Emptiness

I first posted this one in 2019, but it has pricked my thinking again lately. Maybe it’s not for you. For sure it’s for me. I need a little more emptiness in my life.

*****

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, 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.

New year, new word (your responses for 2025)

Thank you to all of you readers who responded to my post last week with your words for 2025. You inspire me! Here’s what you sent me:

For 2025, my word represents a desire to accept new things and, moreover, to allow in (at least for consideration) the regular, daily things that so often spark a negative reaction and/or desire to push back and away. Fear of embarrassment in social situations, the frustration/panic/anger that comes from disagreements with those I love, the worry that something won’t work out or the disappointment and chronic overthinking when something has not gone as I believed it “should” have. A message I wrote on my refrigerator reminds me... “What would happen if you were brave enough?” My word for 2025 is Embrace! To take in or on with enthusiasm and gladness! To choose openness and curiosity over defensiveness and rightness! As of this writing (01/04/25), it is working great!

Deborah, Beldenville, Wisconsin

*****

I have never had a word for the year until this year! As I was sitting in the DRC listening to the head chief of the village, he was pleading for more support for widows to start a small business and more support for orphans to attend school because of the great changes that he had already observed in his village from the current supported widows and students. It came to me what an “opportunity”! And God spoke to my heart and said 2025 is going to be a year of great “opportunity.” So, for the first time in my life I have a word for the year: Opportunity. It’s kind of fun and exciting to see what God has in store for 2025!

Ace, Cataract, Wisconsin

*****

Listen is my word this year. Listen to the voice of God. Listen to those around me who are speaking. Listen to the sounds around me. Listen to “whatsoever is true and pure and lovely”.

Sharon, Orlando, Florida

*****

I have been eager to share my word with you for almost a year!

I have thought often of PERSPECTIVE ever since I came across a prayer of Jehoshaphat in 2 Chronicles 20:12. Jehoshaphat was facing impossible battle odds. He said to God, “We are powerless. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You.” When I found myself praying that same way a few times, it came to me that I needed a different perspective. And that was also the time I realized the word was the one I would pass on to Tamara for 2025. I still badly need that word—that view.

Helene, Roseville, Minnesota

*****

My word is: DISCOVER

After several years of caregiving for elderly parents, and grieving the passing of those beloved parents, I am now looking at a year of rebuilding and restructuring. I want to discover new things in my external world as well as discover (or rediscover) personal attributes and interests. By doing this, I will map out the beginning of my next chapter!

Ann, Minneapolis, Minnesota

*****

Expansion

Jean Paul, Roseville, Minnesota

*****

Time to thrive!

Shantell, Maple Grove, Minnesota

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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.

New year, new word (2025 edition)

Today is about you, reader.  

Do you have a word/verse/idea for this new year? What is it? And why?  

If you’d like to have your answer published in next Thursday’s blog installment, send me a message HERE by Wednesday, January 8, 9:00 p.m. CST. Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email. (Please include your city and state with your submission.)  

On December 22, 2024, in the quiet of the morning with my journal on my lap, my word for 2025 dropped into my spirit: 

FRESHEN 

What’s old can be made new. Dry bones can rise up and live again. The dead can walk.  

For I will satisfy the weary soul, and every languishing soul I will replenish. 

I’m excited for a cool-drink-of-water sort of year. 

What about you? 

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Advent: Parts 4 & 5 (love & light)

Imposing, overwhelming, and sometimes surrounded by fire and lightning. The angels appearing on the first Christmas didn’t give off a sense of comfort when they showed up. Their imperative to “Fear not!” was necessary then and throughout all time as they delivered news.

When celestial beings intercept a person’s life, the impetus to fall on one’s face in their presence is the only response. There’s nothing fluffy or cute about their appearances, and I connect those otherworldly ones to stunning purity, unearthly light, and solemn messages, but I never link them to love. They bring messages of love, though, over and over again, because the Message Sender is love.

