Joy E. DeKok's Blog, page 6

Under His Wings – A Gentle Moment

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Under His Wings ~ A Gentle Moment

We drove along a familiar road when Jon asked me if I’d seen the Giant Canada Goose in the ditch. I’d missed her. He knew I wanted to see her and that it would be a blessing to me so, he turned around.

When we parked on the side of the road, her head was up, but she quickly lowered herself over her nest. No hissing. No flapping of angry wings. No honking to her mate for help. She protected this year’s young with all of herself.

I wished she could know I intended no harm, but that mama was taking no chances. Her courage and determination filled my thoughts for several miles.

We were in her vicinity for only a few gentle minutes, but her action lingers in my heart. I knew God had an under His wings lesson for me.

I read verses (listed at the end of this post) about being under God’s wings. In recent months, Psalm 91 has ministered to my spirit even more than before. Especially verse 4.

He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings, you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.

Since we saw the mama goose, I’ve often thought of a little rooster on the island of Kauai. There are free-roaming chickens all over the island. Besides the ocean, some whale sightings, watching sea turtles in the wild, and waterfalls, this little bird is one of my favorite memories or our visit.

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A little girl was feeding a group of chicks pieces of her cookies. I’d noticed the clouds gathering over the ocean but was charmed and distracted by her and them. Especially one little rooster who kept getting closer and closer to the girl. I saw her face change when she noticed – she fell a little bit in love with him.

Just before a roll of thunder, the mama chickens watching the cookie party made clucking sounds. Most of their babies obeyed the call to safety, tucking themselves under their mother’s wings. The only holdout was the little rooster.

When the girl’s mother called her to the car, she resisted. She begged and bargained, trying to convince her mom to take her new friend home on the plane.

Big drops of rain started to fall. The mother chicken clucked again, and the human mother reasoned with her daughter about airplane rules and hurting the mother chicken’s heart by taking her baby away.

Thunder boomed this time halting the youngster’s arguments.

The girl ran to her mother’s car, and the rooster ran to the protection of his mother’s wings.

I knew God had a lesson for me because of the yearning in my heart. Shaking it off wasn’t an option.

Finally, the lesson came. Full of His grace and power.

Those feathered mamas could only protect their young for the season they fit under their wings, but the protection of God’s wings is eternal for everyone who has made the Lord their dwelling place. (see Psalm 91:9)

Under His wings, there is eternal room for everyone who believes in His Son, Jesus.

Is He your dwelling place?

Until Next Time,

Joy

A blessing found in the book of Ruth 2:12 The Lord repay you for what you have done, and a full reward be given you by the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge!”
Psalm 63:7 For you have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings, I will sing for joy.
Psalm 27:5 For he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble; he will conceal me under the cover of his tent; he will lift me high upon a rock.

P. S. I didn’t take the chicken and baby rooster picture – I found it on Pixabay.

The post Under His Wings – A Gentle Moment appeared first on Joy DeKok .

A Place Called Louisa – A Short Story

Dear Reader,

This is a short story I wrote a few years back and returned to this week.

I hope you enjoy reading A Place Called Louis as much as I have enjoyed writing and rewriting it. If you like it, I hope you’ll share it with your family and friends.

Until Next Time,

Joy

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A Place Called Louisa

The beautiful girl liked being with me and now wanted to spend even more time where I am. That truth caused a little tremor in my timbers.

Her grandfather, the kind old man who was putting me back into tip-top shape, looked around the room. Sometimes, when he worked on me, he told her about the tools he used and what he was doing. She often listened and sometimes asked questions. Other times I’d feel her breathing change and knew she was dreaming while sitting on his work stool swinging her legs.

The old space that I am had once been an air-raid shelter. Later, it was where someone made a concoction called liquid moonshine. The man never told the girl who the maker he was, but I knew. His friends called him other names, but his son, the man who was fixing me up, called him Pa.

The girl got up and sniffed the old barrels in the corner. “Grandpop, these smell worse than Grandmom’s cough syrup, black licorice, and the stuff she rubs into her achy spots all mixed together!”

He chuckled. “I guess it’s time to get them out of here.” As he moved them, he mumbled, “Your grandmom used to wear Topaz perfume.” His voice did that thing it always did when he slipped into telling the child with white-gold hair that looked like the sun even on the darkest of gray days, things about his past.

On that day, she wasn’t ready for his stories but had words of her own to share. “I can hardly wait until we’re done fixing up this hidden place. I love the new door – thank you for painting it green. I love green, you know.”

He grunted, but she gave him no time to say anything. “I love that my table and chairs match the door.”

She was quiet for a moment before saying, “I wonder if the small squares of material Grandmom is sewing together late at night will be a quilt I can sit under in the rocking chair you have hidden in the garage that is just the right size for a girl like me.”

When she took a breath, he asked, “You saw that, huh?” He winked. It was his signal to her that it was okay.

She put her hands on her hips covered by a flouncy dress – I know it was flouncy because it’s how she’d described it to me when we were alone. Then she said, “If you two are going to hide things from me, you’re going to have to work a little harder at it.”

She watched him closely. “Are you rubbing your whiskers because you’re mad at me or you’re trying to hide a smile?

His voice held a new tone when he said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckled low like faraway thunder. She knew and he knew she knew, and I knew it too.

She joined in, and the notes of their laughter danced through the air, bounced across my walls, and settled into my nooks and crannies. Their joy had the power to reach deep into my beams and the old stones that she tells me are my skeleton.

The old man brushed off his coveralls and turned toward the new green door. “I’ll get the rocker for you now. Your Grandmom will bring the quilt when she’s ready. If you keep finding your gifts, you won’t have any left for your birthday.”

Something in the air around us changed. She stood in the middle of me silently, and a thin line creased her forehead. It reminded me of the small grains in my wood. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it because there’s only one window in here? Is it too dark for you? Too sad?”

“Oh, no! I love it. Thank you for adding the window – it will be the perfect place to sit in my new chair and read whatever books are coming my way. And I’m very glad I can open it up and let the smells of the woods and the song of the ivy in.”

He took her hand. “Okay, Sweetie, then what’s up?”

She let out a whoosh of air. “In a few days, my age will always have two numbers in it. I’m getting old.”

Crystal drops fell from her eyes to her cheeks. He handed her a neatly folded white rag he pulled from his pocket. “You dry those tears. Just think. Maybe someday you’ll have three numbers in your age.”

He left her with those words, and although it took her a moment, her giggle waltzed around the air in me.

