Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! Page 4

  Noelle said something in Dutch and motioned for me to follow her out of the office. She quickly ushered me out of the room and closed the door behind us. Her face was red.

  I grimaced as soon as we were on the other side of the closed door. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize he was on a conference call.”

  “He was talking with his brothers.”

  “Oh.”

  “They all work together and…”

  I tried to read Noelle’s expression. Not only did I have the disadvantage of not being familiar with what her different expressions meant, but I also didn’t know if this was the sort of thing we would all brush off and laugh about later. Her husband’s response had been so reserved.

  “Come.” She motioned for us to climb the spiral stairs to the top floor.

  I hoped this meant it was best to just set aside my intrusion on the conference call and go on as if it was no big deal.

  We stepped into a beautifully decorated loft with a large bed, thick rugs, and a wide window facing the outside world at the back of their home. I immediately went to the window. Gazing past the neighbors’ roofs, I said, “Is that the North Sea you can catch a glimpse of between the rooftops?”

  “It’s Rotterdam Harbor. We can watch the huge ships come in.” Noelle took my arm. “Summer, you know how you asked me to tip you off before you do anything embarrassing?”

  “Yes. Too late, right? I’m sorry I barged in. I should have waited until Jelly said something to me first.”

  Noelle looked like she might burst out laughing.

  “What is it?”

  “My husband’s name is Jelle.” The way she pronounced it, the name sounded like Yella, not Jelly.

  I slapped my hand over my mouth.

  “You had no way of knowing. All these years you’ve only read his name. I never told you the y is pronounced like a soft y.”

  “Oh no! And I called him Jelly in front of his brothers!”

  Noelle pressed her lips together, suppressing a giggle. “He’s been called worse than ‘Jelly but…just don’t ever add’ Belly to the end of it. That would be the worst.”

  “Oh, Noelle! I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t worry. Really. All is well. You broke the ice. The rest of your visit can only go up from here.”

  I hoped she was right. We went downstairs to the living room, and at Noelle’s suggestion I called Wayne to let him know I had arrived safely.

  “I would like to say hello to him before you hang up,” Noelle said from the kitchen.

  I handed her the phone, and she graciously introduced herself to my husband and thanked him for encouraging me to, at long last, make this trek. “We have only one complaint so far,” Noelle said. I thought she was going to tell Wayne how I had slaughtered her husband’s name.

  “Our complaint is that Summer did not bring you with her. Next time both of you must come. We would love to have you as our guests. Sincerely. Anytime.”

  My heart warmed to Noelle and her hospitality all over again. I had packed for this trip so sure that this was a one-and-only lifetime adventure. My vision didn’t include even an inkling of a “next time.” I liked that she had presented the possibility to Wayne. He would know that I was keeping to what I had told him the night before I left.

  That last night at home, as I was placing my cosmetics bag into a padded corner of the suitcase, Wayne came into the bedroom and stood behind me. He cleared his throat as if he were about to launch into a private therapy session. Knowing how my husband’s counseling mind works and how the reality of my spontaneous decision had finally caught up with him, I was certain he had processed down to the last detail the psychological reasoning for what I was doing. He was about to offer me a diagnosis and possibly a course of treatment. His initial encouragement to “go have an adventure” was no longer at the forefront of his thoughts on this trip.

  Before he could impart his wisdom to me, I took his hand. “I have a pretty good idea what you’re thinking right now, but before you dive in and give me some helpful insights, I want to say this.” Now I was the one clearing my throat. “Wayne, if I am about to enter a stretch of loss in my life and if denial is one of the first stages of grief, then what I would like to do is go to Holland in denial. Complete denial. I want to be all the way there. I don’t want to have one foot here and one foot there. Does that make sense?”

  He gave a nod.

  “Whether what I’m saying is healthy or unhealthy, can you just let me do that? Be in denial for a week?”

  I could almost see the gears grinding to a halt in Wayne’s head. He adjusted his glasses and did this thing with his jaw, as if he had been hiding a piece of gum in there and now would be a good time to soften it up again. The man literally chews on his words before he speaks them. I have come to be grateful for that trait; it means he’s being deliberate.

  Wayne’s response was, “Okay. I’m here for you.”

  I smiled. My heart immediately felt lighter. The “I’m here for you” line was one I had asked Wayne to use early in our marriage. After three miscarriages and then the challenging process we went through to adopt our two older girls, I had heard every bit of resourceful wisdom from everyone. Including—and especially—from Wayne.

  When I miraculously did conceive at last, the dear man tried every tactic he could to cheer me and bolster my strength during the difficult pregnancy and long delivery. His endless advice got to be too much for my exhausted body and brain. At last I told him, while at the hospital in the midst of the birthing process, “The only thing I can handle hearing from you right now is, ‘I’m here for you.’ That’s it. No advice. No motivation techniques. Just be here. That’s all I ask.”

  In the same way he was just there for me at the hospital so many years ago, he was once again there for me the night I packed for this trip.

