Bookworms and Blueberries

“Mom, what does ‘i-dee-lick’ mean?” I looked up from my bread dough to meet the chocolate brown eyes of my youngest daughter. Slightly confused by what could only be incorrect pronunciation, I requested she spell it.

“Idyllic.” I said. “It means peaceful or calm, pleasant.” I paused, thinking. “I spent an idyllic afternoon in the hammock.” Satisfied, Tessa returned to her book and I, to the pounding of the dough.

Tessa was a reader. While her older brother and sister were usually found outside chasing butterflies or playing catch, I could count on finding Tessa curled up in a chair, book in one hand, the other one twisting a lock of hair.

I certainly didn’t mind! I was an avid reader myself. Todd and Tara were too, but they much preferred the outdoor activities of the farm and helping their dad during the day. Save the book reading for evenings when daylight was gone, or the weather too unpleasant to play in. 

Ours was a good life, this one my husband and I had carved. Country kids, both of us, when the McGregor Farm came up for sale, we couldn’t think of a better place to raise a family. We doled out chores along with discipline and manners. It was the way our parents raised us and their parents had raised them.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched my eight year olds mouth work its way around another unfamiliar word. My heart surged with pride for her independent streak that would not allow her to ask for help until she had exhausted her own efforts. Sure enough I saw her face alight with comprehension and she sank deeper into her little world.

I moved the bread dough to the warming oven and wiped my hands. “Tess, tear yourself away from your book a minute and come take a walk with me.”

She groaned but obeyed. While I was glad she loved to read, I worried that my little bookworm wasn’t getting enough physical activities. As we made our way down the worn path to the garden, I looked closely at Tessa. In the sunlight, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes and wondered how long she’d stayed awake the night before, reading under the covers. I circled my arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to me. Instantly she stood straighter.

It had been a busy productive summer as usual and perhaps I had been too busy to really pay attention to my quiet compliant child. With a rowdy thirteen year old son and a precocious eleven year old daughter clamoring for my time, Tessa was the easy one. Maybe too easy, and too often overlooked with all these things demanding my attention. I resolved to spend some extra time with Tessa before school resumed next month.

We had reached the blueberries and we knelt together as I handed Tessa a bucket that rested against the fencepost. For some time we picked berries in companionable silence, enjoying the plinking of plump ripe fruit as it landed in the buckets. The sunlight danced across the burnished red of the blueberry bush. The cooing of a dove lulled us.

“Mom?” Tessa’s voice broke the stillness. “Is this an i-dyl-lic moment?”

Sitting back on my heels, I studied her small face for a moment, brushing a strand of hair so I could see her eyes better. A memory floated to the surface like a picture from a storybook. I was a child picking vegetables from the garden with my mother. It was a memory awash in sunshine, fragrant and rich. Tessa grinned at me. A wave of love rushed over me, a love so fierce, so pure. I wished I could freeze frame this moment.

"Idyllic? Yes, Tessa, I believe it is.”

* this story will soon be appearing in an upcoming publication, "Mixed Blessings, Simple Pleasures" a series of anthologies brought to you by Breath of Fresh Air Press. For more information on Breath of Fresh Air Press please like their Facebook page or look for them on the Faithwriters website.

Cards on the Table

Single parenting sucks. I don’t normally use the slang of my children, but I can’t think of any other word to describe how I feel these days. As justified as I believe I am for divorcing my children’s father, it still carries pain, shame and guilt. Compounding this is the fact that my 15 year old son Nolan, has chosen to live with his dad while 12 year old Cara remains with me. Single parents and children divided makes for some funny math.

At the table, I move a stack of mail, car keys and overdue library books. A box of unopened Christmas cards remains. The cards, bought at last year’s clearance sale, are generic and secular. I am not sure how to sign them so there they sit. 

After dinner Cara spreads her books out on the table and studies. I spread out my address book, list and the Christmas cards and reflect.

