Finished

A few years ago, The Lutheran Ambassador asked me to write a story about the women of Easter, based on the account in the Gospel of Mark, and so I did. They published it in April 2017, calling it “Mary at the cross and tomb.” I call it “Finished.”

Easter has come and gone, but I guess I’m just not over it. Like Mary Magdalene, I’ve seen too much.

Here’s the story…

*****

Jesus shifted on the iron spikes, and his head drooped. From a distance, my friends and I watched—and prayed. That morning, soldiers had shredded my Lord with their whips and strung him up on a cross to die, but now they laughed as if sharing a joke at the market instead of in this place where hell touched earth. My stomach roiled, and I took a deep breath to quell the nausea.  

Salome looped her arm around mine. “But he was going to be king.” Her features twisted, and she searched my face. “He can’t die, Mary. He can’t.”

Another Mary, the mother of James and Joses, peered at me, and her chin wobbled.

“Maybe we didn’t understand,” I said. “Maybe he knew something we didn’t. And it was better.” But my heart clenched like a fist, refusing to let go.

The one who is forgiven much, loves much.

Years earlier, I had loved nothing. My broken body had housed a shattered mind. Illnesses, accidents, and compulsions battered me. Once, I even thrashed into the flames of my cooking fire. Afterward, I writhed in the dirt in blistered skin; my hours melted into blackness.  

But then came Jesus. He rested his hand on me, calling out the seven demons that had tormented me.

“Mary Magdalene,” he said. And for the first time, my name had sounded like beauty. “It is finished.”

And it was.

The crowds at the cross scattered, exposing us women, huddled far from where the masses had jeered or sobbed. Many of Jesus’ followers had vanished too. But my heart anchored me to the soil. How could I leave my Lord to his pain when he had saved me from mine?

Jesus struggled against his nails and scanned the meager gathering. Then his gaze rested on me. Those eyes that had once seen through my affliction still saw me.

“It is finished,” he cried out.

The same words that had made me new.

His muscles twitched; his head slumped. The sky darkened, and although only mid-afternoon, shadows draped the body of my Savior. Jesus was gone.

A rich man named Joseph carried Jesus’ body to a tomb in his garden. Mary and I trailed him and hid behind a tree as we watched the man spread ointment and spices onto fresh linens. And then he wrapped our friend. The burial complete, Joseph heaved a stone into place to seal the entrance to the grave. Dusk was approaching; the Sabbath was near. And I had work to do.

I scurried home and scooped sweet spices into a bowl, my hands trembling. I thumbed away tears as I stirred. The day before, I had prepared the meal for Jesus’ supper in the upper room with his followers. If only I were mixing oil into the flour for bread tonight instead of oil with perfumes to anoint my friend’s body. If only I were roasting the lamb with thyme and rosemary instead of blending my tears with myrrh and aloes. If only I had known then what was to come.

On the first day of the week, I squinted at the early rays of light that sliced through the darkness of my house. The start of a new week without my Jesus. How would I live without him?

A knock at the door. I unlatched it. Mary and Salome stood outside, each holding a bowl. Grief had stripped their faces of color and rimmed their eyes with purple.

“I’m ready,” I said, my own bowl of spices cradled in one arm.

Gravel crunched under our sandals, and dew drenched the hems of our tunics as we trudged to the garden.

“Oh no,” said Salome. “How will we anoint his body? Remember the stone? It’s too big for us.” A sob jostled her words. “Who will move it?”

I inhaled a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

Mary gripped her bowl in both hands. She stared into the distance, her mouth a straight line.

In the garden, the crocuses exploded in yellow and the hyacinths in pink. White narcissus curled around our path. Where were these flowers two days ago? Or had our sadness hidden them? They bloomed now—the bougainvillea as profuse as forgiveness and the lilies as fragrant as hope. 

We neared the grave. But what was that up ahead?

I gasped. “The stone’s already been moved.”

I hurried into the tomb, and my friends followed. A young man, in a robe whiter than light, sat inside. Salome shrieked. My heart hammered, and my bowl clattered onto the stone floor, spilling the spices. Terror clawed its way up my throat. Mary splayed a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the young man. “You’re looking for Jesus who was crucified. But he’s not here. He’s risen.” He stood and gestured toward the door. “Go and tell his disciples.”

My friends and I clambered from the tomb and scrambled back onto the path. We clutched the fabric of our skirts and ran. Blinded by joy, we forgot all about our tear-soaked beds, our morning’s task at the tomb, and the spices we had abandoned somewhere along the way.

Because it didn’t matter anymore.

Your quarantine virtual scrapbook

Last week, reader, I invited you to send me photos from your life in quarantine. Thank you for these submissions, everyone; I loved the glimpses into your days at home.

*****

Me, Armanda, keeping abreast of this pandemic! Trusting God for protection and a cure.

