Travel stories: Hawaii (part 1)

They say a journey of a thousand miles starts with one step; I say a family vacation begins with at least a couple of missteps. But let me start from the beginning…

Early in 2020, a friend clued us in to a spectacular deal online: roundtrip airline tickets to Hawaii for $250/person. The price tag on a dream trip for the family dangled in front of our eyes for a minute, teasing us. Refusal would’ve been foolishness.

We snapped up five tickets, booking our trip for August 2020, and mentally packed our bags. As summer ebbed away, however, pandemic travel bans sloshed ashore, and we learned Hawaii would be closed to tourism as of July 31. We changed our tickets to early January 2021.

Hawaii reopened to travelers in October 2020. We followed The Big Island’s pre-travel requirements for Covid-19 testing and learned we needed to test negative for the virus within 72 hours of our flight. Husband ordered saliva test kits for the family, throwing in an extra for an early practice session on himself. We were set.

On Thursday, December 31, the five of us rolled out of bed to meet a nurse through our computer screens who watched us spit into our respective vials. We packaged our test tubes per the instructions, and Husband drove them to FedEx. Our departure on Sunday, January 3, was so close I could almost smell the salty breezes. I lugged out my empty suitcase, eager to fill it.

Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka scribbled lists and packed, their excitement charging the air. Of my three natural blondies, the two oldest had morphed into brunettes in the fall just for fun, but now, mere days from wheels-up, Ricka needed to be blonde again for her upcoming beach life. The three of them chased her inspiration to Sally Beauty and came back with hair coloring supplies just as Husband returned from sending out our bodily fluids.

“Uh, about those tests,” Husband said, “I just read online that because of the holiday, the lab isn’t open Saturday, after all. They won’t even get our tests until sometime Monday, the 4th.”

But our flight was on Sunday, January 3…

We trashed all hope in the Covid tests from that morning, now sitting at a FedEx in Saint Paul. We needed new tests and favorable results from a Hawaii-approved facility—and fast!—but not one testing location in the Minneapolis/Saint Paul area was available. All required us to have appointments, and all were currently filled. What now?

Husband wrangled five appointments for Saturday, January 2, seventy-three miles away at a CVS in Sauk Rapids, Minnesota, but we would have to make two separate trips to accommodate all our schedules. A pit formed in my stomach. So many variables, so little time.

On Friday night, the girls broke from packing, and Flicka and Dicka stripped Ricka’s hair, ushering in The Crying. I poked my head into the bathroom-turned-lab. Ricka’s previously dark brown hair sat in an orange and yellow situation on her head. Flicka and Dicka, silent and wide-eyed, gazed at their sister. Ricka blurted something about perennial ugliness from that day forward.

“Oh,” I said, swallowing a gasp. “It’s not really that bad.”

But sometimes it is.

 

Worries churned my stomach on Saturday as our first group made the trek to Sauk Rapids for Covid testing.

“You’ll get your results in 2-24 hours,” the technician at the drive-up pharmacy window said.

I ran calculations in my head. It was already 10:30 a.m., and our flight departed at 7:00 a.m. the next morning. What if it took the full 24 hours for results? And what about Ricka, at work now, who was to be tested at 4:00 p.m.? When would her results come in? And what if only half of us had our results? Or what if we all got our answers in time, but one of us tested positive?

Within two hours, the first batch of results popped into our email accounts: negative, negative, negative, negative. I could almost breathe again. Almost.

My suitcase sat empty. How could I layer in my sundresses and swimsuit without knowing if this trip was happening?

In the afternoon, Husband drove Ricka to Sauk Rapids for her Covid test. I paced the house. One left to go, one left to go… By 7:30 p.m., the final results came in: negative. Relief flooded my everything. We huddled as a family, arms linked, and prayed our thanks.

We split up to pack—only ten hours until our flight now—and the girls headed back into the bathroom for another go at Ricka’s hair—this time to bleach it. I’m no hair stylist, but was it really a good idea, this second stint of chemical processing in only 24 hours? Soon The Crying from the bathroom told me no.