In years passed the cards would bare four names: Cara, Nolan, their dad’s and mine. I stare at what I have written on the card: Love Kate & Cara. It feels wrong somehow. I have two children. How can I not sign Nolan’s name? But adding it, when he's not living with us would feel like a sham somehow. I procrastinate by making tea for me, hot cider for Cara. We talk and then get ready for bed. The cards remain on the table.

A week goes by and the unsigned cards nag at me. I decide it will be easier to not send any and move them to storage.

Christmas has come again and I am looking for the box with the nativity figures when I re-discover the unsent, unsigned cards from the previous year. I bring them out to the kitchen and unceremoniously dump them on the table right next to the pile of this year’s Christmas cards. I bought them last week and they feature a stable, angels and a bright star. I have started addressing envelopes. This past summer Cara went to live with her dad so the only name that should go on the card would be mine. I stare at what I have written: Love & blessings, Kate. It looks sad and depressing. I ball the card up and toss it in the trash. I make hot chocolate with a generous splash of Bailey’s Irish Cream and watch TV until bedtime. The cards remain on the table.

Each night when I come home the cards mock me until finally I add them to the box of donations going to Goodwill.

Another year. Another Christmas. A lot has happened this year.... I am engaged to Mr. Wonderful! We are busy with wedding plans. Christmas cards are an unnecessary distraction. Instead, we spend evenings at the table addressing elegant wedding invitations and making eyes at each other. Will and Joey accompany their dad, Nolan visits often and Cara moves back. The table is a noisy, happy place. We sip champagne and sparkling cider and laugh.

I make numerous trips to the post office and hum Christmas tunes. It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

Christmas rolls around again. Our house is full. In addition to my husband and two stepsons, both my children are living with us. We pose for a family snapshot and have it made into glossy Christmas cards. We gather each evening at the table and sign ALL our names on the cards. A bold question mark is added representing the new little someone growing inside me. We indulge in eggnog and seal the envelopes shut.

The Advent Cradle

“One more box and I’ll be done.” She straightened, trying to ease the knots in her back.

Caroline had been toting boxes down from the attic most of the morning and had earned the right to put her feet up and sip a sweet cup of flavored coffee. The only thing left to bring down was the cradle and it was too heavy for her to lug by herself. She would have Spence tend to it when he came in.

Hand crafted from oak, the cradle had been passed down through several generations. Every one of their five children had slept in it.

She heard the door and felt the cold rush of wind that accompanied her husband through the entrance. He deposited a load of firewood in the wood box and turned, rubbing his hands, looking expectantly for his own cup of coffee. Caroline had already poured it and they sat at the wide kitchen table in companionable silence for a time.

Spence noticed the boxes stacked in the hallway. “Need me to bring down the cradle?”

“If you could before the kids get home from school, I would sure appreciate it.” She moved to the stove to stir a pot of beans that simmered there. “I know I say this every year, but I can’t believe it’s that time already!”

Spence nodded in agreement as he made his way over to the stairs. She went to the cupboard for a dust cloth. It would need a wipe down before it was put in place.

The tradition of the cradle’s place in Christmas was as old as the cradle itself, if not more. Caroline could recall many a lean winter where gift exchanges were few but she could not imagine a Christmas without the cradle.

Spence deposited the cherished rocker near the fireplace. “I’ll bring in a bundle of straw when I come up for lunch.” He kissed the top of her auburn head and headed back to the barn. Caroline hummed as she dusted the cradle, and memories of years past stirred with the swirls of dust.

She must have been about four or five when the tradition of the cradle in her families Christmas celebration was made clear to her. The cradle had been placed in a prominent place in the house, along with a bucket of straw.

“This is the season of Advent” explained her mother. “Advent means the arrival of something important. We need to prepare the cradle for the arrival of the baby Jesus.” 

They were kneeling by the cradle. “Each time you do an act of kindness without being told, you may slip a piece of straw into the cradle. Each time you show love to someone, you may slip a piece of straw into the cradle. If we all do our part in showing love and kindness, by the time Christmas Day arrives, the cradle will be full of straw; a nice warm soft bed for the baby Jesus.”

