Joy E. DeKok's Blog, page 5

She Isn’t Me – Between the Lies

Some of you who have read Between the Lies have asked if Olivia’s abuse story is also mine. After all, authors write what they know – right?

Not always. None of the men in my family or life hurt me that way.

Olivia’s experiences are a combination of the girls and women I know who have been abused. When I was young, I didn’t fully understand what I saw and heard in the homes of some of the girls I knew. Or why a few of my friends were so terribly wounded.

When we were older, a couple of them told me. Other times, we were women before they opened up to me. A couple of these courageous women asked me to tell their stories, but their pain was too real, and even years later, too raw for them. More than one suggested that maybe a fiction writer would want to tell her story. The idea that I would be that author flew right by me.

When the idea for Olivia’s story made itself known to me, I didn’t believe I could do their stories justice and I resisted.

Finally, to get her out of my head, I started writing Olivia’s story my way. In my mind, this beautiful character was an ambitious woman who set out to use her beauty to catch a rich man and get the life she wanted. At first, I didn’t think about her deeper motivation.

After several chapters, the story was empty and annoying. Finally, I did one of the things authors are encouraged to do – I interviewed her.

The words and experiences of my friends flowed out of her. In an attempt to reason my way out of telling that story, I reminded myself and Olivia that there was no way I would betray their trust.

When the words were tumbling around in my head day and night (picture a Bingo Tumbler), I gave in and prayed God would help me camouflage the secrets they’d told me. Briefly, between chapters, I still tried to get out of writing this book – no way was it going to be a trilogy – by worrying that even what I was making up was someone’s story. That ache lingers. But something else rose in me: their stories of suffering mattered, and this might be a way I could honor them.

Then it happened. In weaving many into one, a novel was born.

In Between the Lies, Olivia is a broken, uncomfortable mess. Part of her story is ugly and unsettling. She’s talented, not likable. Intelligent but easily used.

I love her because I love the women she represents.

Until Next Time,

Joy

P. S. The same thing happened to me when I wrote Rain Dance. Sometimes this is part of my writing process.

To learn more about The Northern Lights Series, click the book covers.

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Living in the Gray

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Living in the Gray

I love walking in the fog. Being surrounded by mystery and mist is both calming and exhilarating. I also enjoy snuggling with our dogs, wearing my gray sweater, and drinking coffee from my gray mug.

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When it comes to living in the gray, I prefer clear answers to my questions. I don’t have to know today. Tomorrow is soon enough. If Plan A isn’t working out, do we have a Plan B, and when can we start? The day after tomorrow?

I recently had a PET scan to monitor what’s going on cancer-wise. I’ve had several months of what they call no evidence of disease – some of the most beautiful words in the English language. This time, there was a gray spot on a rib. My oncologist told us it is small – 5mm or about 1/8 of an inch. It wasn’t lit up on the screen, so I asked, “That’s good, right?” He said, “It’s inconclusive. 50/50.”

Suddenly I didn’t like the color gray as much as I had a few moments before.

We all know this can happen, but it’s a bummer when it does. I asked the doctor something like, “What do we do now?” (emphasis on the now)

His voice was kind when he said, “We wait.”

I asked, “How long?” knowing it wouldn’t be tomorrow or the next day.

“Three months. I’d like to see you again in December.”

We were all hoping for Plan A – moving to 6 months between scans. Instead, we have Plan B.

I wanted to know. “Is it cancer?”

He wisely chose not to assume what he couldn’t prove without a biopsy, and this little gray spot was too small to be tested. The good news is that it is the only spot of concern. All the other areas are healed, and he said something about the cancer in those areas being dead.

That great news pushed its way around the static in my brain and the heaviness that hung itself over my heart like a slate-colored cloud laden heavy with rain.

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We all have moments like this, don’t we? Living in the middle spaces where answers aren’t quick or concise, and even if they are, they are not the ones we prayed for.

Now we wait, choosing to trust the One who knows what we don’t.

I’m not depressed while living in this gray space in time. Other than a few mostly mild side effects, I’m feeling pretty good.

I am determined to walk through these between now and then days trusting God. Nothing else makes sense to me. Nothing else brings the peace that is beyond my understanding. When anxiety tries to beat back hope, and fear does its best to rule, I pick Him!

Sometimes the temptation to spend an hour or three Googling little gray spots arises. I’m resisting. I will know what I need to know when the time comes. Besides, so many of the experts out there disagree, and that’s all kinds of frustrating.

In this time of maybe, it is, and perhaps it isn’t, agitation rises in me. That’s when I know it’s time for the Word and a walk. I turn to Phil 4:6 &7 often:

6 Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. 7 And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

God’s Word has the power to transform agitation into peace.