Armanda, Saint Paul, Minnesota

*****

Scenes from home.

I’m also sorting and throwing old college materials—student letters, grade books, etc.

Avis, Newfolden, Minnesota

*****

Ann, Minneapolis Riverfront, Minnesota

*****

Here’s Darci and me playing the card game, Hand and Foot.

Jim, eastern Washington

*****

Finding a kite when cleaning out the garage… and thankful God gave us a windy day.

Kilee, Maple Grove, Minnesota

*****

My new administrative assistant is very needy and doesn’t know how to type, but the therapy he provides during conference calls is all I need to get through the stressful day.

Karyn, Mounds View, Minnesota

*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.

The quarantine virtual scrapbook

Hi there, reader!

Want to exchange pictures of life in quarantine? Send me one or more of yours (with short descriptions of each), and I’ll publish them in next week’s blog installment. (Include your city and state too, please.) Subscribers, hit reply to this email to submit your photos. Other readers, send yours here.

Here are some of our family’s stay-at-home pictures. Enjoy!

Husband and a puzzle.

Dicka learning how to sew.

Flicka cutting Dicka's hair. Yikes. (But it all turned out.)

Ricka as a nanny in Heilbronn, Germany.

Life with a U of M art student (Flicka).

Screen time with the animal.

Delicious take-out from Olive & Lamb (oliveandlamb.com).

Expect some utterly correct writing from me after this.

Lala, the dog, living her best life.

The phone call

I frittered away yesterday in my bathrobe.

I had ample time to write today’s blog, but instead I listened to the governor’s new executive order and watched reruns of Dharma and Greg while sampling four kinds of potato chips. (Note: Lay’s Flamin’ Hot Dill Pickle flavor wins.)

Enjoy this blog post from a simpler time when news of the worst pestilence ever came from the nurse’s office at school.

*****  

They say 84% of our fears never come true. That leaves a 16% chance they’re well-founded.

In late April of 2009, I had just finished coordinating the gala fundraiser for arts programming at the girls’ school. While there was plenty to do to tie up loose ends, the biggest pressure was off, and I was living in the gleaming satisfaction of having completed a monumental job.

One day, which began like any other, I scurried the girls off to school and then attacked my to-do list: call gala patrons who had left the event before learning they had won art in the silent auction, update the list of final bids, and make sure all the event rental places got their items back.

As I sipped my coffee between tasks, the phone rang.  

“Hi, Mom,” Flicka said, her voice low. “I’m in the nurse’s office.”

My mind rushed to the last time I had gotten a call from the nurse’s office. Then, the nurse told me Ricka—a kindergartner at the time—had taken a spill on the playground and split her chin open, she undoubtedly needed stitches, and could I take her to the ER right now? When I picked up Ricka from school that day, her shirt was soaked with blood, but it didn’t alarm me. I was calm on the drive to the ER and cool during the six stitches. Today’s call, however, felt different.

“Hi, honey,” I said, wary. “You didn’t throw up, did you?”

“I have lice.”

My mouth dried. My heart thudded. Of all the maladies announced by the school nurse on those sheets of paper traveling home by backpack—strep throat, impetigo, pink eye, scabies—head lice was my biggest fear and the pestilence I dreaded most.

“Okay,” I said, quelling my panic. “I’ll come and get you.”

I thought head lice was something the school was supposed to keep on the down-low to protect the victim’s identity, but when I arrived in the main office, the nurse came out of her room to show me—in front of a handful of onlookers—exactly what to look for, picking through Flicka’s hair right there. And in that moment I cared more about the information than my pride. I needed the knowledge ASAP. I was a rapt student, but while I could see the adult lice all right, I couldn’t see the nits she pointed out with a toothpick.

I took Flicka home, called Husband to share the news, and his reaction mirrored mine. Next, I phoned my sister. She had been there before, and she had some leftover products and a good lice comb I could have.

“Do you want me to check you too?” she said when I got to her house.

“I suppose.”

She picked through my hair. “Uh oh.”

“No!”

“Yeah. And you better check everyone else in the family too.”

I left feeling hopeless—and itchy. Husband got home early, and I checked him. He already had a case of the crankies—and now this. I checked Ricka and Dicka too. We all had the scourge, and the job ahead of us seemed insurmountable.

I devoured information online, shuddering through a delousing video or two, boiled all the brushes and hair supplies in the house, and then tackled the job on the girls’ heads—spending an hour on each—praying my novice eye would detect everything. I spent time on Husband’s head too, but since no one else in the family had the eye for it, I did what I could on myself and hoped for the best.

We started The Big Eradication. We bagged up every stitch of bedding and clothing in the house—whether we had worn it in the last month or not. The stuffed animals that weren’t washable got bagged up for the prescribed two weeks to starve the intruders. A hot dryer was a good thing, I read, so we lugged the twenty-eight garbage bags of laundry outside, heaved them into the truck, and sped off to a laundromat. As I watched countless loads swirling around in the industrial washers, my scalp crawled. The mental torture is the worst thing about a case of head lice; you’re never quite sure you got them all. And your dreams are haunted by that likelihood.

