Rest

“I love it when you rest!” Dr. Jade Teta, my online trainer, hollers over the music, and I don’t feel guilty for waiting a beat before taking on the next burpee. His short rest-based workouts seem too good to be true, but after months of following him, I see they work.

I mull over the concept. Rest is a tool for increasing intensity. Add some breaks into workouts, and exercisers can work harder when they go again. It’s the answer for the body, so what about the mind?

One evening last week, I bawled my eyes out in front of the family. It’s been a year of feeling stuck in our circumstances (no, we’re still not in the new house—even though our move was supposed to happen nine months ago—and I feel wronged. And that’s only one of the sticky situations in our lives right now.)

Daily, I strive in the things I can control and mourn the ones I can’t. I sleep at night, but do I rest? Not so much.

In a house full of ladies, Husband’s smart; he knows even the best advice can’t fix everything. He also knows a getaway here or there can work wonders. After witnessing The Crying Jag, he arranges two hotel nights for me alone, mid-week, in a suburb not so far away. The purpose, he says? To rest.

I pace the hotel room floor—might as well log steps while I’m here—but I remember the goal of my stay. My phone pings. A friend’s words pop up on the display. She’s battling anxiety. Her struggle is continual, her wait endless. Sounds familiar. But she feels called this week into a mental oasis of calm—a place of rest.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

I put down the phone, replacing the digital word with the one on onion-skin paper. I surrender to what I read—to the One Who speaks it—and in come peace and rest. And maybe I practice that until it becomes as sticky as my circumstances.

I can’t master it, even in a lifetime, but I can rest trying.

*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.

Kids in candy stores

The bell on the door jangled, and the smell of incense from the rack near the entrance spoke louder than the scent of cigarette smoke on the clothing of the two customers ahead of us. Like any convenience store, this corner store in our North Minneapolis neighborhood offered lots of sugary temptations, turning itself into one of our little girls' favorite spots.

The young Colin Farrell look-alike behind the counter was cute—in spite of his unibrow—and he seemed to know it. Two men worked alongside him, and the three of them flipped from Arabic to English when they saw us coming. The girls—around five, seven, and nine years old at the time—scooted down their favorite aisle where they had already worn a path.

While the girls touched all the treats during their decision-making, I recalled the corner store of my youth, Berg's Drugstore, downtown Middle River. A bell on the door signaled our entry there too, but creaky wood floors greeted us and not the smell of smoke, even though Vick Berg, the elderly owner, sold candy cigarettes—something I was never allowed to buy. Glass jars of old-fashioned sweets lined up Little House on the Prairie style on the wooden counter, and my five-year-old mind wondered if Mr. Berg, with his liver-spotted hands, was the same vintage as Ma and Pa.

Our girls made quick work of their selections now, bickering amongst themselves about fairness and nickels. They had scrounged change from around the house but needed an extra boost from me. My thoughts again darted back forty-five years to Vick Berg’s small-town business.

“And a penny for the governor,” the elderly shop owner always said while tallying our candy bill, our items (like Candy Buttons and Boston Baked Beans) more Prohibition era than 1970s.

As the girls and I exited our city convenience store, a man with a ball python twisted around his neck entered. A woman trailed him, cupping a coiled rosy boa in her hands. The girls turned to me and whispered their wishes to hold the strangers’ pets—or have one like them.

“Why don't we go home and eat what you just bought?” I said, hoping to distract. Better sweets than snakes, I wanted to say.

The next day, Waffle Saturday, arrived, but we were out of whipped cream. I plucked some cash from my purse, handed it to the girls, and they walked the singular block to the convenience store. They returned home with whipped cream and syrup.

“When we went to pay, we didn’t have enough money, so the man asked how much we had,” Dicka said. “He said it was enough for both.”

“That was nice, but we didn’t need syrup,” I said. “Just the whipped cream.”

Later that July day, the ice cream truck played “Silent Night” as it passed. The girls grabbed their almost depleted change jar.

“One treat,” I called out.

“That’s all we have money for anyway,” Ricka hollered over her shoulder as she ran off.

I kept a wary eye on the beat-up white van with its cheery but faded decals of frozen confections. Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka chased it for a block before the driver applied the brakes near the corner store.

The girls returned home with disappointed faces.

“All we could get was one snow cone,” Ricka said, wrinkling her nose, “and it’s bland.”

“Maybe the ice cream truck man knows the guys at the store and heard you had extra syrup at home.”

“That’s not funny, Mom.”

On our next trip to the convenience store, the four men—all with the name Muhammad—were working.

“Is this to have a Super Bowl party at your house?” one of them said, eyeballing my stash of snacks before he rang it up.

“Sure. It’s better than admitting I’m going to eat all the chips and dip myself.” And I wondered what Vick Berg would've said to that.

The same crew had been employed at the store for years and witnessed much. Cars smashed through the place’s front windows three times before the security barriers—the posts protecting the business from its own parking lot—went up. A homicide went down inside the store soon after. Police cars dotted the parking lot for a while, their presence marking the spot as troubled. We gave the store our business anyway; they needed it now more than ever. And the girls continued to visit with their found change from the couch cushions and dryer. (Or with coins Husband and I tossed into their jar when they weren’t looking.)

“We didn’t have enough money,” Dicka said on another occasion when they returned from the store, “but the man said we could have the candy anyway.”

“Girls,” I said, “next time, just get what you can afford. You’ve been cut too many deals.”

I was grateful the girls’ change jar was empty again when later that summer day the ice cream truck rolled by, this time playing “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Now I had the song stuck in my head—five months before Christmas. But I thought of our tasty life in the neighborhood in general and the goodwill of the employees working in the store on the corner. And I again recalled Vick Berg, doling out treats during my own childhood.

Oh, those purveyors of goodies! Hopefully life had been sweet for all of them 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.