When I walk with my camera, sit at my desk to write, read for knowledge and/or pleasure, talk to people I love, pray for others (this is vital!), ponder the beauty in Creation, dream about becoming a beekeeper with Jon next year, receive his smile, enjoy our dogs, or the many other treasured things I get to do, this verse fuels my heart and mind with peace and joy:

“The LORD is my strength and my shield; in him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song, I give thanks to him.” Psalm 28:7

It’s the best way I know to thrive living in this gray time.

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Until Next Time,

Joy

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Behind the Lies – Free Prologue and Chapter 1

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Behind the Lies

Copyright Joy DeKok, 2020

Prologue

All the lovey-dovey moments of move-in day faded by the next morning. I woke up livid and stayed that way for six months. My main goal was to avoid all human contact. After years of living under Alan’s absolute rule, it wasn’t as hard as it sounds on a practical level.

Just like in my bad old days, I ordered groceries over the phone. Later someone called and I picked them up outside the store. Online shopping covered my other purchases, and the mailman or parcel employees left them on the enclosed front porch.

The day I returned to Oak River, Ma told me she lied. I had a father who wasn’t Gus. I guess she thought that showing up at my door with food and the truth would erase the past. For a few hours, I let myself get soft inside. Part of my emotional lapse might have been relief that the FBI proved me innocent of the murder of my childhood buddy, Mickey, who left me his house.

Plus, everyone seemed so glad to see me, but after a few hours of careful consideration, I knew they’d find a way to make me pay. There were always strings. No one could be trusted.

Not that the people I wanted to avoid most didn’t try. Ma called and left sad, kind messages in a shaky voice. I listened then deleted them. She sniffed before she said, “I thought when you came back, it would be different.” Her words reached my mind but went no further.

Even after our tender reunion in St. Paul, I resisted my sister, Pete. At first, I sent short, stiff texts, letting her know I needed some space.

A few days later, I quit responding. She still came over and knocked on my doors. From inside the kitchen door, my voice sounded as hollow as my heart. “Go away, Pete. If I’m ever ready to see you, I’ll call you. Leave. Me. Alone.”

She banged a fist on the door then used her best lawyer’s voice. “At the very least, this is a case of personal bait and switch, Olivia. In St. Paul, you lured me into thinking we were going to be good. Your current rejection isn’t illegal, but it’s a lousy thing to do.”

After she drove away, I stomped around Mickey’s house for who knows how long ranting into the air. In my mind, the problem was my sister’s. With our past, did she expect happily ever after?

Pete remained tenacious sending daily texts. Our St. Paul reunion had been everything I could have hoped for, but she was one of them, heart and soul. I saw it in the tender way she watched over Ma and didn’t flinch when our mother mentioned Gus. His name still made me want to vomit. I was glad he was dead. I decided to disregard her until I had the most effective words to tell her to back the heck off.

We were both still waiting.

When Mrs. D. stopped by the house, she never knocked, but she did slam the door to her big old car with gusto. I didn’t go to the door until after dark when I opened it just long enough to get the treats she hung in little baggies on the knob. Most of the time, she left windmill cookies from the grocery store. They were my favorite years ago. They still must have been since I’d eaten every one of them and would have been disappointed if she stopped leaving them.

On the opposite end of my emotional spectrum, I also daydreamed about asking Ma, Pete, and Mrs. D. to visit Jillian’s grave with me. I wanted to tell them about the little girl I’d kept from them because I knew my daughter would have liked that.

My moods had a whiplash-like quality to them.

I spent my days overthinking every little thing they’d ever said, not said, done, or not done. I found ridiculous satisfaction rehearsing what I’d say to them when I found the courage. I practiced my rants out loud and punctuated my statements with stomps of my feet, slammed doors, and fists raised into the air.

In my spare time, I meticulously organized my art supplies and every other little thing in the house daily.

The six months of self-imposed exile, a question rummaged around in my head like a hamster on a wheel. “Why did you move back to Oak River?”

No answers followed the inquiry.

When I wasn’t busy disliking my family, I let my hate for Alan Lyons grow. After I gave him the best years of my life and his only child, he chose his wife over me when she gave him a financial ultimatum. I didn’t blame her. She had been patient with his messing around with me and others for a long time.

She helped out as my attorney when the FBI was sure I’d murdered Mickey. But I still wasn’t fond of her. I was sure the feeling was mutual.

As I cruised through the small house for the umpteenth time that day, my internal discomfort grew. I’d paid a lot of money to fix up the place my childhood friend, Mickey, left me in his will, but so far, it was his house, not my home. I had no idea what that should be like, but I hoped for something more peaceful. Instead I  received relentless agitation.

With my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands, I asked the silent house, “What am I missing?” I have no idea how long I stood there waiting for some kind of cosmic response but, as the sun crept up from its nighttime rondeaux with the other side of the earth, my answer stabbed my heart.