  When Noelle handed the phone back to me, I said “goodbye” and “I love you” to Wayne. In appreciation for his support of my choice to stay in denial, I added, “Thank you for being such a wonderful husband. I’ll be home in a week.”

  His closing comment was, “I’ll be here for you.”

  I handed the disconnected phone back to Noelle.

  “You’re smiling. Did he say something sweet to you?”

  My nod was my only answer.

  “He has such a soothing voice. I think I would want to go to him for counseling just to hear him say in his calming voice that everything was going to be okay.

  “Now.” Noelle turned her attention to the items she had lined up on the kitchen counter’s limited space. “We were thinking we would make fish tonight with some vegetables and potatoes. How does that sound? Any allergies or food preferences I should know about?”

  “No. What can I do to help?”

  “You can go up to your room, unpack, and relax a little. I’ll call you when dinner is ready. Jelle and I want to make this meal for you. This is what we do. We cook together. In our small kitchen it’s a well-orchestrated event.”

  “So, basically you’re telling me I would be in the way down here.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Okay, I’ll go upstairs. Call me if you change your mind and I can do something simple like set the table.”

  “Thank you but no. I have all of it taken care of.”

  I climbed the stairs, ducking my head as we both had done earlier to navigate the spiral passageway without stumbling or bumping our heads. After entering the guest room, I closed the door behind me and suddenly felt weighted down. It was as if the gravity in this corner of the world were stronger than it had been when I first arrived. Was this what jet lag felt like?

  It was early in the afternoon at home, but somehow I had missed a night’s sleep as I had jetted through the time zones. Of course I should be tired by now. A short rest was immensely appealing.

  Kicking off my shoes, I stretched out on the bed. One minute on that luxurious, thick comforter and I was transported t
o the place where dreams are vivid. I could see floating tulips on the insides of my closed eyelids. Red tulips, like the bouquet on the dining room table downstairs. Red tulips and small ceramic cups with coffee so dark that when the stream of milk was added, it formed a swirling white design on top.

  I have no idea how long it took Noelle to awaken me with her persistent taps on the door. I stumbled to open the door, trying to grasp a memory, any memory, of where I was. When I looked at her, blurry-eyed and blinking, the fragrance of baked fish and roasted potatoes brought the connecting pieces together more quickly than Noelle’s face.

  “I hate to wake you. It will help you adjust to the time if you come eat before going to bed. Really, it will. Are you hungry? Come.”

  “I’ll be down in just a minute.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so fragmented in mind and body. If my dream on the flight was coming true—if God had picked me up like a toy airplane and directed me like an eager honeybee, and if He had hand-sailed me to this bright peony that adorned the north-turned ear of Europe—then I could very possibly be suffering from having collected too much pollen on my first dive into the bounty.

  I was weighted down and felt as if I could barely move.

  Blessedly, the heavy-handed sensation from the jet lag lifted, and what followed that evening was extraordinary. Jelle and Noelle’s hospitality at dinner that first night was beyond anything I had experienced, including all the holidays I had spent with my large and loving extended family.

  Jelle and Noelle didn’t serve over-the-top food, although all of it was very good. What escalated their hospitality was the calmness and kindness that accompanied the meal. I was invited to enter into a relaxed and lingering conversation. Their serenity and acceptance transformed what could have been a very simple meal into a time of fellowship and celebration. They were celebrating me—my visit.

  Considering the mental and physical state I was in when Noelle woke me before dinner, I bounced back rather quickly. Before going downstairs to join them, I splashed my face with cool water, brushed my hair, and returned to the guest room to change into a fresh blouse.

  I took the stairs carefully and found the living room dotted with a dozen lit votive candles along with a grouping of sized candles arranged in the center of the glass coffee table. Classical music played softly. A plate of triangular-shaped crackers, topped with a shrimp spread, waited on the coffee table. Each cracker was adorned with a tiny sprig of some sort of herb that looked like a tiny feather and transformed the appetizers into miniature works of art. Next to the plate were three small cut-crystal glasses. Several beverage options awaited us in tall, chilled bottles.

  “This is beautiful, Noelle. Thank you for going to all this trouble.”

  Noelle had changed into a freshly pressed blouse as well, making me glad I had taken the time to do the same.

  “It’s a treat, not a trouble.”

  Jelle offered me the plate of appetizers. Evidently he had brushed off my faux pas earlier in his upstairs office. If he wasn’t going to bring it up, neither would I.

  He and Noelle sat back on the couch, and I settled comfortably into the matching leather chair that faced them. In hushed voices we entered into a lilting conversation.

  So this is the purpose of appetizers. They aren’t merely for keeping the kids out of the kitchen when I’m preparing the meal.

  Jelle asked about my children and husband and said, “Please greet them for me.”

  “I will.”

  At his gentle questioning I ended up telling how we came to take in two foster children. After adopting our two daughters, I unexpectedly carried two babies—a daughter and then a son—to full term. Content and blessed with our four children, we weren’t looking for more. But then we met Micah, and Micah had an older brother.

  “We didn’t want the brothers to end up in different homes, so we became foster parents for Micah and Derrick, who was nine at the time.”