After he shut my door, he put his hand on it and bowed his head. “Please bless her in this place she loves so much, Lord.”

The girl stood at the window and ran her fingertips down the curtains. “I love you, Mama. I’m so glad Grandmom is making me these lovely gifts for this space. I know you looked beautiful in this dress – I have a picture of you in it. I wonder if I can bring it out here. I would love that. The blue flowers almost match the tea set Grandmom said I could bring out to have tea with my thoughts. Of course, I’ll have that tea with these friendly old walls too.”

She touched one of my ribs – the beams that run from my floor to my ceiling. “Somehow, I trust you and feel like you hear all my secrets and treasure them.”

Then she glided around the room and swished her broom around the wide planks under her feet, wondering out loud, “Why do I love to sweep you, dear old floor, and don’t like this simple chore in Grandmom’s kitchen?”

A knock at my green door startled her, and if I’m honest, the sharp rap did the same to me. The old woman called out, “Mary Ellen, can I come in?”

The girl skipped to my door with the broom still in her hands and pulled it open. “Yes, Grandmom – I’m so glad you’re here!”

The lush ivy vines on both of my sides and roof swayed with so much grace in the breeze I was fascinated, but the girl’s voice distracted me. Mary Ellen took what the woman held out to her. “I love it!”

Grandmom’s voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. She carried a hush in her spirit, and I knew whatever she’d placed in Mary Ellen’s hands was important. “Every square in this quilt is from a dress your mama wore — dresses I made for her. There were enough pieces to make you a couple of pillows too. I’ll bring them here tomorrow.” From her pocket, she withdrew a small picture frame. “I thought you might like to put this on the windowsill near the curtains.

“Oh! Grandmom! How did you know?”

The woman’s shoulders shrugged. “Sometimes, I listen to what my heart tells me.”

The ivy swished gently against my sides as Grandpop reentered. “Here’s your chair, Sweetie.”

Mary Ellen pointed to the space under the window. “Please put it here. It’s the perfect spot to rock and read.”

Grandmom crossed her arms. “You’re going to need a side table, aren’t you?”

The girl stood with her arms crossed the same way. “That would make this space even more perfect!”

The woman turned to the man, her eyes shining. “It won’t be a surprise, but you know the table I’m thinking about, right?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “I do.”

Mary Ellen said, “Grandmom, I love it when you smile with your voice. It sounds like it has a lilt in it like a song that is all your own.”

Grandpop grinned. “It does, doesn’t it?”

The woman said, “You two are good for what ails me.”

“What ails you?” the girl asked with a hint of concern in her voice so soft only those of us who listened to her often would notice.

The lilt was still in the woman’s voice when she said, “Orneriness.”

Grandpop smiled and kissed his wife’s wrinkled cheek. Before the woman left, Mary Ellen said, “Maybe on my birthday we could have tea and cake in here. There are three chairs, and we could use the blue-flowered tea set. I think it might all be more delicious and wonderful.”

Grandmom smiled and nodded before she exited. This time the ivy barely moved since she was unassisted by the girl.

After the rocker was in place, Mary Ellen sat down and put the quilt over her knees. “Please tell me about the men in white again, Grandpop.”

He sat on one of the green chairs. “When I was a boy, we lived by a deep pond, and although my father and uncle told me to stay out of the leaky rowboat, I disobeyed. After all, even though I couldn’t swim, for some reason, I was sure I could handle it. That day, I’d worked hard in the summer heat and wanted to cool down. I went toward the pond to lay in the tall grass. The bugs were nasty that day, and I decided a short row out on the water would be the best escape.

He paused to shake his head.

“By the time I got to the middle of the pond, the boat was sinking fast. I had nothing to bail the water out with and no time anyway. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, I was under the water fighting it with all my might. I kicked and threw my arms around. I almost made it to the top once – but not quite.

“I tried to breathe, which was stupid, but it was the only thing I knew to do. Well, almost the only thing. I prayed. Just three words, “God help me.” A strange calm came over me, and I stopped flailing and looked around. The water was green, and when a snake slithered by, I kicked briefly but not to escape the water. Instead, I wanted to avoid contact with the nasty looking reptile.

“A silvery school of minnows glided by and the old rainbow trout Father called Goliath gave me a curious glance before swimming into a shadowy spot by the shoreline that was so close and so far away.

“Above me, a yellow light hovered on the surface. My lungs were full of water, and I thought for sure they’d explode. A second later, everything in sight became strangely clear, peaceful, and beautiful. As I sunk, I knew I was going to die.

“The yellow light above me shone brighter, and two giant men dressed in white light reached into the pond and grasped me by my arms – one on each side. Their power raced through me as they lifted me out of the water and put me on the bank. They didn’t exactly drop me, but they set me down hard enough that I started to cough, and green water spewed out of me onto the ground.

“I heard my father and uncle yelling my name at the side of the pond. They saw the boat was missing but hadn’t seen us yet. The men stood beside me until I caught my breath and was able to call out ‘Here I am!’ Father and Uncle turned toward us and stood still as if stunned, their eyes wide open and fixed on the giants. That was when the men in white evaporated.”

Mary Ellen leaned forward. “They were angels, right?”

He smiled. “They were.  I was glad they stayed long enough for Father and Uncle to see them. If they had left before, then, who would believe me?”

She went to him and put her arm around his shoulder. “I would.”

He embraced her. “That’s true.”

I guess he knew, the same thing I did: sometimes Mary Ellen knew things she couldn’t know without hearing and trusting the things the Spirit in her said to her.

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She leaned in closer to Grandpop. “That’s the boat out by the old shed, isn’t it?”

He nodded, and she asked, “Why do you keep it?”

“My father thought I needed to see it now and then to remember why obedience to wisdom is so important.”

She took a small step back. “Can I have a boat? Maybe we could clean it up and paint it green, and it could be my bed out here. All I’d need is an old mattress or two. Oh, please, Grandpop. I’d love to sleep in a boat that was so close to angels! And we could name her Wisdom.”

His eyebrows rose. “You want to sleep out here?”

She nodded so hard, her curls bounced.

“Won’t you be afraid?”

She stood a little taller. “I think a girl with two numbers in her age can be brave enough to sleep here. Of course, if I had a dog to alert me to anything strange, we’d all feel better, I’m sure. You know the Gray’s are looking for a home for their dog named Bruiser. He’d be perfect for a girl like me and a place like this.”