Home felt like Jillian. And she was in a cemetery.

My tears ticked me off. Then in my memory, I heard my daughter’s sweet voice. It had been a dreary day when Alan promised to show up but didn’t. “Mama, you always feel better when you draw in your secret sketch pad. Would you make me a picture?”

Jillian was right. Determination rose. I faced the room I called my studio.

After years of Alan’s prohibition, I was going to do art no matter what. But not for my daughter. This time it was for me. Because the ugly pain had to go somewhere, or it would kill me.

Chapter 1

I wiped away the cold remnants of tears and tip-toed barefooted into the room where I’d hoped my dreams would come true. I pictured ghosts in every gray, shadowy corner, ready to remind me of my many failures.

I told them to leave – out loud. Very loud.

The golden oak of my drawing table and restored floor glistened in the soft light from the window filling the room with an incandescent glow. Unopened tubes of paint beside my easel beckoned. After a couple of stretches to prepare my body for the work ahead, something fierce rolled through and then poured out of me.

I squeezed blobs of paint onto my palette and jabbed my brush into them. In my mind, I saw each violent move before I made it. For a second, I wondered if this is what people meant when they talked about out of body experiences.

The rage, torment, chaos, jealousy, grief, regret, condemnation, and rejection drove the brush until my arm ached. I stood gasping for air the way one might after running a marathon with no training.

***

Thirsty and shaking, I left the grotesque piece. In the kitchen, I grabbed a bottle of water. The air-cooled sweat on my back and under my arms caused me to shiver. I’d gulped about half the water down when the doorbell rang. Standing still, I waited for whoever it was to leave.

Lloyd, Jillian’s protector, pounded on the door frame again hard enough that the old beveled glass shook. “Olivia, I know you’re in there. If you don’t open this door, I’ll call the local cops and report my concern for you. Then together, we’ll legally break it down.”

I walked toward his voice, knowing he would make good on his threat.  “Dang it, Lloyd, I’m not in the mood to see anyone.”

“Harper sent me. Come on. Let me in. Do you want your neighbors to hear what I have to say?”

I unlocked the door, leaving him to open it for himself. He was an intruder, not a guest, so it was what he deserved.

The door closed gently behind him.

I turned to face him. “If Harper’s so worried, why didn’t she come herself?”

“Harper is tied up on a case now but wanted to know how you are. She’s worried about you – we both are. Why won’t you respond to our texts and voicemails?”

“It’s not a crime to want some time alone.”

“No, but a short response letting one of us know you’re okay would have been respectful.”

My fingers squeezed hard into my hips. “Well, now that you know I’m fine, you can report back.”

The ex-marine wore his warrior’s face – his gray eyes steel-hard, his jaw clenched, and his crew-cut stood up straight, but it was the soft tone of his voice that got my attention. “Yeah. You look fine, Olivia. When’s the last time you looked in a mirror?”

My bare feet hit the ceramic tile floor in the bathroom with a slap, but the cold sting was not as shocking as what the mirror revealed. Stringy bangs stood up in places while the rest of my hair was pressed down in oily globs. When had I showered last? Days. At least.

Paint splatters covered my face, hands, and clothes. There was a brown splash on my Grinch-green t-shirt that might have been coffee, although I didn’t remember drinking that any recently, let alone spilling it. The sweat under my arms was partially dry, and the air around me stunk.

My hands knotted into fists, and I stomped back into the living room so hard my feet hurt. “I’m a mess. So what?”

He looked straight into my eyes. “I’m relieved you look the way you do.”

“Who are you? My grief counselor?”

“I don’t know what I am for sure, but I may be your friend. I was Jillian’s. That should be the only recommendation you need.” Her name undid me, and I started to bawl – big snotty sobs.

Smart man that he was, he didn’t reach for me but stood his ground in his military “at ease” kind of way. “Is it safe to assume from the splotches all over you that you’ve been painting?”

“Yeah – what of it?” My snide tone did not affect him. His voice remained level. “Show me.”

I pointed toward my studio. “It’s in there.”

Lloyd stepped into the room with me right behind him. Looking at the canvass, he rubbed his hand over his crew-cut. “Olivia. This is intense. Are you sure you want to be alone in this suffering?”

A harsh laugh escaped into the air between us. “What are you so worried about? You know better than most that alone seems to be my natural state.”

He moved closer to the easel. “This is compelling – like when you overhear people arguing in the mall or come upon an accident on the freeway – you don’t want to listen or look, but you can’t help yourself. Where did you find the courage to paint this terrible truth?”

Standing back, I saw my agony smeared all over the canvas. The urge to demand he leave rose, but not wanting to give him the satisfaction, I held the words back.