I sprayed the furniture with a special lice pesticide when we got home—something I learned later was overkill. In fact, much of what I did was overkill. But what else to do when stuck with the proverbial Old Maid card for the first time?

I wish I could say our first confrontation with head lice was our last, but our kids go to school with other children. And they’re girls with clean, silky hair head lice loves and a penchant for hugging their friends and having sleepovers. The second time the little buggers hit our house, I panicked again.

“’You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness’,” I said, delivering Psalm 91 in funereal solemnity over Flicka’s head while picking through her hair.

But while extracting nits, I had an epiphany. If “the arrow that flies by day” was the neighborhood’s gunfire, then “the pestilence that stalks in the darkness” was what I was trying to banish from my girls’ heads. The second terrified me more.

Wide-eyed, Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka watched my meltdown without a word. Before I went into full hyperventilation mode, though, I caught myself.

“Girls,” I said and took a deep breath, putting down the fine-toothed comb. “Let’s all calm down here. We’ll get through this thing together. No need to panic.”

They burst out laughing; my preaching was meant for just me.

I struggled for balance. Should I let my girls have friends, or cut them off from human contact to protect us all from further infestations? As it was, I had become obsessive and developed a hidden agenda when I hugged the kids: it was a good way to examine their scalps. And I subjected them to monthly head checks—for years. In the end, I allowed our girls the pleasure of companionship, and the unwelcome pests came back to visit more times than I could count on two hands. But I had developed a sharp eye for the critters and got their annihilation down to an efficient system.

Eventually, worn down by life and lice, I made peace with the possibility of the unwanted bugs. And I learned an important lesson: the 16% of our fears that actually happen aren’t really so bad after all.

*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.

Baby Leon

Husband and I returned from Greece on March 17. While we were away for eight days, the world flipped upside-down. Now in self-quarantine, I’m mulling over life and COVID-19 news.

Do you need a distraction today as much as I do? If so, here’s a story—from a few years ago—I haven’t told you yet.

*****

My girl Dicka and I enter the family’s living room in the cramped upstairs apartment in that old house on Fremont, and Monique motions toward the couch, inviting us to sit. We settle into it, the smell of stale cigarettes wafting from the cushions’ fabric. I curtail a grimace. What’s worse? The smell of cigarette smoke, thick in the air and permeating our clothes, or the heat of the place, which probably hovers around eighty degrees?

I gaze at my surroundings. Who all lives here? Monique points out a few relatives, but some others, whom she doesn’t label, mill around in the tiny kitchen too. When I answered the urgent needs request to care for her baby for a couple of weeks, Safe Families for Children informed me of the place where we would pick him up. The address startled me—only five blocks from our house. The roads today, crusted with snow the plows have yet to scrape clean, make me want to stay in, but this pick-up situation—so close to home—is an easy one.

From the couch, Dicka and I have a split view of two rooms: the kitchen where two people sit at a small Formica table, crushing out one spent cigarette after another into an ashtray like it’s a contest, and the bedroom where Monique pulls together little Leon’s clothing for his stay with us. The ten-month-old baby is planted on the bed like Buddha, facing his mama while she packs, naked except for his diaper. His hair is a dark mass, curling now from perspiration.

“He’s huge,” Dicka whispers, wrinkling her nose. “Huge and sweaty.”

The place vibrates with activity and noise, but I keep my voice low anyway. “I think he’s kind of cute.”

Leon flaps his arms while this three older brothers—all under five years old—buzz around the cramped apartment with a light saber, a truck, and a ball. They zip through the bedroom, hooting and shouting, where their mama works.

“You get out of here now, you hear me?” Monique hollers at them, swatting one of them on the back side as he runs by, and the group of them bolts from the room.

As we wait, the heat and smoke roil my stomach. Soon, we’ll be back outside in December’s cruel wind, but at least we’ll breathe new air. I’ll have this baby in my arms too then—this little one we promised to take care of for the next two weeks. The mama and daddy will use their freer time to do some apartment hunting while they stay with extended family members in this house.

A few details about Monique’s situation warm me. There’s a man in her life, the father of their four children. He’s a good man, from the sounds of it, committed to the mother of his kids, and holds a steady custodial position at the Twins stadium.

Monique leaves Leon sitting on his wide base on the bed while she lugs two brimming bags of baby clothing out to the living room and drops them at my feet. “This should be enough.”

The moms are always generous with their packing—except for the mother of our first set of twins. Those babies came to us in one set of diapers and the onesies on their bodies—no extras—and we scrambled to gather more for them. Monique gives us enough for Leon to stay a month.

