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.

*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?

*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.

*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.”

*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…)

*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.

*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.

*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 4): PATIENCE

Memories of the building of The Wall tighten the muscles in my neck and elevate my heart rate. And they tap me on the arm, reminding me that in the patience game, I’ve still got a ways to go.

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.

It’s not for the faint of heart; patience is a tough piece to swallow in this bowl of fruit.

The results, though? As pretty as a flourishing garden. You’ll see what I mean in my story below.

*****

One day in 2014, while wandering through the magical world of Pinterest, I saw it: the best retaining wall in the world. It was constructed of cinder blocks, with some of the blocks turned now and then—jutting out of the wall—for use as planters. The unique idea was us. If we made this wall in our yard, no one would own one quite like it or like it enough to want one. But Husband and I had never been accused of fitting in, and I had long ago lost the taste for it anyway.

“Check this out.” I showed him images of the cinder block wall. “Isn’t it cool?”

He nodded. “I could do that.”

We proposed the idea to Dallas and Glenda, our neighbors on each side. After all, it would be their wall too. We explained they wouldn’t have to worry: we would build it but still keep intact the existing chain link fences that separated us. Both neighbors gave their approval, and Dallas even jumped in with both feet, inviting us to go ahead and tear out the chain link between his yard and ours.

The next summer, we ordered the cinder blocks—600 of them—and they were delivered on pallets by semi-truck to the cement slab by our garage. I eyed the stacks of fifty-pound blocks, and hopelessness crept in. Each block would need to be lifted and transferred—a few at a time—by wheelbarrow as far as sixty feet into our yard.

Husband began the painstaking work of building the wall. He dug an eight-inch trench by hand around our back yard, and after that, shoveled in a layer of sand. Then he laid the first course of blocks, pounding them down with a rubber mallet and checking his work every few minutes with a level. The pace was grueling, the task arduous. As I watched him, I remembered our beginnings. His slow, meticulous work habits had both initially attracted me to him and later shown me my humanity with all of its glaring flaws. Impatience again thrummed inside of me.

After weeks of work, Husband completed the wall—sixty feet long and four feet high—on one side of the yard. At the end, however, he discovered it had gotten out of whack somewhere along the way, and the corner pieces wouldn’t fit properly. He dismantled it all—block by block—and started over. I breathed in slowly through my nose and out through my mouth, forcing my thoughts away from the ordeal in the yard. In the grand scheme of things, did it matter that our project would now span months instead of weeks?

For half the summer, the pallets of cinder blocks obstructed our driveway basketball court, and the neighborhood kids grew antsy.

“I can help you move these into the yard.” Keyondra pointed at the stacks of blocks.

“Sure.” Husband handed her a pair of work gloves, and she dug into the task. Peanut joined in too until the two basketball players had cleared enough space by the garage to once again shoot hoops.

Before Husband was done, the winter snows blustered in and covered the wall. And so we waited. The second summer, he finished the construction on all sides of the yard, each block having been secured with concrete adhesive. Then, he drove rebar down through the blocks’ holes every six feet and reinforced it with cement. Last of all, he topped off the wall with concrete capstones.

We hired steel artist Andrew MacGuffie—whose work adorned the Northrup King Building’s landscaping—to install curved steel borders for raised gardens next to our wall. But the snow flew in once more and drifted over our work. And so we waited. Again. By the third summer, we hauled in dirt and finally planted our gardens, the flowers softening the steel and concrete with their explosive blooms and beauty.

I stood back with my soil-covered hands—unable to peel the smile from my face—and surveyed the sight. Blossoms spilled from the wall’s block planters, and green vines trailed over the edges of the steel borders. Near me, Husband puttered around in the dirt. Three summers of blistering work was his gift to me—simply because I had one day admired some pictures on Pinterest.

I contemplated the man behind the project. Husband lived life like he built that wall: level and grounded with a sturdy foundation, unyielding to the elements, and able to bear a crushing load without crumbling.

“Come here,” I said. He straightened up from potting a celosia and strode toward me. I looped my arm around his waist as we gazed at our land together. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

I recalled his soil-stained hours and sweat-soaked shirts. Countless loads of blocks, sand, dirt, and trips to Home Depot. Mistakes that cost him weeks. The painful mission of a solid foundation.

He tossed me a half-smile, his eyes soft at the edges. “Hey, no problem.”

*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 3): PEACE

I type this blog while sitting on the porch on a warm October evening in 2020. Somewhere in our neighborhood, gunshots tatter the air—again. And I’m tired.

