A garden

This blog installment of mine from May 2017 plays in my mind as I wake up today in the beginning of Lent. It’s all because of a garden—a particular garden—at the beginning of time.

And here we are.

*****

The rain streak just ended. No more excuses.

The grass is bushy now and as tangled as my thoughts; I can think straighter when the lawn is cut. Other people have already planted their splashy annuals and lovely perennials, but not me. Yet.

I break free of my eternal captors—the calendar and the clock, the deadlines and the doing—and head out to the back yard. With hands on my hips, I survey what winter concealed. New green things poke up from the flower beds—some desirable, others not so much.

I imagine how it used to be when The Gardener planted the garden in the east, in Eden, and in the cool of the day strolled through its lushness with the world’s first people. They were all friends back then—back before weeds and pesticides, suicide and depressed kids, CT scans and chemo. Before the dirt in our jeans and the stains in our souls.

I sigh now because of The Incident in that ancient garden. It happened too soon, and the rift between The Gardener and humanity has left a mark. The cosmic divorce was as messy as they come. And along with all the other groanings, we sweat and dig harder into the earth to make pretty things emerge. Not like before The Break-Up when beauty came easy.

A pool of light warms my dog Lala, slabbed out on the pavement, her nose twitching for information about her surroundings even as she dozes. And the scene reminds me all is not lost. The Son shone on the ancient garden too—even after The Split—promising us a future garden, if we want it.

On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.

It started in a garden, and it ends in a garden. But for now, I work the soil while I wait.

*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.

Curb appeal

At a house one block away, the grass looked like turf instead of something real, and diagonal lines ran through the weed-free growth, evidence of a meticulous mower. I had never seen anyone—neither living there nor working in the yard—but I imagined an elderly homeowner loving the lawn so much, he or she even used the kind of long-handled dandelion remover I’d seen advertised in home improvement store fliers. Cheery flower pots squatted on each side of the orange front door, colorful blossoms trailing from them. But this yard, bursting with curb appeal, was an exception in the neighborhood.

Attractiveness of a person’s residential property, as viewed from the street, matters, is the message we hear everywhere. If the outside is pretty enough, it may lure someone inside to take a look—and pay more for the place—if it’s for sale.

Two blocks away, Doris’s yard suffered. She appeared to be a collector of things, and maybe those things were claustrophobic, because they broke out of her house and spilled onto her lawn like they needed fresh air. A tipped over antique milk can, rumpled chicken wire, wood crates, a portion of an old wood fence, garden tools, and a bent screen door all lay in her back yard, the lawn jutting up like prairie grass around it all.

If a realtor rolled by, they would’ve cringed at Doris’s property. They would’ve advised her to freshen up her trim with several coats of paint, swap out her rusty mailbox for something new, and replace her damaged walk with new cement. But those things didn’t happen.

What did happen was Doris’s hard work in Mr. N’s yard day after day. She raked leaves, worked the weed trimmer, and mowed his lawn instead of her own, droplets of sweat rising on the mottled skin of her cheeks. I’d come out of our house and head to the car, and she’d set down whatever tool she was using and stroll toward me.

“How are those sweet girls of yours?” she said one time, dabbing her face with her sleeve.

“They’re good.” I abandoned thoughts of going where I needed to go and crossed the street to be closer to her. “They talk about you whenever they see you over here. They love you, Doris.”

She didn’t respond to my last sentence, but her face reddened, so I knew she heard it.

For the big holidays, Doris dropped off gifts for the girls on our doorstep: trinkets and candy in sparkly bags, plastic pumpkins, and heart-shaped boxes. So, who cared about the condition of her yard? We didn’t. Her life, like a delicious fragrance, scented our neighborhood.

Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

Doris is gone now, but her actions stay lodged in our memories.

So, what if we turned our gazes inside out to see the goodness of the homeowner who rescues dogs, letting them rip up her back yard while they play? What if we overlooked the mess to see the generous parent who throws a party for kids who shriek in delight as they club a piñata in the front yard? What if we switched our focuses away from pretty façades and instead judged houses by the kindness inside them?

What if we looked at the heart too?

*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 ducks

I take the France Avenue exit off Highway 100 North and turn right, pointing the Honda toward home. Gone are the days of ice and snowy road conditions; now my attention is tuned in to the avid bikers and outdoorsy children of summer who might enter my path.  

A flock of ducks hops onto the street up ahead. I press the brake pedal, stopping the vehicle for the winged pedestrians. A car coming from the opposite direction rolls to a stop too. Like me, the other driver, a woman, watches the spontaneous parade, and she and I swap grins as our entertainment waddles by.

