Winter vs. spring

This blog installment from late March 2019 has all the angstiness that comes with Minnesota winters running about two months too long. Since it’s only early February right now, my attitude toward Tundra Time is still like a grown-up helping someone else’s two year old into her snowsuit, which is to say enduringly patient.

Check back in with me at the end of April.

*****

One day last month, I contemplated the coldest season of the year, and my thoughts turned as icy as the sidewalk in front of me.

The City’s snow emergency rules had given me whiplash: “Because of the storm, park on the even side of the street now, the odd side tomorrow, and the even side again the next day—but wait! Because of the total snowfall and narrowing of the streets, let’s now only park on the odd side until April 2—or until further notice. But hold on! Here comes a fresh dumping of snow, so let’s go back to the normal snow emergency rules for a few days—even, odd, even—and then we’ll resume the only-park-on-the-odd-side-until-the-spring-thaw rule, okay?”

It wasn’t the City’s fault. What else could they do? The weather had forced every last one of us into the competition of Winter vs. the Minnesotans. I grabbed my shovel, hoping for victory.

“Be sure not to park on the even side,” Husband said to one of the teenagers after another of the City’s snow emergency declarations.

But life is full and far too distracting for kids these days, so her dad’s warning fled my girl’s mind as she parked on the even side of the street the next day at school. A tow truck whisked her car away to an impound lot faster than she could say, “Dad, I need a new scraper. Mine broke.”

She texted me. My car got towed

I sighed. Oh no... What are you going to do?

Use my feminine wiles to get it back

My laugh startled the dog. Good luck!

Thirty minutes passed. My phone pinged.

Mom, can you transfer $150.00 from my savings into my checking

Winter vs. the teenager. Winter won.

One night recently, I let Lala, our dog, out in the back yard to visit the facilities. She trotted down our brick walk, pointed in the direction of the garage. The motion sensor light flicked on, its brightness glancing off a miniature skating rink on her path. Of course she would see it, wouldn’t she? Dogs were smart that way. Instead, she hit it just right and slid, her four legs slipping out from under her. She toppled onto her side. Uh-oh. She wriggled to standing, did her business, and headed back toward the house. But her paws caught the same icy patch, and down went our sturdy girl—again.

Back in the house, Lala chose the treat I offered her over my condolences. As usual, she was fur-wrapped exuberance—and unhurt—but my tolerance for winter plummeted to zero. If our four-legged loved one with a low center of gravity could lose her footing just like that, what hope was there for the rest of us?

Winter vs. the dog. Winter won.

“What were the newscasters calling this winter again?” I asked Husband last night.

He scrolled through Hulu selections. “The winter of my discontent?”

“I mean, it was record-breaking, and the biggest snowfall since when?”

He landed on a show. “Who can know.”

I pulled myself out of hibernation mode to do some searching and found the National Weather Service’s claims. The Twin Cities received thirty-nine inches of snow in February 2019, breaking the previous record of twenty-six-and-a-half inches, set in 1962.

So much to melt away; so little patience for it all to go.

“It’s spring tomorrow, though,” I said, hoping to cheer myself, “so this should all be over, right?”

Husband clicked pause. “I hear there’s snow coming on April 2, but what do they know?”

I harrumphed. Maybe it wouldn’t materialize. Or maybe it would. Either way, when it was winter vs. spring, it was easy to choose a side.

And I wouldn’t stop cheering until it was over.

*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.

Lessons in the cold

Which should come first: the baby or the snowshoes? I flip the options over in my brain several times as I drive to Victory Memorial Parkway in North Minneapolis. Snow, thick and pristine, blankets the expanse, begging me to mar it, to set my human stamp on its newness.

As we roll along, the little guy in my care—a one year old, snuggled in his snowsuit and buckled into his car seat in the back—peeps through the windows at the frosty world outside. He has no idea of the fun to come. But the question again needles me. How will I manage this alone? At the parkway, should I put on my snowshoes first, plug the baby into the carrier I’ll wear on my front, and go? Or, should I get him situated in the carrier on me first, then step into the snowshoes—working around the bulk of him to get them adjusted—and go?

I settle for the first idea—which now seems so obvious the initial question is absurd—stealing the advice of flight attendants everywhere about first helping oneself before aiding another. Once I fasten my snowshoes, I wriggle the baby into his carrier, and he squawks at the tugging. This will be an excellent workout; my heart rate is already elevated from the effort before I take my first clomping step onto the sheet of white.

