Silent Night

On the day my mother died I wish I had been told to make a list of everything I remembered her saying, her advice and mannerisms. I still catch myself wanting to call her, picking up my cell phone to dial a number that doesn’t exist. And then tears begin to pull up from my cheeks and the corners of my mouth weaken as I tilt my head back to defy the tears the pleasure of falling.

I’d like to think that she misses me as much as I miss her—but my understanding of theology won’t allow that. She’s in heaven mingling with the saints (even though, like me, she would most likely prefer a heaven of solitude rather than the crowded clouds of witnesses I imagine it to be). But as much as one might think, I don’t actually wonder about heaven, or her in heaven, all that often.

I miss my mom the most when I’m in the kitchen. Had I had those extra years I assure myself that her hamburger vegetable soup would not have turned into hamburgtable mush when I boiled it, roaring, uncovered (instead of softly simmering it, covered) for two hours. Even the resulting free flow of tears couldn’t make it soup again.

Had I known how quickly she’d be taken, I would have made sure to have had cooking lessons with her, filling a recipe box with all the family favorites: the ones marked with four or five stars and handwritten notes of ‘very good!’ or ‘Dad likes’. And while there’s usually someone, a sister or sister-in-law, a friend or website, that can answer my culinary questions, it’s never the same as hearing it directly from the woman who has had your nourishment in mind from the very beginning.

Today I would ask her questions about stain removers and careers and what it was like to fall in love. Later I might ask about babies and unruly teenagers and how life changed when the kids were grown. And when her hair was white and her hands were like Grandma’s, we would talk about what it was like after she was gone.

She and I used to talk a lot together. There was one particular conversation that took place on a sunny afternoon in May that I have come to remember more clearly as it’s been told time and again to old friends and family. And like most of my verbal musings, I don’t recall the inward journey that got me there, nor do I remember the words that preceded my statement, or even the following wanderings of my wonderings. But that afternoon I told my mother quite plainly that I could never and would never forgive someone that drove drunk and killed someone I loved. She said I shouldn’t expect Christ’s forgiveness then, either.

Guess you can say that’s why I wrote on my police statement that I forgave Mr. Casey—the man responsible for my mother’s death. He was leaving a family Christmas party intoxicated. My parents and I were bringing my sister home from the airport for the holidays. In a fraction of a second, the time it took for his truck to crush our car, life, as I knew it, was forever changed.

In that dark hour, no words came. And if they had, it would be as searching the oceans for the exact teardrop that would convey it all: love, goodbye, anger. But she was silent. And so was I.

How often I’ve travelled back in my mind to the accident scene. What should I have said? Why didn’t I say something, anything? I don’t know.

Instead, I keep talking. Since she never responds (go figure), I have the floor to myself. I ask her how she thinks I’m doing. I wonder aloud about the career and family choices she made. I commend her for her breakfast scones recipe. I even tell her that though it might be cold outside, I am not . . . and I leave my jacket unbuttoned and my hat at home.

Then I tell her that the journey of forgiveness is a long one. It’s been nine pain-filled years without her, and I still wonder if I’ll ever agree with those three small written words, ‘I forgive you’.

And I tell her how much I love her and miss her. Oh, how I miss her.

Blunderers in the Billing Department

I hate spending money on things that you can't really see: like root canals or a trip to the optometrist to look at a blurry hot air balloon dance around a computer screen. Lenses for your glasses are a tongue-in-cheek-bad example, but they're nothing like spending money on lenses for a third eye.

Let me begin by explaining that I received bills from both places (dentist and optometrist) this week that needed to be sorted out by yours truly.

The receptionist at my dentist's office is super sweet and I often wonder if she has extra cavities because of it. (She's the type to call you 'hun' when leaving appointment reminders on your voice mail.) When I showed her my explanation of benefits it turns out a small mistake had been made and I ended up saving $39. Woo. Not wooHOO though, since I was expecting the total bill to be less than $30 and I ended up paying close to $200. But, on the pearly-white-bright side of things I still saved nearly $40.

Second explanation of benefits to discuss was for the eye doctor. Apparently there they don't see things as clearly. I talked to receptionist #1 who began to explain my charges, "Ok, you've got a charge for forty-two ... ah, twenty, ah ... sixty-five ...no, an $89 refund ..." After five minutes of listening to her count I told her I was completely confused and she said, "Me too."