He turned and faced me. “What are you going to do with this?”

“Pack it away. Or maybe I’ll burn it. You are likely the only one who will ever see it.”

He put his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You captured the way I felt when I came home from combat. I still have days that look and sound like this. You heard the screams of your pain and the static of the chaos exploding in your head while you painted, didn’t you?” I tried to give him the evil eye, but he was still staring at the canvass. “The slashes of your paintbrush reveal part of your soul and mine we’d both prefer to keep hidden.”

I wiped my nose on the hem of my shirt. “Do you want it?”

“No. But this has a purpose. I hope you’ll keep it for a while.”

“Are you going to tell Harper about this?”

My question brought him back from where he’d gone. “Yes. I am. Have you considered counseling? Maybe you have PTSD.” His voice got softer. “You’ve been through more than most people know. It might help to tell someone all of it.”

My hands were digging into my hips again. I wanted to say something intelligent or snarky, but his concern pushed back some of the blistering fire tempting my tongue. “That’s not going to happen. I’m fine.”

“Man, I hope you’re right.” He glanced at his large military-style watch. It looked heavy. “I need to go.”

After I shut the door behind him, he stood on my porch and made a phone call. He wasn’t trying to be quiet, when he said, “Hi, Harper. Olivia is alive, but there’s a boatload of hurt inside her. She’s got some new art in her studio. It was like seeing her soul chained to a dungeon full of anguish.” He listened for a moment then said, “I’ll see you then.”

Unable to resist, I hollered, “You’re getting poetic in your old age, Lloyd!”

He turned toward the door, looked at me through the pitted glass. “Keep that to yourself, Morgan. And give yourself a break. Try to see yourself the way Jillian did. She was right about you.”

The groan hurt my throat as it escaped.

Lloyd reached for the doorknob. “Olivia, I’m. . .”

I held up my hand traffic cop style. “Please, just go.”

***

After he left, the fact that I had a friend, maybe two, ushered in an unfamiliar relief. In time I would consider his parting advice because he’d always been honest with me. I realized I trusted him the way I did Deacon.

Exhaustion took over. After my encounter with my reflection, I took a shower, ate the last half of a box of pre-sweetened cereal, and went to bed. Who cared if the sun hadn’t set yet? Not me.

Before I fell into the nightmares that ruled my sleep, I knew things had to change soon, but I had no idea how to get out of the abyss I’d created for myself.

***

The next morning, after cleaning up, I wandered out to the kitchen with Mickey’s small walnut bat. I put it in the corner by the door.  He’d made it in shop class way back when and it came with the house. Since the night I’d moved in, I kept it within reach because having it close felt good.

Standing at my kitchen window, I looked at the backyard. Beyond the metal barrier of chain link was the Oak Creek walking trail.

Suddenly, a young man with binoculars stepped out from behind a tree across the path and aimed the lenses toward Mickey’s house. It was as if we had eye contact. In a couple of seconds, a few details registered. Baseball cap. Red and black with a gold emblem on it. A black t-shirt and blue jeans. Dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. An impression of youth. Tall, slender body.

I grabbed the bat on my way outside. Standing in my yard with my weapon poised, I shook it at a now empty trail.

Back in my kitchen, I wasn’t sure which scared me more – seeing a guy standing out there who might have been a figment of my imagination or the fear that a neighbor or two might have seen me.

When the front doorbell rang, I jumped again.

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt! The book will be ready for purchase in a few days at a very special price.

Look on my Facebook Author Page for updates at: https://www.facebook.com/JoyDeKokAuthorBlogger

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Awkward – String of Beads

Awkward – String of Beads

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These plants show up in our yard and down by the pond. I didn’t take any photos of what I was certain was probably just a noxious weed.

Until this year.

I was down by the pond, and one sturdy little plant stood out to me. My first thought was “Awkward.” Starring at it, I said to God, “Just like me, Lord.”

That was when I decided I loved the odd blossoms and took three pictures to savor the moment later. Sitting in the driver’s seat of our John Deere Gator, I paused before starting the engine. A memory washed over me. Not one I wanted to remember but one I knew God wanted me to revisit. Instead of putting Him off, I dove into it.

I looked into the sunshine and said to Him, “Okay, Lord, let’s string another bead.” And we did.

As far as physical education and sports went, I wasn’t a good student and was usually the last person chosen to be on a team. I played for the fun of it. Even striking out didn’t bother me. Neither did the lowest bowling score or being the last one over the finish line. I ran at the speed that my body liked and jumped only when giddy with happiness.

There was one thing I liked – jump roping. There was one thing I loved. Dancing. But even that had its challenges. I could not slow dance with Daddy at the Father/Daughter dance to save my life or his feet. I was so awkward.