I popped my head back into the lab. Ricka picked at her yellow hair, and a chunk framing her face broke off in her fingers. I gulped down my reaction. Wordless and unblinking, Flicka and Dicka stared at their sister. 

“Well, at least the orange is gone?” I said. One of the colorists said something about toning it now, and I held up a hand. “No. Slather on some coconut oil, wrap it in a scarf, and go to bed.”

I wanted to say it would all be fine, but I try hard not to lie to the kids.

 

My concerns about Covid testing and botched color jobs frittered away the next morning as we boarded our flight from Minneapolis to San Francisco. I nestled into the seat next to Husband. The girls sat in the row ahead of us. With each passing hour, the aircraft winged us closer to paradise. I eyed my second-born, wearing the same head scarf she had slept in.

“Uh-oh,” I whispered to Husband, pointing at our girl’s head. “Check out her hair.” Little fuzzy, broken patches popped out from the edges of her scarf.

He shrugged. “What’s the worst that can happen? She can always just shave it off.”

Soon, my ears told me we had started the descent into San Francisco. A few minutes later, though, the plane’s engines roared louder and we climbed again.

The pilot’s voice came over the speaker. “There’s some fog above the airport, so we’ll make a second pass to see if we’re cleared to land then.”

I tipped my head back, resting my eyes. Might as well enjoy the ride. We were on vacation, and nothing could hold us back now. The airplane looped a second time and attempted a landing. Then came the third pass before it accelerated, gaining altitude once more. Our connecting flight to Hawaii was boarding in only an hour, and I imagined our reward at the end of it: soft sand and aqua waters. Oh, Kona, we’ll be there before you know it.

“We’re rerouting to San Jose,” the pilot said.

 

*Tune in next week for the second installment of our Hawaiian adventures. Mahalo!

*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 same

I wrote the following blog post in 2016—a day after the election. Today I’m posting it again—a day after the inauguration.

The players changed, but life looks the same to me.

How about for you?

*****

Wednesday morning, my alarm clock jolted me out of bed at the usual time. The coffeemaker brewed my customary dark roast, and with the normal splash of cream, my coffee tasted the same too.

Like I do every weekday, I walked Dicka to the bus stop at the end of the block. And again, the fallen leaves and garbage fluttered by our feet as we strode down the sidewalk together. I side-stepped the trash and sighed; it seemed the identical litter appeared every morning, even though I picked it up daily on the way back to the house.

But something about the day was different.

“I don’t want to go to school,” Dicka said.

I assessed her face. No red, drippy nose. No glassy eyes. No sign of illness. “Why not?”

“Because everyone will be talking about the election.” She tugged her hood forward to cover her ears. “I just want it to be over.”

I curled my arm around her. “I hear you.”

At the corner, we waited for the school bus. The sixth grade girl from across the street plodded toward us like she always did. And as usual, an invisible weight—bigger than her backpack—pulled her shoulders down. My heart pinched, and I greeted her. She said hi back and then patted her mouth as she yawned, keeping an eye on me the whole time.

I accepted her non-verbal invitation. “So, you’re pretty tired today?”

“I watched the election last night,” she said. “I got to stay up until it was over.”

“Wow. That was late. I was asleep by ten-thirty.”

Her posture straightened, and her eyes sparked. “Did you hear Trump won?”

“I did.”

“He’ll be impeached soon. Like Nixon.”

I imagined the conversation swirling around her TV the night before as states on the screen lit up in red or blue. What else had the adults in her house told her to make the world right for her—and for them?

The bus pulled up and the door screeched open. I kissed Dicka on the forehead and said goodbye to the neighbor girl. The two of them climbed the steps and were gone.