The gratitude journal

It's November, the month of Thanksgiving. I always mean to be more intentional about gratefulness, but sometimes I forget. No better time to get back to the basics than now.

While I find a new notebook for logging our thankfulness, enjoy this blog post from three years ago.

*****

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 here?

*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 boat ride

The boat ride after dark felt like a good idea when the guys first mentioned it. Now I wish I had stayed home.

Harsh winds whip up lake water and slosh it over the sides of the vessel and onto my feet. This jacket isn’t nearly enough for the adventure. What was I thinking? At least the rowing keeps me warm.

My friends—the guys in the boat with me—seem like they know what they’re doing. Of course they do. They fish on the regular and even sell their catches to local grocery stores. But right now? We’re miles out, and they’re exchanging looks. What I see on their faces makes me queasy, and I don’t think these conditions are normal anymore.

We rock and jerk and thump, hitting wave after wave. And it goes on longer than I feel is right. I’m pretty sure my blood pressure is rising because I know my anxiety is. And now it’s raining.

This squall doesn’t surprise me. Everything that can be shaken will be shaken, they say. Housing, jobs, relationships—all battered by circumstances. These days, if life were a game, it’d be called Truth or Lies? If it were a Netflix show, Snag Upon Snag. A book? The Interminable Wait. And now nature pummels us when all we wanted was a nice evening paddle across the lake.

I blink through the lashing rain. Too much rowing still ahead. We can't turn back—we’re too far out—and it’s only getting darker and harder.

He dwells in thick darkness.

My legs are soaked. Our ride teeters. Will I have to put that nearby bucket to good use? I almost laugh at the torrent. Wouldn’t it be ironic to drown along with these guys who usually know what they’re doing?

One of them yells something and points. I follow his finger and squint into the night. A shape hovers over the water. A buoy maybe? But no, it’s moving. Even in the storm I see it’s coming toward us like it’s walking—from out there.

Panic shoots a jolt up my spine. There’s a reason I don’t watch scary movies; my stomach can’t handle it.

“It’s me!” the figure hollers to us, and I see Who it is. “Don't be afraid.”

Our Friend climbs into the boat like it’s nothing. The guys clap him on the back, and He smiles and sits by me. No ghost after all, but my heart is still trying to escape its cage.

But wait. Did the storm fizzle out, or am I only distracted because He’s here? I gaze out at the water. No, the storm definitely stopped. And we must look ridiculous, the guys and me—our hair snarled from the frenzy—because our Friend chuckles at us.

I look harder, and there’s land. But weren’t we still miles out? If I know the distance across this lake—and I do—this is impossible. Yet here we are, on the other side of the storm and already to shore.

The guys are whooping, celebrating our success, “our miracle,” they're calling it. I sit in the calm with endless questions about how and why and when flipping through my mind. But it turns out only one question matters—and it starts with Who.

It always starts with Who.

*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 cats

Living in a community means taking care of its creatures—whether one is called to wrangle a leash onto a loose dog sniffing around the alley or to return wandering children to their parents. Even for the quiet ones—our feline community members—it can take a village.

Around 2010, we began cat sitting for Emma and Randy, our neighbors two blocks away. We had first met them at church and found out we not only shared the same neighborhood but also a proclivity for bringing daughters into the world; we had three girls, and they had four. When they asked Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka to check in on their cats, Punkin and Patches, while they were away on vacation one year, the girls were eager to help.

Each time we entered their house, Punkin and Patches greeted us at the door, their purrs as loud as electric toothbrush motors. They both required thyroid meds twice a day, so the girls scooped them up and cradled them in their arms while I gently squeezed the cats’ jaws open enough to drop pills down their throats. They didn’t seem to mind their meds and followed us around while we cleaned the litter box and freshened their food and water.

Over the years, all our visits were alike. Until the day only Patches met us at the door. Randy and Emma had told us about Punkin’s passing, and after that, our time at their house was never quite the same. Losing a community member of any size leaves a hole for the rest of us.

Veronica, our neighbor from five doors down, one day announced she and Sergio were leaving on a week-long vacation. She asked if Flicka would provide care for their cat Isis while they were away. The job was pretty easy and would have its perks, she said: Flicka could hang out at their house, order up movies on their TV, and enjoy treats of her choice. There was just one disclaimer, though, and Veronica spelled it out for us in a note:

Isis is kind of a rotten cat, but you’ll get along with her as long as you remember a few things. She’s old and cranky and packs a wallop if she catches you with a claw. She’s nervous around new people, and we’re pretty sure she’s not all there to begin with. She’s curious and will probably be interested in you. The key is to be calm and ignore her at first. Just let her sniff you. She might chirp and act all cute, but she’s not ready yet! Give her less attention than you think she wants. One last warning: she does the Puss in Boots routine from Shrek when she’s playful. If she’s looking extra bubble-eyed and cute, she’s powering up! Don’t be drawn in! Keep your face away from her for sure.

During her cat care week, Flicka heeded the warnings and kept her relationship with Isis professional, doling out a courteous nod when the two of them made eye contact. They got along well. After performing her cat duties, Flicka indulged in apples dipped in caramel while she did her homework. Isis looked on and approved.

We met Frank—a co-worker of Husband’s—and his wife Lola when they moved into the neighborhood in 2014. They told us about their world travels and asked if our girls would take care of their cat Moneypenny when they were away on their next trip, a safari to Africa. Ricka and Dicka agreed, thrilled with the offer of employment.

The girls instantly fell in love with Moneypenny, who had years earlier lost a leg due to a shoulder tumor. As exuberant as a dog, she nuzzled us, and after completing the feeding and litter box duties, the girls snuggled her for an hour each visit.

One day, during one of Frank and Lola’s trips, I drove the girls to their house to care for the cat. We parked and approached the front door. Dicka pulled the house key from her pocket, but as she did, I saw the door was ajar.

