had been with me—vowing I’d leave with or without my people. But somehow the three girls picked up the pace and scooted into the Honda before I peeled out of the parking lot. I tromped on the gas and clamped my mouth shut. Silence blared from the back seat, and maybe eyes widened too, but I didn’t care enough to look back.

I turned my thoughts to the past months. Besides the recent room painting, I had poured much of my energy into the girls and their pursuits, driving them—and their friends—anywhere at any time for sports commitments and friend engagements. Their requests echoed through my thoughts: So-and-so only has a bus pass, so could we drive her home since it’s -12 degrees? When you take me to so-and-so’s, could we pick up Friend A and Friend B first since they live near us? And can they get a ride home too? I’ll text you when we’re ready, since I don’t know a time right now. Oh, and can I get $15 for food after school and money for the game?

I had gotten a breezy thank-you here or there—from my own darlings and their friends—tossed to me like pieces of junk mail. Reality hit me in the gut: I was a free ride and a wallet, and nothing more.

In the previous weeks, I had told myself lies about my girls’ friends: Maybe their parents don’t have cars—or driver’s licenses—and they work 24-7 to put food on the table. Or maybe these kids don’t have parents at all and live a kind of Pippi Longstocking lifestyle, fending for themselves and their pet monkeys.

But my thoughts on the drive home from IKEA distracted me, and by accident, I took the Terminal 1 exit to the airport instead of the 55/Hiawatha exit to Minneapolis. Really? I looped around, inching along behind people loading and unloading their luggage at baggage claim—drumming my fingers on the steering wheel—before I finally got back onto the freeway home.

Later, I texted my friend: Wanna run away with me? No one will know I’m gone. Wait. Maybe they’ll notice after all. They won’t have their taxi service.

She texted back: I’ve wanted to run away for years. Or go on strike. I’ve read about those moms who stop doing EVERYTHING and stand outside with their signs. I’ve considered it.

Later in the day, I drove two of my girls to their sports practices.

“So-and-so needs a ride home,” one of them said to me. “Is that okay?”

I exhaled. “Sure. It’s on our way.”

After practice, my kid and her friend jumped into the car.

“Could she have a sleepover at our place tonight?” my girl asked me, her face eager.

“No.” Then I yanked my politeness back out of the glove compartment and smiled into the back seat at her friend. “It’s always fun to have you over, but we have a family day tomorrow. Another time?”

I deposited the girl at her house, and then turned to my kid. “Honey, don’t ask me things like that in front of your friends. It makes me look bad when I say no.”

“Sorry, Mom.” She looked down at her hands, and my close companion, Guilt, elbowed me.

On the drive, I contemplated life and my job as a chauffeur. I could say no, I told myself. I could lay down an “Absolutely not!” to driving everyone anywhere at any time. But then at 9:30 p.m., another one of my girls texted from her friend’s house: Could we give Friend C a ride home? If not, that’s okay. She can take the bus.

Sure, I texted back.

But before I could get her, I had to retrieve the other girl from practice and see that her two friends got home safely. Tired from the IKEA day and the endless driving, I pulled up to my last stop. My daughter scurried out to the car, along with Friend C who wore pajama pants. And she had thought she could take the bus? It was too cold at -5 degrees to be in thin flannel; I drove her home and rubbed my temples as I watched her unlock her door. She waved to us before entering her house.

At last, we made the day’s final trip home. Once inside, the girls disappeared to their bedrooms. I fixed a cup of tea and made a beeline for the bathroom. While I filled the bathtub, I selected the Mr. Mister station on Pandora—my go-to for self-soothing—and cranked up the volume. At last, I stepped into the tub and sank into the steaming water.

Toto crooned, Not quite a year since she went away, Rosanna. Now she’s gone and I have to say…

She’s gone! Toto had said so. How depressing. Big drops of self-pity plopped into my bathwater.

Meet you all the way, meet you all the way, Rosanna…

So even the Toto guy covered the driving, it sounded like. I bawled some more and reached for my mug of tea. I reclined and listened to Journey’s “Only the Young” and Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now.” And then I stopped my blubbering.