Dance only worked for me when I moved to the music organically, and most of the time, when I was alone. Back then, I could dance for hours. My body was fluid, strong, and graceful.

In the eighth grade, our teacher taught us about modern dance. I was at home in P. E. for the first time in my life. She put us in teams of three – I was excited to be dancing with two of my favorite friends – both named Becky. I’d known one since Kindergarten and met the other in third grade.

Our P. E. teacher gave us guidelines – each of us had to cross the center of a square a certain number of times and touch each corner of the square a specific number of times without getting in the way of each other. One of the Beckys chose our song: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. She thought it would be perfect if we were all a “character” from the title. She wanted to be Ugly, although, with her slender body and beautiful red hair, she was lovely. She decided she’d wear purple. The other Becky declared she’d dance as Bad and would wear black. She had an innocent look about her. That left me being Good, and they encouraged me to wear white. They wore leotards and tights. I wore one of Daddy’s white shirts and white pantyhose. I’d look good, pure, and modest.

We decided we would move the way we wanted to – no choreography for us.

Our teacher invited all of our moms to the day we’d show the class our dances. Mother’s filled the folding chairs that lined the edges of the gym. When I saw my beautiful Mama, something happened inside of me. I was going to dance better than I’d ever danced! I reached higher and bent lower. My arms moved with a grace I’d never felt before. My feet knew what to do without me thinking about it. I gave it my all, and it felt wonderful. When the three of us met in the middle of the square, I knew we’d done a great job. There was applause and something else; snickers from the audience of mothers and our classmates. Mama left quietly, leaving me puzzled and sad.

There was nothing funny in our minds about the song or the way we’d danced. In the locker room, I learned why. In all my reaching and bending, my underpants showed, and I’d worn black ones that day. Girls back then did not show their underwear off.

By the time I got to lunch, other kids knew and teased the way kids that age will. I was embarrassed and ashamed. Even when the two Beckys stood up for me, I was sorry I’d ruined their dance too. And Mama – she was probably as embarrassed as I was.

I had English class after lunch. Our teacher started the class announcing that my P. E. teacher had bragged at lunch that she’d just watched the most beautiful dancer she’d ever seen. Joy Pater.

My face got hot, and tears filled my eyes. My shame was heavy. I thanked her as best I could, and she graciously moved on.

It’s funny; I don’t remember Mama and me ever talking about it. If she said anything kind, I might not have let her lovingkindness enter my heart. Sometimes you get one chance to do it right. I’d done it wrong, and there was no making up for it. I could not forgive myself, so how could she? Or the Beckys?

I continued to dance by myself in my room, but I never danced like I did that day.

Down by the pond that recent day, I wondered if there was any way to redeem all my awkward moments – there were so many, and they started to flood my thoughts. Regret ruled, and the old shame pressed heavy on my spirit. Once again, my cheeks heated up, and tears filled my eyes. I started the Gator and headed home.

After I uploaded the photos to my computer, I was stunned by their beauty. Certain I was going to learn something important from them; I searched for their name on the Internet. After searching for obnoxious weeds and not finding them, I searched for purple wildflowers in MN, and there they were. It was the moment God had been waiting for.

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They are called Common Self Heal Plants. They aren’t weeds! They are a medicinal herb, have been used for many years, and are used in tinctures, infusions (tea), and ointments. People sell their seeds and plants, and other people buy them. I found videos and recipes.

They are not awkward at all.

That’s when I got to wondering – you know – about me. Was being awkward a sin? Was God ashamed of my black underpants, or was He focused on the heart of the young dancer – the heart motivated by her great love for her mom?

As I write this, tears of rejoicing and praise are running down my cheeks. I wasn’t a Jesus-follower when Daddy’s shirt didn’t quite cover up what I wish others hadn’t seen, but I know that God saw all the way to the heart of me.

I say this with absolute confidence because He created me and has always known every single molecule that is me.

I am an awkward woman and will do awkward things from to time. Words will come out wrong. Things will show I wish wouldn’t. And God will still love me. Mama did too. So did the Beckys. The only one who held it against me was me.

From the eighth grade to age sixty-two when He drew my attention to a sturdy little blossom from the mint family.

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It was time.

I’m well past my dancing days – two kinds of arthritis make it painful to the point of impossible. But there is a place in my spirit that dances in praise to the One who saw me then and sees me now. There my moves are fluid, strong, and graceful. I close my eyes and feel what I cannot do. It’s wonderful.

Now, I have the sweet privilege of remembering the day I danced like no one but Mama was watching. The embarrassment and shame are gone. All that’s left is the delight.

Until Next Time,

Joy

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Powder Puff Moments ~ Stringing Beads

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Wandering in the ditch beside one of our wildflower fields, this tiny puff of seeds caught my eye and snagged at my heart. Walking home, I thought about Grandma Joy and powder puffs.