The mama duck, strutting with purpose, leads her family across France Avenue. Her small ones have grown, and here they are, medium-sized—a bunch of teenagers, from the looks of it—but still content to follow her. And I think of my own teens, no longer the littles who once clutched my shirt hem as we crossed streets together—still my followers too.

In the middle of the road, the mama duck jumps.

Did a sound startle her? Or does she sense danger, realizing now the two cars so close to her family? She halts in the center of the street, swivels to face her progeny, and hustles them all back the way they came. Her teens—the compliant type—bob along behind her, retracing their steps.

I laugh. The lady in the other car and I exchange looks, and she laughs with me. We’re witnesses to the cutest impromptu show of the summer, and from her expression, she thinks it too.

The moment glides by—probably forty seconds in all—but I flip the events of that feathered crossing around in my brain even now in the sub-zero temps of winter.

A mama leading her teens to safety. A stranger enjoying a laugh with me. Nature pausing my busy day to delight me.

Sometimes the small things are big.  

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Belonging

The phone call went to voicemail. Again. Three times trying to reach Sheena—the mother of Latika, the one-year-old baby girl we had hosted—and still nothing.

My girls and I waited in the car behind Sheena’s high rise in the heart of downtown Minneapolis, baby Latika in her car seat. It was the last day of the hosting, and Sheena had agreed to meet us in the parking lot, so we could return Latika to her. Because of her health condition, it would’ve been too taxing for Sheena—who didn’t own a car—to walk to meet us at the Safe Families for Children office nestled deeper into the downtown.

I dialed her number one more time. Still no answer.

Latika squawked, protesting the extra time in her car seat. My girl Dicka bounced a stuffed animal in the baby’s face, tapping it to her nose every few seconds.  

I checked my cell phone again. “Girls, it’s been twenty minutes. Let’s go in and find her.”

I carried the baby, and the girls toted her things to the building’s back door—the one we had seen Sheena use—right near our parked car. When a tenant emerged, we slipped in. Once inside, I scanned the place for a directory. Nothing. And the access door to the apartments was locked.

“Let’s head back out and around to the front,” I said. “We shouldn’t have come in this way.”

We exited and trudged around the building with Latika and her possessions. We passed a bus stop, swarming with people, but when a bus hissed to a halt, no one got on. Instead, all gazes zeroed in on us.

Inside the front doors of the high rise, I spotted a directory. I clicked through it, trying to locate Sheena’s name. No success.

A broad-chested security guard hustled toward us, a gun in his holster. “I saw you on the cameras trying to come in the back, and I thought, ‘They don’t belong here.’” The man’s mouth flatlined. I caught a hint of a Brooklyn accent. “Who are you looking for?”

I blew a piece of hair out of my eyes and told him Sheena’s full name, shifting the baby to my other hip. “We’re a host family for Safe Families for Children, and we’re trying to return her baby to her.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet of you.” The corners of his mouth curved up slightly, warming his expression. “She’s got a bad deal with her health, poor lady.”

“I know.” I shot a look around the lobby. Even in the broad daylight, it was dim. The walls were dingy, the atmosphere tattered. People meandered around the room, pelting us with looks. A woman cooed at Latika.

“I’ll take you up to her.” The security guard flicked a finger for us to follow him, and he mashed a button on the wall. He eyed the lit numbers above the metal doors, and when they opened, he motioned us on first, then followed—and so did two other men, so tall their heads grazed the elevator’s ceiling. One of them tilted his ear to our conversation, glancing between the guard and me as we spoke. I furrowed my brow and steered the topic to trivial things.

We exited the elevator on Sheena’s floor. The security guard sauntered to her door and knocked. When she answered, he gestured for us to enter. I thanked him, and he disappeared around the corner.

Sheena closed the door behind us and plunked down onto a bed in the living room. The heat of the room blasted us. A can of something warmed in a pot on the stove. Boxes of medical equipment lined one wall.

I frowned. “Are you feeling okay?”

She waved away my question. “Oh, yeah.”

Maybe she thought she had to be brave for us. Or for herself. But was she too sick to answer her phone?

“Did you get my messages, Sheena?”

She took the baby from my arms. “Sometimes my phone acts up.”

I briefed her on a few things about our time with her baby, and before we left, the girls and I took turns planting kisses on the crown of Latika’s head.

When we stepped back into the hallway, I spied the security guard leaning against a wall. He joined us again. On our ride back down in the elevator—free from prying eyes this time—he handed me a slip of paper with some information scrawled on it.

“I’m Vince, the supervisor. If you come here again, call first.” He tapped a finger on the paper. “This is our security line. Ask for an escort to accompany you from the parking lot. Don’t come in on your own again.” His eyes sparked intensity, even though his voice was even. “This place is full of lowlifes. Dope dealers, you name it. You don’t belong here.”