I walked back to the house, plucking the garbage along my path. This morning, the citizens of the country dressed in new clothes: elation, hope, shock, fear, anger. Groups had decided to protest, and others had threatened to unleash riots throughout the nation on neighborhoods like ours. But our street was quiet at eight o’clock in the morning, and the message for me and my family again reverberated off the pavement and houses that lined our block. In our changing times, our calling stayed the same.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength. And love your neighbor as yourself.

If the national debt rose or fell, if immigrants were ousted or welcomed, if discrimination stamped out love like some feared or acceptance for all became the rule, nothing would change for us. We’d still talk to the girl at the bus stop, remove snow in the winter for the neighbors, take in kids in crisis, pick up the garbage. We’d still notice the invisible ones living among us, respond to the needs that were delivered to our door, and say no to the callings that were good but not meant for us.

And we’d stay rooted in the One who is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

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*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.

A day of leis

A whiff of concern floats to me on the tropical breeze, but just like that it dissipates over the Pacific. The country unravels, it seems, while we romp on the beaches of The Big Island. We always hoped for a Hawaiian vacation for our family one day, and here it is at the very beginning of 2021, sooner than we expected, thanks to the pandemic driving airline ticket prices to irresistible lows.

We swapped snow for sand, so why not push away politics for plumeria too?

A mound of fresh blossoms on the table in front of me is ready for piercing in this lei making class the Sheraton Kona Resort offers. While the nation churns in her conflicts, beauty and fragrance meld in my hands. And I forget to worry.

… whatsoever things are lovely… think on these things.

The teacher of the class speaks, her words melodic even through her mask. Nothing about the task is difficult—only soothing—as we sew nature into necklaces with the longest needles I’ve ever seen. Soon, we wear our work.

And I can’t stop smiling.

(In upcoming weeks, I have stories to tell you about our Hawaiian adventures, but for now, enjoy some pictures from our lei making day.)

*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.

2021: your words for the new year

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

Last week, I invited you to share the words you chose as inspiration for your 2021. Enjoy some of my readers’ responses today.

*****

My word for 2021 is Energy. Finding it. Using it. Giving it.

Becky, Mahtomedi, Minnesota

*****

LOVE - With a year behind us that was filled with struggles and division. Loving our neighbors, both close and far.  Taking the time to support, understand, and love one another is what will start to bring healing and unity. 

Lauren, Minneapolis, Minnesota

*****

Trust! In 2021 I will trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not unto my own understanding, in all my ways I will acknowledge him and he will direct my path. Trust!

Armanda, Saint Paul, Minnesota

*****

I must choose two words: gratitude and perseverance.  I feel like I have gratitude down pat - I have SO much to be grateful for -until I forget to be grateful and give in a bit to sadness. So perseverance that will lead back again to gratitude is essential! 

Sandy, Lacombe, Louisiana

*****

Tender. My goal is to focus on a tender (and gentler) approach to being a wife and mama.

An excerpt from a book I’m reading: “Dream big, let yourself imagine a home where the heart sets the tone of loving kindness, a home where your first reaction is compassion instead of annoyance, where you replace fiery cycle of anger & guilt with conviction and spiritual growth; a place where you draw the hearts of your children towards grace and every one of you thrives.”

When we apply Truth to our hearts the Holy Spirit does all the work and God gets all of the glory.

An attainable and fulfilling goal for me and my family!

Leah, San Pedro, California

*****

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*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.

2021: new year, new word

As I type this, it’s almost 2021.

Words swirl in my mind about 2020, the year we walked through—or maybe stumbled through—together, but enough of that. I’m looking ahead now. And I have my word for 2021.

I’d like to say I chose my word, but I’ll be honest. As usual, it chose me.

Abundance.

Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.

Now what about you, reader? Do you have a word to guide and inspire you this new year too?

If you’d like to share it with us, send me a message HERE with your word for 2021 and why you chose it, and I’ll publish your writing in next week’s blog (along with your first name, city, and state.) (Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email.)

Happy New Year!

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*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.

