Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! Read online

  The bird took flight as we approached. Noelle stopped walking. “Isn’t it quaint? Here’s the whole story. This is my in-laws’ old farmhouse, as you guessed. But my sister-in-law lives here now, and she has turned this into a… Oh dear, I don’t remember the word. A community?”

  I waited for her to elaborate. It would be nice to know if I was about to walk into a club or a cult. “What sort of community?”

  “Women come and live here, and they work the farm together.”

  “So it’s a female-only commune?”

  “No, not like a hippie commune. It’s a spiritual community.”

  “Is it a cult?”

  “No, no. I’m not explaining it the right way. The women have regular prayer and worship times. It’s not a nunnery, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s beautiful. You’ll see. I don’t know how to explain it, but I want you to experience this. Fresh. Without any preconceived concepts.”

  “Okay”

  Having just confronted myself on my apparent need to control, I was trying to let go and be more trusting. It almost seemed as if God had set me up by letting me catch a glimpse of my fear and desire to control before presenting me with this out-of-the-ordinary opportunity to step into a new situation where I had no control. I was at the mercy of Noelle for translation as well as direction.

  We approached the front door, a Dutch door painted green. Noelle pressed on the latch and opened it without knocking. To my surprise we entered the kitchen and not the living room. Everything around us looked clean and tidy as well as quite old-fashioned and out-of-date.

  The first thing we heard was singing. It was wonderful. The harmonies were beautiful.

  Noelle put her finger to her lips, and we stayed tucked in the kitchen’s corner. In a whisper to me she said, “It’s the Doxology They are finishing morning devotions. I had hoped we would be here in time to eat with them. We’ll have lunch here. That’s when they have the main meal of the day.”

  The singing ended while Noelle was whispering to me. We could hear the women in the adjoining room rustling and rising from the table. Noelle stepped closer to the opening between the kitchen and the dining area and leaned her head in.

  An enthusiastic woman who appeared to be well past her sixties greeted Noelle. The woman’s blond hair was pulled back in a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a knotted floral scarf. Her complexion was a picture of health and energy. I thought she was stunning.

  “Hannah, this is Summer. Summer, I would like you to meet my sister-in-law.”

  We exchanged smiles and nods. Hannah welcomed me with a deep voice, which surprised me. I would have imagined an airy voice from a woman who looked to be such a picture of health. Her gaze had a penetrating and calming effect.

  “You are welcome here.” Her accent was heavy. I got the impression she wasn’t fluent in English, and that only made me wish all the more that I could speak Dutch. Even if all I said was “Thank you.” I couldn’t remember how to say it, although I had heard it many times.

  Maybe I was willing to reenroll in Dutch language school.

  Noelle and Hannah conversed in Dutch as some of the other women entered the kitchen, carrying the breakfast dishes. Several of them were happy to see Noelle, which was obvious by their greetings. They kissed on the cheek three times. First on the right side, then the left, then the right side again. It was the warmest greeting I’d seen yet and gave me a bit of understanding into something Noelle had told me about—how a close friend receives more honor and warmer treatment than an acquaintance or a neighbor.

  Noelle was definitely an honored friend among these women.

  For the next hour or so I just stood back and contentedly fit in wherever it seemed natural. I counted a total of eleven women, and they all knew their assignments and went about the morning chores with a light spirit.

  One of the women tried to converse with me in English. She told me she was from Poland and had only been here a few weeks. Her questions were understandable to me, but I could tell she couldn’t understand my responses. It didn’t matter. We used hand gestures, pointed, and nodded. Communication, it seems, is the sum of all its parts and not limited to only the expression of familiar words.

  I felt included in the tightly knit circle and had no problem picking up a dishtowel and drying the breakfast dishes alongside one of the other women.

  Noelle came over and linked her arm in mine. “You and I have a chore to do. We’re going out to the barn.”

  “I hope it doesn’t involve beasts of burden.”

  “It involves one chicken.”

  “I did tell you that I’m a city girl, didn’t I?” I walked with Noelle out the Dutch door and around the side of the house. Across a flat stretch of freshly turned soil stood a slightly dilapidated-looking barn.

  “This is just the place for city girls.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You are afraid of too many things, Summer. You are afraid of what you don’t know and what you can’t see. This doesn’t make sense to me because you are so brave in many other ways.”

  Feeling as if she had just revealed one of my weak spots when I wasn’t ready to talk about it, I grabbed on to her positive comment and said, “In what ways do you think I’m brave?”

  Noelle pulled back slightly, as if the answer to my question should be obvious. “You adopted two daughters from Korea and then took in two foster boys who have caused you significant challenges. I never could have done that.”

  The way our family came together never had seemed like a courageous thing to me. It seemed normal. Wayne and I did it together.

  “You were also brave to book this trip and come on the spur of the moment.”

  I didn’t want to tell her that my decision was born of anxiety and denial rather than courage.

  “I promise you’ll only have to be a little brave when you come into the barn with me. I also promise it will be good for you. You’ll see.