I smiled just before the tears fell.

When I was little, I spent time with my grandparents in Worthington, MN. At her house, we had ordinary days that included a fluffy white puff of Corn Silk powder. When I was four or so, Grandma handed me the puff from the round container and told me to pat the puff gently onto my skin to avoid breathing it in and sneezing.

I patted, inhaled, sneezed, blinked, and coughed, but putting it on by myself was such a grown-up girl kind of thing to do, I didn’t care. That’s what tissues were for.

On Sunday’s we wore a dusting of her favorite scented powder – Topaz by Avon. And on extra special days – like Easter – I was allowed a spritz of Topaz perfume or “stink um” as she called it. (My little brother called it pu-fume!)

When Grandma left here for Heaven, powder and puffs left my life too – a sweet memory without meaning.

Until that walk.

The one where I thought about that unblemished flat-chested little girl who was now, because of stage four breast cancer, a terribly scarred flat chested sixty-two-year-old woman. Since the surgery about a year and a half ago, I’ve kept most of my grief carefully tucked away. I had no idea I was going to take you there.

But here we are.

On my way to our house, I thanked God again that Grandma isn’t here to ache as I walk this part of my earthly journey. I was also deeply grateful Mama and Daddy were with Him too instead of here with me.

About half-way home, the sunset light up the fields the way it sometimes does.

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I stood in the radiance, I wondered to God, “What would they do if they were here?”

Immediately I could almost feel the small hands of my mother and grandmother pressing gently on my now scarred chest the way they touched skinned knees and my forehead when migraine headaches attacked. In my imagination, I saw their tears and felt the pressing of their prayers. Then I could almost feel the gentle kiss Daddy would have placed on the top of my head and see the tears in his eyes.

Almost but not quite.

As the earth turned and the sun went to warm a new day on the other of the world, I looked back at the darkened sky and thanked God for the blessings of those moments. Those who have gone before me don’t know about the cancer, but I know what they would do if they were still here.

I’ve always loved powder puffs. I love them even more now.

Until Next Time,

Joy

 

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Roots – Your Life a Legacy

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This massive tree grows beside the Cannon River. The city cared enough to protect the giant’s roots and keep it from falling into the river. I stood and pondered its braced roots, fascinated. When I turned to greet the people who passed me a few gave me a funny look – the one that says silently, “She’s odd.” I wanted to say, “Yes, I am, but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled big because, in these days of COVID 19 and cancer, I don’t get out as much as I’d like, and there I was outside on a beautiful day mask-free, and I could smile big with my eyes and lips.

I walked this path yesterday. It was once little more than a narrow route the deer walked. A place kids wandered in what felt like the wilderness, even though less than a block away, traffic rumbled over a rickety old bridge. The path is now somewhat paved and has railings where the edges are steepest. The trail still ends at the city pool, which is so much smaller than I remembered it.

As I wandered the other day, and even though woodland plants and the river below surrounded me, it felt much tamer. I guess that feeling of walking on the wild side lived only in my imagination.

We lived in Cannon Falls part of one year. I was in the fifth grade and am not sure the number of the months we lived on Park Street West. While there, we had a bear in our backyard and wood ducklings in our bathtub. It was the winter Mama cried shoveling snow, we rode our sled down the steep road, and Daddy got frostbitten fingers hitchhiking home from work in the Cities to be with us the next day: Thanksgiving. His hands bothered him – sometimes terribly – for the rest of his life.

Anyway, back to the walk. And the roots.

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Standing just off the path, I thought about octopuses and their tentacles reaching. After reading The Soul of an Octopus, I think about them a lot. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it.

Anyway, the roots amazed me with their size, reach, and purposes:

To go deep into the earth to hold the tree in place for years – in this case, hundreds of years.
To provide nourishment so the tree can grow branches, leaves, blossoms, and fruit with seeds that continue the tree’s legacy. I do wonder how many trees one giant oak produces via acorns in a couple of hundred (or more) years.

Only God knows.

Walking past these roots on my way back to Jonathan – he let me wander alone for a while – smart man that he is. I stop and start many times, even on short walks. There is no lovely pace to my efforts. No holding hands unless it’s that kind of walk. If my camera is on my neck – it’s not that kind of walk!

Anyway, I stopped again, and this time, a new thought crossed my mind: it’s fun to stand in awe and take pictures of leaf-laden trees. I delight in falling acorns and watching maple seeds twirl in the wind. I love to listen to bare branches in the winter creak in the cold air. All of these moments are photo-worthy. But without the roots, deep in the darkness where worms hide from those who fish and rodents build dens and unseen communities. Yet, it is from this unseemly place that all the beauty we see is made possible.