She put me on hold to talk to a second receptionist. She too started to go through the list of charges: "It looks like you bought three lenses and, uh, returned three lenses." I clarified that I had only two lenses for my glasses. Yup, two. "Well, it appears that you purchased three... on July 15." Yes, since the date makes it all make perfect sense as to why I purchased three lenses for my (dare I clarify?) two-lensed glasses. "Oh, well, it says your were given an $89 refund." I checked my credit card statements and and told her no such refund had occurred, but could she list the charges {for the third lens} again?

I was transferred to a manager who explained the charges and noted that I still owed $41 (darn), but then noted that my file had a note that I was due for an $89 refund.

I kept my $200 mouth shut tight as she went through the steps of refunding my credit card, wait for it, $89.

I still have no idea what transpired there- which is interesting--
since I thought I had ESP...

Holland at Home

If you've never traveled outside the country, or even your own city block, for that matter, I recommend it. There is so much to see out there including more history than you ever cared to know existed. It never gets old!

Ok, technically it does get older, but while history stays history, the new stuff that keeps happening, in 20 years, will also be labeled historic and, therefore, perhaps, hopefully! a tourist destination, too. Or at least a 'point of interest' on a hostel's black and white photocopied brochure-- tucked and wrinkled, behind the glossy full-color brochures display of the more popular places. It could be something as phenomenal as the Great Wall or as lame as Wall Drug. Either way, it's historic and therefore awesome.

But history has never been more exciting than in Europe. I'm a little biased though, since my ancestry can be directly linked to my dad being born there. (Thanks, Dad!) But more specific than loving all of Europe I most like the tiny fist of a country some call Holland and the rest call the Netherlands. Fun Fact: it's the 135th largest country (out of 231) in the world. That means, on a test, it would have scored 58%. {raises eyebrows}

I don't know if I can fully explain the awesomeness of the Netherlands to you who have yet to visit this wondrous place. Imagine blue clouded skies, bright green fields, and a windmill-speckled background with blond-headed rosy cheeked families bicycling together. Top that off with a carb-based diet of potatoes for supper and bread with chocolate sprinkles for breakfast and I'm nearly in heaven.

Sadly most of the world is unaware of this perfectly picturesque side of the Netherlands. On more than one occasion when I've said I'm Dutch (and once it's clarified that it's not Dutchland or Denmark) the response is: "Oh, Amsterdam! Pot and prostitutes and the Red Light District. Gotta love that!"

Riiiiight. Like I'd be proud to say I'm from 'Dutchland' if that's what I had to brag about.

But even if you never make it to Holland, there are touches of the place here in America: Pella, IA or Holland, Michigan for example. These quaint towns [modestly] boast of tulip festivals and windmills and Dutch bakeries (complete with Dutch delft blue tiling and 'Welkom' on the door).

Even closer to home though is the CVS on the corner of my Indianapolis city block. And I have to wonder what went on in their marketing meeting.

The building has large glass windows facing the street that are plastered with pictures of attractive smiling people, excited to have just purchased cough syrup and toothpaste. Behind the photos in each window is a bright red-papered backdrop. Red neon lights nicely frame the windows to complete the look.

Hmmm, women in red windows with bright red lights ... Yeeeeaaaah. Wonder if anyone in that marketing group has ever visited Amsterdam's most-known-about tourist destination. Just bringin' Europe to America, I guess. Another highlighted 'point of interest' perhaps?

Empire Wasted

There are a lot of things I fear (yes, including fear itself), and an equal number of things that will make me blush beyond reason. Yesterday one of my plethora of fears came true: I was in the exact same place and time as someone wearing the exact same dress as I. I blushed to match my dress which was about the only difference I could tell between her and me.

It's a cute outfit: a magenta, black and cream print dress with an empire waist (meaning it's flattering for women who carry a bit of extra weight in the tummy)that I wear with black tights (adopting the now-popular-again 1980's look) and gold sandals. It's a trendy look-- and I like it.

What I don't like, however, is being seen wearing the exact same dress as someone else. I had been calmly looking through hangers of updated fashion at the mall yesterday, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. However, there was no mirror, just another brunette wearing the Target dress I currently had on.

It's one thing to see someone wearing "my" clothes; it's a whole other game when you're wearing it then, too. And it wasn't that she seemed to pull off the look better-- because we were about even. But what reeeaallly got to me was when this woman turned sideways, it was clear then that she was about 8 1/2 months pregnant.