In the Old Testament, after a prophet of renown collapsed during an angelic visit, the heavenly host said, “O Daniel, man greatly loved, understand the words I speak to you, and stand upright, for now I have been sent to you.”

A man greatly loved. A visit from a messenger of love.

Last Sunday ignited the fourth light of Advent, the Candle of Love, and I’ve thought about love every day since then. The fourth candle is also called the angel’s candle.

Usually, the woman informs the man of a positive pregnancy test, but one day in Nazareth, everything changed. This time, the Father broke the news to Mary—a young woman God deeply loved and favored—through Gabriel, an angel. And after the baby’s delivery, heavenly hosts blasted the announcement to some working shepherds who spread the Word to the world. All the news about the baby came through angels—and it was all about love.

On Christmas yesterday, we basked in the brightness of the fifth candle—the Christ candle—also called the candle of light. The last flame in the Advent wreath.

I contemplated darkness and shuddered; I thought about light and breathed. Both spiritual darkness and light surround us.

On December 21 was the winter solstice: the shortest period of light, the longest night, the deepest darkness. I snapped on more lamps in the house. Each day following winter solstice, though, we see one more minute of light. And it reminds us.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.

Maybe we’ve already snuffed out the Advent wreath’s fifth flame and packed away its candles. Fear not; the world is ignited anyway. The Light has come.

Oh, yes, He has.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Advent: Part 3 (joy)

“For the sake of my story and considering HIPAA,” one of my clients said during our meeting yesterday, “I’ll call the person I serve Joy.”

She talked about the difficulties of scheduling hours for her client’s in-home care and how her supervisor misunderstood her this week. I listened and responded accordingly, but the pseudonym she had picked lodged in my mind. Of all the names in all the world, she chose Joy. And I thought of my stillborn sister—a baby gone before she came—who entered the world on December 2, 1968. Her name was Joy too.

On my drive home, I clicked on the radio. The beloved Christmas song, in the middle of its second stanza, played:

While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat the sounding joy,

Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy.

Returning to earth, I parked and strode into Target, skidding to a halt in the paper goods aisle. Shelved with other holiday supplies were plates marked with the word JOY. I popped them into my cart to remind me.

Last Sunday ignited the third light of Advent, the Candle of Joy, and I’ve thought about joy every day since then. The third candle is also called the shepherd’s candle for those humble overseers of the sheep who lived outside and eyed their charges with care—even in the darkness. And then one night it happened: the blinding light of heaven’s messengers shattered the sky, and fear leveled those field-dwellers. The news was not one of terror, though—despite its delivery—but of joy, announcing the birth of the great Shepherd of the sheep.

And off the herdsmen ran to tell anyone with ears to hear, repeating the joy of the best announcement ever.

No more let sins and sorrows grow,

Nor thorns infest the ground;

He comes to make His blessings flow

Far as the curse is found,

Far as the curse is found

Far as, far as, the curse is found.

Joy to the world!

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Advent: Part 2 (peace)

Peace like a river.

But rivers aren’t always tranquil. They smash, slam, and swirl too. And in their tumult, they rush into the ocean.

Peace can sound like a stone dropping into murky depths. The ripples move you, but you stay whole.

Peace can look like standing in a hospital bathroom in silence as breakers crash on the other side of the door, drowning out the beeps, whirs, and whooshes of machines keeping your loved one alive.

Peace can feel like a staid thrum when the fighting in your house explodes into the sea.

Peace pours itself out like water. Feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace don’t stand still. They make waves.

Peace is an anchor. It knows all is right when everything is all wrong.

Last Sunday ignited the second light of Advent, the Candle of Peace, and I’ve thought about peace every day since then. The second candle is also called the Bethlehem candle, so the story is not only about peace but about place.

O Little Town of Bethlehem

How still we see thee lie

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

The silent stars go by.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee tonight.