Why can’t we all just get along?

Back to the fruit bowl I go, eyeing its third offering 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.

Today’s story happened about five years ago, but its truth still holds.

PEACE.

*****

Latika, our one-year-old houseguest, bounced in the Johnny Jump Up mounted in the kitchen doorway. Smiling, she banged a plastic measuring cup on the tray in front of her while I stood at the kitchen counter arranging the frozen potato rounds on the meat mixture in the baking dish. My girls had reminded me I hadn’t made the Minnesota staple in months, and would I do it tonight? I smiled at the normalcy of Tater Tot Hotdish, the exuberant baby bobbing near me, and the family being home together for the evening. The humble, simple, peaceful life.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

The blasts outside jarred me and brought to mind Fireworks or Gunshots?, a game we Northsiders too often played. But this time was easy; the higher-pitched crack of each report told me the answer. I flew to the kitchen window. Our dog, Lala, stood erect outside at the back gate, and her strident barks and raised hair told me she had chosen the same answer I had.

A young man dashed from the rental property across the alley. He darted looks in both directions, his right hand under his t-shirt—the fabric revealing the outline of a gun. He jogged down the alley to the north and disappeared.

I deserted my lookout and rushed into the living room where Husband was parked in a chair. I jabbed my thumb toward the kitchen.

“Those were gunshots. And I just saw the shooter.” I rattled off the details.

“Okay.” Husband stood up, strode from the room, and exited the house.

Within seconds, sirens wailed. I lifted the baby from her seat, planted her on my hip, and looked out the window again. A squad car zoomed through the alley, and a second one stopped by our garage. Two officers emerged, and they spoke with Husband for a few minutes. He poked his head into the house. “I told the police what you saw. They want to talk to you.”

I handed the baby to Flicka and stepped outside. An ambulance arrived, its lights flashing. A police officer stretched yellow tape across the alley.

Another officer ambled toward me. “So, you saw the guy?”

“I heard five shots, looked out the window, and saw him run out of there.” I pointed at the rental property. “He went north.”

“What did he look like?”

I described the perpetrator, recounting how the man’s hand was hidden under his shirt.

He nodded. “What color shirt?”

I tilted my head and frowned. “I don’t remember. I was watching his hand—and where he ran. I could tell he had a gun.”

“But you don’t remember the color of his shirt?”

Was it dark—maybe grey or blue? If it had been red or yellow, I might have remembered. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

The officer thanked me and walked away.

Husband nodded toward the commotion in the alley. “The guy who got shot is on the ground in the back yard over there.”

I searched my man’s face. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“Who knows? I couldn’t see much. People were already crowding around him.”

I stared at the emergency workers, law enforcement, and curious passersby. A week earlier, we had grilled burgers, and my main concern was whether or not we had enough ketchup. Today I wondered about the state of the victim, lying on a lawn close to our house.

After a few hours, the crowd dissipated, the yellow tape vanished, and normal life resumed. The news later provided spare details about the young man who had been sniped down in the yard near ours, and we learned the ending of his story: he had died in the ambulance on the way to North Memorial.

Shaken by our close proximity to the homicide, I mulled over the day’s happenings that evening. Shootings in our part of the city were as common as Tater Tot Hotdish at a Midwestern potluck. What could we do? Too many people in our neighborhood, country, and world cried out for peace, but if they did anything about it, they chose good behavior’s temporary fix, their efforts shiny but brittle. And too often their plastic peace only showed up in tattoos, bumper stickers, and necklaces.

So, what was the answer? And where was the lasting, unbreakable Peace that transcended all understanding—and guarded the hearts and minds of humanity?

He had stood among the onlookers across the alley that day, longing to be invited in.

And He still waits.

*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 2): JOY

In the bowl of fruit, this one—sometimes both sweet and bitter—doesn’t always make sense.

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 your story for today: JOY.

*****

The twenty-six-year-old woman sat in a chair at the Thanksgiving table. The wavelike motion in her belly reminded her today was her due date. But babies—not doctors—chose their own arrival times; her three-year-old daughter had been born two weeks late, after all.

Like the brimming dishes of food in front of her on this day—November 28, 1968—she saw all the good things that overflowed in her life. She turned to her little girl sitting next to her and cut the child’s food into small pieces. She glanced at her husband across the table and smiled. Soon, they would be a family of four.

But two days later, something changed; the fluttery movements within her, which for months had accompanied her daily life, stopped. Concerned, she told her husband. He drove her to the emergency room the next day, and a doctor listened to her stomach with a stethoscope.