I walked toward my true love with two takeaways:

The practical: my life story will matter more if I let you see my roots. The unseemly parts that I feel certain I’m to write. And share. I’d rather let you see only the good things – the radiant leaves, acorns with funky little hats, and watch the moments of delight – the twirls and swirls. Maybe we’d all enjoy that more, but that’s not why I’m here. Historically, the memoirs we remember the most are those that include the dark places where the roots of our lives go deep. That’s what I’m here to share.
The spiritual: my life story will mean more if you see Who my soul and my life are rooted in. No one matters as much as Him. “He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will never be shaken.” Psalm 62:2 NLT To be sure, I get all shook up emotionally at times, but the roots of my faith will hold.

When I got back to Jonathan, I sat on this beautiful bench – a piece of art placed in the park and carved out of resin. I’m not sure how the artist accomplished it, but I loved sitting there for a moment.

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Until Next Time,

Joy

In case you’d like to read The Soul of an Octopus, click on the book cover.

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Uneasy Writer – My Writing Life

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Uneasy Writer – My Writing Life
Joy DeKok

When the young oriole landed, she went right for the jelly confident in the moment. Then, something changed. She changed position, looked around, and waited. I looked at her, wondering what made her so uneasy.

A few moments later, she left without returning to the jelly she’d enjoyed with wild abandon when she arrived.

She wasn’t gone from view yet when my thoughts turned to writing. The uneasy kind where after diving into the story, something causes me to stop, look, and listen. My jaws tighten, and I’m sure something is wrong with the words. Or the story itself. And most certainly with the writer. That’s when my shoulders join my jaws.

Sitting there, surrounded by the beauty of the wildflower gardens, my stomach clenched, and I had a physical trio of tension.

As my unease grew, I decided to walk and talk to God. Even though I like the story I’m writing, I asked, “Lord – can I fly away from this?” Instead of a wave of peace flooding my soul, the stress increased.

The breeze carried the scent of the wildflowers to me, and I inhaled. I scolded myself for standing still but told the persistent urge to back off.

Air that beautiful should be enjoyed.

Surrounded by the flutter of butterflies and vibrant blossoms, with the sun heating my skin, I continued to wait. I worried momentarily about the sun burning my scalp then remembered I was wearing a baseball cap. I smiled when I also remembered I was wearing it backward like a wild woman in the hood.

I checked my phone for the time, assuming I was late getting back inside to fold a load of laundry or something equally important that would keep me away from the story. That excuse didn’t fly – I’d given myself an hour to be out there and had spent twenty minutes of my sixty.

Not far away was a shady spot, and I headed in that direction. That’s when the horseflies found me. For some reason, they are drawn to me in swarms. They liked my blood before cancer and treatment, and they love it even more now. Thankfully, I had my trusty bottle of all-natural bug spray along. After covering myself and the air around me generously, they left, and I went back to pondering my unease and the fact that it increased in a big way when I thought about flying away from the story. Book three in a series I started dreaming about writing many years ago—a character who, although unlikeable, is dearly loved by me.

I stopped my journey around the wildflower fields and asked myself, “What is up with you?”

That’s when the answer hit me. I’m about 1/3 of the way through the writing of the raw draft. It will happen again when I’ve edited the book the third time. It’s the thing that happens every time.

In my mind, I saw a gleaming blue-black dragon, laying in a barren wasteland with its iridescent and scaled tail curled around itself, a self-satisfied sneer on its face. A laugh rumbles out of its long snout that shakes the ground I write on. Its breath is hot and stinks like swamp gas.

The devil, you ask? No. Just fraidy cat me and my big imagination. The peculiar thing is that he is a cartoon. Fake but not funny. All fluff and no  flame. 

I checked my watch again. My sixty minutes were almost up. It was time to feed Sophie and Tucker, fold that load of laundry, and get back to the story. To dive in with wild abandon.

On the way, I thought about the young oriole again. She was likely driven away from the jelly by a life-threatening danger. In my case, the only threat I faced was myself.

That’s when I saw myself in the window of the back door in my backward hat and laughed from my belly. At that moment, the unease flew away at least for a while. I talked to the dogs while I folded towels, drank some coffee while they settled in for a nap, and pondered the last two chapters I’d written. This is my gentle way of dipping my toes back into the story.

This uneasy feeling will return in thirds and threes as part of my process – one I guess I prefer not to remember until it hits catching me off guard and filling my internal spaces with its inferno of chaos.

I’m praying that next time I let it belch smoke at me, I’ll remember the beautiful young oriole, the reflection of me in my backward hat, and the wonderful way it feels to step back into the story I love.

