Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! (4 page)

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.

B
lessedly, 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.

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.

It seemed a good time to pray. I thanked God for bringing me safely to Noelle’s home. I thanked Him for orchestrating this crazy, last-minute adventure and blessing me with such a great start with my longstanding pen pal.

I looked out the window again and thought I should ask God for something. But what? Had I ever asked Him for anything for myself? I had spent most of my life praying for others. For my husband, for our children. I had asked for finances, wisdom, direction, and lots of health needs on behalf of others. What if I asked God for healing?

What came to mind was the biblical account of Hezekiah, one of the kings of Judah. As he lay dying, languishing on his bed, he turned his face to the wall and prayed that God would spare his life. God healed him and gave him fifteen more years.

Should I ask God for fifteen more years?

Suddenly I realized I had jumped from the denial stage of grief to the bargaining-with-God phase.

Stick with denial. That’s where you want to stay this week. You can jump around to the anger and bargaining after you get home.
For now, just enjoy this trip. Look how Noelle is going all out to make this a wonderful visit. Don’t ruin it, Summer.

I read the Whittier quote again, taking in the first line: “Drop Thy still dews of quietness, till all our strivings cease…”

I wanted my striving to cease.

Then turning my face to the wall, or, more accurately, the window, I watched the day slowly inch her way to center stage as the curtains of darkness were drawn back. I felt the quietness that filled the room. I took small sips of the “unfolding grace” of the coming dawn.

And I didn’t ask God for anything.

J
elle suggested we make a list,” Noelle said as she unloaded the dishwasher later that morning.

“A list of what?” I sprinkled a spoonful of granola over a bowl of strawberry yogurt.

“A list of things to do and see while you’re here.”

In spite of my having been an early-morning audience to the new day, I somehow had managed to float back to sleep while I was propped up in bed and had slept until almost nine o’clock.

Noelle rinsed out her coffee mug and placed it in the dishwasher. “I told him we might enjoy our time together more if we didn’t have a schedule.”

“Either way is fine with me. I don’t have anything specific in mind. Well, actually, that’s not true. I do want to see a few things, if it’s convenient.”

“Let me guess. You want to see a windmill. And a field of tulips, of course. I’ve already thought of the best place to go to see those.”

“Yes, those are my wished-for tourist sights. But I also would love to see the
Kitchen Maid

“The kitchen maid?” Noelle made a sweep with her arms in the tidy space all around where she stood. “That’s me! You’re looking at the kitchen maid of this house.”

I laughed.

Noelle smiled. “It is so fun to hear your laugh. I never imagined it being so light. It makes me want to laugh when I hear you laugh. So, what is the joke about the kitchen maid? I’m afraid I don’t get it.”

“I was referring to the painting by Vermeer. You saw the original painting at a museum when you first came to Amsterdam and sent me a postcard of it.”

“I did?”

It surprised me that Noelle didn’t remember.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful painting. I kept the postcard on my refrigerator for years and years. It got so crumpled I finally put it away in the box where I’ve kept lots of your letters.”

Noelle looked at me with an expression of amazement. “You’re kidding. You still have the postcard I sent you way back then?”

I nodded.

“I don’t remember what postcard I sent you, but I do remember sending one. At the time I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be pen pals anymore once you found out I had flown the coop, so to speak.”

“Of course I still wanted to be pen pals. You only made it more exciting to correspond because your letters and postcards now came from the other side of the world.”

“Yes, but do you remember when we were in high school and we had that whole string of letters planning our big move to New York?” Noelle asked. “We were going to be roommates and start careers in modeling.”

“You were the one who was going to pursue modeling. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, aside from find a job and marry someone who was fabulously wealthy.”

“Right. I remember the fabulously wealthy plan. We both were aiming for millionaires, weren’t we?”

“I remember rehearsing how I was going to explain to my parents why our plan to move to New York was a good idea. None of my practice attempts were very convincing. So in a way I’m glad you stayed here. I never had to make my pitch to my parents.”