Maybe, like the song says, the small village was calm that night. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, the Water of Life crashed into the world there, churning, washing, refreshing, and sweeping us all away.

Peace like a river.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Advent: Part 1 (hope)

I raise my mallet and drop it on the plastic mole’s head that pops from the hole. It disappears, and two more heads poke up from different holes. I strike them both down. Three more jump up from various spots. I shift my feet, urgency flooding me, and whack every new emerging one. Faster, faster! my brain screams to my arms. I’m trying, I’m trying! my arms holler back. More heads, more hits. Heart pounding, moles erupting, arms flailing. Then the game ends. A little sweaty and winded, I look at my score. Maybe next time I’ll be faster.

People liken trouble that crops up here and there and everywhere to the arcade game’s moles, but this week those moles remind me of our tenacious hopes, springing up, despite life’s big hammer trying to take them out. It’s a silly thought, Whac-A-Mole, during this contemplative season of the year, but the persistence of hope—here and there and everywhere—is undeniable.

Where there’s a goal, there’s hope. Where there’s a plan, there’s hope. Where there’s a birth, there’s hope.

Last Sunday ignited the first light of Advent, the Candle of Hope, and I’ve thought about hope every day since then. The first candle of Advent is also called the prophecy candle, so the story is not only about hope but about hope while waiting. Now that’s where it gets hard.

I awoke this morning to the words HOPE IN THE WAIT waving through my mind like a banner. I don’t like waiting for promises to come true—humanity doesn’t like it—especially waiting for thousands of years for an ancient prophecy to be born. But that’s what happened. The vow in Eden took millennia to reach Golgotha. But the pounding hammer on that hill couldn’t nail down our relentless and victorious hope. He sprang up, and so can we. The wait was worth it.

But here we are in December, remembering like we always do, the middle—the time between tempting garden and failed grave—when a baby ripped through the darkness and let in the light with his coming. And we celebrate. The long-awaited hope is here.

O holy night! The stars are brightly shining

It is the night of our dear Savior's birth

Long lay the world in sin and error pining

'Til he appeared and the soul felt its worth

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Thankful (your responses)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Last week, I asked you what you were thankful for. Here are the responses you sent me. (And I’m thankful for you putting eyes to my writing year after year. What an honor!)

*****

The abundance that means we can eat leftovers for dinner

Fire in the fireplace on a cold evening

Christmas lights (OK, so I am rushing things a little bit, but I haven't put up the tree yet.)

A quiet night at home (after several evenings out)

Working in a walk on the rail trail between appointments on a busy day

LeAnne, northwestern Wisconsin

*****

I Give Thanks For…

Wisdom and skills of my body. Thank goodness I’m not required to consciously direct respiration nor heartbeat nor digestion nor the healing process.

Other people. Imagine waking up to discover everyone on Earth has vanished, leaving only you and your household. How long could you survive? Why would you want to?

The Slough of Despond. I would occasionally slip into this place with or without this deliciously poetic term for it, but I don’t have to. Thank you, John Bunyan and The Pilgrim’s Progress.

Our local library. Treasured and beautiful haven of quiet where I may access the thoughtwork of other minds who enrich my world through artwork, books, music, educational programs. All: free of charge.

Sara, Eau Claire, Wisconsin

*****

Once upon a time, I started a gratitude journal. With great fervor, I penciled in things for which I was grateful. I even numbered them, much like Ann Voskamp in her book One Thousand Gifts.

My entries covered several years, until my fervor wilted like an unwatered philodendron.

The gratitude journal got buried beneath a pile of other daily activities, and the little red notebook lay hidden until a few days ago, so I dusted it off and began to read some older entries of things for which I was thankful: safe driving in wet snow, a hibiscus bloom, lost keys found, furnace checked out okay, answered prayer, the smell of damp earth, bird songs, prayer requests from grandchildren, safe arrival of a great-grandchild, amazing discoveries in Scripture (even in the genealogies in Genesis)! Reading these entries renewed my motivation to return to a more diligent recording of my reasons to be thankful.