Sure enough, without exception, the cradle was always brimming with straw by Christmas Eve. Caroline’s children loved the Advent Cradle part of Christmas. Often, to Caroline, it was the best part. With a farm to run and each one having an important part in the daily chores, harmony was essential. The Advent Cradle was a little added incentive, especially during a time of year when outdoor chores became especially tedious.

By mid day Caroline had arranged the straw bucket and cradle, set up the crèche and baked the first batch of sugar cookies. Together with the children, the rest of the house would be decorated a little bit each evening. The bulk of it would take place when the tree was brought home the week before Christmas. Breaking it up into small sections helped keep anticipation high.

As she rolled out cookie dough she welcomed the season with an attitude of reflection. As she listened to carols she thought of those who were most important to her and how she could best show love to them during Advent. She thought of what is must have been like that night in the stable. A barn filled with animals, a manger of straw, astonished shepherds, two amazed parents and a blazing star in the sky!

She saw the school bus and listened to the excited voices of her children growing louder as they neared the old farmhouse. Caroline smiled, waiting for their entrance and acknowledgment of the cradle as the signal that Advent Season had begun.

Impulsive, Impetuous Snap

I don’t really know when I was given the nickname “Snap” but I can tell you several reasons why.

“You were no bigger than this.” Daddy would say, snapping his fingers together. Mother says it’s because I was such an easy baby that taking care of me was a snap. And Grandma says it’s my dark coppery colored hair that reminds her of her favorite cookie, gingersnaps. All of these explanations are fine with me. Over the years, my impulsive nature for making snap decisions has given the name new meaning. 

“Snap, why oh why?” was my families most used expression. As in… Why oh why did you cover the puppy with suntan lotion? (Innocent face, age 5) Why oh why were you climbing on top of the fence (emergency room, age 9) why oh why didn’t you check the fuel gage? (ran out of gas, age 16)

And then there were the whys they already knew the answers to. When I invited the homeless woman to come home with me for dinner (after the preacher spoke on the sheep and the goats) When I gave my new winter coat to the girl who sat next to me (shivering every day on the bus, wearing only a thin sweater) When I rescued the box of kittens from the grocery store parking lot (Mom, the boy said his dad was going to drown them if he didn’t find homes for them!) 

As I got older, I tried to temper my impulses but my poor college roommates still had to adjust to finding strangers joining us for dinner, or sleeping bodies curled up in blankets on the living room floor.

When my husband and I eloped, (why, oh why… never mind… exclaimed my family) he thought he knew enough about me to prepare himself for the unstructured existence joining our lives together was going to bring. And I was learning to pray before jumping in. (Lord, I’m going in, cover me!) 

Still, the shock of discovering baby skunks in the bathroom, (the mother was hit by a car) a piano in the hallway (don’t ask) and a wall knocked out between the girls rooms (they like being together, what mother doesn’t want to hear that?) did nothing to prepare him for the day I brought home Mickie. 

“What do you mean you want us to adopt her? Snap, she’s a grown woman!” 

“Yes, but she has no family, has never had a family and her last name isn’t really even hers.”

Mickie had shown up at the shelter, where I volunteer, several months previous. She had been beaten, robbed of what little she had and a vacant look in her eyes that broke my heart more than any baby skunk or kitten ever had. We did everything we could to help her and she began to thrive. She seemed comfortable with me and a friendship flourished. She was 19 but emotionally much, much younger. She had been raised in various foster homes where she was repeatedly abused by both the families and the system. I came to realize her deepest desire was to have a family that would love her and in return she could allow the love locked inside her to spill out. 

And I found out that the last name she had been given was a name assigned by social services to satisfy the paperwork. 

My idea was for us to adopt Mickie legally so she could have a name that would mean something to her. My husband was not convinced. A baby was something he could understand and even warm up to. A grown woman with a questionable past was not. 

It took some long discussions, (persuasive, tenacious, and well thought-out) but eventually he caved. I did the research on adopting an adult and when I had all my ducks in a row, shared my idea with Mickie. She sat very still for a long time and then slowly began to cry. And nodded her head with the affirmative when I asked her if this was ok. 