Again, his laughter rolled. “We’ll have to talk to Grandmom about that. Are you ready for tea?”

 

***

A few sunrises later, she entered into the space that is me and said, “Good morning Dear Place. Today I am ten.”

The wagging tail of the dog beside her moved the air the same way her giggles did. “This is my new friend, Bruiser. I think the three of us are going to have great times together.”

She waited in her rocking chair, looking out the window. The big black and white dog rested at her feet. A few moments later, he lifted his head and his tail slapped my floor in what I was sure was delight. He was the first one to know the party was on its way to us.

The four of them ate cake, the humans drank tea, and she opened presents. Grandpop gave her a green side table. Grandmom’s gifts included a girl-sized apron, something she called a braided rug that was mostly green for my floor in front of the rocker, and a stack of books. The brand new ten-year-old exclaimed over each gift as if she’d never received any others. I knew she had because she always brought them to me and told me all about them. She called it “show and tell.”

This was her way with them and me and now Bruiser. Her new friend explored my corners and sniffed, sneezing from time to time, his tail moving the air in his friendly way, I liked him and was pretty sure he liked me too.

Grandmom started to put the left-over cake and dishes in the large basket she’d brought them in. “Mary Ellen, I think you will love Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery – it’s as if the author knew you when she wrote it. Little Women, by Louisa Mae Alcott, is my personal favorite.”

There was something in the way she said, Louisa. The girl cocked her head. We’d both noticed it.

Grandpop told Mary Ellen that he would deliver the Wisdom to her in a few days and mentioned something about curing and paint drying and told her that new mattresses to fill up the deep shell of the rowboat would arrive soon.

She hugged and kissed them and clapped her hands the way she did when especially pleased. “That is great news, Grandpop! I think the Wisdom is big enough to hold Bruiser and me on our camping nights. Thank you so much for everything! I wish I knew the words to tell you how much I love you!”

When Grandmom and Grandpop left her and Bruiser with me, she sat in her rocking chair and talked. Dear old place, I know I tell you this all the time, but I have to say it again. I love it here with you! It’s like there are pieces of the others still here who spent time with you long ago. Maybe even Mama, although I haven’t asked them if she came here because talking about her, makes us all sad. But if she knew about you, how could she stay away? And Bruiser! You already own a part of my heart. You are a prince of dogs!”

He wagged, and I took in the great exhale he released into the room.

“Back to you, dear place. I don’t mean I feel ghosts or spirits, although Grandmom knew one or two in her lifetime.” Mary Ellen giggled. “I’m sometimes a naughty girl. I found some of her journals and read a few pages. What she wrote didn’t scare me one bit. I might like to know a ghost or a spirit or an angel.” She sighed. “One of these days, I will confess. It’s only right. I’ve told God and you two, now it’s time to tell her. She might be right – maybe I am too curious for my own good.” She followed this with another giggle and said, “But maybe not!”

She paused to do some more thinking and then spoke to the dog and me again. “It feels like all those people who came here before me left some of their germs behind. Or fingerprints. Or bits of their breath got caught in your walls. I wish I had known them all. Even the moonshiners who could have been brewing it for medical reasons – I’ve read about that.”

If I had whiskers like her Grandpop, I would have tried to hide my smile too. As he once told me when we were alone, “Mary Ellen likes to believe the best about everyone.”

A wind blew up just then, and the ivy around the door tickled my sides and sounded very much like the soft chuckle Grandmom sometimes shared with my walls when she came to sweep cobwebs out of my dark corners and off my rough-hewn walls. On those days, she sang happy songs to God and told my walls about the things Mary Ellen said and did.

The girl reached for one of the books on her new table. “Speaking of reading, let’s spend some time with Little Women.”

When she read, her voice lifted and dropped in ways that told me as much about the four girls and their mother as the words themselves. When the light from the window faded, she closed the book and said, “I love this story better than all the ones I’ve ever read! Maybe someday I’ll be a writer. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

After a few moments, Mary Ellen stood up. There was something new about her. Maybe that was part of being ten. She turned all the way around slowly as a deep quiet settled around us the way it did when Grandpop prayed for her and Grandmom when it was just him and me. Bruiser watched her his ears raised and his tail still.

With one hand on her heart and the other on my wall, she said, “Dear Place, I am going to call you Louisa.”

A gentle breeze came through the window. She raised her hand to her cheek. “Did you feel that? It felt like a kiss.”

I caught the scent of lavender and wondered if it might have been from the curtains made from her mother’s dress. I hadn’t noticed it before, but sometimes it takes a bit of air for that to happen.

When she shut my door for the day, Mary Ellen rested her hand on the knob a moment longer. I knew soft-touch held the thing she talked about the most. Love.

She whispered, her breath close to the painted surface where tiny nooks and crannies waited to hold what she had to say. “I can hardly wait to see you again, Louisa!”

Bruiser walked on the path beside her, and she rested her fingertips on his head.

As the sun disappeared and the night nestled in around me, her sweet germs, fingerprints, and breath settled in. A bit of our new canine friend did the same.

I would be waiting for her. For them. For us to be together again in this space, that is me – a place she called Louisa.

The photos in this story are from the generous artists at Pixabay.

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Lovely

Lovely

“Dear old world’, she murmured, ‘you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.”

― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

I went outside with my camera wanting to see and save some loveliness.

Walking around, I knew the light was off – sometimes dark and other times bright – no just right. And the breeze was chilly as it pushed the slender wildflower stems around and ruffled the bird’s feathers. Both were going to make getting great photos difficult.

And I was kind of ornery. Well, mostly, I was fatigued but that can quickly morph into cranky if I let it. I was on the verge.

But even if I didn’t get any pictures, there is always something worth seeing. Walking across the hard-packed snow, I prayed God would open my eyes to loveliness.

He was so generous to me!

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This leaf caught my eye, and my spirit sparked.

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Then across the driveway, there was this lovely mess.

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And even this photo felt like a home run – something I know nothing about hitting but love seeing when a MN Twin hits one.

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Then a second later, there was this catch. I was on a roll.

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These three “strands” danced together in the breeze as if keeping each other stronger.

The remnant of this compass flower stood tall. Noble. Strong.

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When I heard the song of the birds, I headed to the feeders. Loveliness surrounded me!

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When I thought it was time to go, this sweet junco stopped by.

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On the way into the house, to a cup of hot coffee and snuggles with Sophie and Tucker, my heart overflowed with thanksgiving for so many lovely whatevers! All in under an hour.