He furrowed his brow, his gaze fixed on her face. “I can’t find a heartbeat.”

Her husband frowned, and she shifted in her seat. Could this be? Could it mean what she feared most?

She cleared her throat, her eyes wide. “What will we do if the baby is—?”

“We won’t do anything.” The doctor pursed his lips. “Labor will start at some point, but it’s hard to know when.”

The woman bit her lower lip and nodded. If only today she could’ve seen her own doctor. Someone she knew—and someone who knew her. “Thank you.”

The couple stood. The woman clutched her husband’s arm as they left the emergency room.

On the drive home, she sank into her thoughts. Memories of her recent miscarriage pricked her. And now this. What if all was not well? If the unthinkable were true, how long would she carry a dead baby? For a moment, icy fingers of dread curled around her spine. But she couldn’t think that way; doctors had been wrong before.

Late that night, the young woman’s water broke. Labor pains rolled through her body, and grateful their three-year-old was already in her mother-in-law’s care, she woke her husband. The two climbed into the car for the second trip to the hospital that day.

A few miles down the road, a new idea prodded her. She studied her husband, his mouth a straight line as he gripped the steering wheel, navigating the snow-covered gravel road. She swallowed hard. “If we have a girl—and she’s not living—I think we should name her Joy.”

He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth curved up for a second. “Yes. That’s good.” He stared at the road again, and silence seeped into the car.

The young mother labored through the night. In the early morning of December 2, 1968, at Northwestern Hospital in Thief River Falls, Minnesota, Joy came into the world. But the delivery room was still. And no infant cries shredded the air.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Every now and then throughout the years, our family spoke of the baby who was gone before she came. And when I was an adult with children of my own, we still spoke of her.

“But if Joy had lived, we wouldn’t have had you.” Mom smiled at me.

“I know, Mom.” I thought of my place in the family order—the one following the time of sadness. I imagined losing one of my own. The thought knifed my heart.

“Then you came—and your three siblings after you. Life has been good.” She nodded. “Always so good.”

As a child, I envisioned the older sister I never met. And I thought of her namesake—that emotion everyone sought. But how could my parents have named their dead baby Joy?

Consider it joy when you encounter various trials…

My childhood path led to adulthood, the terrain becoming more treacherous in spots. And along the way I learned joy wasn’t a synonym for happiness—that fair-weather emotion, dependent on favorable circumstances. Happiness could only travel the smooth, exhilarating way—and only when the temperature was seventy degrees and sunny; during the jagged and stormy parts, the fickle feeling bolted.

On the drive to the hospital that night in 1968—although my mother hadn’t known why—something compelled her to choose a new name for the baby who was already gone. But because of the Creator of Joy in her life, the baby’s name characterized the uncertain and rugged path ahead.

And like Mom, I pressed into Him in my own rocky places too, gaining the same lesson: with The Joy-giver near me, the condition of the road didn’t matter anymore.

*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 1): LOVE

These days I’m craving fruit. And I don’t mean the kind you find in the produce section of your grocery store.

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.

For the next nine weeks, I’ll tell you stories of fruit in action—a different fruit for each week. Some are retold stories, some are new.

Here’s your first one to enjoy: LOVE.

*****

On Valentine’s Day 2018, Husband snipped the ends from a dozen roses and divided them into four vases. He placed chocolates next to each and strode to the kitchen, ready to spend the next four hours preparing a surprise dinner for the girls and me.

He cooked curry chicken with garlic over a fire in the pit in the back yard. Then came oysters with chorizo butter, mashed potatoes and gravy, and an assortment of cheeses and olives. 

The five of us settled into our places at the table. I surveyed the feast, moved by the effort.

“This is delicious,” I said to Husband. “But you’re not a fan of curry.”

“I’m a fan of you.”

He reminded me of someone just then, and I wanted the girls to hear it—again.

“Girls, I have a story for you,” I said.

Between bites, our three teenagers watched me.

“There once was a very kind man. He was a respected landowner too. One day, a young immigrant woman came to his field during the barley harvest. Poor people back then were allowed to pick up the grain left on the ground by the harvesters. So, that’s what she did.”

“Mom, we already know this story,” Ricka said, resting her fork for a beat.

I nodded and kept going. “The man asked his employees about the young woman. They said her name, Ruth, and where she came from, and it was a country most people despised. So, she was an outsider from a hated place. They told him Ruth had lost her husband, and she lived with her mother-in-law who had also lost her husband. She was taking care of the older woman when she could’ve left her. Two women living together, trying to make ends meet in a time when widows had no options.