  As we approached, I knew by the stench coming from the barn that more than one chicken inhabited this domain. My eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, and I soon saw that we were in the presence of a variety of beasts.

  “I thought you said this chore involved only one chicken?”

  “It does. You!”

  I gave Noelle’s arm a playful pinch. She was enjoying this far too much. I had never picked up from her letters what a mischievous person she was. At least I preferred to think of all this as playful and not menacing.

  “Since when did I ask you to be my life coach?”

  Noelle lowered her chin and said in a solemn voice, “Ever since we were in the third grade. You motivate me, and I motivate you. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”

  I noticed one of the women seated on a small three-legged stool next to the only cow in the barn. She said something to Noelle, and Noelle countered in English, “Yes, that’s why we came out here. Summer would like to help you milk the cow.”

  “No I wouldn’t.”

  “Yes you would.”

  I gave her a scowl.

  Noelle’s strength wasn’t to be underestimated. The strength in her arms and legs was nothing compared to the strength in her will and especially in the expressive scowl her face had taken on in response to mine.

  “Summer, you need to try to milk the cow. This is the opportunity offered you today. Take it. Don’t be afraid.”

  I can’t explain what happened inside me when I heard Noelle’s admonition. That’s what it was. Not a scold or a challenge. It was an admonition. An invitation to step out of my controlled biosphere and live a little. She was more right than she knew.

  “Okay.” I said the word slowly, but I said it. When I did, I felt as if I opened a gate inside my spirit. As long as that gate had been closed, I was the one who had control of who or what went in and out. When I opened the invisible gate, I was saying to God, I’m open. Open to whatever You bring in or out. I’m open to all of li
fe.

  The other woman rose slowly from the stool. Speaking to the cow in a low voice, she ran her hand across its side. Apparently the cow spoke Dutch, because she remained content and merely flicked her tail back and forth at the gathering of flies.

  Once I was seated, I looked up at Noelle. “This cow is huge.”

  She broke into a wide grin.

  Not only did the cow appear huge from my vantage point, but it also smelled. I held my breath, thinking how livestock scent is something that must take a long time to become acclimated to.

  The other woman leaned over and motioned for me to place my hands in the obvious locale to coax the milk into the bucket. I wasn’t prepared for how warm it felt. “This is way out of my comfort zone, just so you know.”

  “I know,” Noelle said flippantly “Go ahead. Milk the cow.”

  I tried squeezing, but nothing happened. My hands-on instructor put her hands on top of mine. She had the largest, strongest, roughest female hands I had ever felt. She started both my hands in the correct position, and together we squeezed and pulled, and the metal bucket began to fill once again with milk. Warm milk. The fragrance of the milk was slightly sweet. That surprised me too.

  I laughed aloud. Too loud. The cow flinched, and I thought she was going to kick me.

  My barnyard instructor quickly calmed the cow and me with her soothing voice and put me back on task. She then took her able hands and positioned my shoulder and my head so I was pressed right against the cow. The proximity seemed to have a relaxing effect on the cow but not on me.

  All I could think was, I am hugging a cow. Why am I hugging a cow? I’d need to wash my hair and my clothes the first opportunity I had.

  A few more minutes into the process, I began to relax. I could feel the rhythm. There was a steadiness to this simple task that was similar to the ongoing beat in a song. I say “simple” task, but I knew that if I hadn’t had such aggressive direction, I still would be skittish, and the cow would probably be the same.

  “This is pretty amazing,” I said a few moments later. My voice was more soothing than it had been earlier. “I feel very organic. I need to have a piece of straw hanging out the side of my mouth.”

  Noelle smiled. “I wish I had my camera. You’re a little Dutch barn maid.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need a picture to remember that I did this.”

  “It’s pretty cool doing things you wouldn’t normally do, isn’t it?”

  My smile was the answer Noelle seemed to have hoped for from the time she had set up this surprise excursion.

  “The next time you face something new that you think you don’t want to do, remember this moment, Summer. Remember this feeling. You can do all things through Christ, who strengthens you.”

  I didn’t look over at Noelle. I kept my bleary eyes fixed on the milk bucket and my shoulder pressed against the agreeable cow. The cow that I was hugging. The cow that seemed to be hugging me back.

  I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me. Even chemotherapy.

  I cleared my throat quietly and asked Noelle, “Where is that verse?

  “Philippians. The fourth chapter, I think. You’ve heard it before, right?”

  “Yes, many times before, I’m sure. I’ve probably even memorized it at some point. But I want to hold on to it.”

  “Hold on to it?”

  “You know what I mean. I want to remember it. There’s a difference for me between memorizing something and really holding on to it in my heart.”

  “Ah.” Noelle’s voice softened. “You want to own the truth and not just rent the words.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it exactly. I want to own the truth of that verse. I have merely rented some of God’s words for far too long. The time has come for me to own them.”

  I pressed my cheek against the tolerant cow and wondered how much it would cost me to own words that God wrote in His own blood.

  Lunch with all the women was my favorite part of our time at the farm community. I called the women “sisters” when Noelle and I were working side by side, hanging freshly washed sheets on the clothesline.