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That was yesterday, and those moments linger today while I sit at Panera drinking hazelnut coffee praying these meager words encourage you. But most of all, that His Words do . . .

Philippians 4:8 New International Version (NIV)

8 Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

Because the words that matter most are always His!

What’s on your “whatever” list today?

Until Next Time,

Joy

 

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Joy – At First

I’m not sure if this autobiography posting is a good idea or not. I believe in the power of written legacies – the stories of our lives we leave behind for others to discover. It’s odd – I’ve told hundreds of people that their stories matter, and they do. Sitting in front of my screen today, I hesitate – does my story matter too? It does. I know that, and still, I look out the window between words putting it off. A dawdling of sorts. I hit the backspace key over and over. As I ponder excuses, my courage falters and I ask the same questions others have asked me.

I’m not famous, so who cares?
Is it vain to assume anyone will read about my small life?
And in a silent tone of disdain, I wonder, “Who do you think you are?”
And as the Yule Brenner said in the King & I, “. . . etcetera, etcetera, etcetera . . .”

All this internal arguing escalates until I almost say some stuff out loud but catch myself. Whew! It’s loud here at Caribou but still.

Then, with my internal voice shaking, I ask my heart, “Where do I start?”

My own words return to me. “At the beginning.”

My goodness. Coffee has never been more distracting or the parking lot as fascinating.

If I wait long enough, I’ll need a refill and a trip to the restroom, and then it will be time to head home to Jonathan and our dogs.

Instead, I’m going to give this thing a go. When the idea to do this came, lots of moments and so many words came to mind. They seem to have been mysteriously misplaced.

It’s time to elbow fear aside. Or write like I can delete the words that come – which I can. So here goes nothing. Or something. I guess we’ll see.

At First

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Mama told me she knew early that she was pregnant and that I was a girl. She was sure and had already named me Joy after her mother.

When she fainted (although she’d been sick with TB) both she and grandma knew a baby was on the way. Then came the morning sickness.

Around the time she told me our story for the first time, a girl I knew had been told by her mom that she came at an inconvenient time. Her mom’s words left her feeling rejected and unwanted. I wonder if those words that hurt so long ago linger in her heart. They do in mine. For her. I told Mama. She waited a few days, and then knowing me the way she did, she made sure I knew that I was wanted.

As she pushed the iron back and forth across whatever needed the wrinkles gone that day, she talked and listened. I sat at the table, probably coloring or doodling or writing in my notebook.

Her words flowed over and into my heart.

Mama said that the first time she held me, my fingers amazed her – it looked like someone had given me a manicure inside her. My grandmother wondered if they were the fingers of a pianist. They weren’t, but they belong to a writer who loves the feel of her computer keyboard under her fingertips.

That day, Mama took time to brag on me to me. She told me I was alert and understood far more than others said I was capable of right away. She insisted that I followed their voices with my eyes and smiled. She was disgusted anyone would suggest that her baby had mere gas! (She felt the same way about my brother.)

She said that my smiles came with responsive sounds earlier than the baby books, and magazine articles claimed were “normal.” No surprise I’m sure to all of those who know me well!

Later, before dementia took her far from us, Mama told me to get the above picture of her and me out. She wanted me to know that no matter what, the love seen in black and white shortly after we met face to face would always be ours. Even on her worst days. She wanted me to remember I was wanted. Always. And then Mama took a few minutes to brag on me to me again.

She also reminded me that while Daddy was quieter about his feelings, his look in his first picture with me said everything I needed to “hear.”

You might think that would make me sad, especially now that they’re in Heaven, but it doesn’t. I look at these photos and treasure their unhidden love.

And I smile full to the brim and overflowing by their love.

Deep gratitude rushes from the deep places in my heart because in our first moments and our last, in that way that she had, she knew these moments would bring me comfort.

She was right.

It’s taken me a while to get these words on the page because, in part, not everyone I know had this kind of parental love. That’s a sad truth and a mix of sorrow and guilt washes over me. For you. I can’t explain the guilt but there it is. And there’s no way I can erase your experience, but I know Someone who can.

If you know me, you know we were going here. If you don’t know me yet, welcome to my faith.

Before I pack up my computer and head home, I am going to get a coffee refill and pray this verse for you:

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope. Romans 15:13 (ESV)

Until Next Time,

Joy

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Wildflowers in Winter

Wildflowers in Winter

“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”

― Lewis Carroll

Today I was homesick for the wildflowers. My weather app said it was 7 degrees and had a “feels like” temp of -8.

I went to them anyway dressed in layers and my heavy boots like the little girl I was way back when.

My footsteps mingled with those left by a deer, and I liked the sharing of a place with a wild one.

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It was around 3 PM, and the sun was low in the sky. I wondered if I was going to miss the radiance. I didn’t!

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And these snow-capped beauties.

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One looked like a Dairy Queen treat.

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At one point, I was so cold. My face hurt, and my hands ached the way they did when I was a kid, and I mostly liked that — all the remembering and emotions.

When the wind blew a frigid blast, I stepped into the branches of the pine trees and discovered why the birds and rabbits go there – it’s quieter among the boughs, and the wind is less fierce.

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When my camera made a funny noise as if complaining about the cold, I headed inside to the man I love, the welcome of Sophie & Tucker’s wagging tails, and a cup of Earl Gray tea.

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As I write this, dusk is rapidly fading into night the way it does this time of year. It’s one of those things I sometimes grumble about, but right now, I love that it is part of the beauty of today. And because of God’s tender grace on my spirit, for now, I am grateful for the season as it is not the way I sometimes wish it would be. I do hope that when my grumbling returns, I will remember this moment and be thankful again.

Until Next Time,

Joy

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An Acre ~ Gentle Moments With God

An Acre ~ Gentle Moments With God

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Note: To understand the “but” in this verse, read James 3:14-16.

But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.

James 3:17-18 ESV

Jon and I aren’t farmers, but we do have 35 acres of woods and wildflowers we get to roam. Seventeen of them are wildflower gardens. When we planted the first one-acre field, we had a dream, thousands of tiny seeds, rakes, our feet, and tenacity.

The ground was roughly prepped, and our rakes bounced over the lumps and bumps without touching the tiny seeds. So, we did the next best thing – we stomped them into the top layer of dirt, praying they would grow.

By the end of our planting, we were dirty, tired, and wondered if we might have wasted the money we invested in the seeds.

However, our goal had been to build a sanctuary of peace. So, we cleaned up and hoped.