And we had just left a baby there—with her ailing mother. Did they belong there?

“I’ll do what you say,” I said, leveling my gaze at Vince. “But I’m not afraid. I live in North Minneapolis.”

He darted a look at me, frowning. “You live on the Northside? Why?”

“Because we’re supposed to be there.”

Vince raised an eyebrow, bunched his lips to one side, and nodded. When our elevator ride ended, he walked us to our car in the parking lot. I got in and put the key in the ignition. Before backing out of my spot, though, I glimpsed Vince in the rearview mirror, my thoughts switching again to a baby and her sick mama. Unfortunate circumstances had tossed them away, and poverty—its appetite never satisfied—had devoured them.

Mine wasn’t a world of unmet needs or one of subsidized housing where a security guard worked overtime to keep me alive.

My heart twisted for Sheena because she—like the rest of us—belonged in a better place.

We were all meant for the bigger life. We were all created for more.

*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 outside

I wrote today’s blog installment in the fall of 2014, describing life in 2002 when we were new to our house, our neighborhood. A lot has changed with life and the world around us, but not my love for my neighbors. That’s still going on. Enjoy!

*****

Two shots fired four blocks away. A homicide somewhere on Penn. A bus stop robbery a block over.

After absorbing a few segments of the local evening news and encountering raised eyebrows from people who asked where we lived, reality seeped in. We were living in the hated part of town. North Minneapolis, the black sheep of the Twin Cities. It didn’t feel bad to me, but hearing stories from outsiders left a mark. Husband was unaffected, but I started living on the inside. And if my living room curtains were closed, I decided, they couldn’t get a clean shot driving by. I buried myself in diaper changes and orchestrating naptimes. Husband was gone a lot for work. For months, the curtains stayed shut.

During the inside days, we settled into a church in the suburbs, and what I had always known came back: needs are everywhere. My neighborhood brimmed with visible needs, but pain also hid behind expensive window treatments in suburban cul-de-sacs. Finally, I’d had enough.

Love your neighbor.

I opened the curtains and stepped outside. We started living.

Memories of our early days are blurred at the edges and planted in our backyard with its chain-link fence and lush grass—that new grass with its sod seams showing it had been displaced too and was without roots yet. But the perfect lawn didn’t last.

“Creeping Charlie?” I said when my sister explained her weedy struggles. “What’s that?”

She pointed it out in her south Minneapolis yard so I would recognize the usurper in the future. Soon I had a crop of my own.

But living on the outside wasn’t all about the grass. We had an alley too, and excitement swirled around it. The revolving door on the rental property straight across the alley from our house kept us guessing. Who now?

“Well, they seem nice,” I’d say to Husband. And then we never saw them again.

Diversity surrounded us, and two-and-a-half-year-old Flicka noticed.

“Why are we so bright?” she said, tapping on her arm’s fair skin while watching some new tenants move in across the alley one day.

“Because God made us that way,” I said. “And we’re okay even though we’re different.”

Later, while on my hands and knees tending my garden, I caught a flash of red in my peripheral vision. I glanced up but saw nothing. I went back to my soil prodding. The autumn sedum was doing well in spite of me. Wait. What was that red flash? Nine-month-old Ricka sat on her plump base near me, tweezing blades of grass with fingers that disappeared into her mouth. Where was Flicka? I jumped to my feet, eyes darting over the yard. I scooped up Ricka, popped her onto my hip, and ran through the gate to the front sidewalk. Our wiener dog Dexter scooted between my legs and scuttled under a bush in my neighbor’s yard. I’d deal with him later.

There was Flicka—already a half block down, clutching an opened red umbrella, and running away from me as fast as possible wearing only her birthday suit. She was almost to the corner when I caught up with her naked self.

“Oh, you think it’s funny?” I said.

She did. Our new neighbors had probably never seen so much bright skin before.

Mrs. Isenberg next door was tickled watching our girls play in the yard and also lucky enough to have witnessed the nude run on the sidewalk, she later told me over the chain-link fence. Then we chatted about her diabetes. It was getting harder for her to control, and sometimes her foot ulcer kept her in bed.

Her husband, a disabled veteran, tried to tidy the yard, but his efforts trickled off as Mrs. Isenberg required more care. He left an empty five-gallon bucket lying on its side in the garden, and it stayed there—a stark reminder she was confined to the house, and he wasn’t leaving her.

Over several months, the house next door fell into disrepair and then finally went into foreclosure. The Isenbergs were forced to move out of the place where they had raised all their children. They packed their things and left. The five-gallon bucket was left behind.