Exhausted from days of painting and home improvements? First world problems. Feeling put upon for driving everyone to kingdom come—and back—by my own choice? Child’s play. Feeling unappreciated for being the mom? An issue as old as time.

Then I thought of many in the neighborhood around me—mourning, struggling, freezing, hungry, lonely. All of them had worse things to deal with than fresh paint, new bedding from IKEA, and having three healthy girls to drive around the city. And I also thought of the characters from my favorite book who had been flogged, stoned, tortured, imprisoned, and mistreated. All of them had shown patience in suffering.

Patience.

My reactions to the day had been less than commendable; my attitude, stinky. And the fruit of my patience sat rotten in its bowl.

I sighed and pulled myself out of the bathtub. Tomorrow would be a new day.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Peace

Latika, our one-year-old houseguest, bounced in the Johnny Jump Up mounted in the kitchen doorway. Smiling, she banged a plastic measuring cup on the tray in front of her while I stood at the kitchen counter arranging the frozen potato rounds on the meat mixture in the baking dish. My girls had reminded me I hadn’t made the Minnesota staple in months, and would I do it tonight? I smiled at the normalcy of Tater Tot Hotdish, the exuberant baby bobbing near me, and the family being home together for the evening. The humble, simple, peaceful life.  

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

The blasts outside jarred me and brought to mind Fireworks or Gunshots?, a game we Northsiders too often played. But this time was easy; the higher-pitched crack of each report told me the answer. I flew to the kitchen window. Our dog, Lala, stood erect outside at the back gate, and her strident barks and raised hair told me she had chosen the same answer I had.

Just then, a young man dashed from the rental property across the alley. He darted looks in both directions, his right hand under his t-shirt—the fabric revealing the outline of a gun. He jogged down the alley to the north and disappeared.

I deserted my lookout, dodged Latika in her swing, and rushed into the living room where Husband was parked in a chair. I jabbed my thumb toward the kitchen.

“Those were gunshots. And I just saw the shooter.” I rattled off the details.

“Okay.” Husband stood up, strode from the room, and exited the house.

Within seconds, sirens wailed. I lifted the baby from her seat and looked out the window again. A squad car zoomed through the alley, and a second one stopped by our garage. Two officers emerged, and they spoke with Husband for a few minutes. Then he poked his head into the house. “I told the police what you saw. They want to talk to you.”

I handed the baby to Flicka and stepped outside. An ambulance arrived, its lights flashing. A police officer stretched yellow tape across the alley.

Another officer ambled toward me. “So, you saw the guy?”

“I heard five shots, and then I looked out the window and saw him run out of there.” I pointed at the rental property. “He went north.”

“What did he look like?”

I described the perpetrator, recounting how the man’s hand was hidden under his shirt.

He nodded. “What color shirt?”

I tilted my head and frowned. “I don’t remember. I was watching his hand—and where he ran. I could tell he had a gun.”

“But you don’t remember the color of his shirt?”

Was it dark—maybe grey or blue? If it had been red or yellow, I might have remembered. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

The officer thanked me and walked away.

Then Husband nodded toward the commotion in the alley. “The guy who got shot is on the ground in the back yard over there.”  

I searched his face. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“Who knows? I couldn’t see much. People were already crowding around him.”

I stared at the emergency workers, law enforcement, and curious passersby. A week earlier, we had grilled burgers, and my main concern was whether or not I had remembered to buy another bottle of ketchup. Today I wondered about the state of the victim, lying on a lawn close to our house.

After a few hours, the crowd dissipated, the yellow tape vanished, and normal life resumed. The news later provided some spare details about the young man who had been sniped down in the yard near ours, and we learned the ending of his story: he had died in the ambulance on the way to North Memorial.

Shaken by our close proximity to the homicide, I mulled over the day’s happenings that evening. But shootings in our part of the city were as common as Tater Tot Hotdish at a Midwestern potluck. And those behind the frequent violence—like the shooter I saw flee that day—lived for self-preservation, greed, or revenge. But what was the answer? Too many throughout our city, country, and world cried out for peace at such a time as this, but if they did anything about it, they chose good behavior’s temporary fix, their efforts shiny but brittle. And their plastic peace showed up in tattoos, bumper stickers, and necklaces, masking their own dark thoughts.