We watched that acre daily. When seedlings sprouted, we were cautiously excited after all they could be noxious weeds and not the loveliness we hoped for.

Finally, tiny blades transformed into recognizable plants. Pink coneflowers, yarrow, yellow coneflowers, milkweed, and others thrived. In their midst, an unexpected harvest took place. Bees gathered pollen. Butterflies took in nectar. Birds ate and replanted seeds. The deer found a place of rest, and one spring, an orphaned fawn raised herself in the protection of the garden.

That acre is often the first place I go to celebrate, grieve, wonder as I wander, confess, sing, work out writing stuff, and ask God to give me His wisdom. The kind that is pure, peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy, and good fruits.

Not long ago standing on the path in that lovely space, I asked God, “Who knew a single acre could do so much good?”

Well, of course, He did.

Until Next Time,

Joy

The post An Acre ~ Gentle Moments With God appeared first on Joy DeKok .

The Bee & Me ~ Gentle Moments With God

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The Bee & Me ~ Gentle Moments With God

What do you wish? Shall I come to you with a rod, or with love in a spirit of gentleness?

1 Corinthians 4:21 ESV

Again, my study on gentle/gentleness led me to a memory with a lesson tenderly tucked into it.

In October of 2016, I headed to the wildflower garden yearning for a gentle moment with God. Even though I’d been praying and singing and reading His Word, my heart remained desperate for a touch from Him. Life was hard and getting harder.

The blossoms, bird song, and breeze started to unwind the tight places in my spirit. I wandered, slowly still wanting more of Him.

The world at large yelled, argued, condemned, and at times screamed in disrespect. In some communities of believers, words had become weapons – rods of disapproval, shame, and hurt.

Mama and Jon’s folks were in Heaven, and Daddy was sick again. The sorrow ran deep.

In an attempt to protect my aching heart, I resisted caring about people and their circumstances the way I knew God wanted me to.

I wondered as I wandered if He was disappointed in me. Was my resistance sin and would it require disciplinary action on His part, and what would that look and feel like? I didn’t really believe He was going to get after me, but the thoughts came anyway. I was pretty sure I deserved His discipline.

Stopping on the path, I looked into the sky and prayed His response would be gentle – surely He knew my heart could only bear so much!

When I looked down, there she was, striped yellow and black with big eyes that seemed to be looking right at me. She was snuggled heart-height on an aster blossom.

At that moment, I felt the breeze but didn’t hear it moving through the garden because I was listening for a warning buzz that didn’t come. We continued to consider each other.

I smiled at her and said, “What a lovely bedroom you have, Ms. Bee.”

She didn’t move, and my initial delight faded a little. Had she fallen asleep on the blossom, and had it been her last sleep?

A thought crossed my mind. “Touch her.”

That sounded about as wise as starting a political argument on Facebook! But the thought came again, and I noticed it had a gentle feel to it.

Calm washed over my fear as I reached out my finger and stroked her back. She stretched out one of her legs and then seemed to wait. I stroked her back again, and she stretched the other leg. Again, she waited. On a roll, I rubbed again. This time she moved closer to me on the blossom. I talked to her and touched her before taking her picture.

Then she stretched her leg again and finally her wings before heading off into another day of pollinating.

I watched her go and knew I would miss her and that I loved her. And more than that, my heart was immersed in love for her Creator and mine.

I’m sure she had no idea what her beauty and those moments meant to me, but He did – the One who created the bee and me!

Until Next Time,

Joy

Have you read Rain Dance yet? Click on the graphic below to learn more.

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On the Edge of the Bed – Gentle Moments With God

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This picture isn’t a perfect illustration of this testimony. Mama, as beautiful as she was, preferred to be the one behind the camera. So, there aren’t a lot of pictures with her and I in them. This one was taken a couple of years before the story below, but I wanted to give you a glimpse of her.

I, therefore, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, 2 with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, 3 eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.

Ephesians 4:1-3 (ESV)

Author’s Note: I’m studying the words gentle and gentleness in the Bible. Again. There’s this yearning in my heart. As I write these Gentle Moments With God posts, I am not sure how one might categorize them. Are they devotionals? Parables? I think they are simply true-life stories of God, His Word, and me. Testimonies.

While pondering the above verse, a memory of Mama and me came to mind and the gentle lesson the Lord taught both of us.

I was in the seventh or eighth grade and the only person home that afternoon. Someone knocked on the outside door of the enclosed porch.

When I peeked out from behind the curtain on the big window, I saw a man wearing a suit and tie was looking around, then he opened the door and stepped onto the porch. He tried to look in the windows, and from the stairway landing our dogs, Pal and Ding growled in the low tone that was meant to warn me.

The man knocked on the front door hard enough to make the glass rattled, I jumped, and the dogs growled louder. When he jiggled the locked doorknob with force, I knew it was time to pull out my secret weapon.

Pal.

When I let our short but fiercely protective dog loose, he jumped against the door about nose height on the way too aggressive man’s face his bass bark letting his German shepherd ancestry known. Pal kept lunging, and that gave me time to peek out the window in time to see the man head out the porch door slamming it behind him and running down the sidewalk.

Ding stood beside me, barking too. He was our second line of defense – if anyone got past Pal, Ding was waiting.

When Mama got home from work, I told her what happened. My voice was still a little breathless. She was used to my almost endless supply of words and stories. Sometimes the line between truth and fiction blurred a little when the story I might write from the real-life experience got mixed in.

But not this time.

After supper tired of me recounting the experience, Mana encouraged me to go to bed early. I paused at my bedroom door and asked, “You think I’m lying, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

I crawled into bed and waited. For the first time, I could remember, Mama didn’t come in to make sure my blankets were just so and kiss me goodnight. In the dark, tears of sadness soaked my pillow, and fearful thoughts chased through my mind. What if the man came back after the lights in the house were all out? My bedroom was at the front of the house, just on the other side of the door, and my window opened to the front porch.

Although Pal preferred to sleep in the big bed with my parents, I hoped he would sneak in and sleep on the foot of my bed that night.

I worried into the fear-filled darkness in my mind, “If I fall asleep, will I wake up in time to scream bloody murder if he jimmied the window open?”

Something scarier than the man worried me: Mama’s disbelief. If I couldn’t find a way to prove I was telling her the truth, she would always believe I was a liar. I considered writing her a note but knew that was silly – she’d already heard all my words and didn’t believe them. More words from me were not going to be enough.

I wished our dogs could talk!