Fresh flakes skitter in the air around us, and the little boy grimaces. I tromp thirty paces. A passing pickup truck driver honks, flashing me a grin and thumbs-up. I beam back, but I was already smiling.

As I plod on, the baby scowls. Maybe he’s more irritated than amused? At least the fresh air is good for him. I recall the Scandinavian cultural practice of bundled babies, lined up in their buggies outside of coffee shops or daycare centers or on balconies, taking their naps outside in the winter. The Nordic parents believe the crisp air keeps their little ones healthier and fosters better and longer sleep.

The concept called friluftsliv translates to “spending time outdoors to get a change of scenery and experience nature with no pressure to compete or achieve” and is started in infancy in those northern countries. It’s the idea that “returning to nature is coming home.” Strong immune systems and resilience in even the toughest conditions are the benefits of this kind of snoozing so early in life, they believe.

I think of the “hardening off” of tender seedlings now, the practice of gradually introducing baby plants, in stages, to the great outdoors to grow them thicker, sturdier, and better able to adapt to summertime extremes.

If it works for babies and plants, this toughening to weather and change, what about for the rest of us? And what about in other areas beyond the climate? What about in the matters of life?

The lesson runs deep, as deep as the snow I slog through now, and I feel it in my soul. The hard goes deeper than I think is good, and the cold lasts longer than I feel is kind. But I’m still taking steps in it all, and I’m getting stronger.

I’m getting stronger every day.

The smile

The line snaked around inside the coffee shop and ended at the door. Husband and I waited behind a family of four. As we bided our time, I browsed the clearance t-shirts rolled up in a basket. On a shelf nearby sat mugs for sale—beautiful, tempting, still overpriced.

The father of the family ahead glanced back at us. He did a double-take before flipping his gaze forward again. Next, the boy shot us a look, and so did his sister—a girl of about ten years old.

We ordered our coffees and curved to the left to wait for our drinks. The family also waited. The boy whispered something to his mother, and she swiveled to look at us.

I furrowed my brow. Did we seem familiar for some reason?

“This is weird,” I whispered to Husband. “Why do they keep looking at us?”

“They probably think you’re famous.”

I tilted my head at him. “Riiight.”

The little girl, clutching her drink now, faced me—and stared. Then she smiled. No flash of teeth—just a serene, kind smile. I smiled back.

We left the coffee shop. The memory of the girl’s expression plucked at my outlook—and heart—and undid the strange behavior of her family.

“Have you ever thought about a smile from a stranger?” I said to Husband when we were back in the vehicle with our lattés.

“Not really.” Husband sipped his drink and started the car.

“It’s a private exchange between two people,” I said. “What does it mean to you?”

“Smiles aren’t always a good thing. They can be sinister or leering.”

“But when they’re not, I mean.”

He shrugged. “They’re just nice.”

The girl’s smile in that coffee shop was a tiny gesture. It took her a second, but I mulled it over for a week. A simple, silent gift with no cost attached to it, and yet it warmed me. No expectations or hidden messages beyond “We’re both doing life in the same place right now, and I see you.”

A smile for a stranger. I think I'll put it on my to-do list today.

*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.

Christmish fish

On the morning of Lille Julaften—the Norwegian “Little Christmas Eve,” December 23—I tapped coffee grounds into the pot’s basket for our morning brew, sensing the gaze of little eyes. There on the counter by the kitchen sink was a Kerr canning jar, minus its lid, filled with water. Inside, a goldfish swam laps.

Oh great.

Memories of fish floated into my thoughts. In our family’s past, we had only known betta fish—those beautiful albeit aggressive creatures who couldn’t share a living space because they’d eat each other to death. Our girls had separate bowls for their three aquatic divas, but if they positioned them too closely together, the tenants glimpsed their neighbors and puffed themselves up in anger.

The fish on our counter that day was likely more peaceful, but there were other concerns. Couldn’t this type grow massive, depending on the amount of space a person gave it? And didn’t it need special accommodations—like an aquarium—to survive?

I learned the lone fish’s backstory. A friend of the girls had given each person in their friend group a fish the previous evening. And suddenly we didn’t have one fish anymore, but four—three belonging to our girls and a fourth that someone at the Christmas gift exchange either couldn’t care for or had forgotten—and they all showed up in their individual jars from who-knows-where later that day. They already had names—Jet, George, Stella, and Lil’ Tom—and I was informed a fifth called Ting had expired en route.