But we weren’t done with Mrs. Isenberg yet. The girls and I followed her life and adventures into the nursing home room where she ended up after her lower right leg was amputated.

“Have a piece of candy,” Mrs. Isenberg said. “I sure don’t need it.”

“Did your surgery go well?” I said.

“I can’t complain. Do you want to see it?”

“Could we?” 

Mrs. Isenberg uncovered her leg, then pulled a stretchy stocking off her residual limb. Even though we had talked about the procedure on the ride over, Flicka looked surprised.

In the car on the way home, we debriefed.

“Her stump is round,” Flicka said. “You said they cut it off. But it’s not flat on the end.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror. “Was that strange?”

“No, it was nice that way.”

Back at home, my sadness at seeing the Isenbergs’ empty house was replaced by a niggling sense of dread. Who would live next door now?

We kept living on the outside so we could find out. We wouldn’t have long to wait.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Your words for 2020

Last week, I asked you if you choose a word for yourself each new year. A number of you submitted your choices—and the reasons behind them. Enjoy the following thoughtful responses.

*****

“Plenty”, because 2020 is my year of plenty (of God’s favor.)

Armanda, Saint Paul, MN

*****

My word for 2020 is Connect.

It’s a word I’ve been given during prayer.  Connect for me means looking for opportunities to create relationships with others and also between people.

Mary, Webster, MN

*****

My sentence this year... yes, I too could not wrap it up with one word... "What comes after fear?" It reminds me to be brave!

Deborah, Hudson, WI

*****

Retire. I was tired yesterday, I am tired again today, time to retire! I'm actually pulling the plug on everyday work, and looking forward to a new chapter in life.

Larry, Minneapolis, MN

*****

For 2020 I have so many words to choose from—anticipation, excitement, joy, blessings, and so many more. But to encompass all of my feelings for 2020 I think I will choose the word EPIC!  Within this year I will celebrate a milestone wedding anniversary and a huge milestone birthday. I have 2 fabulous trips to look forward to. One that my husband and I embark on every other year with the same friends, finding somewhere warm to help pass the frigid days of winter in Minnesota. The other trip has been on my bucket list since I was a child. We will be traveling to South Africa for 2 weeks! Our trip will include Cape Town and all of its history and beauty, a 5-day safari in Kruger National Park with more exotic animal encounters than I can ever imagine, Johannesburg, and Victoria Falls with all of its majesty! One would think that these things would embrace all things EPIC for me, but there is one more grand adventure that will top off my EPIC year. My daughter and son-in-law will make us first time grandparents!  If that was the only EPIC thing to happen to me this year, I would feel beyond blessed! God is great and I thank him every day for every day!

Kari, Moorhead, MN

*****

No new clothes.... already blessed with a closet full so will try to go a year without buying anything new (exception to rule for under garments like socks and underwear.)

Heather, Fargo, ND

*****

The french usage of the word élan.

Craig, Buffalo, MN

*****

It all started when I challenged my houseguests to think about their words for the year 2020. As we sat sharing a meal on January 1, 2020, we went around the table and revealed our words for the year. I heard new, life, vision, abide, eleven (an upcoming birthday), and productivity, a list of words carrying weighty, profound depths of meaning. Profound, that is, until I said my word—downsize. How utterly mundane and practical!

The truth is, I had felt a heaviness of spirit about all my (and my husband’s) material possessions for years—stuff in my big house and garage, in the barn, the Quonset, and the blue steel building on this property. So downsize seemed an appropriate and necessary word choice. But as soon as it came out of my mouth, I regretted saying it. Within the word lay layers and layers of decisions and work.

Of course, to downsize means to get rid of memorabilia and possessions such as hundreds (thousands?) of books, dishes (mine and my mother’s), LP records, boxes and boxes of music, and totes of teaching materials, just to name a few things among the plethora of my possessions. Yes, all those things need to be downsized (given away, thrown, etc.), and that process will be ongoing for some time.

But then I began to think of downsizing in a different way when applied to character traits. I want to intentionally downsize my attitudes of being critical of others whose inner turmoil I simply do not know or understand but who only need me to show compassion. And I need to discard expectations I have put on others, especially when I realize the nearly impossible challenge of achieving my own. Actually, my greatest desire is to upsize my mental and spiritual growth through relationships with people in my life, especially my family members and friends, and humbly live out my faith in the One who has blessed me more abundantly than I could ask or think.

Avis, Newfolden, MN

What's your word, reader?

“The words you speak become the house you live in.” Hafiz

We’re already two weeks deep into 2020, reader, and I haven’t heard your word yet. You know, the word for the year that focuses, guides, and encourages you? A couple of weeks ago I told you my choice—a sentence this time—for 2020.  

