Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! (10 page)

“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.

L
unch 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.

I had a feeling our visit to Amsterdam would be a good opportunity for me to try out expressions of a few precise opinions. After all, Amsterdam is known for a few things I felt certain I would have no trouble criticizing.

Our plans for the next day were laid out in an orderly fashion that night. After the previous two amazing days at the tulip field and the farm, I anticipated an equally inspiring day in Amsterdam.

However, the next day it took us longer than expected to leave the house. Once we were in the car, a call came that took us on a grand detour.

Noelle had placed her cell phone in a holder on the dashboard, and we weren’t even to the end of her street when the phone vibrated. She pressed a button on her steering wheel and answered in Dutch. This allowed her to answer her phone without taking her hands off the steering wheel. I was impressed.

The woman’s voice on the speakerphone was low and sounded frightened or panicked. She spoke a long string of Dutch words,
then several short sentences, raising her pitch at the end of each, as if asking a question.

Noelle’s expression darkened. She responded with compassionate sounds in between the woman’s words. For a moment I wondered if the caller was one of Noelle’s daughters, caught up in a dramatic or difficult moment.

The conversation went on for several minutes before Noelle’s voice took on a directive sound. She seemed to be giving a list to the woman followed by a firm but tender good-bye.

I waited, glancing at Noelle’s face. She still looked concerned. I didn’t ask if everything was all right because that part was obvious. Exactly what was wrong, I didn’t know.

“Listen, Summer, we need to make an adjustment to our plans. We need to go to The Hague before going to Amsterdam.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant.
She did say, “the hag,” didn’t she? Why are we going to visit a cranky elderly person?

To lighten the moment, I spouted my husband’s familiar adage: “Sometimes we do what we have to do so we can do what we want to do.”

Noelle glanced at me as if what I had said was odd.

It made sense to me.

She put on her car’s blinker and changed lanes on the narrow road. We took a turn and headed the opposite direction of the sign that pointed to Amsterdam.

The phone rang again, and Noelle entered into another hands-free conversation as she drove through morning commuter traffic.

Looking out the car window, I watched the skittering clouds gather in small bunches like schoolchildren at recess. The weather looked mild and promising for our tour of Amsterdam. I wondered if this detour would take much time. I hoped I’d be able to go with the flow and not try to force the day in the direction I wanted.

Noelle drove into what looked like a crowded neighborhood where the side-by-side, three-story brick homes were replaced by high-rise apartment buildings. Dull gray concrete sides and uniform, rectangular windows gave the rows of apartments an industrial, depressing appearance.

A young woman stood on the corner with a suitcase in tow. She wore draped, dark clothing. Her hair was completely covered with a white scarf. We waited while a man in a turban got out of a car parked on the street beside us. A woman dressed in a sari with a row of gold bracelets circling both her forearms climbed out of the backseat and took swift, small steps toward the building.

This was obviously an ethnic area, and as much as I hated to admit it, I felt uncomfortable. We have parts of Cincinnati where apartment buildings such as these were built years ago. But I never drive through those areas. Never.

In Ohio I was used to seeing Mennonite and Amish women wear their traditional garb. But those women suggested a cozier, simpler life to me, while a mysterious-looking woman draped in dark fabric and a woman in a sari seemed much more foreign.

Noelle ended what was the third or fourth call she had been on while we were driving. She steered around the parked cars, put
on her blinker, and pulled up at the corner where the woman in the dark garb stood. The woman leaned over, and I felt as if she was staring into our car. Now I really was uncomfortable.

Noelle lowered the window on my side of the car with the control button on her door. She called out something in Dutch, and the woman approached us, wheeling her suitcase behind her. To my shock she opened the car’s back door, tossed the suitcase onto the seat, and got in.

Noelle drove off quickly, glancing with a thoughtfully concerned expression at the woman in the rearview mirror. The two exchanged a few words in Dutch. My heart pounded.

I looked at Noelle and then straight ahead. The woman in the seat behind me made no further sound. I felt as if I were in the middle of a spy film. Was Noelle a secret agent of some sort, and she never had told me?

Noelle said something to the woman, including my name in the sentence. The next sentence was in English.

“Summer, this is Zahida. She needs a ride to the farm.”

I turned around and gave the dark-eyed woman a quick nod. “Hello.”

From the backseat came a softly asked question. Noelle responded. Another few lines were spoken, and then again Noelle’s steady response. Her answer included a word that sounded like “America” or “American.”

The woman then released a tense onslaught of barely whispered words.

What is she saying? Is it about me?

As soon as we came to a stoplight, Noelle finished her many words to the other woman. Then she turned to me. “I’m sorry this is all in Dutch, Summer. I’m sure it’s confusing to you. Zahida heard us speaking English, and when I told her you were my friend visiting from America, she became frightened.”

“Frightened? Of me?” I cast a wary glance at Noelle but didn’t dare look over my shoulder at Zahida.

How can this woman be afraid of me? I am the one who is of aid of her!

“It’s because you’re an American.”

“So are you,” I snapped without thinking.

“Yes, but she didn’t know that before. We haven’t been friends for long. I told her just now that I’m from the U.S. It’s okay, Summer. Everything is fine. I’ll explain all this later.”

We drove a short distance in silence. My heart was still pounding. “Are we driving out to the farm?”

“No.”

The light changed, and Noelle turned with both hands on the steering wheel and headed down a short street. “Another friend of mine, Belinda, is going out to the farm this afternoon. Zahida will go with her. We’re almost to Belinda’s house now.”

I tried to find a way of settling into the moment, but I didn’t know exactly what I should be doing. I had it in my power to offer Zahida an assuring glance or comforting look, but my heart still was racing at the thought of being so close to someone different from me. Someone who was frightened of me.

I tried to remember what Noelle had said the day before in her
admonition to me as we walked to the barn. She said I was afraid of too many things. She was right.