As for the swimmers' trek to our place, I heard all about their ride in a cold car in water that may or may not have been appropriately conditioned and how the finned ones had probably gone without food for a solid day. I cringed at the neglect, but a wave of guilt sloshed over me as I remembered how years earlier, in a flurry to head out of town on vacation, I had flushed one of our bettas who, although nearing his end, was not quite dead, so I wasn't one to talk.

Later that afternoon, I was about to set up the lefse equipment for making the traditional Norwegian treat when Flicka and Ricka returned from PetSmart with supplies. Soon the kitchen table was filled with an aquarium, rocks, plastic plants, water conditioner, and fish food.

“How much did all of this cost?” I said, hoping I sounded calm.

“About a hundred bucks, but we all chipped in,” Ricka said.

“Oh, how sickening. How much were the fish, I wonder?” I said the last more like a statement but got my answer anyway.

“Thirty-three cents each,” Flicka said with a laugh.

I wrinkled my nose.

To make a long (inconsequential) story short, in three days’ time we had zero fish left but one gently used aquarium that can be for sale if you live in the area and have any interest.

Happy New Year to you all! May you live, and unlike us, let live in 2022!

*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.

Your new year, your new words

Last week I invited you to share the word you chose to inspire your new year. Here's what some of you sent me. Enjoy!

*****

My word for the year is enough. This word represents two different thoughts for me, both of which (I hope) will allow me to access strength and peace this year. First, enough reminds me to stop whatever it is that I am doing excessively—worrying, overeating, being critical of and shaming myself, complaining about (you name it). Second, enough reminds me to focus on abundance; there is enough—love, compassion, friendship, intimacy, time... So that is my word for 2022. Enough.

Deborah, Hudson, Wisconsin

*****

My word for the year is discovery. It was chosen for me in November as I looked back on the year and marveled at how God had fulfilled conquest (my 2021 word) in my life in so many ways. He gave me discovery then so that I could see and understand the way He planned to shape my new year. This isn’t a word I would pick out myself (same goes for 2021 conquest), it sounds too much like I’m a voyager exploring new land and planting flags on hills. But God knows that I love to learn, so discovery makes me excited even if it sounds a little cheesy.

Marc, Wooster, Ohio

*****

For 2022, I choose GRACE. It’s a 5-letter word that holds so much hope. Ephesians 1:7-8 sums it all up- “In Him we have redemption of his blood, the forgiveness of our sins, according to the riches of his GRACE which he LAVISHED upon us.” In 2022, I will give more grace, abound more in His grace, and share His grace.

Christine, Cypress, California

*****

Rejoice!

“Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, rejoice.”

Even in the midst of my trials and disappointment, God has kept me and given me peace. For this I am thankful and joyful.

Armanda, Saint Paul, Minnesota

*****

My word of the year is intentional. I so often respond to the things of life without giving it the thought it deserves. Intentionally stopping what I am doing and praying for God's understanding of the situation would do wonders for me and how I react to things. Intentionally evaluating my feelings and reactions to things would help me understand God's will for my life. I have a long way to go, but this is a start.

Barb, Thief River Falls, Minnesota

*****

My word of the year is vessel. I chose this word because it kept popping into my head since summer of 2021, and it kept showing up everywhere else too.

Garrett, Marksville, Louisiana

*****

Mulling over the words I considered candidates for my 2022 word of the year, I passed over so many relevant, encouraging words. But I kept racking my brain for the one that best conveyed what my heart and mind wanted to cling to. My pondering sent me back to a verse I remembered reading in Scripture from one of the parables Jesus told (Luke 19). In that verse, I found my word: occupy. In other Bible versions, the single word is replaced by a phrase: “Engage in business until I come” (ESV); “Do business till I come” (NKJV).

To me, all these meanings convey the idea that the servants in the parable were expected to conduct the master’s business on his behalf, using all the resources he was leaving with them. There! That explained it! When I tried to explain my thinking about this word while visiting with friends, one of them said it was another way of saying “Keep on keeping on!”

Being retired, having a few physical challenges, and living alone threaten to be roadblocks in my journey, but I have chosen to accept those hindrances and reach beyond them by teaching and serving in every way I can, humbly and gratefully using the abilities and talents the Master has given me.