  I kept going with a few more details of our unusual, combined family. Our life sounded out of the ordinary when I described it, but all the years I had been in the middle of just living it, it seemed normal to me.

  “I thought our home was full with two daughters,” Jelle said. “You had three daughters and three sons. I honestly cannot imagine.”

  “I loved it. Well, most of the time. We had a lot of noisy, crazy, busy years, but Wayne and I both came from large families and wanted a large family. This may sound old-fashioned, but my life goal was to be a wife and a mother. A good wife and a good mother.”

  Jelle tilted his head. “This is not a goal one hears so much these days. Although, good wives and mothers do receive congratulations. In the Netherlands, when someone has a birthday, it is for the family members that the congratulations are given.”

  I looked to Noelle for an explanation.

  “It’s true. On my birthday, if you lived here and you saw Jelle, you would shake his hand and say, ‘Congratulations on your wife’s birthday’”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before,” I said.

  “That’s what we do,” Jelle said.

  Noelle nodded. “A few years after I moved here, one of Jelle’s sisters gave me a sign in Dutch that said, ‘Don’t try to understand. It’s Dutch.’ The sign had a double meaning, of course, because I was trying to learn Dutch, and there was much I didn’t understand. But it also was meant as a reminder that even if I didn’t understand one of the family traditions, I should go along as if it made perfect sense. His family members still shake their heads at me and some of my deeply rooted American ways.”

  Jelle raised his glass and offered a toast. “Congratulations to your husband for your accomplishing your goal to be a good wife and mother. A good mother.”

  Taking my cue from Noelle, I went along with the toast and tipped back the last of the juice I had selected from one of the chilled bottles. “This is so good. What kind of juice is it?”

  “It’s a blend of several fruits. Highly concentrated. It’s healthy. I’m not sure I know all the names in English anymore. I know it has blueberry, and is it lingonberry? Do you have that berry in the States? It’s popular in Scandinavia. Anyway, it’s my favorite appetizer juice. All you need is a few sips to wake up your appetite. Speaking of appetite, are you interested in having some dinner now?

  “Sounds good. It smells wonderful.”

  Noelle invited us to gather at the dining room table, which she had set with dark red place mats, shiny black dinner plates, and thick-handled flatware. The vase of red tulips was encircled by votive candles in small gold cups that cast an alluring glow across the table.

  The setting was so beautiful and the serenity of the moment so peace giving, I felt as if I could slowly enjoy this meal with my tender-hearted friends and then go back to the airport and board a plane. I would fly home rich in what I had hoped to gain from this trip—all in less than eight hours.

  However, as I was discovering on this journey, God had much more to give to me. The elegant candlelit dinner with Jelle and Noelle was only the beginning.

  I couldn’t recall a time when I had felt so celebrated. I also couldn’t think of a time when I had initiated or participated in a gathering that expressed so much honor and so much unrushed simplicity. No matter how much effort I had put into preparations for a birthday or holiday meal, I couldn’t remember a party when we were undistracted. Someone would have to leave early. Someone was in a bad mood. The phone rang. The time together never flowed as effortlessly as it did at Noelle’s home.

  I didn’t know how much of that was inspired by Dutch tradition and how much was Noelle’s temperament and the daily rhythm of grace she danced to with Jelle.

  Time seemed to curve to their bidding. Nothing in the world was more important than our leisurely time together and their careful attention to the details. I felt honored, which is the best gift one friend can give to another.

  Crawling into the guest bed after dinner and
sinking into a deep sleep under the thick comforter, I was certain I would sleep around the clock and not wake until at least ten the next morning.

  My prediction was wrong. I woke before dawn. After my efforts to fall back to sleep failed, I reached up to lift the window shade to peek outside, and the shade stayed in the partially open position.

  Lying back down, I tried to convince myself this was the time to sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Come on! Sleep!

  My efforts were in vain. Sleep had left the building. I was alone in the darkness except for a faint tinge of rose that laced the predawn clouds outside the window.

  I noticed a book on the small table next to the bed and picked it up. It was a devotional. In English. After I bolstered up the pillows behind my back, I opened to a page entitled “Unfolding Grace.” At the top was a portion of a poem by John Greenleaf Whittier.

  Drop Thy still dews of quietness,

  Till all our strivings cease;

  Take from our souls the strain and stress,

  And let our ordered lives confess

  The beauty of Thy peace.

  I paused before reading further. What I had experienced at dinner only hours earlier was a living demonstration of those words. Peace.

  The next portion of the entry on that page was from 2 Corinthians 4. “So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace…. The things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see now will last forever.”

  I leaned back, lowered the book into my lap, and gazed out the window. The morning sky definitely was blushing now. It was as if God had invited the shy new day to come and spread her beauty over this corner of His world, and she was being obedient but at the same time was embarrassed to be put in the spotlight of the rising sun.

  I wondered how many viewers of the dawn were in her audience this morning as I was, there in my sheltered perch. This quiet moment felt like a rare privilege, seeing what I was seeing.