“Girls,” I said, a chill twisting up my spine. “Get back. Someone’s broken into the house.”

Husband had warned me about the recent rash of break-ins in the neighborhood. And now Frank and Lola’s place. We backed away from the house, and I dialed 911. When the operator came on the other end of the line, I stated the address and our reason for being there. Just then, I heard a thud inside the house.

“Whoever broke in is still in there,” I said, hoping to steady my voice. “I just heard thumping.”

“The police are on their way. Go and sit in your car. I’ll stay on the phone with you.”

While we waited in the car, the operator gave me the play-by-play, updating me on the police’s coordinates every couple of blocks. Soon, a squad car pulled up to the curb, and three officers flew from their vehicle—guns drawn—and entered the house.

On edge, I phoned Husband, away on travel for work.

“Someone broke into Frank and Lola’s,” I said, breathless. “And they’re still in there. I heard noises.”

“Oh, really? You’re there right now?”

“Yeah, and so are the police. They’re inside checking it out. We’re waiting in the car.” I trained my eyes on the front door of the house. “How do we reach Frank and Lola in the South Pacific?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

One of the officers exited the house and strode toward our vehicle.

“I gotta go,” I told Husband and hung up.

The officer approached my driver’s side window. I rolled it down.

“There was a guy inside. Their contractor,” she said. “He’s doing some work for them while they’re away. He showed us the paperwork.”

So that explained the pounding. Relief washed away my worry. “No one told me a contractor was coming.”

The officer hooked her thumbs on her gun belt. “He didn’t know you were coming either.”

Just then, thoughts of Moneypenny jarred me. Had the sweet tripod slipped out through the open door? “Did you happen to see the cat?”

The officer tossed me a half-smile. “Yep, the cat’s fine. Now wait here a little longer. We’re wrapping up a few things and then you can go in.” She sauntered back into the house.

I exhaled and dialed Husband again.

“It was a contractor working in the house,” I said, thankful for the happy ending.

“Oh, that’s right.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Guess I forgot to tell you. Frank said they’re having someone do some work upstairs while they’re gone.”

“You knew?” My blood pressure bumped up a few notches. “I just called the cops on an innocent guy.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

The police officers emerged from the house, and the same one approached our car again. I ended the call with Husband.

The officer nodded toward the house. “You can go in now.”

“Sorry we called you for nothing.”

She shook her head, waving a hand. “No, no. When you see a door standing open like that, we want you to call.”

I thanked her, and she disappeared into her vehicle. The three officers drove off.

The girls and I stepped inside the house.

“Hello?” I called out.

The contractor tromped down the stairs to greet us. We exchanged names.

“I’m so sorry I called the police on you.” Guilt nicked me. “I bet I ruined your day.”

“Naw, it’s okay.” He shook his hair back from his face and shrugged. “They had their guns on me and had me cuffed before I knew it.”

My hands flew to my face. “Oh, no.”

“No worries.” He bobbed his head. “It’s happened to me before.”

“That’s horrible.”

The man went back to work, and I sat on the couch and rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the remorse. Moneypenny nudged my hand for attention, reminding me why we were there in the first place.

Even though our feline neighbors are the quiet ones, slinking around their houses often unnoticed by the rest of the world, they deliver some exciting times in the neighborhood. And with their colorful personalities and needs, they prove they make a community better—just like the rest of us.

*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 gallery

In these murky days, I remember where the way is illuminated. See, I’m an art lover, and I have a favorite gallery where the light is always on—and I can visit it whenever I like. To me, it’s the best place in the world. And I’ve even been to the Louvre.

I know this gallery well, and I love it so much I almost have it memorized. My heroes live on the walls there, and the sight of them makes me smile. It makes me cry too.

But no matter what, each time I visit that museum, I’m refreshed.

I can do this thing, I say to myself when I see how these amazing people lived. Like them, I can make it to the other side too.

And so today, I stroll down the Hall of Faith* once more. And there are those faces again. I admire their pictures, some of them painted in blood—all of them in struggle. During my visits, I marvel; what these humans went through to make it into Holy Writ gets me in the gut every time.

As I gaze at each portrait, I ask for new eyes, a fresh understanding. And since wisdom is never withheld from us when we request it, I get a generous portion. I see a couple of characters who never stood out to me before: Moses’ mother and father. But aren’t we more interested in the man himself and not so much the ones who brought him into the world?

I zero in on the masterpiece anyway, and the ancient parents come into focus.

By faith Moses, when he was born, was hidden for three months by his parents because they saw the child was beautiful, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict.

Wait. They weren’t? They weren’t afraid of Pharaoh’s killing spree, aimed to take out all the infant boys? I always envisioned worried Amram and anxious Jochebed twisting both their hands and the bulrushes they used to form the basket-turned-miniature-boat for the baby. Weren’t their actions woven out of both faith in God and fear of man?

Before moving on, I sit awhile in the reminder of the mutually exclusive states. Fear had no part in the motivation of the famous leader’s parents—only faith. And the two can’t mix.

Still mulling over the piece, I amble on to the next frame. And here in the age-old gallery is something new: a mirror.

In the reflection, I see fear, at one time my sin of choice, now ebbing away, worn down by life and loss, circumstances and surrender, and in its place stands faith. It isn’t complete yet, but it will be.

I know one day it will be.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

*The “Hall of Faith” is located in Hebrews 11.

Scrapbook of a week's thoughts

Not long ago, I eyed the tree in the front yard. Its foliage was as green as June—except for one branch. And that branch, lit up in red, stood alone. Had it changed overnight? The transformation seemed sudden, but something must have been ruminating, twisting, determining within its bark for long enough to make that kind of decision. I nodded at its conviction to stand alone in a place where there was only one way to be. What did the other branches think? Did the brilliant one even care?