Avis, Newfolden, Minnesota

*****

New year, new word

A word comes to me about this time each December, and it sets my focus for the year ahead. Do you choose a word as you enter the new year too?

In 2020, my word (or sentence, rather) was COUNT IT ALL JOY, and it reminded me how to respond in a year of uncertainty.

In 2021, my word was ABUNDANCE, and I got it—in all areas of my life that really matter.

A few weeks ago, my word for 2022 sparked to mind while I was busy not thinking about it. And it came in as sure as truth:

ABIDE

None of the dictionary’s definitions of the word—to bear patiently, tolerate, endure, withstand, remain, continue, stay—comfort me in the physical realm. But another Source lifts me out of it.

If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.

Now what about you, reader? Do you have a word to inspire you this new year too?

If you’d like to share it, send me a message HERE with your word for 2022 and why you chose it, and I’ll publish your writing in next week’s blog. (Subscribers, simply hit reply to this email.)

Happy New Year!

Rudy and the hill

We began our Christmas Day tradition with Brother Bear (2003) when our two oldest, Flicka and Ricka, were so little that wearing pajamas to the movie theater didn’t seem weird to them. Dicka—only half-done at the time—listened to that first cinematic story through amniotic fluid, so one could say she celebrated in her own way.

The years flowed by—and so did our holiday movies. For whatever reason, Flicka didn’t care to see The Tale of Despereaux (2008), but the household majority ruled that year. We donned 3D glasses for Hugo (2011), and in the scene where the Doberman lunged at us, teeth bared, I jumped. Daddy’s Home (2015), Passengers (2016), Holmes & Watson (2018), probably one in the Pitch Perfect trilogy, and the in-between years’ titles I’m now forgetting were all delightful romps, but only the film we saw in 2013 scarred our hearts. And to this day, I’m not so sure I’ve recovered.

After watching The Book Thief (2013), silence—except for all the sniffling in the car—marked the drive to the sledding hill.

“Hudy! Hudy!” one of the girls said in quiet reverence, imitating the accent of Liesel calling out to her friend Rudy in the World War II story we had just watched. The other two girls repeated his name too.

Rummaging through my purse for tissues, I relived the young Rudy’s passing with each mention of him. “Girls, please stop.”

We made a somber exit from the vehicle at Theodore Wirth Parkway. Even though it was dark, the groomed hills bustled with kids ripping down the slopes on sleds in true holiday spirit. Shrieks and laughter, hallmarks of the winter activity, brought me hollow cheer as we trekked to the top. I tried to wrangle a joyful disposition. We might’ve been corporately heartsick from the Christmas Day movie, but at least we had brand-new sleds—aerodynamic beauties—from one of the big-box stores to try out for the first time.

“Let’s do this,” Husband hollered, apparently already healed from the 1940s on-screen tragedy we had just lived through together.

We followed his lead, flopping onto our plastic rides too, and whooshed down that Minnesota “mountain” with impressive speed and lack of maneuverability. I clipped one kid on my path and swerved another at the very last second before my snowy landing.

“My sled just broke,” Ricka yelled from the bottom of the hill.

“Mine too,” Flicka said, brushing herself off.

Husband assessed his new entertainment. “Same here.”

Dicka and I managed to keep our gifts intact—until the second trip down.

We all barreled through the disappointment of our inferior snow gadgets' performance and kept on. Pieces splintered off us with each pass until at last we called it. After picking up the bits of Christmas, we headed home.

Broken hearts, broken toys.

But was the ending of our 2013 story really so bad? I later returned the sleds for a full refund so we could buy sturdier models, and we purchased the DVD of The Book Thief so we could cry over “Hudy” forever.

Aaahh, Christmas Day! You really know how to show us a good time.

*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.

Snow day

All through the night last night, winds buffeted our place. The weather reports warned of “an unprecedented outbreak of severe thunderstorms,” coupled with a tornado watch, something Minnesota had never seen before in December.

It turned out we weren’t in fact sucked up in a funnel cloud, but winter storm memories gusted in anyway. Enjoy this piece from yesteryear.

*****

The wind rattled our Ranch-style house in Middle River. Had our place been a victim of a snowball fight in the night? It appeared so; great clots of snow stuck to my bedroom windows, obscuring the view.

I flicked my gaze to the clock. 5:35 a.m. The blankets on my bed usually kept me in their cozy clutches on a school morning, but not today. Maybe they sensed my excitement at what was to come.