After what seemed like a long time, Mama came into my room and knelt beside my bed.

She washed her hand over my forehead and then my cheek in the gentlest of ways. That sweet touch soothed my aching spirit.

After a few quiet seconds, she said, “Joy, I’m sorry. The news reported about the man who knocked on our door today. He’s been breaking into houses and robbing them. He threatened one lady and the police arrested him tonight. Please forgive me for not believing you.”

I sat up, and she rose to sit beside me. After she wrapped her arms around me, she whispered, “I might question you sometimes, but I won’t doubt you again.”

Those quiet words embedded themselves in my heart. Mama’s motives were pure. She wanted me to grow up and be a good girl and getting me there was part of her job. I respected that and realized that it was sometimes a heavy responsibility. After all, there was my tendency to exaggerate.

Sitting there, on the edge of my bed that night, I grew up a little bit, and something shifted between us.

We both knew that sending me to bed wasn’t the thing that made the difference although a little quiet pondering never hurt me. No, it was the profound power and courage of Mama’s humility and gentleness.

Mama didn’t have to come to my bedside that night, but driven by love, she did.

As I again ponder this passage, Mama is in Heaven. But God is using His Word and her humility in this long-ago moment to teach me more about Him. And me. And living gently for Him. I wish I could tell her and thank her. Instead, I’ll tell and thank Him. She would like that.

Until Next Time,

Joy

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Transformed Garment

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Author’s Note: This beautiful photo is a drone shot taken by my husband, Jon. The story you are about to read is true. It may not be everyone’s experience, but it is mine. I hesitated to share it, but Jon encouraged me to post it. He said it matters. I trust his wisdom, so here it is. 

 

One breath, one heartbeat, one step, one sorrow-weighted moment at a time the reality of cancer pursues me. Even on my best days (which I have a lot of) it sometimes feels like someone has placed a dark, heavy, stiff garment on my shoulders.

The other day, although I felt mostly good physically, on the inside, the truth of my diagnosis bogged my heart and mind down and threatened to take my breath away under the pressure of its almost constant pressing and nagging.

Instead of sitting around, I went for a walk which is excellent medicine for me. As my steps lagged from the onslaught of thoughts that felt like taunts, I asked God to show me how to deal with the almost constant invisible presence of this earthly enemy.

The warm breeze blew across the wildflower garden and carried the comforting scents of the blossoms my way. I took a few deep breaths. Birds flew to and fro. Butterflies fluttered among the nectar-filled blossoms. It was a beautiful day, but the words I heard months ago scrambled around in my brain like caged hamsters on a wheel.

Momentarily, the joy of the beauty around me was almost obliterated.

So, I headed for one of my favorite places. Sitting beside my photo fort drinking tea a thought came to me as I pondered the sometimes over-whelming reality of my illness and deep sorrows for others facing their own earthly enemies.

People like you.

You know similar sorrows even if you don’t have cancer. Someone you love has it. Or had it and is gone. Or you’re facing one or a myriad of other circumstances that weigh you down, nag at your spirit, steal your breath, dog at your heels, tear up your insides, and each step you take is like walking through knee-deep mud in combat boots with a colossal backpack loaded with pain and sorrow.

Some of our aches are so awful they remain unnamed, and our only comfort is that God knows, and we are confident He loves us no matter what. However, people might not, and the thought that they might find out adds pounds to your backpack.

Okay, back to my tea and pondering time.

I told God that the invisible garment felt like a shroud – the wrappings of death full of the awful stench of the fear of suffering even though I know God will use it for His glory and I want that but without the suffering. (Please be kind – I do look forward to heaven it’s just that the way from here to there can be rugged. I’ve seen it first-hand.)

Immediately after sharing my grief with the One who loves me most, I saw something in my imagination. I dare not call it a vision because I have no idea if there is any biblical support for what I “saw” in my mind’s eye. And I must take my over-active imagination into account.

But why wouldn’t He use that very thing to touch and teach me? Seems like something He might do.

Anyway, I saw my spirit. It was gray and bowed low in my body. Its shoulders drooped under the weight. One word passed over my heart: hopeless.

I wanted to run from the things I saw but felt a loving whisper across my heart that said, “Wait.”

As I let my mind stand in place, unseen but powerful hands helped that spirit part of me up. Immediately, the shroud-like cloak that covered my spirit in the tightness and stench of what looked like death was cast away.

What remained was a very heavy golden velvet robe. Vivid. Real. To my inner eyes.

One word came with this garment: mantle.

The once bowed down part of me stood tall and strong and sure. And in the grace-filled folds of the transformed garment, my spirit now wore rested the weight of my faith.

And I praised the One I put my faith in so long ago.

Jesus. The Son of God who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit God who has known all about me since before He formed me in mother’s womb. He knows about every cell in my body, including the cancer-filled ones.

In those seconds of “seeing,” a promise of healing didn’t come. No white-hot light radiated inside my body where the CT scan lit up the screen and revealed the places cancer had invaded.

But in the stillness, God was there and had been all along.

I also saw that while the darkness of the shroud was gone, I stood in a shadow of indescribable all-enveloping love and unearthly power.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. Psalm 91:1 (ESV)

While I cannot prove the spiritual significance of this experience, I cannot write it off as trickery or useless imagination.

It was and is a gift that I cannot fully explain or describe, but I can remember when that dark shroud tries to shove its way back onto my shoulders because that’s what enemies do.

Until Next Time,

Joy

 

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Sometimes Walls Talk – A Short Story

I am the only child of a woman who remained single. While that is far more accepted these days, back in the 1930s, it was scandalous. Grandmother told me that when I was born, and my mother kept me, there was all sorts of disapproval. But she said in a gentle whisper, “Your mother and I could not bear the thought of adopting you out. We wanted you.”

Those three little words felt holy like when we went to church at Christmas, and the preacher said the name of Jesus.  And they carried me through when the kids at school were all kinds of mean and their mothers were worse because grown-ups should have known better.

Giving them the benefit of the doubt, maybe it’ not their fault. They’d been taught different was less and similar was more, but no matter what, it was prejudice plain and simple.

Anyway, after eighty-some years of being seen and not heard, because that was how you raised children, I want to be heard. Loud and clear. Because doggone it all, at my age, it’s time. I write the way I talk, which means I flit around a bit but I hope you’ll bear with me. If you’ve ever listened to a group of women talking over coffee, you’ll understand. We go here and there, and it sounds like we’re off track, but we’re not. We know what we’re going to say, and we’ll say it when we get good and ready.