Until Next Time,

Joy

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Garden Party – Gentle Moments With God

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Garden Party ~ Gentle Moments With God
Joy DeKok

“Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it. Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them; let all the trees of the forest sing for joy.” Psalm 96:11-12 (ESV)

One morning this past week I stood in the first wildflower acre we planted. All around me it seemed like the yellow coneflowers were celebrating their Creator and although I hadn’t known about it, I was a welcome guest at their garden party.

There was great joy in each moment and a celebration is praise took over my heart. The words of God and others came to mind.

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“Each day holds a surprise. But only if we expect it can we see, hear, or feel it when it comes to us. Let’s not be afraid to receive each day’s surprise, whether it comes to us as sorrow or as joy It will open a new place in our hearts, a place where we can welcome new friends and celebrate more fully our shared humanity.” Henri Nouwen

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From the Mercy Me song, I Can Only Imagine

Surrounded by You glory

What will my heart feel

Will I dance for you Jesus

Or in awe of You be still

Will I stand in your presence

Or to my knees will I fall

Will I sing hallelujah

Will I be able to speak at all

I can only imagine

I can only imagine

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Because your steadfast love is better than life,

    my lips will praise you.

So I will bless you as long as I live;

    in your name I will lift up my hands.

Psalm 34:3-4 ESV

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“It is not how much we have, but how much we enjoy, that makes happiness.” –Charles Spurgeon

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Until Next Time,

Joy

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The Goat in the Mirror – A Legacy Post

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The Goat in the Mirror

This was one of Mama’s favorite pictures of me sitting on my great-grandma Pearl’s dresser. She saw her daughter. I have always seen a little girl who used to be me.

Looking closer I see . . .

The lace of a handkerchief peeking out from a drawer.
And the time – 7:22 or so.
Shoes scuffed on the bottoms by a little girl who preferred moving to sitting.
A barrette holding blond hair in place.
A little girl looking at someone she knows.

Today, looking even closer, I wondered what I had in my hands. Then I looked at my reflection in the mirror and saw a goat planter that now sits in my cupboard. That detail is my favorite. Mama enjoyed telling the story about Grandma Pearl’s real goat.

He was a gift from her son Floyd. Mama said he saw the real goat in the alley behind a Greek restaurant and couldn’t bear the thought of the animal becoming the meat ingredient in a recipe, so he bought it and brought it home to his mother.

She named it Billy. He was kind to her but one day decided to butt my six-foot four-inch grandfather (Pearl’s son in law) behind his knees. When Grandpa Ed went down, Billy baaed as if satisfied with his efforts. Grandpa kept his eye on Billy from then on.

After Grandma Pearl left here for Heaven, Mama gave me the little goat I’m holding in this photo. It was wrapped in an old and yellowed newspaper. I don’t remember anyone telling me why she wanted me to have the goat, but I remember being glad she wanted it to be mine. Her goat sat in my bookcase with my Nancy Drew mysteries and Little House on the Prairie books and has moved with me many times.

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I loved the goat planter before because it was hers. Today I love it a little more because it feels like Grandma Pearl considered it ours.

What a difference a goat in the mirror can make sixty or so years after a moment was saved. A moment now treasured.

Until Next Time,

Joy

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The Power of Lilacs

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The Power of Lilacs

As I write this, the scent of lilacs whispers its way into my office. The bushes were planted a long time ago (in the 1970s) by the family who lived here before us. I am grateful.

Their perfume sends a whirlwind of memories through my mind. Mama. Always her. She loved lilacs and gently passed that on to me. She would stop along the way to sniff a beautiful bunch on the bushes in the park or wherever. She ordered Avon lilac lotion and talc delivered by our friend Gladys. Avon deliveries were a big deal in our house because of the friendship and the scents.

Mama lined dresser drawers, hers and mine, with lilac scented paper sold for that reason.

Sometimes there were big bouquets on the table cut from her bushes or given to her by a friend. A few in my bedroom seemed to make sleep easier in my teen years when the right outfit mattered way more than Math, and my eyelashes thick with mascara had to clump just right and if they weren’t a stick pin would be used to separate them. The sweet scent overpowered fears that I’d said the wrong thing or too much. It also calmed the tears that came and went with little or no warning but with teenaged frequency. Everything mattered so much. Feelings were welcome and felt.

Lilacs in the dining room almost made piano practice enjoyable.

Open windows in our elementary school carried the scent of lilacs from the park across the street. I want to say that made Math easier, but that would not be my truth. Their lavish scent did inspire daydreams, though. I could be a poet or writer of stories or any of the other things inspired by the wafting of wonderful fragrance.

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The aroma still has the power to stop me, and after a glance at the blossoms to be sure they are bee-free, I take in a few deep breaths. I almost always walk away with a moment on my mind, a smile on my face, and a prayer of thanksgiving in my heart, even on the harder days.

That’s the power of lilacs.

Until Next Time,

Joy

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