This week, I surveyed the tree again, searching for that singular branch, ablaze in color and courage. But it had used its time to spread the word, to pass the flame, to ignite the passion, and to beckon others into the joy.

And they had all accepted the invitation.

*****

Last week, I read a story that invited me to linger. Later, I sent it to the family. Before bed, I returned to peek at it again.

Briton Alex Larenty lives on a game reserve in South Africa. One day, he discovered every time he applied a cream to cure an infection on a lion’s paws, the animal would slacken and appear to grin. Since then, he has massaged the feet of all the lions in the park on a daily basis. Thanks to the pampering, he created a bond so strong that when they see him arrive, the lions lie down, stretch out their legs, and smile.

*****

A house down the block has the cutest parking lot in the world. In the past, I’ve counted thirteen of these vehicles on the property, but the smaller fleet in this snapshot still drives home the point (which is pure fun.)

*****

Do you believe what you read? What if there's a picture with it?

PHOTO OF WOMAN ATTACKING DEFENSELESS PIT BULL GOES VIRAL

*****

I need a wardrobe (and skincare) change this season. I'm poking the old stuff into a garbage bag, and it's out the door. Now I want replacements. And I think I found some.

He will give you a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

*****

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

The Triangle Garden

My girl Flicka and I walked two blocks to the Triangle Garden, a sliver of earth in the middle of traffic, to lend a hand. The little section of ground was something pretty—or it would be soon, anyway—in a part of town that needed beauty like it needed air. We stepped onto the garden’s soil, and Debbie, the coordinator, looked up from her shoveling, her face splitting into a smile.

“Ah, you’re here to help,” she said. She set the shovel aside and handed me a couple of six-packs of petunias, nodding toward one corner of the community garden. “Pop these in there, if you would.”

I took a trowel, sauntered past a volunteer who heaved stone slabs into place for a garden path, and kneeled where Debbie had indicated. Cars rolled by on all sides. Some drivers honked, flashing thumbs-up signs to encourage us. I dug twelve holes—one for each of the plants—in the shape of a circle.

“Nice, Mom,” Flicka said, handing me the first petunia.

I patted each of the flowers into the ground and stood up, assessing my finished task. “Wow. From down there, I thought I did an amazing job.” I wrinkled my nose at the lopsided circle. “Looks like the work of a three year old.” Flicka laughed.

A woman wandered over to the garden from across the street, blurting out commands to the five little boys skipping along next to her. She approached me.

“I’m Mona,” she said.

I introduced myself and my girl. The boys scampered in the dirt, and Debbie gave them jobs to do: pull weeds, water new flowers, pick out rocks. She strode over to where we were visiting with Mona.

“Did you hear about the stabbing over there a month ago?” Debbie said to me, thumbing in the direction of the convenience store a block away. “It was Mona’s husband who was hurt.”

“Oh no,” I said to Mona. “Is he okay?”

“He’s better now.”

Debbie strode back to the other side and resumed her work. The little boys wrestled over the hose, one of them tumbling to the ground, pulling another one with him. Mona hollered at them to behave or else.

I nodded toward the kids. “Are they all yours?”

“Just those two.”

Debbie walked to her house and returned a minute later with a box. She doled out popsicles to the boys for all their hard work. Flicka and I dug, weeded, and raked around the garden as Mona shadowed us.

“So, you do a lot of projects in the neighborhood?” Mona said.

I shrugged. “I do what I can, I guess.”

“I don’t work, so I have time if you ever need help.”

I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Our shift ended, and Mona and I exchanged phone numbers. Flicka and I brushed ourselves off, said our goodbyes to our fledgling plants and new friends, and strolled back home.

Mona tried calling the next week, but I was driving in thick traffic and didn’t hear my phone. No message. The day after, she phoned again, but I was at a conference and couldn’t answer. Again, no message. As I was arriving home at ten o’clock that Friday night, my phone rang a third time.

I clicked it on. “Hey, Mona.”

Her voice was muffled, her words halting. Was she crying? “Mona? I can’t hear you.”

“I’m not okay,” she said, sniffling on the other end of the line.

“What’s going on?”

“My little boy needs medicine tonight.”

She explained one of her boys, Jules, had asthma and needed his meds, but she was at the pharmacy and they were charging her $46.37 for his prescription—$46.37 more than she had.

“Do you have forty dollars I could borrow just tonight?” she said.

“That’s not enough, Mona. You just said you need $46.37.”

“I bet they’d give it to me if I had that much. I’ll pay you back in the morning when the bank opens.”

My mind swirled back to Husband’s and my honeymoon twenty-six years earlier. As we walked along a sidewalk in Winnipeg, a man called out to us. He sat on a heap of old blankets, a shopping cart his only companion. We listened to the man’s story. I narrowed my eyes. Before we walked away, Husband handed him a twenty-dollar bill. My mouth sagged open.

“Twenty dollars? Why would you give him that much?” I said. “You know what he’s gonna buy with it.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe not, though.”

Over the years, I had never given money to the homeless. No matter how moving the story, I waved away the requests. They were in pain, yes, but their stories were usually fabrications, weren’t they? A snack, water, or kind words? That I could give. Cash? Never.

But something about Mona’s story nudged me. Something swayed my resolve and ignited my compassion.

“I’ll see what I have,” I said. “You can come over and get it.”

My three girls watched me as I ended the call. I filled them in on Mona’s story.

“I think I should give her the money,” I said. “I never do this because I know better. But something’s different this time.”

“Then do it,” Flicka said. The other two agreed.

Ten minutes later, I opened the screen door to Mona.

“This means everything to me,” she said, stepping onto my porch. Tears had left trails down her face.

I handed her the cash. “Can I pray for you—for your little guy who’s so sick?”

She nodded.