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I guess it’s time for an introduction. My name is Eleanor Rose. Folks call me Ellie. Sometimes they call me El and out of some people, it sounds like Al, and I always think of the grumpy old man with the dog named Killer who owns the junkyard. It’s not my favorite moniker, but I’m too old to care. Much.

Before I get too far along, I have to tell you about Killer. He’s not so mean if you give him a dog biscuit when you are wandering around looking for a used spare tire for your pickup. When I stopped by, he wagged his tail and waited for his treat. He was a little on the mangy side, but I liked him and took the time to give him a scratch behind the ears. And yes, in my day, I was quite capable of changing my tires and the oil in whatever old truck I drove.

My mother admired Mrs. Roosevelt, so when I came along late in 1934, I became one of her namesakes. Mother always said that with a tinge of pride in her voice. Here’s the funny part about that. My independent mother and grandmother were both Republicans on the far conservative side of the voting aisle. When I asked Mother what she thought Mrs. Roosevelt would think about that, she smiled and declared, “She’d applaud my right as a woman to decide on the political party that best suits me.”

I live in the house I grew up in. It sits on two acres on what used to be the outskirts of town, and some distant relative built it well over one hundred years ago. It’s a little on the breezy side. Even with the windows locked down, the air has always slipped in and moved our sheer curtains. Sometimes the yellowed and brittle pull-shades rattled in the occasional gust.

For as long as I can remember, folks in town have told stories about our house. A few said the ghost of a child wandered our hallways, and others repeated a rumor that Jesse James once hid out in the cellar. Since we’re not that far from Northfield, MN, that one is possible. I tell you, as a kid, those curtains moving in the moonlight conjured up all kinds of nightmarish thoughts before I fell asleep.

Sometimes, I whispered nice things to the breeze that danced around my room, just in case it was more than the Northwind. I prayed that a warrior ghost couldn’t resist a friendly kid. In case it was a child, I left out my books and toys thinking maybe he or she just wanted to play.

I never believed in Santa, the tooth fairy, or the Easter bunny, but I believed in the wind and seriously considered the possibility of ghosts.

Grandmother assured me there was no such thing as ghosts except the Holy Ghost in the Bible.  The guy who delivered feed for our cattle said that if it was a ghost, it was a good-natured spirit who would do us no harm.

My uncle scared the stuffing out of me when he told me what I heard was the restless soul of a Sioux warrior. In our vegetable garden, arrowheads kept showing up when we planted or harvested our vegetables. I collected them in a Mason jar until someone said they belonged to the tribes that once wandered the prairie. I felt guilty and worried there might be an angry warrior wandering the hallway or couldn’t rest in peace. So, I buried them where we wouldn’t be doing any digging. I stood beside the tiny mound and said, “I’m sorry.” I also marked the grave so I could find them if I changed my mind about such things.

The curtains still danced in the moonlight, but my conscience was clear.

Back then, the house had two heat grates. They were painted dark brown and set into the floors. The big one was on the main level where hot air poured upward from the furnace toward the smaller in the upstairs bathroom. I once told Mother I was afraid that the warmth came from an opening in hell.  She had the preacher come over and pray for me. He took me down to the cellar, and I was sure he was taking me straight to the gates of eternal damnation. Instead, he showed me the furnace that sent the heat upward. When the furnace kicked in, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The preacher asked God to bless me and to use my imagination for His glory.

A short time later, I believed in Jesus. Because I knew somewhere, there was a fiery place, and a heavenly place and the later sounded way better than the first.

In the cold of winter, I spent hours reading library books sitting on that cookie-sheet-sized grate wrapped in a wool blanket while the heat raised to the top of the house cooled by more than a few degrees when it got to me. Sometimes I fell asleep there only to be awakened when someone needed to use the facilities.

 My mother loved sayings. She cut them out of magazines and newspapers and taped them in an old gray and red ledger. From time to time, she read them to me, one after another, while I snapped the beans or shelled peas for supper or canning. I didn’t daydream because when she finished, she’d ask me which was one my favorite. She expected me to know the saying and the say-er. She quoted Eleanor and the be-speckled Ben Franklin far more than she did Jesus.

Every time she put the kettle on, she quoted Mrs. Roosevelt, “A woman is like a teabag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.”

Many times I heard Mother say, “If walls could talk.” Grandma always shook her head and said she was thankful they couldn’t. I wondered what walls covered in gray wallpaper with yellow roses the size of cabbages would say and pictured them leaning in to hear what people said.

While we hoed the garden rows, Grandma read to me from the Bible. I loved the God-sized testimonies of David against Goliath, Noah, Moses, and the Red Sea, and my favorite – the courageous Esther. If I could be like her, I might believe in God too.

Grandma made her way to the spare the rod and spoil the child part regularly. She said she was blessed our rod was a willow branch she’d never had to use on me. And every day, without fail, she said, “I love you, Eleanor.” I always felt her heart in those words.

I had a father once because that’s the way humans except Jesus come to be, but no one said much about him. I assumed he was dead and made up great stories about him being a war hero. In the place my heart held its secrets, I wished he would show up on the porch one day, thin from being lost on an island in the South Pacific. He’d have medals and stories, and presidents who were proud of him. And I’d have a father. Mostly the adults around me whispered about him. All I knew was that his name was Jim and that he never showed up.

To support us, Mother worked nights cleaning up the kitchen in the diner and Grandma sold eggs, butter, vegetables, and baked goods from her stand at the end of our driveway. There were also words whispered between them about the money Grandpa left them. I thought that was nice of him.

I’d watch Mother from the couch at the kitchen table working over our finances in her ledger. She always bowed her head to the Almighty and said, “Thank You for all we need and a little more.”

One day a week, a group of women from the neighborhood came over to help Mother and Grandma make quilts for the new babies in town. They called it a bee. I thought it was because while they stitched, their voices buzzed.

When the ladies came over, it was important that I was rarely seen and never heard. In nice weather, I was dispatched outside to the apple orchard with my books and a picnic lunch. It was in the farthest part of the yard which gave them the privacy they demanded and the solitude I craved. I guess they call that a win-win.

In the winter, I was sent upstairs to the attic where I played dress-up in the dusty old clothes Grandma wore in her hay day. I loved the hats, shoes, scarves, and there was even a cape (with some kind of animal fur at the collar I loved to rub on my cheeks) that was itchy and elegant. There was a matching fur muff, but when I discovered what Grandmother called mouse manure in it, I could not put my hands inside a rodent bathroom.