“The landowner caught up with Ruth. ‘I’ve heard about how kind you’ve been to your mother-in-law. I hope God blesses you for everything you’ve done. By the way, don’t go to another field. Stay here and you’ll be safe. I’ve told my men not to touch you.’

“Later, he invited Ruth to rest and have lunch with him. When she went back to work, he pulled his men aside. ‘Leave extra grain on the ground for her to pick up, okay?’ he said. And that’s what they did.

“Ruth went home that night and told her mother-in-law all about her day, and the older woman said, ‘That’s Boaz! He’s a relative of my husband’s. You should go back again.’ And she did. Eventually the kindness of Boaz won Ruth, and she did something daring: she asked him to be a covering for her. ‘You’re my family redeemer,’ she said one night.

“Boaz accepted Ruth’s proposal, lavished her with compassion and honor, and they married. The End,” I said, my vision going blurry.

“Oh, Mom,” Flicka said, tilting her head, her gaze soft.

If prayers travel a path to heaven, mine—that each of my girls would find her Boaz—have worn the trail smooth by now.

That night in 2018, we enjoyed a fancy meal together and celebrated the pink and red plastic holiday a greeting card company invented. But true love doesn’t waltz in for one day in February. Instead, it sticks with the mourner. It leaves extra grain for the immigrant. It cooks a curry dish for a fan when it doesn’t like curry.

And it covers another with its life.

*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.

Death, birth, and a party for the blog

My dad died on September 18, 2006.

My blog, My Blonde Life, was born on September 18, 2014.

I didn’t intend to share the month and day of Dad’s departure with my writing’s arrival, but so it went.

… the day of one’s death is better than the day of one’s birth.

I imagine King Solomon, the likely author of Ecclesiastes, penning those words with a scowl. Death better than birth? The guy must’ve been having a bad day. Or a bad week. Maybe even a bad year.

Life in 2020 is no piece of cake, but let’s enjoy a slice together anyway since someone’s having a birthday tomorrow.  

Happy 6th birthday, My Blonde Life! I’m glad you were born.

(If you haven’t already, invite a friend to subscribe to my blog today. They might even thank you later.)

L to R: Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and the birthday (carrot) cake Flicka baked from scratch today.

*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.

What happens in the night

I turned the faucet off at the kitchen sink and drank from the glass I had filled, glancing at the clock. 2:08 a.m. The motion sensor light affixed to our garage snapped on, lighting up my peripheral vision. Movement in the backyard. I hustled to the window.

A group of people strode into our yard through the back gate, leaving it open behind them. I counted. Twelve in total. What on earth? They moved with purpose and hollered to each other, my heartrate cranking higher with each of their steps—which were closing in on our back door. Husband was out of town for work and the girls were asleep; I was the only one awake to manage what might come. The two locks on the back door now seemed skimpy.

No good can come of a group of strangers—teenagers, I saw as they approached—prowling in a person’s backyard in the night. Were they headed for the door? Would they pound on it when they got there? Maybe kick it in?

Five feet from the house, the group swerved left and cut through our side gate. I jogged to the dining room, grabbed the phone, and hovered my finger above the nine as I watched from the window over the buffet. The kids advanced through the side yard and spilled onto the sidewalk in front of our home. Their voices rose in laughter. One shoved another in play. The nighttime rovers strutted off down the avenue and vanished.

I set down the phone and crawled back into bed. Sleep was far off.

After that night, I would awaken some mornings to our gates hanging open. Who had passed through our backyard while we slept? Great droves of humanity? Or just a single nocturnal sojourner? It seemed our house, midway down the block, was a passageway for people traipsing through. We didn’t spy any stolen possessions or damage to our property, though, so what was the problem? The question roiled my stomach. The idea that people sauntered by our windows while we snoozed on the other side of the glass rattled me.

Several years ago, Husband purchased security cameras for our place. After their installation, he spent his mornings sipping coffee and scrolling through the previous night’s footage on his phone.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said.

And day after day, his response was the same.

On our family trip in the summer of 2019, Husband still reviewed the recordings each morning.

“Anything new?” I said over a cup of hotel coffee one day.

He shook his head. “Before we got cameras, I thought there were all kinds of nefarious activities going on in our backyard every night.” He took a drink from his mug. “Yeah, not so much.”

But the next morning on our trip, he stared at his phone, his eyes sparking.

“Something exciting this time?” I said.