When Adoption Day finally arrived, Mickie shyly pressed a small package into my hand. Inside I found a silver chain with a tiny circular object hanging from it. She pulled a similar necklace from inside her blouse. I recognized the objects as each half of a fastener. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. Seems my nickname had gained another meaning.

Without a word, we brought the two circular objects together and grinned as we heard the pleasant sounding snap.

In Denial

I love reading Jan Ackerson's blog  One Hundred Words. I have tried a few times to do as she does, capture a character in 100 words, to suggest in just a few sentences,an entire plot. It's a challenge to be sure. But a fun one!  

The following is based on a true experience (not mine). One thing I have learned as a survivor: when such things are brought into the light, it loses it's power. Here's to breaking the bond of silence and letting the truth be told in order to be set free! 

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When Nellie was 14, and you didn’t talk about such things, she was raped. Once Nellie's mother realized Nellie was pregnant, she whisked her away to a home for girls in such condition. 

When the baby was born, Nellie turned her face away. She returned home, her mother firmly stating, it didn't happen. 

Her father long dead, today, Nellie greets people following her mother's memorial. At 64, silver hair neatly coiffed, Nellie looks regal, strong, unflappable. But for those paying attention, Nellie is heard to repeatedly murmur, "My father raped me when I was a girl. My father raped me." 

The Little Orange Typewriter

“It’s a typewriter!”

I had dug through the newspaper-filled box and this was what I found in the mystery gift that my grandmother had sent me. It was not my birthday, nowhere near close to Christmas and besides that, my grandma was a stern no nonsense Dutch woman; parting with hard earned money did not match her personality.

The compact bright orange typewriter with lid/travel case sat on our kitchen table as we all studied and marveled over it. I was just thirteen; it was not the age of word processors or computers—typewriters were God’s gift to aspiring writers… or in this case, Grandma’s gift!

The occasion for this magnificent present had to do with a story I had written for a Christian youth publication called “Young Ambassadors.” Every year they featured a young writers contest. If chosen, your story would be published in their January/February issues. I had written a short story, submitted it months before, and promptly forgot about it.

Then a couple of weeks ago the letter had arrived, congratulating me on placing and telling me that they were sending me a prize under separate cover (a long playing record album of award winning Christian music). I was ecstatic! My family was proud. And my grandmother? Obviously, she believed in me and my ability to live out the dream I often stated: I want to be a writer when I grow up.

The first thing I did was purchase typing paper and set out to master the art of typing. I am proud to say I quickly became, and still am today, very proficient in the art of the ‘hunt & peck” method of typing. 

The little orange typewriter (it was so cute!) occupied a spot on my desk in my bedroom for many years. I found I preferred to write in long hand however; my ideas seemed to flow so much better with a pen then with pounding the keys. Still it was comforting to look over at the typewriter, a symbol of someone’s faith in me that I would some day do mighty things with words!

The years went by; marriage, children; and the typewriter, though seldom used, went with me. The painful decision to leave the marriage came abruptly and with that came a hurried attempt to gather what few belongings I could.  The little orange typewriter was among them. My grandmother had long since passed away and my typing skills had not improved, but it was still one of my prized possessions. So it is painful to remember the day, when desperate for cash, I pawned some of my nonessential belongings… the little orange typewriter being one of them.

How profoundly grateful I am that I am not one of God’s expendables. For even on my darkest days, when I feel of little or no value, He speaks to me of my worth: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. (Isaiah 43:1 NLT)

Those words remind me of the ultimate price that was paid to release me from my captivity and bondage.

 "In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace." (Ephesians 1:7 NKJV).  Or as it says in The Message: Because of the sacrifice of the Messiah, his blood poured out on the altar of the Cross, we're a free people--free of penalties and punishments chalked up by all our misdeeds. And not just barely free, either. [Abundantly] free!

I may not have been able to ransom my little orange typewriter from the pawnshop, but daily, with grace abounding, God redeems me. Abundantly!