Then a few days later, I read Tamara’s blog entry and knew the coincidence of rediscovery for both of us was not a coincidence at all. I am so thankful!

Avis, Newfolden, Minnesota

*****

What I’m thankful for... My Tuesday morning Bible Study. Every Tuesday up to 26 women come together to study God’s Word. It is such a blessing to all of us. We have a great leader. Her name is Avis!

Sonia, Thief River Falls, Minnesota

*****

This year there is much to be thankful for in my life even amidst the challenges of life. But one thing that sticks out above the rest has been watching our son, now 30, navigate his own challenges and hear him say in each, “Mom, I want to do right by God.”

Betsy, Brooklyn Park, Minnesota

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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 gratitude notebook

Hi, reader!

We’re in the gratitude season now (every season should be, but you know what I mean.) What are you thankful for? Big or little, I want to hear it.

Send me a message HERE by Wednesday, November 27, 2024, with your thanks list, and I’ll run it next Thursday in my Thanksgiving blog installment.

Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email. (Please include your city and state with your submission.)

In the meantime, enjoy this blog post from six years ago while I run and get a fresh notebook.

*****

Negativity slithered through our front door this fall, bringing darkness with it. We didn’t see it coming, of course, because that’s how it works.

But one day in late October, the dreariness captured my attention. How long had it been this dusky inside the house? I could hardly see the truth anymore for all the shadows.

“Not this again,” I said to no one in particular.

But I wasn’t the only one letting negativity’s gloom into our living quarters. Other family members had opened the door for it too. And we all seemed to entertain it most during our mealtimes together, venting our frustrations and irritations until the light over the table was as dim as a Minnesota morning in the fall before going off daylight savings time.

We were justified in our complaints, though, weren’t we? We were only discussing what was happening, right? There wasn’t any harm in that, was there? Facts were facts. And we could all agree there were too many hoops for Flicka to hop through in college, too many unanswered questions about Ricka’s life post-high school, too many worries about volleyball club teams for Dicka, too many schedule changes for Husband at work, and too many demands layered into my own days.

While the discussions stimulated me at first, negativity soon sucked away my energy.

Finally, I was done with it. So I resurrected an ancient solution for me—and for our family.

Gratitude.

“Here’s what’s happening,” I said one night at dinner, plunking down an old spiral notebook and pen. “We’re going to start a gratitude journal. It’ll stay right here on the table. Add to it whenever you think of something.”

I acted as scribe that first time, pointing my pen at each family member in the circle, forcing answers out of the whole lot of them until each had said something—anything.

At first, our gratefulness was staid: friends, family, volleyball, the dog. But as the days went, it broke free: Life Cereal, Dad telling his own embarrassing stories to comfort us, Dicka’s fast metabolism, God’s concept of time and money, when that car didn’t crash into Ricka in Uptown, candles, ChapStick, Flicka’s fast-growing hair, bagels, snow tires, the sun…

The concept of gratitude has existed since darkness was separated from light, and a person documenting his or her thankfulness has been around for eons too. Even so, I shared my not-so-creative-but-fresh-to-me idea of a gratitude journal with some loved ones.

Several had already tapped into the power of putting it on paper.

“It’s a life changer,” my sister said.

“It’s a game changer,” my friend said.

“It changes everything,” my neighbor said.

Hmm. So much change.

A week later, Ricka entered the house from school, her cell phone in hand. She tapped on it. “Mom, I took notes today about things I’m thankful for. Wanna hear them?”

She rattled off her list to me, and I transcribed the items into the gratitude journal. Taking a closer look, I noticed others had been in our notebook too—others beyond our family—scratching down their own notes of gratefulness.

That night at dinner, the dining room table looked different. Something had changed. I could see the food better—and my family too.