“There were three different cats in our yard last night.”

“Hm.” Who did the roving creatures belong to? Or were they feral animals out for a good time?

The day after, Husband again reported his findings. “Two more cats are coming around now.”

“Surprised we didn’t trick them with our lights on timers,” I said.

“They’re smarter than people, apparently.”

We finished our trip with Husband’s feline tally totaling six. But while the number of furry-footed trespassers increased in our absence, their nighttime presence disappeared upon our return. The human yard travelers of the past maybe spotted our security cameras and avoided the place. But the cats didn’t care. They knew when we were home and when we weren’t.

And what happens in the night stays in the night. Or something.

*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.

Walls

Need a little escape today?

I’ve got something for you. It’s a piece of flash fiction I wrote in 2014 called Walls. (It won an award back then and got published too. Fun times.)

Disclaimer: if you’re looking for something rainbowy and unicornish to read, this isn’t it. (But maybe it gives you hope for your next home renovation.)

*****

In many ways, it made perfect sense to tear out the walls down to the studs. Beatrice needed the change, the newness. Even the old drywall reminded her of Hank. Was renovating a bathroom such a big deal? For years, he’d said so. She remembered the last time she’d asked.

“Don’t have the money right now,” he said, a sneer playing on his lip.

“But I’ve put away a little.” Beatrice pulled a wad of cash from her bathrobe pocket. What she meant was enough.

He peered at her through narrowed eyes, his mouth hard. “Where’d you get that?”

“Some from the rummage sale a couple years ago. Some from gifts. My birthday, Christmas, you know.”

“You been keeping that when the door needed fixing? And my truck got that ding?” He extended a hand. “I’ll take that.”

Her smile slid off, and she dropped the roll of cash into his palm.

He counted out the bills, keeping the number to himself.

“What about the bathroom?” she said, her tone set to neutral.

He snorted. “What about the bathroom?”

After thirty-five years of marriage, she was used to his sarcasm. It didn’t slice into her anymore, but his mimicry still shredded her. She turned away, hot tears breaking free. She clenched her teeth.

That was the last time she’d asked about the bathroom. And only four months before he was gone.

Now she watched the handyman. Dust thickened the air as the man hacked through the walls. Hank’s walls. Now hers.

Hank. She recalled the day of his funeral.

“Did you know he had heart problems?” her friend asked, flanking her near the casket.

“Most of the men in his family went that way,” Beatrice said. “He never got checked.”

“Well, I’m sorry. So sudden.”

She squinted at his waxy face. “I know.”

Well-wishers told her what a guy he was—how solid, how predictable. She nodded and accepted all the hugs paid out to her.

Her grown daughter stared at Hank’s body. “Mom. He never wore a suit in real life. Why now?” Krista had her dad’s way, his eyes.

“They just do that. It’s an expectation.”

“Well, it’s stupid. This looks nothing like him.”

Beatrice gave her girl a half-hug, and more people pressed in around her.

“He sure had a way about him. That sense of humor,” a friend of Hank’s said, shaking his head.

Beatrice frowned. Sense of humor? Hank breathed earth’s air just last week, and she couldn’t remember.

She couldn’t remember him.

In the sanctuary, the pastor talked about life, about being reunited with Hank one day. Beatrice wondered...

When the service ended, six of Hank’s buddies carried his body away. Her gaze trailed after the coffin.

There he goes.

As people filed out, she abandoned her pew and walked into the room where the refreshments would be served. Ham on buns, potato salad, pickles, cake. Hank’s favorites. She made her way into the church’s kitchen, tied on an apron, and busied herself filling the platters.

“What are you doing back here, honey?” a woman asked.

“Serving,” Beatrice said.

“Not today. You sit down. But take some food first.”

She straightened the edge of the first layer of buns. “But I’m on the schedule.”

“Not at your own husband’s funeral.”

Beatrice took off the apron and hung it up again. Now what?

The evening of the funeral, emptiness warmed the house. Krista had bolted after the burial. Beatrice understood. She wanted to be alone too, so she refused her friends’ offers to stay with her.

She walked from room to room and inhaled the quiet, the peace. When she reached the bathroom, she sat on the closed toilet lid and stared at the faded blue wall—imagined it gone. The red tape had been pulled away, the shackles unclasped.

Beatrice waited out the weekend and on Monday morning made the call. “I’d like to have my bathroom renovated.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s passing,” the man on the other end of the line said. “We read about it in the paper and—”

She strode to the bathroom and peeled back the shower curtain for another look. “Could you come this week and do it?”