Let me clarify here, that while I love empire waisted clothing, I do not ever, ever, EVER buy maternity empire things. It's just not done. I've tried them on by [blushing] mistake, yes, but purchased? Not in twenty-five years.

So pregnant women, please, please, PLEASE: save my embarrassment and only wear maternity-labeled clothing. I can only fake the pregnant belly for so long. . .

I Call it Providence

Perhaps it’s the accent, or the fact that I say ‘washroom’ instead of ‘restroom’, or that I pronounce the letter “z” zed, not zee, but I’m often asked where on earth I’m from.

I spent my first eighteen and a half years in Canada, went to Dordt College in Iowa, took jobs in Iowa and Germany, and then lived with my parents in Illinois to figure out my next move.

After a month or so of pondering, they decided to assist by asking questions:
“What about going back to your art center job in Iowa?”
“I’ve already done that-- I want something new.”
“Seattle? Denver? Minneapolis? Boston?”
“I don’t know. . .”
“Chicago?”
“Maybe. It’s kind of big.”
“Indianapolis? You’ve never been there before and it’s a beautiful city.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. I’ve always wondered what the Indy500 would be like.”

The curious thing, looking back over the last two and a half years I’ve lived in Indianapolis, is that I didn’t pick this city. When I revisit in my mind the ways things worked themselves out, it’s not me, a girl from Canada with an art degree picking a city. No, it’s much bigger than that. And it makes my eyes tear up when I think about it too much.

Perhaps it sounds self-centered to say that God was preparing the church of Redeemer for my arrival years before I ever stepped through its Delaware doors. But I think He was. I know that I serve a faithful God who loves me and knows me more than I ever will or ever be able to ever understand. So when I picked Indianapolis and when I found Redeemer, it really wasn’t me at all.

My heavenly Father knows me and my desires intimately and He knew that an urban church with gorgeous stained-glass windows and an art gallery and good coffee and folk music and all the things that I never could have imagined that He too would care about, would touch me and bless me and cause me to realize a bit more just how much He loves me and cares for me.

Fiddles and saws and washboards and red music stands?
An affordable downtown apartment with hardwood floors and crown molding?
Art openings and wine and ever-changing original art in my church?
Really, God?

When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is man that you are mindful of him,
the son of man that you care for him?

O LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!

O LORD, my Lord,
how much you love and care for me!

Lincoln Luck

Life might be more predictable if I were the superstitious type to believe in the power of good things coming in groups of three. However, I'm not superstitious and things don't occur for me in that way. For me things come in twos or sixes or ones. And then it's really not powerful or consistent enough to believe that something good is just around the corner. The idea was told to me a few weeks ago and I've been on the lookout ever since.

When I told my best friend that I had been complimented on my legs one day and on my eyebrows the next she said, "Oooh! See? It's the power of three!"
"But it's only been two," was my mathematician's reply.
"Oh, but I can feel it! Something good is going to happen. Everything comes in three's!"
Well-- either she was wrong or I completely missed my third compliment.

A few days later I found a pile of pennies, some Lincoln side up, others the other direction-- whatever that's called. (And according to a recently-viewed chick-flick, heads up = good luck). Well, instead of picking up three, I greedily took all six hoping for a double whammie of goodness. Nope. For the next three days I was criticized by my sister whenever I bent down to pick up a nickle or dime. "That's soooo GROSS!" was her over dramatic reasoning.

So I returned to searching for pennies. At the library yesterday I saw a Lincoln penny on the bathroom floor. Happy happy! I picked it up and made my way to the sinks. Another penny: this one face down. I turned it over as a good deed for the next superstitious woman coming in for a potty break. Upon returning to my crochet group I noticed I was missing my wallet. Okay. So maybe I should have checked for a third penny in the paper towel dispenser or in another stall.

Fifteen minutes later I was back at my car, wallet found and checking my oil. It was low. Reeeaally low. So low that you know you should call your dad, but if you do you're sure to get a pep talk on checking your oil more often. A handy man across the street offered to help. He made my skin crawl and my stomach flip. I told him I could handle it. He took the stick-thingy that you check the oil level on from me anyway. After a few seconds I pointed out where the stick-thingy was stored. He then began to tell me his own car woes and that he needed gas for his car parked "just around the corner." My safety-first reaction kicked in and I politely told him I couldn't help him out.