Was it just me, or was it brighter in there?

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Still reading?

Aunt Cee emailed me this week to talk books. She rattled off twenty-five titles she had consumed in the past few years and “shelved” her have-reads under seven categories, two of them intriguing me the most: Some dystopian types that seem rather relevant to our times and MUCH creeeepier than I thought! A blend of envy and urgency shot through me.

The year skitters away like the fallen leaves, and because of my Aunt Cee, my mind once more rushes to the book list and all my wonderful reading intentions for the year.

I dig out the document again and find I’m far behind. (Here are my to-reads for 2024.)

How am I doing?

All the Light We Cannot See was the only book I actually read aloud with Flicka. After that, we listened to the audiobook of Crime and Punishment while painting the downstairs bedroom in June. I wasn’t sure if I was meant to laugh at the social commentary and Dickensian style, but I did anyway. The book outlasted our painting by about fifteen hours, so if you don’t wish to invest the better part of a work week ingesting the thing, probably don’t start.

I meandered off the list when my sisters recommended Everything Sad is Untrue by Daniel Nayeri, a memoirish account—told through the eyes of a ten-year-old boy—of life as an immigrant moving from Iran to Oklahoma. I loved every minute of it. The truth of his statement, “all our memories are lies we tell ourselves,” rattled me.

My audio Bible in a Year plan was supposed to feed me the Good Book in edible portions throughout the whole twelve months, but the servings were so heavy some days that I finished on Tuesday—seven weeks before New Year’s Eve.

The Thursday Murder Club, a delightful romp, inspired me to believe when my septuagenarian years come, I too will solve crimes by using my sharp memory and astute observation.

I tackled a few other books on my list too, but when a friend gave me a copy of Kiss Your Dentist Goodbye by Ellie Phillips, DDS, I dropped my other reading to flip through it and ultimately ordered Larineco’s remineralizing gum. The book doesn’t endorse this brand, but it fit with the protocol, so I ordered several boxes. And for a month, I was convinced I had been scammed—until the gum arrived this week. But I digress.

How goes your reading?

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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 same

I first posted this blog entry in 2016 after the presidential election. I reposted it in 2020. And now here I am again, letting you read the thing I wrote eight years ago that’s still exactly how I feel. What’s different for you today?

*****

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. “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 deeds that were good but not meant for us.

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

*****

*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 TP tales

Year 1

“I’m going to TP your house on Halloween,” Dicka announced to the next door neighbors, seated at our dining room table.

“Yes,” Mrs. M said with a laugh. “We’ll hold you to it.”

The visiting family talked about the price of toilet paper now after its scarcity in the early pandemic and how excited they were to be chosen for Dicka’s end-of-the-month “surprise.” It was October 8, 2022—only seven months into our home ownership and friendship with the people circling our table now—and only three weeks before the fall holiday, so they wouldn’t have long to wait.

The last day of October fluttered in like the vinyl ghost tied to the tree a couple of cul-de-sacs over. I emptied bags of sweets into the candy bowl—no clue how many trick-or-treaters we’d entertain in the evening hours—and flicked on the front light to welcome the costumed masses.

As the evening ticked away, we watched a movie together while listening for the knocks of disguised visitors. My mind was already on November and the next holiday.

Husband’s and my phones pinged. A text from Mr. M next door.

Is Dicka coming to TP our house soon? We’ve been waiting for her.

I sent back a quick thank you for the reminder and summoned Dicka outside to make good on her forgotten promises. But first, I snapped a picture of her wielding a single roll of toilet paper and texted it to the neighbors to prepare them for The Onslaught. She wriggled into her hot dog costume for the event.

Before our girl exited the house, however, in came a texted photo of Marcos, the oldest of the three boys next door, wearing his hot dog costume and holding one roll of toilet paper in each hand. (Side note: Did the two of them buy the same costume on purpose for the occasion? Or at least know of the other’s garb? No and no. Now back to the story...)