Count it all joy.

Do you choose a word each year too? Or maybe you’re like me, and one word won’t do it this trip around the sun.

What’s your word (or words) for 2020?

Send me a message here with your word and why you chose it, and I’ll publish it in next week’s blog. (Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email.) Include your city and state too, please.

I can’t wait to hear from you!

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

George Müller

In our house, George Müller is a verb.

But I’ll start from the beginning…

Once upon a time, when matching nightgowns were as necessary as princess toothbrushes, my girls fit themselves into me like puzzle pieces each evening on the couch, and I read them bedtime stories. As they grew, the stories grew harder and richer, and we traveled the earth together each night with the heroic ones this world didn’t deserve. We struggled and battled and overcame with Amy Carmichael, Gladys Aylward, Adoniram Judson, Lillian Trasher, “Bruchko”, Corrie ten Boom—and many more—in those hours before our yawns tugged us all back to the present and into our beds.

One bedtime, we visited the Ashley Down orphanage in Bristol, England, in the 1800s, and stepped into the life of George Müller.

A matron of the orphanage scurried to Mr. Müller, the director, one morning, and my girls watched the woman twist her apron in her hands.

“I hate to bother you, but the children are ready for breakfast,” she said, “and there’s nothing for them to eat.”

The pantry was bare and the money gone, but there in the dining room stood three-hundred children in neat rows behind their chairs. And on the table in front of each child was a plate, a mug, and a spoon.

“Where’s the food?” someone whispered.

Mr. Müller lowered his head. “Dear God, we thank you for what you’re going to give us to eat. Amen.”

He looked up and nodded. Three-hundred chairs scraped across the wood floor, and the three-hundred children sat in front of their empty plates.

A knock on the door rattled the hall. The baker from down the street strode into the room.

“Mr. Müller,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept thinking you would need bread this morning, so I stayed up all night to bake three batches for you. I hope you can use it.”

George smiled, accepting the gift from the baker. “You’ve blessed us today.”

While the children enjoyed the fresh bread, a second knock sounded. This time, the milkman entered, stood in front of George, and removed his hat.

“I need a little help. The wheel on my cart broke right outside your door. I’ll have to lighten my load to fix it. There are ten full cans of milk on it. Could you use them? No cost to you, of course.”

George dispatched twenty of the older children to fetch the milk. There was plenty for each to have a mug full with their bread and enough left over for them to enjoy with tea later.

I bit my lip and paused my reading, my throat too tight for words to pass. I blinked away the blur.

My girls switched their gazes from the book to my face.

“Oh, Mama,” Flicka said, rubbing my arm.

“Maybe we can live this way too.” But my words came out soft—meant more for me than them.

Could I? Could I live like George Müller, a man known for his faith? Could I be someone who, on first impulse when confronting hardship, looked up—and not around—for help too?

George’s life would be the risky life—walking an edge that scared me, moving forward into hard things, leaning on Someone I couldn’t see. But since those nights of traveling the world by book with my girls, I’ve often stepped into uncertainty, imagining how the guardian of Bristol’s orphans would’ve done it.

Yesterday, I picked through the tangled reality of the ones we love—the baby triplets, their two older siblings, and their mama. The confusion of their lives offered no clear path and no quick solutions for them or for those of us helping them.

Memories of the man from England who served thousands of orphans two centuries ago interrupted my thoughts. We had enough food and supplies to thrive, but our needs stretched far beyond the material. I couldn’t unknot the current situation, but peace filtered in anyway. And I knew exactly what to do.

“Let’s just George Müller it,” I said to my girls.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Count it all joy

Coughs and runny noses filled our December with the visiting baby triplets. Our tribulations were persistent but low-grade most days—like their fevers—until this past Sunday when into our home came something dreadful: a gastrointestinal virus.

I sacrificed my lunch to the sewer system and faced diapers pooling with sickness. The babies wailed, no words to communicate how they felt as the bug flooded their bodies with pain before escaping any way it could.

My own girls had taken to their rooms with buckets, leaving Husband the only one still standing despite a stomach ache of his own. He passed the bathroom where I crouched on Sunday evening, my head dangling for the umpteenth time over the porcelain.

I raised my gaze to his, wiping my mouth. “This is hard.”

He blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

Babies’ screams shattered the atmosphere of our home. Illness raged through our systems for hours. Discouragement pummeled my hopes. Could it get any worse? It didn’t feel like it.

Later when we could stand again, Flicka and I swayed the still sick, crying babies in our arms in the living room.