I padded into the kitchen. Outside the window whiteness swirled, and the crabapple in the front yard was an apparition in the dim light. A gust picked up a load of snow from the roof and flung it off, blotting out any sign of the tree. My siblings and I wouldn’t be expected to brave these conditions to go to school, would we? Was fifth grade really that important for me to risk my life getting there?

I scurried to my parents’ room. The only one in the world who had the power to call off school that day was still in bed next to Mom, his arm curled around his transistor radio. The brown, leather-covered box crackled out weather updates, and my heart lurched with hope.

“Dad, Dad,” I said, making prayer hands, “please call off school today. Please.”

The superintendent of three small schools in northern Minnesota, wearing boxers and a v-neck undershirt, threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “We’ll see.”

I pranced back to my bedroom, a smile splitting my face in two. The day was mine—I just knew it. Adventures beckoned, and I tugged on my snowsuit.

On Monday, January 22, 2018, I navigated a snowy city to collect my girls. I thought of Dad calling off school decades earlier when blizzards blasted our tiny town near the Canadian border. On stormy days, he got dressed in the wee hours and drove the country roads a few miles in each direction to see if they were passable. He would make a decision about school and report it to KTRF, the radio station in the neighboring town of Thief River Falls.

Winds whipped up the falling snow as I sat in the Honda at Target Field waiting for my high schoolers to emerge from the train. I scrolled through my phone for weather reports. The girls soon tromped through the precipitation to the car. When they opened the doors, snowflakes and exuberance blew into the warm space.

“I asked Mr. Aponte if we could have a snow day tomorrow,” Ricka said.

I chuckled. As if the principal of one city school could alone make the decision. “And?”

“He said, ‘We’ll call you.’”

Nature worked hard that night to put a halt to our plans—to pull us into an adventure. And true to Principal Aponte’s word, they called us.

After the shoveling the next morning, the girls donned bikinis and bolted into the back yard for The Snow Dive Challenge, which wasn’t a dive at all, but instead a quick roll through the nine-inch-deep accumulation. Drawn by all the shrieking, the dog zipped outside too, probably hoping to join in on all the reindeer games. Within seconds, though, it was over. The girls dashed back inside, leaving the animal cocking her head at the back door.

Dad and the local radio station announced the weather cancellations of my childhood; robocalls and the internet announced my girls’. A hallmark of my snow days? Snowsuits. A sign of my girls’? Swimsuits—at least this time. But whether announced by airwaves or on a website, whether we’re bundled up or bared, a snow day is a free day.

And there’s always adventure.

*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.

Your gift stories

I got a few gifts (a.k.a. stories) from several readers this week, so enjoy the fun like I did!

*****

My sister and I got Ginny dolls, clothes, furniture and homemade bedding the same Christmas that I ended up in the hospital for an emergency appendectomy (also age 8). Still have those dolls in my attic. Too loved to throw away, probably too worn to sell on Etsy.

LeAnne, northwestern Wisconsin

*****

During a trip to Twisp, Washington, to visit relatives, my siblings and I got a gift of adjustable stilts made by my Uncle Quinton. I was about five years old at the time and started six inches off the ground with the stilts. After several years of practicing with them, I raised it up to probably about three or four feet off the ground. I screwed some straps onto the foot pegs and wrapped straps around my legs (that were attached to the handles), so I was able to walk without holding on. I was pretty short, so I had to use something to help me get up on the stilts, but for the most part, could walk without falling. When I did trip and fall, though, it was pretty treacherous because I didn't make the straps breakaway; they were firmly attached and didn't come off. But no broken bones or stitches to remember those magical sticks by.

In my forties, I rekindled the joy of stilt-walking. Maybe instead of “it's just like riding a bike,” it should be “it's just like walking on stilts” because I still had some pretty impressive skills after all those years.

Bernard, Chickamauga, Georgia

*****

My paternal grandparents knew how horse-crazy I was. So, Christmas of '78 I received a stuffed horse animal. I still have her today! Her mane and tail were "enhanced" when I was 13 by a family friend. But as you can tell from the picture, this old chestnut mare is still kinda what she used to be!

Shantell, Maple Grove, Minnesota

P.S. Raggedy Andy was given to me by my maternal grandparents. Anne had an unfortunate accident with a flooded basement and mold.

(Note from Tamara: I offered my condolences to Andy for the loss of Anne but found out he's been dating an American Girl doll, so he's doing much better.)