She saunters into the kitchen to collect new and partly used cans of formula. She returns and pokes them into one of the bags at my feet.

“I put a few diapers in there—that’s all I got—,” she says, “so I guess he’ll need more. He wears size fours.”

“He’ll be good,” I say, waving away her concerns. “I have lots of diapers his size in my stash at home.”

I think of my diaper lady, a woman at church who works fulltime, but wants to support us in some way. She can’t host kids herself, but she plies me with diapers and the specific kinds of formula needed for the babies. Every time I eye the stack of size fours shelved in our basement, I see her commitment. And every time I watch the milk drain from a bottle as I feed a baby in the night, I see her love.

“I bet you were on the road a long time today,” Monique says. “Was it slow coming in from the suburbs?”

For a number of reasons, all wrapped around safety, the organization counsels us host families to give the parents our contact numbers, but never to tell them where we live. Monique sizes me up as a suburban lady.

“It was no big deal.” I smile. “Really a quick trip.”

If she only knew how quick. If she only knew I lived in the inner city, just like her, and only five blocks from where she now prepares her baby for his stay with our family.  

I mull over Monique’s words. What makes her assume I’m a suburban woman? Does she judge me by my externals? Do I judge her by hers? We humans do that kind of thing, making assumptions about life and those around us—not knowing much of anything until we listen.

Monique dresses Leon in the bedroom, totes him out to the living room, and plunks him into my lap. He feels like a twenty-five pounder; no doubt my arms will be stronger after his stay. He flashes me a broad grin, and dimples skewer his cheeks.

I smile at Dicka, grateful for her presence; I need the extra arms for the baby and all his bags of clothes. Monique follows us out to the car, and Leon’s dad pulls up in front of the place—freshly home from work—and climbs out of his vehicle. He joins us, buckles his youngest son into the car seat in the back of my Honda, and smooches the baby’s head.

The two young parents wave goodbye as I drive away from the curb with one of theirs, maybe imagining I’ll care for their baby in a world far from their own. I think about Monique, looking at my skin, my clothes, and making guesses about my life. And I contemplate what I think I know about her too.

Underneath our differences, does she know we’re alike?

Do I?

*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

Much has changed since I wrote and posted this blog in 2016. For one, I now have more drivers in the house. Two, in the past year I’ve repainted the girls bedrooms white, the new hot color—if white can be called a color. But I digress…

Enjoy!

*****

“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 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.

*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 high heels

The world around us is strewn with evidence.

I’m no detective, but when I see strange objects scattered around my life, I want the backstories. Like that positive pregnancy test ditched in our alley years ago, a pair of men’s boxer shorts discarded near it. What happened there? Curiosity ignited me, but there was nothing I could do about it—except scoop up the clues and drop them into the garbage bin.

Abandoned shoes fascinate me, and sometimes those vestiges of an exciting night appear on the street in front of our house. If only our security cameras could catch the entire drama behind what turns a full pair into a hapless single in the span of one evening.

I return home one day to something glinting on the sidewalk in front of our house. A pair of plastic silver stilettos—their heels so high I almost sprain my ankle looking at them—hangs out sans owner near our front steps. Two matching shoes? Together? Usually at some point in the night, one shoe divorces its partner. But this? Their strong marriage in the face of adversity is refreshing.

I crouch to examine the mystery. One heel looks like it skidded a ways on the pavement before it chose to spend the night at our place, and the other one stayed with it. Sweet, really. But what became of its human? Those shoes’ feet had landed somewhere, and they were worse off than Cinderella’s—a crazy night behind them with no souvenirs to keep.

Usually found mementos from soirees take a walk around the house and head straight for our garbage can in the alley, but not this time. I pluck the shoes off our walk and carry them inside the house. I dab them with a Clorox wipe. My friend calls heels this high “curb shoes.” They were never meant for walking. To wear a shoe of this height, you need your honey to drop you off at the curb of the establishment before he parks the car.

“You’re keeping them?” Flicka says, watching me swipe away the dirt.

“Yeah, what?” Ricka says with a smirk.

“Well, no,” I say.

Dicka laughs. “Can I try them on?”

I hand them over, and she does. They’re too big for her size sevens, but she takes a spin in them anyway. She clomps around like they’re play shoes. Next is my turn.

I slip them on. I’m no stranger to high heels of many heights and have put in the hours so I can walk naturally in them. Still, these plastic creatures trip me up as I take a lap around the living room rug.

A picture of the shoes’ owner flashes into my mind. A stereotypical picture of someone who would wear stilettos like these—and lose them.

They’re uncomfortable, these shoes, but that’s not what I notice next.

I notice they’re size nines. My size.

A famous quote wings through my brain now—an urgent reminder—and I see how little I know.

I couldn’t walk a mile in these shoes, but maybe I should try.

*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 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.