Life and lists

  1. An empty house to clean before its closing on December 16.

  2. Umpteen moving boxes, labeled and stowed in a storage unit.

  3. An out-of-town funeral two days ago.

  4. The last of the dog’s antibiotic and pain pills (prescribed after her accident), given this morning.

  5. Peaceful sleep in our temporary digs in Lauderdale, Minnesota.

The above-mentioned items have characterized our family’s life this past week. I wish I could say I have fresh writing for you to enjoy, dear reader, but alas! I don’t.

What I do have, though, is a little blog post from December 2017, reminding us how Christmas movies can hit us right in the sweet tooth.

(Don’t forget to brush your teeth afterward!)

*****

In late November, I phoned Comcast about the amount of our cable bill, which had crept up on us like holiday weight gain. An employee assured me that yes, they could lower it, since we had been loyal customers for fifteen years. In a sudden craving for something sweet, I asked if they could also add a cable package, simply for the Hallmark Channel and only for the month of December. My wish was granted, and I invited the family to join me at our new holiday entertainment buffet. But only one person accepted my invitation: Flicka.

“Let’s see if we can watch one Christmas movie every day in the month of December,” I said in the Triple Dog Dare tone of Schwartz in A Christmas Story.

My girl accepted the challenge, and her stamina matched mine. She and I devoured movie after movie—and not just on Hallmark. We dipped into Netflix and Amazon for some seasonal saccharine too.

“Have we seen this one?” I asked her last week, scrolling through Hallmark’s movie schedule.

She squinted at the offerings. “They’re all starting to look alike.”

“There are only a couple of plot lines,” I said.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

I grabbed a notebook. “Let’s make a list of common themes.”

The following are our findings in holiday movies (and we may or may not have discussed these at length over goodies):

  1. The main character is most likely young, pretty, single, white, and blonde. She’s often a workaholic and lives in a city.

  2. She takes an ex, a co-worker, or a friend (who’s attracted to her, but she’s oblivious) home for the holidays to fake that he’s her boyfriend/fiancé to please her mother who constantly pressures her to find a man. And a tangled mess ensues. (Plot #1)

  3. She goes back to the small town of her upbringing to plunge herself into a cause like saving a bakery, inn, or other, from destruction or commercial redevelopment. She rediscovers the spirit of Christmas and a sense of community, while reigniting feelings for a past love. Her city boyfriend/fiancé surprises her with a visit, and her life unravels—for like five minutes. (Plot #2)

  4. A funeral or inheritance brings her back to her hometown at the holidays. She doesn’t want to be there and has long ago lost her Christmas spirit. But things change when she finds love and cheer in the place of her childhood. (Plot #3)

  5. The young woman’s mother—if not desperately wanting her married—is dead, and her father has remarried a woman who’s very nice, although the younger woman doesn’t think so. (She hasn’t gotten over the loss of Mom yet.)

  6. The idyllic and festive small town often has a holiday-related name: Evergreen, Snow Falls, or Hollyvale, to name a few. Flicka and I wonder how a wintry name for a town feels for the characters in July.

  7. The city man she ultimately rejects (in favor of the small town guy) has undesirable qualities, but they’re not too bad. The small town love interest has a past she’ll have to get over, but that’s not really too bad either. The new man (small town guy) is single, because he never found the one, or his wife died; he’s never divorced.

  8. The main character is lovably clumsy, adorably bad at cooking, or inept in some other cute way. But rest assured, the new object of her affection will lend a hand and save her from herself.

  9. You can count on an elevator scene. And who gets stuck in the elevator? That’s right; the woman and her new man—probably before they even like each other!—and there’s mistletoe hanging in there. Uh-oh.

  10. In the final scene, the new couple embraces outside at night. They suddenly look up. It’s snowing! And they act like they’ve never seen snow before.

Holiday movies are as delicious as the cookies we nosh while we watch, because there’s love at the end. But remember that story about the man and his young pregnant wife looking for a place to stay, and they’re out of options? They end up giving birth to their baby in a barn, and shepherds come over for a visit.