“Glad that worked out for you, then.” Noelle had a wry grin. Her blond hair was tucked behind both her ears, and with her fresh morning face, she looked young. Younger than I felt at the moment.

“Did your parents ever understand your choice to marry Jelle and stay here?”

Almost immediately Noelle’s expression changed, as did her posture. “No.” Her grin vanished. “They didn’t approve or understand.” With her chin up she said, “Enough of the past. We have some living to do today. You want to go to the Rijksmuseum, then. We can do that. Today, if you like.”

“Is that where the Vermeer painting is on display?”

“Yes. I think a number of his paintings are. The museum is in Amsterdam. I haven’t been there in a long time, but I can look up
the information easily enough. Do you like Rembrandt? Many of his works are there as well.”

I felt a little unexpected flutter. “Rembrandt? Really?”

With a grin over her shoulder, Noelle said, “He was Dutch, you know. Van Gogh, as well. We’ll definitely go to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. I can check on times. Should we go today? Or would you rather see the tulips first?”

The sudden realization that I would have a chance to see original artwork by greats like Van Gogh, Rembrandt, and Vermeer caught me off balance. “Yes!” I said, not having paid attention to her question.

“Which one? Tulips or Amsterdam?”

“Either. I don’t know. What’s the weather supposed to be like?”

“Cool. Partly cloudy.”

I hesitated, not sure what to suggest.

“Was anything else on your list to see?” Noelle asked. “The town of Gouda is kind of fun for tourists. They play up the interest that visitors have in the cheese, of course, so you might enjoy that.”

“A cheese tour wasn’t on the top of my list. Now, if you want to take me on a tour of a Dutch chocolate factory, I wouldn’t mind. Especially if they give out free samples. To be honest, I don’t want to run around trying to take in a whole bunch of tourist spots. I would love to go to the museums in Amsterdam and to the tulip fields, and if it’s convenient, I would like to go to Haarlem.”

Noelle gave me a surprised look. “Haarlem? Really? Why there?”

“I’d like to see the Hiding Place.”

“What is the Hiding Place?”

“It’s the watch shop and house where Corrie ten Boom lived and where her family hid the Jews during World War II. Have you ever been there?”

“No, I haven’t heard of her.”

Now I was the one with the look of surprise. “You haven’t heard of Corrie ten Boom? She was Dutch. She and her family were sent to a concentration camp for aiding the Jews. Many of her family members died there, but she was released and spent the rest of her life traveling around the world talking about her experiences as well as writing books.”

Noelle shrugged. “We hear a lot of stories about the war here. Everyone still remembers. It affected that entire generation in a way that…” She drew in a deep breath. “How do I explain this? It’s not like we have war celebrities here, you know? Too often it turns out that the people who brag about having family who were heroes during the war actually are covering up something. The ones who really did fight the Nazis hardly ever talk about it.”

“That’s interesting because in the U.S. we have a strong tendency to go looking for people we can lift up as heroes. Wayne says we put anyone on television who has something to brag about.”

“Here it’s not like that. A true Dutchman will give and show kindness in quiet ways. He doesn’t want anyone to know about his heroic or generous acts. I think it goes back to the Calvinist roots
and the verses in Matthew that say when you give, do it in secret. Don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.”

“Doesn’t it then say that God, who sees you in secret, will reward you?”

Noelle nodded. “That’s very much a part of the culture here. You know, if you want to see a World War II museum while you’re here, the Anne Frank Museum is interesting. That’s also in Amsterdam. We could go there, if you like. I don’t know if it’s similar to the house you’re talking about in Haarlem, but it’s extremely moving.”

Just then the phone rang. Instead of the ring I was used to at home, Noelle’s phone had a dull buzzing sort of ring. Instead of a brief “hello,” Noelle answered by giving a short greeting in Dutch. I was pretty sure she inserted her name into the greeting.

I looked out the window and saw that the clouds were beginning to clear. A few feet away, on the other side of the backyard fence, Noelle’s neighbor stood on a ladder, trimming a tree. He made eye contact with me but didn’t wave.