Dicka blasted back with her own photo, three rolls filling her arms. The frankfurter shot us another image of himself; this time, he posed behind a pyramid of the white, papery ammunition.

Dicka and Ricka charged out the front door to sling the streams of white and capture footage of it. When they returned, breathless, a text popped in from Mrs. M.

Wow! I didn’t see that coming.

The girls played us the blurry video of their TPing acts involving the sugar maple next door. The jostled camera captured their crimes in the dark—their lobbing of strips into the branches, their whispered panic-giggles, their tripping back into the house—like The Blair Witch Project’s “found footage” except with zero horror and one hundred percent more bathroom tissue.

The next morning, we expected to awaken to proof of the previous night’s shenanigans—garlands of white on boughs of orange-gold foliage (the work of a hot dog and her sister) and two meager strands of tissue draped over the hood of Dicka’s Honda (the work of the hot dog next door)—but the evidence was gone.

We later learned Marcos had arisen early to clean up the fun, erasing all but the memories and video footage of Halloween 2022.

Year 2

“I’ll be in Kona for YWAM in October,” Dicka told the neighbors in early September of 2023, “so I won’t be able to TP your tree this year.”

“Oh no,” Mrs. M said. “How can Halloween happen without you?”

“The family will have to do it.”

As usual, close to the date, the neighbors texted a reminder, and as Halloween evening rolled in, the toilet paper rolled out. Committed to tradition, Ricka set about to accomplish the task, and she persuaded Husband to join her. Together, they flung strings of tissue into the branches. But it went down at dusk, and no one wore the hot dog costume. It wasn’t the same without Dicka. And where was Marcos?

In the text thread later the next day, Mr. M said he had come home from work, intending to clean up the remnants of the night, but the job was already done. He asked who was responsible for his pristine tree.

“It wasn’t us,” Husband said. “I’d blame Marcos for it.”

But I knew the whole story. On the morning of November 1, I lugged out the ladder, first tossing glances in all directions hoping to avoid notice, and ripped down every last shred of Halloween 2023.

Year 3

“I’ll be in Kona again in October,” Dicka once again announced to the neighbors in September, “so I won’t be able to TP your tree this year either.”

“Not again,” Mrs. M said. “Who will do it now?”

But we had some ideas.

On October 23, Mr. M texted us a reminder. We're looking forward to Halloween decorations between our houses. Toilet paper?

I confirmed our participation in the annual event, added TP to the Target shopping list, and rifled through Dicka’s closet for the needed uniform.

And then we waited for dark.

*****

*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.

Boston

In the spring of 1995, I purchased tickets to see Boston (the band, not the city) at the Fargodome in Fargo, North Dakota, one of the stops on their Livin’ for You tour. I suppose I dialed a box office number to do it, and I imagine I rattled off the digits of a credit card to secure our spots.

The old 1995 diary is spare of details to corroborate my memories of the event that took place on May 24 of that year, but no matter; my mental files of the exciting occasion have remained impeccable these (almost) thirty years later, although apparently not impeccable enough to recall Husband and I ate a picnic on the way to the venue or that no opening band played that night, but that’s where the little book of trivia fills the gaps.

Husband had begun a job at American Woods, Inc., a precision custom millwork company, the previous day, and from its description online today, they’ve been at their fine craftsmanship for three decades, so it was a new place back then.

As we hurtled down Highway 29 from Grand Forks, North Dakota—where we lived at the time—toward Fargo after Husband’s workday, exuberance flooded my body. Behind the wheel, Husband was a tough read. He yawned four or five times—his new job had yanked him out of bed too early that morning—but it wasn’t that he didn’t like Boston. It was just that without my influence, he never in a million years would’ve paid money to see the group, he admitted at some point along the route.