There’s love at the end of that one too. And it’s my favorite.

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*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.

 

God With Us

Advent. A time of expectant waiting and preparation.

These days, our family waits for big things to come. Nothing compared with those who waited over two-thousand years ago for God With Us, but we wait for a new future anyway.

Early this fall, the green light came. The Voice in our spirits. The Divine Nudge. And we took the big step.

On October 9, we met a realtor to discuss our plans to sell our North Minneapolis house, our home for eighteen years. On November 6, our place went on the market, and on November 9, someone made an offer on it. The quickness of the buyer’s action didn’t surprise us, though; as we know from the Resurrection story, a lot can happen in three days.

In October, we found a new home in Fridley, made an offer, and signed the purchase agreement, but that’s a story for another day.

This week has been fraught with struggles. The challenges of a move are one thing; in a strange way, they’re a pleasure. On Monday, though, a troubled man pounded on our door, waking us in the night and robbing our sleep. On Tuesday, Husband’s father passed away in Valley City, North Dakota. On Wednesday, our dog Lala was hit by a car on the street in front of our house as we loaded our vehicles to move.

Today, our thoughts are both heavy and light.

We think of our neighbor, constant issues plaguing his life and spilling into ours.

We think of my father-in-law and the girls’ grandpa, a man of integrity, now gone.

We think of Lala and the gift of her presence. That vehicle—going over 40 mph when it hit her—didn’t steal her life after all. When the vet told us she had neither broken bones nor internal bleeding—only bruising and a lacerated paw—the four of us who had witnessed the hideous accident knew we had also witnessed a miracle.

Let’s wait together this Advent season. It’s not easy. But let’s wait in hope, knowing our peace—even though it might not feel like it—has already come.

God with us.

Our dog Lala.jpg

*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.

Negative space

In art, when the subject of a picture is lessened somehow—or goes away altogether—the negative space appears. Sometimes it forms an image of its own, and I wonder why I didn’t see it at first.

Today I contemplate the negative space of 2020, the background blessings I perceive more than the main objects I’m supposed to see.

The main objects in the picture—the virus, the dissension, the election—are disturbing like bleeping smoke alarms, frightening like leaking carbon monoxide, unnerving like creeping black mold.

But what surrounds those “objects” in my life? What makes up the negative space of my picture?

Our girls, all living under our roof, close enough for me to squeeze.

Our refrigerator, full of ingredients to create meals at home.

Our cars, parked more and requiring less gas than ever.

Our Peace, securing my life as I breathe.

It turns out the negative space of my days is bright, strong, beautiful—and it overflows the entire scene.

This Thanksgiving, what do you see? What’s in the negative space of your life?

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*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.

Fruit (part 9): SELF-CONTROL

Here we are in our ninth and final week of the series. This last fruit doesn’t sound glamorous. It sounds restrictive and hard. But here it is anyway, as necessary to the bowl as the other fruits.

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

With Thanksgiving barreling toward us, you’d think self-control is all about what lands on our plates, but no. Life gives us many other opportunities and times to practice it.

Like today.

*****

A shelf in the bathroom stands empty, and peace pulses through my veins as I gaze at it. It’s a space where a stack of bath towels normally lives, but I’m behind on the laundry right now. I drink in the void, and inspiration swells my chest. Emptiness equals possibilities.

I’ve left walls in my living room blank on purpose. Let the throw pillows sing; let the paint speak, is what I always say. Beauty fills the bareness.

I practice the art of restraint in my home décor, but what if I practiced emptiness more in my speech? I think of the tongue this week because the topic chases me down in three ways; a memory, a verse, and a good idea all come to me when I haven’t asked for them.

I remember my grandma, a woman who guarded her words. She released only the vetted ones and only when the time was right. Her language obeyed the checklist she had set in place: Is it true? Is it helpful? Is it inspiring? Is it necessary? Is it kind?

True. Helpful. Inspiring. Necessary. Kind.