I looked away and carried my dishes into the kitchen. From where I stood by the sink, a bush with bright purple blossoms blocked part of the view out the window. I realized it also blocked the neighbor’s view into that portion of the kitchen.

Our home wasn’t large, but our back lot and front yard combined would encompass the entire compact block where Noelle’s home was situated with five other houses. We never considered our home and yard to be very big or especially valuable compared to the newer homes that went in up the road. Some of those
houses had tennis courts and swimming pools. Our yard contained some nice trees and a lot of grass that needed to be cut all too often this time of year.

Having space to look out on an uninterrupted view felt normal. I didn’t know how I would feel having to live with common walls where two families were carrying out their lives on either side of my home, only inches away through the dry wall and insulation. The hushed tone of the dinner and soft music from last evening made more sense.

Noelle hung up from her call and joined me in the kitchen. “So, what did you decide? Tulip fields today?”

“Sure. We could go to the tulip fields. The weather looks like it’s clearing.”

“Good. I need to make a quick phone call. I’ll be ready to go in about ten minutes. Be sure to bring a coat in case the weather turns on us.”

I went upstairs and gathered what I needed for the day. When I returned to the living room, Noelle was on the phone, speaking in Dutch and smiling. She hung up and gave me a big grin.

“What are you smiling about?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“You do? What is it?”

Noelle laughed. “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you, now would it? I have a little treat for you tomorrow. There, that is all I’m going to tell you. No more hints. Today we’ll go see the tulips.”

“And a windmill,” I reminded her.

“And a windmill.” Noelle linked her arm with mine and led me to the front door. With a smug grin she said, “Today will be good, but tomorrow will be fantastic.”

“You’re a brat, you know.”

“Me, a brat?” She laughed. “I haven’t heard that word in ages. I can’t believe you just called me a brat!”

“Well, what would you call it in Dutch if your friend had a secret surprise and took great delight in taunting you with it? Surely you have a comparable term.”

Noelle thought only a moment before popping out the Dutch word, “‘
Oen
.’ And you’re right, Summer. I’m being an oen. And I’m loving it!”

“Oen,” I spouted as we exited the front door, our arms still linked. A neighbor getting into her car turned and stared at me.

Noelle unlinked our arms, looked away, and pressed her lips together as she unlocked Bluebell. As soon as we were inside her car, she burst out laughing. “I can’t believe one of the first Dutch words I taught you is
oen
, and that’s what my neighbor heard you call me!”

“Is it a bad word?”

“Not really. Not here. It might be considered rude in the U.S. I don’t know anymore.”

“Are you saying that
oen
is more derogatory than the term
brat
?”

“I would guess so. Yes, a little.”

“Great!”

Noelle laughed delightedly. “Let me see. What other questionably rude words can I teach you?”

“Don’t even think about it. I’m withdrawing my enrollment from your school of Dutch lessons. Obviously you’re only safe when we’re both speaking English.”

“I know some German.” She glanced at me sideways as she backed up the car.

“Not interested.”

“A little French perhaps?”

“No thank you.”

“You’re spoiling all my fun.” Noelle put on an exaggerated pout. “You just wait until tomorrow. That will be fun.”

“It will be more fun if you tell me what we’re going to do.”

“All right, fine. Since you’re so insistent, tomorrow we are going to…” Noelle continued her sentence with a long trail of Dutch words and a coy grin from ear to ear.

I shook my head at her. “Not fair.”

“Yes, well, if you had stayed in Dutch school and worked on a few nouns here and there, you might have been able to pick up enough to figure out what we’re doing tomorrow.”

“I’ll willingly settle for being a dropout and remaining in suspense for the next twenty-four hours, especially since my ignorance seems to bring you such glee.”

Noelle reached over and squeezed my arm. “Having you here is what brings me glee.”

I felt the same way, but I didn’t say anything. I was too busy taking my turn at being a brat. Or should I say, oen, whatever that meant.