“We do an estimate first. That’s how it works. But we could take care of it this week. Least we can do.”

“Okay. Any day is fine.”

Beatrice figured she had enough credit on one card to cover it.

Now excitement bubbled through her as she watched the demolition. The crumbling walls.

“What on earth?” The handyman stopped and squatted, zeroing in on one area of the rubble.

“What?” Beatrice edged closer. Through the dust, she eyed bundles—many bundles—of something.

He turned toward her, clutching dusty handfuls of green bills held together by rubber bands. “And there’s more.”

Among the stacks once hidden in the wall, Beatrice spied a single roll of cash—her cash—and the hole that led into Hank’s closet.

She swallowed, her eyes wide. It was never about the money.

Only about the walls.

*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.

Close

These days, uncertainty seems a little too close for comfort. I think of how danger slinks at the edges of our lives too. Or at least it feels that way.

Yesterday I clicked through some old writings of mine and found this one from early 2015. Perils lurked outside our front door then too, but I like how my five-and-a-half-years-younger self saw it. She had the right idea.

*****

The brick commercial building—lodged between the corner store and our house—was lackluster, and only its changing name captured my eye over the years. In the early days in the neighborhood, the sign indicated the building was home to Islamic gatherings. Then it went vacant. A year later, it sprang from obscurity, snagging attention from the big news outlets. The building had been used as an illegal after-hours club, we learned, and at 3:00 a.m. on March 7, 2013, almost a hundred people were gathered at the establishment when an argument sparked, turning into a scuffle. By the time it was over, two men were dead—one inside, one outside. And the two shooters had fled. The usual course of action followed: law enforcement marked off the place as a crime scene, investigations ensued, and the police issued the landlord a notice of nuisance—the legal form of a slap on the wrist—and he boarded up the building.

The morning after the shootings, we rubbed our eyes and wondered what had gone down a half block away at the brick building while we slept in our warm beds. The streets—for many blocks around—were barricaded, and exiting the neighborhood was as tricky as in the 2011 tornado’s aftermath. When the situation cooled, we noticed mourners had slipped in behind the yellow tape to build a memorial on the sidewalk. They left behind teddy bears, flowers, signs, photos of the deceased, and remnants of meals consumed right there on the pavement. The only things that touched us from the tragedy were the fast-food wrappers that blew on March winds into our yard.

The double homicide was close. But no bullets ripped through our lives. And neither did fear.

My brother, a New York City dweller, called me one day.

“So I’ve been streaming Joe Soucheray’s Garage Logic out of Saint Paul,” he said. “Anyway, a local news story came up. Notice any unusual police activity at the end of your block?”

“No,” I said. “But I haven’t been looking.”

“Sounds like a guy’s holding his girlfriend hostage,” he said. “They’ve got the place surrounded.”

I poked my head out the front door and flicked my gaze down the street.

“Well, sure enough,” I said.

The place hummed with activity. Police cars lined the streets and a SWAT team stood in position. Officers surrounded the house in question, guns drawn.

“Since it’s a domestic, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” my brother said.

“I’m not worried.”

The hostage situation was close. But no abusive boyfriend barred me inside my home. And neither did fear.

My neighbor Marta had a favorite spot in her back yard—her lounge chair—where she’d bask for a measure of each fleeting summer day. But on a Tuesday in the summer of 2014, obligation beckoned. Marta, a formidable culinary force, arose from her chair to serve the common good: she had a BBQ rib contest to judge.

While she was away, two cars sped through the neighborhood, the drivers working out their grievances through open car windows. But finding words insufficient, the men settled their differences with lead. One bullet penetrated a neighbor’s fascia, and another pierced Marta’s fence and skidded to rest in her most cherished place in paradise: right under the seat of her lounge chair.

The drive-by was close. But Marta still lived without fear—and laughed whenever she retold the story about the day she wasn’t hit in the backside by a bullet.

One of the shooters in the double homicide in the brick building on the corner pleaded guilty to manslaughter and was sentenced to nearly nine years in prison; the other had a second-degree murder charge against him dropped after serving almost a year. The hostage-taker in the house at the end of the block was apprehended, never to return. And the police caught the two speeding drivers and arrested them for gunplay on a residential street.

We knew the past, but we didn’t think it into our future. Unruffled by the exceptions who passed through our streets with guns, our area of the city always settled back into a rhythm. No over-the-shoulder glances, no lost sleep.

To be safe, though, we kept our doors shut tight, leaving fear locked outside where it belonged.

*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.