At last, we arrived at the Fargodome. Nothing could’ve faded my smile, not even our trek to scale the great heights to locate the nose-bleedingest seats I’ve ever purchased in my whole, cheap concertgoing life. If memory serves—and we know by now it really doesn’t—wide swaths of unfilled chairs circled the place. But we dutifully went to our correct spots all the way up at the top anyway. Wasn’t it so nice to have the wall behind us to support our backs, though?

The band started with the greatest rock and roll song of all time, More Than a Feeling, the opening track from Boston’s 1976 album and plunged forward into the setlist from their 1994 album, Walk On.

Although someone must have dimmed the lights during the show, I recall the stadium bright throughout my beloved band’s performance, so brandishing my BIC lighter’s flame didn’t bring the expected chills. I surveyed the expanse. Was I really in the presence of musical greats that appeared as mere specks on the stage far below? My teenage fantasy of seeing the group lived on.

I stood, waving my lighter, and sang along to the rock group’s tunes, but where was Husband? He sat next to me, elbows to knees, his head propped on two fists, and snoozed.

No concertgoers sat near us, and Husband wasn’t much of a companion, slumped in his seat like he was. I could’ve succumbed to loneliness up there at the ‘Dome’s summit, but no. I was living out my dream all by myself, and my isolation from humanity dampened nothing of my resilient spirit.

I looked out this morning and the sun was gone

Turned on some music to start my day

I lost myself in a familiar song

I closed my eyes and I slipped away

My diary entry ends with a bland “We got home at 12 a.m. It was a 2 ½-hour long concert (no opening band),” so maybe I’ll ditch my documentation in favor of my grand recollections.

Ah, Boston. I still love you.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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 pen pal

First published in 2017, this story needs to run again. In the past seven years, Jenny and I have kept in touch. Some years I’m quicker to respond to her emails than others, but this pen pal of mine is a keeper. Forty-five years and counting…

*****

Nine-year-old Jenny wandered through the church bookstore, her eyes wide. So many shelves brimming with shiny new titles. Walking down one aisle, she dragged a finger along the books’ spines. What stories hid behind those covers? A trip to the bookstore was a grand adventure each time she visited Grandma and Grandpa’s huge church in northern Kentucky—so different from her small church back home in Ohio.

From the front of the store, Grandma beckoned to her. “Time to go, honey.”

Jenny headed toward the door, but what was that? Her gaze landed on a rack with a sign planted on top: Free! She couldn’t leave without taking a peek. Grandma nodded, and Jenny flipped through the rack’s magazines, anticipation mounting. A children’s publication caught her eye. She slid it from its holder.

During the ride home, Jenny leafed through her new magazine. On the last page was an ad for pen pals. Columns of names and ages of kids—along with their addresses—lined up like the orphans in Annie, waiting to be picked. The name of a girl her age called out to her. What a unique name! And the girl’s address was different from all the other kids’. It contained only the town, state, and zip code. Where was her house number? Or street name? Who lived on an unnamed street, in an unnumbered house? Who was this girl?

At home, Jenny pulled out a pen and paper and scrawled her first letter to the girl, her new friend.

My name is Jenny Bird. Will you be my pen pal?

I stood in a checkout lane at Aldi. Why had I decided a grocery run would be a good idea at five o’clock in the afternoon? Several people lined up ahead of me, the conveyor belt loaded with their food. A customer at the front struggled with the card reader, swiping several times. This could take a while.

My cell phone pinged. A private message on Facebook.

Hi, Tamara. Don’t know if you remember me. I’m Jenny Bird, your elementary school pen pal. Last night you came to mind, so I thought I’d see if I could find you on Facebook. I think I did.

Jenny Bird.

I had thought of her over the years and had searched Facebook once with no success. But here she was—Jenny Peters now—looking for me. My heart squeezed. When it was my turn in line, I put my body on autopilot to unload the groceries while I left 2017 and traveled back to 1979, the year Jenny and I began our written friendship.