I drove to the nearest gas station and scoped out the area. It's not the safest part of town so I felt better to see a police officer fueling up his cruiser. I parked and made the call to dad.
"Hey dad? So, I'm at the gas station and I'm wondering what kind of oil I need."
"Is it low?"
"Um, well, I was just checking it and I should probably add some."
"How low is it?"
"Well, how many quarts is it safe to add? Three?"
*sigh*

After purchasing two quarts I went to my car to fill it up. It took both of them and probably could have drunk a third. Oops. As I was getting ready to drive away a woman drove up and parked her car behind mine.

"Miss? You need to be safer than this. You should not have parked your car where it's so dark. You should have parked up front where there's more light and the security cameras can see you. There are some strange men wandering around this parking lot tonight and the police are looking for them. I waited here until you were done to make sure you were safe."

My heart was beating rapidly. Second strange instance of the evening. I thanked her and shakily returned to my car. Upon exiting the parking lot I saw the blue and red flashing lights of five police cars surrounding two men in handcuffs. I didn't think I could take a third scary instance.

I wish I had held out for a lucky penny. Any lucky penny would do fine.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87Dds_RodDk

Men in Uniform

I've had a few special moments with men in uniform this past week, although every opportunity to meet the potential Mr. Lauralee Stel seems to come at the most inopportune times ...such as the men at ADT Security Services.

I've been dog sitting at four different homes the last two weeks and each home has its own way of doing things including how the house alarm is set. Luckily for me, this is how I met eligible bachelors 1, 2 and 3.

First bachelor, home three. I called the security system's 1-800 number when the alarm bleeped that it was 'NOT READY'. Not ready for what? The cute man at ADT couldn't figure it out either. Well, I imagined he was cute. He had a nice voice and was super helpful. Turns out 'NOT READY' means you have to close all the doors, including the garage door, and then try again. I won't take any hints for my love life here, but I have to wonder if there is a relationship door or two that I need to slam shut before I can proceed to the next one.

Second bachelor, home four. I set the alarm system and promptly left the house to get a hammer from my car. I came back two minutes later with the alarm blaring and the poor dog looking at me questionably. I ran to the magic box and typed in my code.

"Hello? Is anyone there? What's going on?" bachelor #2 called from the wall.
"Hi there! I'm sorry, I forgot I had the alarm set! I punched in my cod--"
He interrupted (a not very desirable trait, in my books),"What's the password?"
"The password? Like, the four-digit code?"
"No ma'am, the password. The WORD."
He seemed to be getting frustrated. I didn't have the password and tried to explain this to him. My voice got rapidly louder.
"I'm DOG SITTING and they JUST GAVE ME THE NUMBER CODE."
"What's your name?"
"Lauralee Stel"
"What's your name ma'am?"
"Laura. Lee. Stel."
"I can't hear you. WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
He was yelling now and I tried to enunciate more clearly. By the fifth time I resigned myself to the fact that I was most likely spending the night in prison and that this was not my ever-alluding Prince Charming.
"Alright. I have all the information I need. I'm going to disconnect now."

Well, that's what I thought he said. I realized 10 minutes later that he said, "I'm going to send a dispatcher now."

There was a knock on the door and I grabbed my sewing scissors as a defense weapon. (You think I've been watching too many cold cases on TV?) I opened the door to a, ahem, very charming young police officer.
"Is this the only dog here?" The dog was sniffing and licking the man's hand.
"Yes! You can come in!" I smiled sweetly and checked my hair in the mirror. "She's a really sweet dog."
The officer barked back a reply, "I had a call to come here. Would you like to tell me what happened?"
I told the story, blushing and flustered. "I have the keys! They didn't give me a password but I can give them a call if that would help. Or would you like to call them?"

My mind was racing. Perhaps that's what most robbers did: agreed to help out the officer but actually call their friend for a fake password and not the real home-owner. I wondered if I'd get the orange or blue and gray striped pyjama's and if I'd have a friendly cell mate.

I'd like to point out here that I look about as robber-like as one might think: fuzzy slippers, jeans and pony-tail. In my defense, besides the scissors still in hand, I looked innocent.

"I'll just need to see your ID then, Miss."
"Huh?" My mind zipped back to reality. I handed him my driver's license, and realized I looked nothing like the beauty in the picture. I was probably going to be charged for identity theft, too. He wrote my birthday and name on his hand.
"Sir, I have paper if you like, so you don't have to write on your hand."
"No, it's fine. Next time just make sure you get the password from them, okay?" he smiled and handed back my ID.
"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Too bad my phone number isn't listed on the driver's license. Although I don't think it's legal for a police officer to date women he came over to arrest. Darn!