“‘Count it all joy when you face various trials,’ right?” I said, quoting the verse in James. “So, this is joy, I guess.” I chuckled, but felt the smile slide off my face.

Her expression sober, Flicka nodded, her wisdom showing through. “Yeah. It is.”

And I knew she, like me, remembered the rest of it. Trials are an opportunity for patience, and patience, having done its job right, makes a person complete, a cause for joy—joy, a close sister to peace and not at all resembling her fickle relative, happiness, who makes unrealistic demands that all must go a certain way to be good.

Beneath the cramping stomachs and countless diapers and crying babies and Clorox wipes and extra laundry and bottles of Pedialyte, there it was: an undercurrent of peace. This hardship was temporary. My patience was growing; my joy was near.

My phone pinged with a text from a friend. She had been thinking about her word for the new year. And what was mine?, she wondered.

My word for 2020? I had forgotten my usual end-of-the-year pursuit to find one. What would my word be? What word would help me hone my gaze and sharpen my intentions this new year in this new decade?

Maybe I wouldn’t pick just one but instead choose four to propel me through the twelve months ahead.

Count it all joy.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

A different Christmas

This blog post is short and sweet—just like the thirteen-month-old triplets we’re hosting right now.

(If you missed the previous stories about them, click here and here.)

Because of our tiny houseguests, we enjoyed a different Christmas this year. A better one, actually. Nothing gets one’s eyes off oneself like caring for three mobile, smiling babies. Or worrying about them when all three are sick and need to go to Urgent Care. (Their mama is Superwoman, by the way, and the babies are better now.)

Enjoy some of our holiday photos. Merry Christmas!

Notes:

1. Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka are all home right now, so each girl gets her own baby.

2. Tupperware containers are more fun than toys.

3. I wish you could see the babies’ faces, but this is how it goes with hostings and social media. You’ll just have to take my word for it when I say they’re darling.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Silent night?

I cradle two of the triplets in my arms in the dark. 2:08 a.m. Maybe I’m starting something that’ll be hard to break, this picking them up in the night when they cry. But right now I want to soothe them more than I care about tomorrow.

Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright

I sing them the old classic, but I keep it low because the third one—their counterpart in the womb—snoozes nearby. And she snuffles too. Oh no… Is she getting a cold?

I focus on these two who seem jostled by all the “news” of this transition: new sleeping arrangements in new beds in a new house with a new person holding them now. And I pray peace flutters to rest on them anyway.

Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child

Holy Infant so tender and mild

Outside the window, the bleak glow from the street lamp spotlights our own tender and mild scene. The babies’ eyes widen. Silent now, they gaze at me. And I think of a different silence—one leading up to that night in Bethlehem so long ago—four-hundred years of silence spanning the Old and the New. The kind of silence that affects the soul. No new word. No grand pronouncement. Only the long wait for the Promised One.

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace.

The babies stare at my face, and I need to keep the song going or they’ll unravel again.

Silent night, holy night

Shepherds quake at the sight;

Radiant beams from Thy holy face

Wait. Was that last line from the next verse? It’s “glories stream from heaven afar,” isn’t it? But who cares if I jumble the lyrics? Not the thirteen month olds, apparently, because they smile at me now.

With the dawn of redeeming grace,

The baby girl pokes her finger into her brother’s mouth, amusement igniting her features. Oh great; she thinks it’s playtime.

“Shh,” I whisper, putting a stop to her fun. “You sleep now.”

One at a time, I tuck the babies into their beds again. Only a whimper from them. They wriggle from their backs onto their bellies, inching their knees under them until they’re little balls of darling.

My heart stretches, and I sigh to make room for it.

Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth,

Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Simplicity

“I’m looking for a complicated dress—something busy and fussy to wear.”

Now that’s a sentence I’ve never said. When it comes to dresses, I’ve always wanted something with clean lines—something simple and beautiful.

Simplicity.

I want the concept in my closet—and in my life too. And I’d like it for December, the fancy month with all the sequins and ruffles and fur-trimmed edges that can’t be washed in the machine if something gets spilled on it.

When I still had twenty days to go before Christmas, I had a sliver of an idea for our card, a vague sense of how I’d hit a few holiday markets, a nugget of an idea for what goodies I’d bake, and a loose plan for how I’d tackle the girls’ wish lists. And now I know even less.

So, what if I ventured onto an icy cliff with my bag full of How Christmas Should Go and dropped it over the edge? What if I chose simplicity instead?

The evening of December 3, I left the house for a meeting. Shivering, I climbed into the car; Jack Frost nipping at one’s nose is cuter in the song. If I hadn’t said yes to the gathering, I could’ve stayed at home in my coziness. Instead, I navigated rush hour traffic in the frigid darkness for nineteen miles to Lino Lakes.

