Our girls can always tell when I’m about to entertain a friend. The giveaway? The cheese plate I assemble and place on the kitchen island. And that day, I pulled one together too.
It wasn’t anything too extravagant, that cheese plate. Likely a little asiago, a little goat, a little sharp cheddar—all from Aldi—with crackers from Trader Joe’s. Probably a few almonds on the side. Maybe a sliced apple. See, the food doesn’t matter; it’s only a decoration for the main event.
When I plan a visit with a friend, it goes on the calendar as “hang out with _____” (fill in the name) as if it’s a trivial encounter. When it happens, though, it’s a meeting between two women, sparking a heavenly interest. And God leans down, listens in, and writes a book of remembrance for us—just like it says in Malachi.
And so it was that day in June when Kay came over. As usual, we started our visit over snacks, sitting across from each other at the kitchen island, sharing recommendations for face oils and night serums. Soon enough, though, the weight of The Presence entered, beckoning us into deeper matters.
And so, we followed.
“Marriage isn’t a fairy tale,” Kay said, munching on an almond. “But figuring out each other’s love languages helps.”
I nodded, plucking a cracker from the tray. “Funny how loving someone in their language can turn anything around.”
Our house, with its flow of people, means a colorful mix of visitors. A few passed through that day too, and soon Flicka appeared on a stool next to me. Kay and I kept talking.
“When your spouse is weak,” Kay said, “be the strength they need, right? And speaking of strength...” She pointed at her wrist, etched with ink. “That’s why I have this one.” A reference, Nehemiah 8:10, marked her skin—an eternal reminder of joy.
A nineteen-year-old boy, a friend of the girls, drew out a stool and sat by Kay. Our party of two at the island had doubled. Kay and I kept talking.
“I leaned on ‘the joy of the Lord is my strength’ after baby number four,” my friend said. “I had horrific postpartum depression.”
“I’ve heard of it,” the boy said, “but what is it?”
She described the sharp changes for some women after giving birth—the shifting moods, the continual exhaustion, the deep sadness. He listened, eyes wide, a slow nod his only movement.
I pulled back, assessing the scene in my kitchen. Two seasoned wives and mothers spoke truth about marriage and childbirth to two young people who came to hear it. And I thought of future conversations—and the new others yet to come.
Kay and I kept talking. And the island kept listening.
(Come back next week for more island stories.)
NEW: Has My Blonde Life inspired or entertained you? Do you feel a little lighter, freer, or moved after reading it? 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)
Well, look at that. The island’s snacks made it into one of Dicka’s Instagram stories.