*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 Quiz Kid

I've got a little story for you today, reader, and I want to hear yours. Here we go... 

If my old diaries weren't packed away in a storage unit right now, I'd rummage through those tattered volumes to tell you the exact day and year I poked a tiny hole in the wrapping paper on that one particular gift well before Christmas. 

Since I can't be certain of the date, I'm going to guess it was a day in early December 1978 (when I was eight.) What I am sure of, though, was the way my heart hammered as I did it, strands of hair tacky with sap from sticking my head so far under the tree to retrieve the package. I had a good idea of what was coming to me from Mom and Dad, but this gift—from an aunt and uncle—could've been anything.  

I tossed a glance over each shoulder to ensure my privacy and slit the paper on the box's corner with a fingernail. In that small incision I glimpsed enough to know everything: I was getting the Quiz Kid, a handheld calculator (back when saying “handheld” was a selling point.)  

The preview of the gift neither dampened my anticipation of it nor the glee playing with it later. The math gadget had one function, I learned; it would simply reveal if a person was right or wrong. For example, a child could type in 2 + 4 = 6 and get a green light or type in 2 + 5 = 6 and get red. All the work fell on the kid to create the problem (it performed addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division), plug in the answer, and the machine did its singular task. What fun! 

I returned to school after winter break to learn a friend had gotten The Little Professor, a math calculator from Texas Instruments, doing my Quiz Kid one better. Her device could actually produce the math problem before requiring an answer. If a person got the question wrong, it would display “EEE” and allow the user a second try.  

They say comparison is the thief of joy, but even though my friend probably had the more sophisticated product, my joy was untouchable. Oh, my dear Quiz Kid, I’ll never forget you. 

Now it’s your turn. Do you have a fun childhood gift memory? 

To have the story of your memory published in my blog next week, submit it HERE by December 8, 2021. 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.) 

*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 Thanksgiving ride

On this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for recyclable blog installments—like this one—when I'm short on time.

In the following story, written in 2017, our girls were 13, 16, and 18 years old. It gets me in the feels, thinking of car rides like this one.

Here's to enjoying whomever you travel with through life!

*****

The truck gobbled up the miles on Highway 94W, and I sipped my latté in the passenger seat. I slid on a pair of sunglasses and eyed the snowless landscape flying by outside the window. Our family of five was all together, something that was growing harder as the once littles matured into bigs. Across state lines and on the other side of the day awaited still more family in Valley City, North Dakota.

I turned my gaze to our teenagers in the back seat. “What are you thankful for, girls?”

“Food,” Ricka said, popping a French fry into her mouth.

“My dog,” Dicka said.

The day before, I had driven Lala, the family dog, to meet our friend Trixie who agreed to watch her for us over the Thanksgiving holiday. We met halfway in a parking lot in Woodbury, and our exuberant animal bounded from the car and hurtled through the open door of Trixie’s Jeep. The canine wagged her entire body, and I already knew what she was thankful for: three days of playtime with Trixie’s Great Dane, Sarge.

“And that dog left me pretty easily yesterday,” I said. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“If you were,” Flicka said, “she would’ve stayed.”

“I’ve got another thing,” Ricka announced. “I’m thankful for my sisters.”

Flicka smirked. “I’m so glad you thought of us after food.”

But Ricka was on a roll. “And I’m glad I passed my driver’s test after three tries.”

“You said three things already,” Dicka said to Ricka. “Hey, stop touching my blanket.”

I shifted my focus to Dicka. “Anything else to add?”

“I’m just gonna stick with my dog, I guess.”

“I’m thankful I have a good relationship with my family and that God has helped me figure out what I’m doing in life,” Flicka said.

Behind the wheel, Husband straightened, tweaked the rearview mirror, and peered into it. “He has?”

Flicka tilted her head and shot him a look.

“Okay, I’m thankful for my family,” Husband said. “And for friends who make going to work enjoyable.”

“I have one more thing,” Ricka said, waving her hand. “My heart is beating, and I’m breathing. So that’s good.”

She laughed, but her words lodged in my chest. Heartbeats and breaths—the essence of our time in skin. The gift of momentary life.

Life in a family: our hearts beat in sync as we make our plans, and our lungs breathe together through whatever days we’re given.

Car rides laced with happy chaos along the way are good too. They’re very good.

*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.

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.