I put a hand on her shoulder and offered up Jules. I covered her too.

When I finished, her eyes were wide. “You go to church?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I go with you on Sunday?”

“Sure, Mona.”

“I don’t have a car, though.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

We made plans for church on Sunday, and she pulled me into a hug.

“I don’t have friends, either.” Her voice was a whisper now. “So if you wanna hang out—”

Before she left, Mona asked when I would be around the next day, so she could pay me back. I told her. She headed to the waiting vehicle out front, jumped into the passenger’s side, and waved as she rode away.

No word from Mona the next day. But she texted on Sunday morning. No, she wouldn’t be going to church with us after all. Her kids’ father’s mom was in the hospital and she’d be with her all day.

Since she had promised to pay me back, I sent another text: When you get home, let me know and I’ll swing over to pick up the money.

Okay, I’ll call you later, she said.

Three months passed. No more messages from Mona. No more requests for rides to church. No more talk of loneliness. No more promises to pay back the money.

No messages at all.

“Remember how you gave that homeless guy money on our honeymoon?” I said to Husband.

“And you weren’t happy about it?” he said.

I pursed my lips. “I did the same thing with Mona. Got sucked in, believed her, gave her money. She played me.”

“Maybe," he said. "Or maybe not."

What had made me give cash to an almost stranger when I never did that kind of thing? What had changed in me the night Mona called? The money was long gone, but maybe I was meant to rest a hand on her shoulder and believe her. Maybe I was meant to give her up, handing her and her boy over into better care. And that prayer? It still wafted from a beautiful bowl in heaven, a fragrant forever offering.

And maybe that was everything.

*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.

Goose Festival 2021

Usually a person’s eyebrows raise when I say I grew up in a town of about 350 people (with a graduating class of 18) in northern Minnesota. Tiny towns are speckled throughout the nation, but how many have yearly festivals surrounding large waterfowl?

I have the honor of writing a biweekly column for The Honker, Middle River’s newspaper, and we’re on the cusp of the big annual event. Here’s my article about the fun ahead this weekend.

*****

“It’s funny the Goose Festival doesn’t have anything to do with geese,” I overheard kid #2 say to her friend while describing Middle River’s annual celebration.

“Of course it does,” I said with a laugh. “It kicks off goose hunting season each year.”

She tossed me a blank stare. “Oh.”

I listened to her animated retelling of the cozy events of the festival, and what had once been my memories were now hers—with a twist. My two other girls piped up with their recollections too.

As I listened, I thought of my three girls—all raised in the city—with their idyllic view of smalltown living. I tried to tell them Middle River wasn’t a perpetual Oof-da Taco stand any more than my 1980s teen life was a continual John Hughes movie. Most of the year, normal people enjoyed a normal existence, I even added. But they chattered on about fresh lefse and rømmegrøt, puppies for sale at the flea market, Young’s General Store with its creaky wood floors and retro sweatshirts, and their pockets exploding with treats from the passing parade floats.

I caught the girls’ enthusiasm, their words shooting me back in time to when the Goose Festival showcased diversions like the spirited bed races that thundered down the center of town, an outhouse-sized jail ready to imprison anyone who committed one fun infraction or other, and a helicopter that dropped numbered Styrofoam cubes for kids to collect and redeem for prizes at the local businesses. I remembered the pageant contestants, perched on cars in the parade and often wearing winter coats over their satin and tulle for the crisp fall ride. And I recalled the Ness brothers who stripped their old Impala’s insides of everything but the driver’s seat, welded in a rollbar cage, and stuck a fire extinguisher inside (just in case) for the demolition derby; the smell of exhaust and sound of revving engines flows through my mind even now.

As for geese, Dad hunted the town festival’s namesake a couple of times in the 1970s and butchered his catch on the kitchen table. A meal followed, and I took tentative bites, hoping to dodge the birdshot still suspended in the flesh, a far cry from what one finds at the Goose Cookoff of today’s festivities.

“Middle River: the Goose Capital of the World!” said the sign on Highway 32 as one entered my hometown back in the day. Nearby, a massive fiberglass replica of the Canadian bird sat on a pole to accompany the welcome, and my heart swelled. Once upon a time after I left home, though, I heard the fake feathered one alighted from its “branch” and disappeared under cover of darkness, but that’s someone else’s story for another day.

Goose on a pole or not, happy 47th year, Middle River Goose Festival! You make my heart swell still.

Happy 7th birthday, My Blonde Life!

Seven days in a week.  

Seven continents in the world.  

Seven colors in the rainbow. 

Seven notes on a musical scale. 

Seven represents Divine perfection too. 

Seven. 

This special number captures the notice of all kinds of people in all manner of places in all points of time.  

And here we are at My Blonde Life blog's seventh birthday! Where did the time go?  

Off to eat some cake in honor of this one's life in words, 

Tamara 

P.S. As a birthday gift to you-know-who, subscribe to the blog today—and invite a friend to do the same! 

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka. 

The Volvo

In these days of turning lemons into lemonade, my own sweet lemon from days gone by sprang to mind. Enjoy our story…

The day we purchased the Volvo station wagon in 2006 was a happy day. The make’s reputation launched me into a more exotic life, giving me the image of being an invested carpool mom with an appreciation for Swedish culture and a penchant for stopping at farmers markets with my eco-friendly shopping bag.

Although pre-owned, our Volvo was still newer than I wanted. I had admired the 1970s wagons, but Husband talked me out of the idea; those could be a nightmare, he said. What we purchased was luxurious: heated leather seats, a sun roof, a gauge that kept us informed of the temperature on the road’s surface, and headlights with their own little wipers—an utterly superfluous feature.