THINK. A handy acronym for when I want to blurt an assessment of what I see in the world around me. But can I remember to use it?

 

I’m scouring the internet, searching for the brittle, plastic stuff of life—temporary things—as if they matter. I see a still open tab I don’t recall. I click on it.

When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise.

I chuckle over both the old language as well as the verse’s sharp relevance. And I savor it for a minute. I want this to be me. I want to be wise.

 

I fire off a text to Husband over something forgettable. My day requires me to relay a fact to him. I key in the statement, then add another sentence—a complaint coated in worry. But a good idea rescues me, overpowering my urge to press send. My finger hovers over the button. When do I think through my texts to Husband? Never. He can handle both my positivity and negativity, can’t he? That’s part of a spouse’s job description, isn’t it?

Or is it?

I take a breath and hit delete. My second sentence disappears—and it’s a wise thing. The truth of the first sentence is enough.

 

I think of all I can say about life, but today isn’t calling me to release those words. Instead, what’s calling is the shelf in the bathroom.

As pretty as the emptiness is, it’s time to fold some towels.

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*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.

 

 

Fruit (part 8): GENTLENESS

Not much about this world feels gentle, but here we are with the fruit bowl right in front of us telling us gentleness is true—and available to us. Help yourself to some today.

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

Here’s GENTLENESS, the conclusion of FAITHFULNESS, last week’s piece of fiction I wrote for you.

*****

She stared at her feet. The sun danced through the open door, and his shadow passed through it too, stopping in front of her.

How could he come here?

She felt a finger under her chin, raising it. He was too good for her house, her gaze, but she looked at him anyway.

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

The reality of her surroundings stabbed her: floor boards warped by storm waters, tiles shattered by abuse, and wallpaper beaten up by life—all a far cry from the glorious architectural model he had created. She tensed, bracing herself for accusations.

He pointed to the kitchen. “May I?”

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

He worked throughout the afternoon and evening, replacing the kitchen cabinetry and countertops, installing a marble sink and new faucet, tearing up the old tile and laying new. Stunned by his precision and artistry, she observed his quick work. Who could accomplish this much in a day? Exhausted, she dragged herself into the living room, sank into the dusty sofa, and curled into a ball.

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

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

He settled into an armchair near her. And then we’ll talk. Her heart sank. Would the shredding words come now? After the kitchen renovation and delicious meal, would he slice her to pieces for all of her sins?

He spoke, his voice rich and musical, and explained his plans for her house. Only the best for his beloved, he said. Warmth filled her chest.

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

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

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

She put out both her hands, and he drew her to himself. Tears spilled from her eyes; he thumbed them away.

A beat of silence—peace too.

“Okay,” she said, “we can go now.”

 

One night in the new place, she turned over in bed, restless. Memories of the old life tiptoed in—the ones that left marks in her soul. Regret climbed onto the mattress next to her, and it might as well; she had made her bed, hadn’t she?

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

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

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

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

She looked through the glass and frowned. “But this is a different view.”

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

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

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

He nodded. “Always.”

“But I haven’t seen anyone out there before.” She stepped closer to the world outside, squinting.

“You weren’t looking.”

Her eyes were open now.

 

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

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

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

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

One day, her doctor gave her the kind of news a person dreads throughout life.

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

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

“Oh.” Her chin wobbled. As usual, though, there he was, sitting beside her. She gazed at him. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

His eyes smiled again. “I’m here.”

The doctor cocked her head. “What did you say?”

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

 

In the following months, illness gnawed away at her life, but her house grew more beautiful. In his gentleness, he worked at it because as long as she breathed, he had a plan.

On their walk one day, she plodded along. Everything hurt now, but if she stopped moving, she might never move again.

“This is hard,” she said, “and I’m scared.”

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

She heard his heart beat. “Don’t leave me.”

His eyes still smiled. “I’m here.”

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

ballroom window.jpg

*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.