Where was the lasting, unbreakable Peace that transcended all understanding—and guarded the hearts and minds of humanity? He had stood among the onlookers in the yard across the alley, longing to be invited in.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

Joy

The twenty-six-year-old woman sat in a chair at the Thanksgiving table. The wavelike motion in her belly reminded her today was her due date. But babies—not doctors—chose their own arrival times; her three-year-old daughter had been born two weeks late, after all.

Like the brimming dishes of food in front of her on that day—November 28, 1968—she saw all the good things that overflowed in her life. She turned to her little girl sitting next to her and cut the child’s food into small pieces. Then she glanced at her husband across the table and smiled. Soon, they would be a family of four.

But two days later, something changed; the fluttery movements within her, which for months had accompanied her daily life, stopped. Concerned, she told her husband. He drove her to the emergency room the next day, and a doctor listened to her stomach with his stethoscope. Finally, he furrowed his brow, and fixed his gaze on her face.

“I can’t find a heartbeat.”

Her husband frowned, and she shifted in her seat. Could this be? Could it mean what she most feared?

She cleared her throat, her eyes wide. “What will we do if the baby is—?”

“We won’t do anything.” The doctor pursed his lips. “Labor will start at some point, but it’s hard to know when.”

The woman bit her lower lip and nodded. If only today she could’ve seen her own doctor. Someone she knew—and someone who knew her. “Thank you.”

The couple stood. She clutched her husband’s arm as they left the emergency room.

On the drive home, she sank into her thoughts. Memories of her recent miscarriage pricked her. And now this. What if all was not well? If the unthinkable were true, how long would she carry a dead baby? For a moment, icy fingers of dread curled around her spine. But she couldn’t think that way; doctors had been wrong before.

Late that night, the young woman’s water broke. Labor pains rolled through her body, and grateful their three-year-old was already in her grandmother’s care, she woke her husband. The two climbed into the car for the second trip to the hospital that day.

A few miles down the road, a new idea prodded her. She studied her husband, his mouth a straight line as he gripped the steering wheel, navigating the snow-covered gravel road. She swallowed hard. “If we have a girl—and she’s not living—I think we should name her Joy.”

He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth curved up for a second. “Yes. That’s good.” Then he stared at the road again, and silence seeped into the car.

The young mother labored through the night. In the early morning of December 2, 1968, at Northwestern Hospital in Thief River Falls, Minnesota, Joy came into this world. But the delivery room was still. And no infant cries shredded the air.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Every now and then throughout the years, we spoke of the baby who was gone before she came. And when I was an adult with children of my own, we still spoke of her.

“But if Joy had lived, we wouldn’t have had you.” Mom smiled at me.

“I know, Mom.” I thought of my place in the family order—the one following the time of sadness. I imagined losing one of my own. The thought knifed my heart.

“Then you came—and your three siblings after you. Life has been good.” She nodded. “Always so good.”

As a child, I envisioned the older sister I had never met. And I thought of her namesake—that emotion everyone sought. But how could my parents have named their dead baby Joy? Didn’t joy mean happiness?

Consider it joy when you encounter various trials…

My childhood path led to adulthood, the terrain becoming more treacherous in spots. And along the way I learned joy wasn’t a synonym for happiness—the fair-weather emotion, dependent on favorable circumstances. Happiness could only travel the smooth, exhilarating way—and only when the temperature was seventy degrees and sunny; during the jagged and stormy parts, the fickle feeling bolted.

On the drive to the hospital that night in 1968—although my mother hadn’t known why—she had been compelled to choose a new name for the baby who was already gone. But because of the Creator of Joy in her life, the baby’s name characterized the uncertain and rugged path ahead.

Like Mom, I pressed into Him too in my own rocky places. And I gained the lesson she had learned: with The Joy-giver at my side, the condition of the road didn’t matter anymore.

You have made known to me the path of life; You will fill me with joy in Your presence, with eternal pleasures at Your right hand.

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.