Our ownership of the Volvo started out innocently enough with oil changes, but things took a turn soon enough. The O rings and heater core needed to be replaced. After that, a stranger alerted us to fluid pooling underneath our parked vehicle. We had the fuel leak repaired and moved on to replacing the front brake pads, rear pads, and rear rotors. The radiator hose betrayed us a few months later, spraying fluid everywhere—including inside the car. The tie rods failed at the same time, so at least our mechanic, Joe, could take care of several items of business in one visit. A few months later, the tail lights and motor blower became inoperable too.

With all my frequent visits to Mechanic Joe’s, we had time to visit. I learned about his family and his dogs. Maybe I wouldn’t see him again until the next oil change, I imagined. But shortly after that fantasy, the car wouldn’t start. Joe gave us a tow, and we learned the starter needed to be replaced. Later, the brakes went out again—this time while I was driving, thrusting the little ones and me into mortal danger. Miraculously, I steered the car home from the western suburbs and back into the inner city without incident. Another flatbed truck tow was sprinkled into our bill. By now, Joe and I had been through it together; I considered him a friend.

The ball joints were swapped out next—and the transmission mount too. Over four years of ownership, my hope was battered, and I began to see the Volvo for what she had become: a fickle, backstabbing friend.

“This car might just break us,” I told Husband one day.

“Let’s repair it again and see what happens.”

Next, the propeller shaft double-crossed us; now we were getting into parts we had never heard of before. When it was fixed, I drove the car to an event. I saw a friend in the parking lot there, rolled down my window to talk to her in February temperatures, and when we were done chatting, we parted ways. Since the window wouldn’t roll up again, though, the drive home was a frigid one.

After the window repair came the new headlamp assembly. Because of owning a foreign vehicle, none of the work was in a normal, affordable price range. Joe and his employees did what they could to search out the best deals for parts, but we couldn’t swerve the exorbitant prices. And what had first attracted me to a foreign car now turned my stomach bitter.

One day after a kids’ play group at my friend Robin’s house, the Volvo wouldn’t start. I hopped out and walked back to her door.

“Do you have a hammer handy?” I said. She did.

I raised the hood of the car, tapped on the starter, and my mechanical mean girl fired to life.

“Thanks,” I said, handing the tool back to Robin. “See you next time.”

Joe’s service station was in our neighborhood—just five blocks away. We had first learned about him in 2002 from the Isenbergs next door. They raved about his service, his reasonable prices, his generosity. He had even sold them a vehicle, letting them make payments to him over many months as finances allowed. What they said was true: he was a man of integrity. He had even towed us a couple of times at no charge.

While I’m one to seize almost any opportunity to make a new friend, developing a friendship with Joe, to the tune of $500 almost every other week toward the end, wasn’t my idea of a grand time. I preferred my relationship with him to run me the cost of an oil change every 3,000 miles.

I imagine Joe saw the dollar signs as distinctly as we did—and he was kind.

“You can just write a check, and I’ll hold it until whenever you say,” he said.

I propped up my pride. “That’s nice of you, but we can swing it.”

In early 2011, the thumping and grinding began as I drove on Highway 100. I exited and careened onto a residential street just in time. The car died. I quelled the urge to vomit and instead called for a tow.

While the Volvo was in the shop for the third time that month, the unthinkable happened: Husband’s Ford F-150, Blanche, wouldn’t start. I burst into tears, and Husband looked like he had something in his eye too.

“Are we ridiculous for keeping this up?” I said. “Now it’s Blanche. When is it enough?”

“Just one more repair on the Volvo and then we’ll see,” said Husband. “The truck’ll be fine.”

Finally the day came for Joe to have The Talk with me—the talk I feared and dreaded, but desired too.

“You might want to look at getting a different vehicle,” he said.

“I’ll admit this has been tough for us.”

He bobbed his head. “It’s been hard on all of us.”

In my earlier deep denial, I had thrown away all the service receipts. Out of curiosity, I asked one of Joe’s employees for a printout of all our repairs.

“Sure. I’ll just load a ream of paper into the printer first,” he said.

The day we put down the Volvo station wagon in 2011 was a happy day. And I had learned three golden lessons to keep forever: I could be stretched further than my limits, character can be built on a couple of radiator hose jobs, and failing brakes are directly proportional to a stronger prayer life.

And I learned I could drive out on the other side of it all—in a Honda Pilot.

*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.

Mercy (and a fun story at the end)

Following the usual bits of information etched on my future gravestone, I want these words: Mercy triumphs!  

The whole verse says, “Mercy triumphs over judgment,” but for an epitaph, the first two words are more than enough, and the exclamation point confirms it. 

Years ago, I told my family this idea for my burial marker, but when the time comes, will they remember? I suppose it’d be a good plan to have that simple sentence tattooed on the side of my forearm in a delicate, scrawling font. And maybe living with it would remind me too of the mercy that chased me down, catching me at last and changing everything. 

But I guess I don’t need the mark on my skin to show the mark on my life. 

If spiritual gift surveys are accurate, they point to mercy as one of my strengths. Truth be told, in spite of the difficulties of this gifting, I’ve gathered a little pride around it—until recently.  

Darkness rubs up against light these days, and I’ll admit I don’t have the tolerance for it. I’ve always believed redemption is possible for everyone—no matter what—but these days, I clench my teeth while reading about what’s up in the world. And I find myself certain the cosmos would be a better place without particular people in it.  

Where did my mercy go? 

In the past week, thirteen faces gaze back at me from online news sites. They look resolute, those young heroic ones, but they were exploded into eternity, and I’m queasy hearing people say they gave their lives in vain. Now word of a “Kill List” drifting into the wrong hands emerges, plunging innocent Afghanis and Americans over there into The Valley of the Shadow of Death.  

But it’s not just over there. Give evil an inch anywhere, and instead of it taking a mile, it takes lives, and not even all the blood in the world is enough to satisfy it; its ground knows no saturation point for this kind of spilling. And so instead of mercy for all, I want mercy for only some. 