  “They’re not exactly sisters, as in the usual perception of women who wear habits and make vows,” Noelle said. “Some of them are more on the free-spirited side than you might imagine. They’re actually more like Sisterchicks.”

  “That works.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? I’ve always thought of you and me as more than friends or pen pals. We’re Sisterchicks too, aren’t we?”

  “Definitely. Sisterchicks forever!” I liked that term for our unique friendship. We were sisters at heart, but in moments like this we clearly had a bit of a “chick” side to us that hadn’t diminished even though we were strolling down the corridors of midlife.

  I stood back and looked at the sheets hanging on the line, the farmhouse with its unusual, wide roof, and the large tree that stood between the two of them and was all afluff in pink blossoms.

  In the distance, across the flat field, I could see another farmhouse. That one was flanked by a windmill. The pastoral scene was as soothing as any postcard Noelle had ever sent me of her beloved Netherlands.

  “You know what? At this moment I can’t believe I’m really here,” I said as Noelle tucked the woven laundry basket under her arm and balanced it on her hip.

  “You really are here, and I’m really glad you are.” She returned to the farmhouse for the next load of clothes to hang on the line.

  I stayed in the yard, crossed my arms in front of me for warmth, and composed a little thank-you note to God. I told Him how grateful I was for Noelle, my one-of-a-kind friend.

  Then I told Him I thought the world He made was beautiful. Not only the tulips but also the sky; the pink, blossoming tree; the spring green grass. Even the big, smelly, dear cow. How amazing was it that God could take green grass, put it through a brown cow, and give us white milk?

  At home I rarely felt caught up in the wonder of such simple elements of life. Getting away had not only expanded my view of God and His world but also, thanks to the admonitions of my Sisterchick, my view of myself

  A few hours later, when we gathered at the long wooden table in the dining room for the main meal of the day, I still was feeling the same closeness to the Lord as when I was outside standing by the clothesline.

  We bowed our heads to give thanks before the meal. Several of the women prayed. I couldn’t understand their words, but I did understand the gratefulness in their hearts. In an uncharacteristic expression of spontaneity, I prayed aloud as well.

  As we passed the large bowls of chicken soup with boiled potatoes, carrots, and celery, a lovely closeness encircled us around the table. The bread Noelle had purchased at the bakery that morning was a big hit, as were the cookies, which were set aside to make their afternoon koffie time more special.

  The food was delicious. Everything tasted fresh and wholesome, with most of the ingredients grown on the farm and then canned or frozen.

  One of the women, a timid brunette who sat directly across from me, had bruises on her face and cuts on her forearms. I tried not to make it obvious that I was watching her, but I’m not sure how well I did. She ate her meal like no one I had ever seen. She took each sip of soup with an expression of expectation. Each swallow was savored, as if she had never tasted chicken soup before. When the first bite of the bread went into her mouth, she closed her eyes and seemed to let the morsel melt on her tongue. She kept murmuring words that sounded like adulations of praise. I realized that she appreciated the meal more than I have appreciated most things in my life—large or small.

  Watching her was a distinct pleasure because the meal was an act of worship for her. Even though I’m sure I’ve appreciated a number of meals over the years, I couldn’t recall ever entering into the experience with the same sort of eagerness to receive each ounce of the sensations, tastes, and textures.

  I’ll never forget that woman and the way she embraced the meal with
such gratitude.

  The other intensely memorable part of our visit, aside from the cow and the view from the clothesline, was what happened with Hannah when we were getting ready to leave. The farmhouse had a small side room off the dining room. A narrow window over a small desk looked out at the neighboring farm with the windmill and the long stretch of fertile earth.

  Hannah motioned for Noelle and me to join her in that tiny office space before we left for our late-afternoon train. She closed the door and looked at me in her disarming way. For a brief moment I felt as if I had been called into the principal’s office and was about to be told that our son Derrick was on probation again.

  But Hannah’s words were good news, not negative. “You are a good friend to Noelle,” she said to me in her simple English.

  I nodded. “Noelle is a good friend to me too.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah replied.

  I nodded again. It would have felt odd saying “You’re welcome” to Noelle’s sensitive sister-in-law. I smiled and looked at Noelle and then back at Hannah.

  Nothing more needed to be said. In Hannah’s uncomplicated way, she let me know that my friendship with Noelle all these years had mattered deeply.

  We walked back to the train platform at Noelle’s usual brisk pace, neither of us saying much. I felt as if I had been transformed in the best way possible. Noelle had known what she was doing when she arranged this surprise, and I had every reason to believe she knew how appreciative I was for the experience.

  But I didn’t state my gratitude until we were on the train and almost back to the town where we had left Noelle’s car. I tried to present my thanks as straightforwardly as Hannah had. Simple, to the point, heartfelt.

  As soon as I spoke my thanks, Noelle said, “I knew you would like it.”

  And that was that. Not a lot of gush—the way similar conversations at home ran their usual course. Now all I had to do was learn how to offer honest criticism, and I would be like Jelle’s father, who had been admired for his precise opinions.