It was always cold up there, so after playing, I put on my grandfather’s old coat, hat, and gloves and snuggled under a pile of old quilts and napped. Sometimes I heard mice in the walls at night, in the daytime, they didn’t scurry, which I counted as a blessing.

One very hot day, the ladies arrived when I was recovering from a stomach ailment that left me dizzy and weak. Worried about me, Mother gave me a bottle of pop and sent me to the porch. On the squeaky old swing, she placed a pillow and on the floor in a discreet location, a banged-up metal milk bucket just in case I had to throw up again. The best part was the box full of attic clothes I hadn’t seen before waiting for me out on the wide wooden-floored front porch.

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I put on a small round, black hat with a veil that tickled my nose when I arranged it over my face. There were some black gloves that went past my elbows, a black lace hankie, and Mother’s brand-new red cat-eyed sunglasses rested on top. Their elegance and her trust took my breath away, and they matched the red anklets I was wearing. When I slipped on a pair of shiny black high heeled shoes, I no longer felt the nag of nausea. These accessories transformed me into someone bold and beautiful — a woman like Ava Gardner, Vivian Leigh, or Judy Garland. Walking across the wood floor in all my new found glory, I wished for a tube of red lipstick.

To keep the living room cooler, Mother had pulled the heavy drapes shut which turned the big picture window into a large mirror of sorts. Something inside me switched on, and the desire to sing came over me real sudden. I belted out Everything’s Coming Up Roses in a loud, passionate high-pitched vibrato. My voice bounced off the glass and around the porch. I marched on the wooden floor to the beat of the song beating in my chest; the heels gave off a satisfying staccato sound. In my glamorous garb, I thought I sounded a little like Ethel Merman, and I was great in the same grand way she was, or better. Those record people had never seen or heard the likes of me.

I took a bow in front of my imaginary audience, who gave me a standing ovation, shouted “Bravo!” and tossed roses onto the stage. For the briefest of moments, in my imagination, I was a star.

A sound to my right drew me back from my red velvet curtained stage to our faded porch. Mother, grandma, and the ladies stood there. I heard a chuckle or two, and then Mother took my arm and drew me close. I can still feel her hot breath in my ear and smell her face powder and hear the words, “Go to your room.”

Instead of obeying, I headed for the bathroom. I curled up beside the register, to listen in.

Mother said, “She’s just like her father.”

Grandma huffed. “What did you expect? She’s the spitting image of him.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

The ladies switched gears and talked about Martha, although not the one in the Bible.

Grandma sounded the way she did when we looked at a full moon all wistful. “She wears men’s trousers and wing-tipped shoes. When she walks, she takes big, manly steps.”

Martha sounded like an interesting woman. A couple of the quilter’s voices dripped with disgust, but I heard a little admiration in my mother’s when she said, “The men in town don’t seem to mind.” I wondered if she wished they’d notice her.

The others tsked, and I could see them in my mind shaking their heads in disapproval while they pushed their needles in and out.

Since I always wore dresses, trousers sounded wild and free and bold. And being like my mystery father made me a little fluttery in my gut.

When I was around ten, Grandma passed. With all the talk of death, I decided to ask about my father. My mother was an expert at evasion, and I soon found myself in the barn, still in my funeral clothes, searching for the new litter of kittens she was sure were out there. I looked in every nook and cranny but never found them. Ginger, our sweet old calico stretched in a sunbeam skinny as always, and when I scratched her tummy, she showed no signs of feeding any babies.

Even though the kittens didn’t exist, I knew in my heart a secret did.

In the night, as the curtains swayed in the breeze, I wished the old walls around me could talk. In my imagination, they whispered my family’s secrets in voices too quiet for me to hear.

When I was sixteen, the boy I’d had a crush on since first grade took notice, and by the time we were nineteen, I married Henry, who was tall, dark, and handsome in a farmer kind of way. The way his hand felt when he held mine always sent a delicious thrill through me. He was kind and loved me back and was willing to live with Mother and help me care for her. She died our first spring as man and wife from pneumonia. I grieved something awful.

Henry worried about me catching my death of cold in the house and ordered a new furnace and insulation for the attic. We cleaned out the small space, and I had to burn the old clothes I’d played with because too many mouse mothers had raised their babies in those soft folds. The only survivor was a small black hat with a veil. I got a good chuckle out of that one and hung it on the mirror in our bedroom.

Before he installed the new insulation, Henry pulled layers of old newspapers from between the rafters. It was my job to pull them off the walls. On a yellowed piece of newsprint to the left of the small window in the pointy end of the attic was a story about a young singer named Jim Kline, who came to sing at our county fair in 1933. I was surprised to find that the walls were full of clippings about him. I guessed Mother and grandmother liked that skinny singer an awful lot.

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Henry called out from the other side of the attic. “Ellie Rose, come here, honey.”

I couldn’t see him but followed his voice to a walk-in-closet like space I’d never seen before. My heart pounded loud in my ears.

“I bumped into this wall, and the door popped open.”

Every available inch of wall was papered in canceled checks written out to Mother from Jim Kline. There were more pictures of the tall, skinny man who wore a cowboy hat and boots and held a guitar. In his fancy stitched shirts, he looked a little like Hank Williams and a whole lot like me.

I felt empty of words for the first time in my life. On the darkest far wall were the unopened letters from Jim Kline to me, each one carefully thumb-tacked to the wood. Why the mice hadn’t destroyed them, I’ll never fully understand. I guess God wanted me to have them.

Henry took down each clipping and envelope with care, and then read them all to me while I sipped tea brewed strong, wrapped in the quilt Mother and grandma gave us for our wedding. And I let my father’s words assure me I was more than the consequence of a one-night stand. I was wanted and remembered and loved. Grandma said so. Mother whispered it to me when she thought I was asleep, and Jim Kline wrote about it.

I’m not one who talks to the dead because Grandma made it plain before passing from here to Heaven that she preferred that I talk to God. So that night, under the moon she loved so much I thanked God for my grandmother’s wisdom, that my mother kept me, a county singer I’d never met but who loved me, and for times when walls talk.

The End.

Hi!

I hope you enjoyed this short story. I intend to write and post more of these for you. Please share the story with others using the link at the top of this page. And please feel free to leave your comments.

Until Next Time,

Joy

P. S. The photos used as illustrations in this story are not mine. They are generously provided by Pixabay at no cost to me.

 

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