I walk 10,000 steps a day, and it used to be I happened to pray while I walked. These days, no. Now I happen to walk while I pray. I do it out loud too, if Husband logs his steps with me, because the power in the spoken word—and someone standing in agreement with it—reverberates throughout the unshakable realm. I won’t stop this practice, but I do wonder what drivers who roll by us think when they see me crying. 

If there’s a moral to this story, is it that prayer changes things, and at the same time, me? Is it that it’s good I’m not God because I would coordinate far too many smackdowns per day? Or is it that no matter how things look to me, mercy still triumphs? 

Yeah, I see it now. It’s for sure that last one.  

***** 

The day after I posted last week’s blog installment with my readers’ fair stories, this reader sent her delightful memories. Maybe with all my above talk about judgment and smackdowns, this is a sweeter way to end this week. Enjoy the following submission! 

Being from a single parent family we didn't have extra money for frivolities like fairs, but I was able to earn my way to a trip a few times, as a 4-H'er. Having won first place at the local county fair, one was awarded a several day stay at the State Fair, in the 4-H dorms atop the 4H building, and a chance to compete with other county 4Hproject winners from around the state. Being that I was a "city kid" (from the big city of Austin, Minnesota) I didn't have any livestock to show, so I usually did Creative Arts projects. One year I did a veterinary science project on an orphaned squirrel I had found and raised (poster demo only, Claude the squirrel not included). 4H kids were also expected to work while there, having duties tidying up the building or being assigned to peel potatoes for the dormitory meals. Rebel that I was, I ditched potato peeling duty at least once every time I was at the fair, and snuck out, (which was also forbidden... I bet you didn't know I was such a deviant!) crossing Snelling to go....to chat with & get a knish made by the darling old folks at the Shalom Home! There you have it, my full confession! 

Carissa, Robbinsdale, Minnesota 

*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. 

Your fair stories

Last week, I asked you readers if you had interesting fair stories to share. You sure did! (And I hope you enjoy them like I did.) Here’s what you sent me:

 *****

I was talking to a friend who told me that she writes her cell phone on her children's arms whenever they attend the state fair. I thought that was such a stellar idea. As the Mr. and I were preparing for our annual pilgrimage to the fair, I grabbed the fattest permanent black marker I could find. I grabbed the 5 year old man-child and proceeded to write my husband's cell number on his arm and then on the arm of our youngest. Without having to look at my husband, I knew he was giving me the look of “seriously?”, to which I confidently replied, “Hey, you never know.” Fast forward a few hours, and we are in the midst of crowd city, headed for the milkshakes. Husband turns to me with a look of slight panic and asks, “Where's the boy?” Before I could start freaking out, his phone rings. The man on the other end says, “I have your son, and we are on the corner of such and such.” Husband looks at me, and I just shoot him a smile of “I know.”

Shantell, Maple Grove, Minnesota

*****

When I was fifteen years old, we moved to Prince Edward County, Virginia—the hotbed of the civil rights movement in education—but that had only served to impoverish an already historically conflict-embroiled region. The Five County Fair was testament to this. 

The fair was a five-day event, school nights included. It was just at the brink of autumn, when you would want a jean jacket but often ended up slinging it around your waist until the cool of the evening, when the chill was enough for the jacket but not for the mosquitos. (The sign of an evening well spent in the South? Bug bites. But that finger nail crisscross and spit thing really does work.)

That night, my mother loaded all five of us kids in the van. We were fifteen on down to three years old and in the throes of that post-move funk that settles upon all children when the first thrill of novelty and change have worn off. My mother’s friend, a feisty lawyer woman and church friend who I was shadowing in case I wanted to be a paralegal, joined us for the trip.

The fairgrounds were set up lackadaisically in a great green field with occasional buildings marking talent shows, featuring songs like “Walking in Memphis” and sequined sister acts. I remember seeing a couple pigs and cows, but nothing like I have since experienced in southern Minnesota, where farming is a champion sport. Those high school days, I was city girlish about 4H Club and couldn’t fathom who would want to waste time fighting with a sewing machine.

A zipper ride with spiraling up-and-down seats caught my brother’s and my eye.

“You know these rides have no liability,” Lawyer Lady said. So far, she had refused to let her sons ride a single truck-mounted roller coaster or scrambler the whole evening. 

My mother was less jazzed about such things and sent us on ahead with tickets. I could almost hear her lawyer friend hyperventilating as we climbed on.

With a flat affect and grizzled beard, the ride operator flicked an eye at our seat belts—a glorified high chair strap and plastic buckle configuration—and slammed the cage door down on our box. He went around in a similar fashion to the other cars, making minimal eye contact and chewing a wad of tobacco. I felt a tremor of uncertainty, but my ten-year-old little brother was with me. As the big sister, you can’t afford to lose face. Back the man went to the operation keep—and then we were off.

To this day, I remember the sick way my stomach went up to my eyeballs that first time our car flipped upside down. The ride bore us up and down and made us spin, hurtling against our flimsy seatbelts the whole way. We touched the cage ceiling at one point, and even my brother screamed. I’m fairly sure there wasn’t a dry pair of underwear anywhere on that ride.

When the cud-chewing operator flicked open the cage door upon the ride’s conclusion, we bolted out like our golden retriever puppy from her kennel when we’ve been at church too long. We were both shaking and a little giggly, and between Drew’s girlish scream and my wet underpants, we never again spoke of what went on in that box.

To the lawyer lady’s horror and my mother’s chagrin, the ride then proceeded to go up in flames, almost the second we removed ourselves from the premises.

“I TOLD YOU!” Lawyer Lady’s brown eyes were almost as wide as her sons’, watching the grizzled ride conductor climb the not-yet-on-fire portion of the zipper ride with a small home fire extinguisher. There was a slight dampening of the furor of flames, but nothing too distinguishable from the distance at which we were standing.