Only a few of us made it to that meeting for the host families and staff members of Safe Families for Children. But we warmed ourselves with stories of the kids we host and why. And we talked about some challenges the little ones bring into our houses: grief, attachment issues, separation anxiety.

The director of the organization mentioned a particular hosting—one-year-old triplets—and its current circumstances. I had seen the Urgent Need online in our private group weeks earlier, noted it was filled, and moved on. But the need had risen again—with a new twist—and my preoccupation with the holiday card, the baking, and the gifts blinked out of my brain like a faulty strand of tree lights. Her words tore away December’s baubles and glitter, and my own five-word sermon to my girls throughout their lives twinkled brightly—this time for me: This Life Isn’t About You.

I drove home from the get-together, toying with an idea. What if I shifted my focus from gifts, treats, and festive activities to diapers, feedings, and play time on the living room rug? My December wouldn’t be easy, but it would be simple.

At home I relayed the evening’s discussion to Husband and Dicka. And I told them the story of the one-year-old triplets.

“Let’s take them,” Husband said, not missing a beat.

Dicka’s face glowed. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

It was all the confirmation I needed.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.

Lefse

‘Tis the season for fond memories and comfort foods—to warm the cockles of your heart, as they say. And lefse, a Norwegian flatbread, is one of those comforts for us. Enjoy this story of the girls’ lefse stand from the summer of 2015.

*****

“Let’s do that lefse stand tomorrow before the summer runs out,” I announced to the girls. They had concocted the plan months earlier and were waiting for the green light. 

“Yes!”

Excited about the Norwegian treat and its advertising, they whipped up flyers within an hour and delivered them all around the neighborhood.

Then I was curious. How many Scandinavians lived in North Minneapolis? 49.7% of the population was African American, 24.5% was White, 13.8% was Asian, two or more races made up 6.0%, 1.6% was American Indian, Hawaiian/Pacific Islander comprised 0.1%, and 4.3% was classified as “Other”.* While North Minneapolis was home to Olsen Fish Company, the world’s largest lutefisk processor, how many people on the Northside had ever eaten lefse, the beloved Norwegian potato flatbread? And when we sold it the next day, how many of our neighbors would taste it for the first time?

We posted the details of the girls’ lefse stand on two of the North Minneapolis Facebook pages, Husband promising the masses love and joy sprinkled in sugar and rolled up in the potato-y confection. But after hitting the “post” button, worry needled me.

“Now it’s done. We’ve put it out there.” I nibbled my lower lip. “What if a hundred people come? How many lefse should we make?”

“Double the recipe,” said Husband. “And when it’s gone, it’s gone.”

The night before the lefse stand, the girls peeled ten pounds of potatoes. After boiling them, I pressed them through a ricer, and then mixed in the butter, cream, sugar, and salt. The dough chilled overnight, and in the morning, I mixed in the flour. I heated the griddle to 500 degrees, divided the dough into 115 pieces, and Flicka began rolling out each piece with a rolling pin.

Out in the sunshine, the girls set up the card table on the sidewalk in front of the house and displayed their sign:

Lefse

50¢ if you’ve had lefse before

25¢ if you’ve never had lefse

At noon on August 4, 2015, the lefse stand opened for business. The girls’ first customers walked over from across the street. They purchased two, but came back later and bought fourteen more to share with their family. Next came a man who told us he had received a phone call from someone in northern Minnesota who informed him there was a lefse stand in his neighborhood. He had driven his motorized wheelchair seven blocks to our place to buy a dozen. After that, a woman drove up, snapped a picture of our place (for her friend who had lived in our house for twenty-four years), and bought some lefse too. Later, five neighborhood boys sauntered by, and we convinced them to try the treats for free. We got five thumbs up before they went on their way.

Fresh lefse beckoned people from the surrounding blocks, and the comfort food lured suburban fans into the city. Three women—a daughter, a mother, and an aunt—bought six lefse. They tasted their purchases as they drove away, and from an open car window, one of the women called out, “Oh, this brought the tears! It’s as good as Grandma’s!”

Inside the house, Flicka—lefse stick in hand—manned the griddle all afternoon. Outside, Ricka and Dicka tended the customers, offering them the fresh Norwegian pastry with a choice of toppings: butter, sugar, brown sugar, or a cinnamon and sugar mix.

Around three o’clock, as I carried another stack of warm lefse outside to replenish the tray, Dicka scurried to me.

“That man’s from Channel 11.” She tucked her whisper behind one hand, her eyes wide.

My eyes widened to match hers. “Really?”