Fruit (part 7): FAITHFULNESS

Years ago, I wrote this piece of fiction. It’s about the seventh fruit in the bowl.

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

In this fickle culture, faithfulness is irresistible. Enjoy it. It’s for you.

*****

“I love you,” he said.

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

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

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

She sought love elsewhere on her own terms—the kind of love that matched hers—and found it came in many packages: frightening, complicated, exacting. But those loves took her farther than she wanted to go and kept her longer than she intended to stay. At last, she left them—all of them. But the years were eaten up, and she was dry and used, her looks faded.

Now who would want her?

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

She was curious.

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

After many hours, she steered the car onto the well-known, winding road. And there it was: her old, broken-down house. She pulled into the driveway, put the car into park, and stared. A wave of failure sloshed over her. She had never been able to maintain the property alone, and it was worse than ever, this home she had never invited him to enter. He had knocked many times, but his love for her was too pure, too undeserved—and her place was always such a mess. She sighed.

But what was that ahead? She squinted. Off to the side, in a pool of sunlight, stood a small structure.  

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

As she drank in the hope, something rustled behind her. His warm gaze rested on her back. And for the first time, she wanted it. She couldn’t turn around now, though; she hadn’t showered or put on makeup. She dashed through the old house’s unlocked front door, slammed it behind her, and dropped onto the tattered sofa, causing a plume of dust to rise. Her heart hammered.  

A knock at the door. That familiar knock.

What now? She had nothing left and no energy to move. But maybe it was time.

She stood, strode across the room, and unclasped the door.

“Come in,” she said.  

(To be continued next week…)

old farmhouse.jpg

*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.

Fruit (part 6): GOODNESS

When life tastes rotten, here’s a fruit that comforts. Maybe we need it more than ever right now.

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

In 2016, I wrote this story about a very special woman. She’s gone now, but the impact of her life is far from over.

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Almost through.” Grandma’s finger came at my eye and brushed out the offending speck. She unfurled my eyelid and let me go. Life was good again.

 

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

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

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

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

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

Some of Grandma’s handiwork.

Some of Grandma’s handiwork.

*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.

Fruit (part 5): KINDNESS

Delicious and refreshing, today’s fruit, kindness, tastes really good to me today. I’ve been able to pluck it from the bowl to give others, and others have served it to me too.

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

Enjoy today’s story about a stroll that turned into an adventure.

*****

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

“I will.” Flicka stepped into her shoes by the door, and the three of us set off.

The first walk of spring always reveals what winter tries to hide under its pristine covering. After the melt, we witness the naked truth of inner-city living. Old chip bags and candy wrappers speckle sidewalks, and four months of doggy-doo pepper the boulevard in front of that one house.

Our enthusiasm not dampened by our surroundings that day, we breathed in air that hinted at gardens and sandals, barbecues and bike rides. And Lala trotted along between Flicka and me, her nose twitching; her world of smells was new again.

Up ahead, two young men stood on the corner of the next block. Soon, we would reach them, but Lala was uneasy near strangers when on her leash; I would cut across the street before getting too close. One of the men motioned to me and called out something I couldn’t decipher. People had approached me before on that corner—and I hadn’t had spare change on me then either.

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

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

“No.” I furrowed my brow. “Why?”

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

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

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

The young men nodded.

“I’ll go,” I said.

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

Before joining the search, I waved to the two men. “You guys are the best.”

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

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

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

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

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

I exhaled tension, and my concern fluttered away. “Thank goodness.”

The driver of the van circled back to pick up her friend. And Flicka, Lala, and I strode home.


Each day holds things we hardly notice: cups of coffee and hot showers, dog walks and grocery runs. But acts of kindness perk up the mundane, don’t they? During that first walk of spring all those years ago, a tiny neighbor in a green coat rattled the lives of eight people for two minutes on one block in North Minneapolis. And just like that, our priorities melded. We rallied forces so even the smallest among us was safe.

Kindness does big things. And it makes sure we all find our way home.

toddler.jpg

*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.