Jenny had chosen me, and I had loved her from the get-go. Over the years, we swapped pictures, described our families, and compared notes about school. On a family road trip in 1987, I persuaded Mom and Dad to stop in New Richmond, Ohio, so I could see her for the first time. Our families met and shared a meal on our journey to the east coast.

Sometime around our 1988 high school graduations, Jenny and I lost each other. College, marriage, and life intercepted our letters. Her name floated to me now and then when I sifted through the past, but the present was needy, demanding my full attention.

When I got home from the store, the groceries flew into the cupboards on their own—or I had someone else put them away; I was only thinking of Jenny.

She had chosen me once and found me again.

I sat at the computer, my stomach swirling with the same excitement as when I curled up with my box of Current stationery and a pen to write to Jenny in my childhood bedroom in the house in Middle River—the town so small no house numbers or street names were needed.

How has life been for you? I typed, then shook my head. Ridiculous. Like asking for a one-ounce sample of the ocean.

No long waits for letters anymore; our emails zipped between Minneapolis and a suburb of Cincinnati. Jenny’s messages came to me on Saturdays—the day she had time to sit and write.

I love my Saturday mornings spent with you, she’d say. Then she invited me into the big and small things of her life again, just like before.

And I invited her into mine.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.

Seeds

After checking in, I move away from the reception area in the office of one of my referral sources, the social worker I’m here to see. She and I share many clients, and over two years, I’ve spoken with her often by phone or through email. Today, we meet in person for the first time, and she feels like something of a friend by now. I have a picture in my brain of how I imagine she looks. But what kind of face does mercy have?

A poster near the front desk snags my attention: “They tried to bury us; they didn’t know we were seeds.”

I squint at the picture—mass produced art in an unremarkable frame—its message by Greek poet Dinos Christianopoulos. Is it really my third or fourth sighting of this sentiment in a week? Why the sudden appeal for this saying? Or is it just me, seeing it everywhere right now?

Back at home, I open a jar of quotes, a gift from the leadership at work for last month’s Employee Appreciation Month. I pluck out one of the little papers, unfurl it, and read, “Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant.” The word seeds in the Robert Louis Stevenson quote is the only one in italics.

The daytime sun slants, and the unmistakable evening chill tells me the warmth of our weeks is draining. There’s only so much left, and it’s almost all poured out. The quotes about seeds I see these days—I don’t understand their timing. Why now? In this hemisphere, it’s hardly time for planting.

I’m the only one I know in my immediate or extended family who grieves the loss of summer. The closing of the pool is like the dropping of a casket’s lid. At best, fall is a time of dormancy. At worst, it’s a time of death. The flowers shrivel and drop off, the leaves abandon hope. And many years ago, my father died in September. If his leaving was certain (and it was), his departure might as well have been in the dying months, I reasoned—and still do.

But the seeds.

I read today's Streams in the Desert, and it’s more of what I see everywhere:

“This is the happy season of ripening cornfields, of the merry song of reapers, of the secured and garnered grain. But let me hearken to the sermon of the field. This is its solemn word to me. You must die in order to live. You must refuse to consult your own ease and well-being. You must be crucified, not only in desires and habits which are sinful, but in many more which appear innocent and right. If you would bear much fruit, you must be buried in darkness and solitude. But, when Jesus asks it, let me tell myself that it is my high dignity to enter into the fellowship of His sufferings; and thus I am in the best of company. Plenty out of pain, life out of death: is it not the law of the Kingdom? Do we call it dying when the bud bursts into flower?”

I feel the punch in my gut. I guess I’ll bury myself now for the fruit later. Or at least allow myself to be buried. Deep, quiet, dark, restful.

Winter soon comes, but after it? The death-to-life story. The only one that counts.

*Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? If you wish to toss a tip into my writerly coffers, here's how you can do it: @Tamara-Schierkolk (Venmo) or $TamaraSchierkolk (Cash App)

*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.