Muddy Monday

Romanced by the sun-warmed earth, I shed boots to squeeze mud through toes in the North Dakota spring. My mother was busy, and I quietly disobeyed. A million crystals exploded underneath running feet, crushed into the wet brown soil. I remember the burn as feet chilled in the running, slowly turning to wood as they froze. Mama bathed those brown toes in the kitchen sink, me sitting on the counter, 4 year old contrite. She wrapped me in the red and black polyester pills of the blanket that always smelled of Grandpa, no matter how many times it was used or washed. I was shivering when my Papa asked me if I was warm enough for Dairy Queen. I tried to grit my teeth to stop the shaking, but to no avail. He took the boys, and Mama and I stayed home. I could feel her concern mixed with anger. She read, I shook.

They came home with my favorite, a Peanut Buster Parfait. Later that night, I was finally warm enough to eat the cold treat. Mixed up in the memory, the smell of my grandfather, the crunchy peanuts, my mother's forgiveness, a father's love.

We will be the salt-and-pepper shakers

It grows in black and white, this wild hair I'm graced with. It's a surprise. I still picture myself somewhere between nutmeg and dark brown, not this "old lady" spike. My friends say they can't see it, the white flecks, but my family, they see it and say it - "your hair looks old, Mama". Little do they know that old is cool. Every birthday a special celebration since cancer hit in 2008. In the waiting hours as I look forward to news about my cancer scan and tumor markers on February 1st, I look in the mirror and I exalt. I've made it to old lady hair.

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases; it will never/Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep/Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing." (John Keats)

My father in law runs his fingers through his wife's thick mane, a crown of beauty for her, a Grandma, a beautiful one. How I pray I see my children's children, that this present suffering is soon a thing of the past, a distant nightmare weathered. For grandchildren are the crowning glory of old age (Proverbs 17:6a) and oh, how I long to be crowned with them! Wisdom refined like gold, dross skimmed off, love proffered with open arms and cuddles in the morning, standing firm and shaking up the world. I want to be the salt-and-pepper shaker.