She nodded. “When he first told us, I laughed. I thought he was kidding.” A grin wrapped her face.

I brushed the flour from my apron and strode toward the man. “You’re from KARE 11?”

He secured his camera to a tripod. “That’s right. I’m Bob.”

“How did you hear about us?”

He said the name of the woman who had called in the tip.

“Hm. I don’t know her.” I shook my head and smiled. “Wow, this is crazy.”

Bob asked Dicka if she would prepare a lefse for the camera. He began filming, and she swiped soft butter across the warm flatbread, dusted it with sugar, and rolled it up. He clipped a mic on her and then asked her what lefse was, what ingredients went into it, how it was cooked, and about the inspiration for the stand.  

“Last question.” Bob nodded toward the table of toppings. “How do you eat it?”

Dicka picked up the lefse she had prepared, held the roll to her lips, and took a bite. “Like this.”

That evening at ten o’clock, after the flour was swept away, we huddled together with the same eagerness we brought to family movie night, and we all watched the local news. Bob’s thirty minutes of filming the lefse stand was boiled down to a forty-second segment. But that short blip was as sweet as the lefse—and the look on Dicka’s face as she watched it.

*Statistics from the Decennial Census and American Community Survey estimates and Northside Funders Group 2014 report.

*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 thanks list

This morning at 1:00 a.m., as I injected the twenty-pound bird on my kitchen counter with a mixture of deliciousness (lemon and garlic juices, Tabasco sauce, and Liquid Smoke—an old family recipe), I thought of how grateful I was for recycling—recycling an old blog post from 2016, that is—because my week has been as full as my stomach will be later today when we’ve finished feasting. As it turns out, I’m still thankful for these same things—and more.

Here’s my list. Do you have one too?

*****

I’m thankful…

… my house is too small for more things.

… when the baby we’re hosting is still breathing in the morning.

… when next-door neighbor Dallas beats us to the shoveling.

… for neighbors and friends who love Lala (the dog) while we’re on vacation.

… for North Minneapolis.

… when Target’s end-caps brim with clearance items.

… for our neighborhood Aldi.

… Flicka rubs my shoulders when she passes through the room.

… Napoleon Dynamite still wins a unanimous family vote. (It’s yes.)

… when other parents give my girls a ride home.

… Ricka speaks the truth into the noise, even if she stands alone.

… creativity flows from a stormy day.

… Dicka discerns the hidden pain or motivations of those around her, and she’s moved.

… Husband and I laugh together at least once a day.

… Flicka sees art in life’s shadows; her pencil ignites the mundane.

… when I’m off the hook for cooking dinner.

… The Light spilled from heaven and stepped into flesh, so we could see our way.

What are you thankful for?

Gratuitous pic of the family beast (because she’s cute.)

*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.

True

September 17, 1997

I bolted from sleep and jumped to my feet in one movement, my heart revving so high I feared it would explode.

I glimpsed the nightstand’s glowing numbers. 3:46 a.m.

Dexter, my miniature dachshund, wriggled into the warm spot in the bed I had abandoned. Tears slicked my face. Had I been crying in my sleep? My lungs heaved air in and out like I had sprinted over a finish line a second ago.

The message pulsing through my every corpuscle was clear: Husband was dead.

It was more than a dream, that message. More than a premonition too; it had already happened. I knew it. But did God send messages that way? Did he wake people in the night and drop horrible news into their spirits like that?

“No, no, no,” I whispered into the emptiness of that farmhouse where I lived, although I could’ve yelled the words, and the old place wouldn’t have minded.

I dropped to my knees, but the action didn’t fix anything. I stood and paced, but I could move around all I wanted, and nothing would change. Husband’s flight from Tucson to Charleston that night had crashed. I felt it in my core. His death was as real as my own life.

Or was it?

Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

I knew those words well. I had focused on them before in dark moments. Noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable. Yes. But wait. Whatever is true…

TRUE.

Was that adjective new to the list? Had it been the leader in that string of attributes my whole life and I only noticed it now? It was fresh, TRUE, and solid, like a rock planted in the landscaping for so long my eyes had blinded to it. But there it stood—strong enough to hold me.

Did Husband’s plane crash? Was he dead at that very moment? Maybe and maybe, but no news station had announced it, and no phone call had informed me of it. So, even though it felt true, I didn’t know it to be true.

Twenty-two years later I still marvel at the lesson, wrapped in a night terror. The sweating palms, the jagged breaths, the hammering heart, the stunning revelation. Whatever is true…

Fears will come, and they’re convincing, but what’s true stands solid. Fight for it against all feelings. Pursue it when appearances lie. Search for it over what looks real.

Truth is strong enough to hold us.

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family 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.