There were a few stray claps for heroism. Screaming persons were hustled off the ride. (No one got hurt.) And then everyone carried on eating corn dogs, including my mother.

“We were THIS CLOSE.” My breath escaped in spurts, more from the excitement of my near scrape with death than from actual fear.

“The Lord has a plan for your life,” came the response from my Mom. “Today wasn’t your day.”

A vague thought of Stonewall Jackson style fatalism flitted across my mind. But then we got funnel cakes, and I forgot all about it. It’s true when they say youth has no sense of its own mortality.  

Dori, Mankato, Minnesota

The State Fair

The Minnesota State Fair starts in a week, and I’ve got jalapeño cheese curds on my mind—and stories.

Do you have a story about a trip to the fair (any fair) too?

If you’d like to share your fair memories in my blog next week, follow the instructions below. I’ll get us started.

*****

“When was the last time we came here together?” seventeen-year-old Flicka said as we passed through the entrance to the Minnesota State Fair.

I shrugged. “Well, we had the double stroller, so it’s been a while.”

No stroller this time. We would cover the place with three teenagers who could walk on their own. Who knew the state fair could be this easy?

At the girls’ request, we frittered away time in the livestock barns, shuddering at the largest boar who was slabbed out in his stall looking more like a three-quarter ton rock than an animal. We oohed at the cows who cuddled with their owners while they awaited their show times. We aahed at the sheep and goats who often shoved their heads through the bars to get a scratch behind the ears just like our own creature at home.

We floated through the agriculture building and the global market, the art exhibits and the butterfly room. We breezed through the gathering of humanity like we were riding a bike on a freshly tarred road, unlike the baby days when it seemed we were rollerblading through sand. And we ate many goodies: walleye cakes, fried pickles, multi-flavored cheese curds, poutine, honey ice cream, chocolate chip cookies. No sugar-induced meltdowns this time.

But as we sauntered by food offerings too numerous to conquer in a day, one particular aroma wafted me back to another time.

I was twenty years old again and drifting through the state fair with Boyfriend. We had managed to pay the entrance fee, but we were college students on a suffocating budget. Once inside the gates, we were strapped. Not even a dollar between us.

“That roasted corn sure smells good,” Boyfriend said.

“The best,” I said, eyeing the charred husks, the butter dripping off a patron’s chin after she chomped from a fresh cob.

“Maybe next time.”

But I had an idea. “Or this time.”

I shared my plan, and we strolled the fair with new purpose, our eyes trained on the ground. We most often found pennies, but went ecstatic when we spied silver.

“A dime,” Boyfriend said, his face splitting into a grin. “Lucky break.”

For an hour we were as alert as a dog hanging out under a dinner table, but soon, the mother of all ideas sparked: the arcade. Why hadn’t we thought of it before? We entered the house of games and searched every coin return slot.

I was breathless. “Three quarters!”

Finally we had what we needed for one cob. We scurried to the corn stand and dumped our fistful of change into a worker’s hand. We took our first bites. Now our chins were slick with butter. We sighed; roasted corn had never tasted more delicious.

Hardship probably creates the best memories. But visiting the state fair with a few easy teenagers and enough money for a cob of corn is okay too.

Now it’s your turn. What are some of your fair memories?

To have your writing published in my blog next week, submit it HERE. Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email. (Please include your CITY and STATE with your submission. And if you have a photo, I’ll run it with your story.)

Until then, enjoy the mini donuts!

*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.

Age schmage!

1 Kings 1:1 reminds me of you, Dicka texted me the other day.

Not knowing the verse by memory, my mind raced to all the tender sentiments my girl likely meant for me. Hard to imagine a statement about a mother’s love at the very beginning of 1 Kings, but who could know? I flipped the pages to find out.

Now King David was old and advanced in years. And although they covered him with clothes, he could not get warm.

I texted my kid a comeback, along with my signature string of emojis, but she wasn’t wrong. That ancient ruler and I were a lot alike—cold and old.

The first adjective is a no-brainer. Like people are fused to their cell phones, I’m attached to my sweater, and I’d never leave home without it. But it’s taken me a while to accept the second descriptor. At age fifty-one, am I truly old?

Relativity aside, yes. Just yes.

Years ago, when I was in my late thirties, a young mom approached me after church. With at least two little ones glued to her body and a diaper bag sagging her shoulder, she blew a piece of hair out of her face and flung out a question about raising children.

I looked around me, confused, and back at her. “Who, me? You’re asking me?”

She chuckled. “Yeah?”

Did she really think I knew what I was doing? I had hardly been at the job long enough to be an authority on parenting. I was scarcely old enough to have kids.

Except that I had worked the position for about ten years and was definitely old enough to give birth to the three who were at that moment begging me to buy them lunch at Qdoba. I could’ve even held grandma status, if life had dealt me a different storyline.

I think I mumbled something about what worked for me with whatever it was she wanted to know, but I left with one thought: My age scoots ahead of me faster than my mind can follow. And maybe I know more than I think because I’m older than I realize.

We like to say with age comes wisdom, but Oscar Wilde and I know that’s not always true. What is true is that life moves quicker than our mentality to adjust to it and swifter than the perception of our place on its timeline. My grandma was nearing her nineties when she said she felt like a young woman, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw an old lady. I inherited her sense of disconnect—which is everybody’s, I’m hearing—and I’ll be twenty-seven forever.

“Today is the oldest you’ve ever been, and the youngest you’ll ever be again,” Eleanor Roosevelt said. And I smile now because it sounds like we’re stuck right in the most wonderful spot ever, and it’s called NOW. And since there’s nothing I can do about time, I’m going to relax.

Age schmage. He’s got this.

Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.

*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.