Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! (9 page)

“What sort of parallel universe have you taken me to?”

“You really are allergic to suspense, aren’t you?” Her tone was partially compassionate and partially ribbing.

“Yes, I am allergic to suspense. And if you don’t clue me in pretty quickly, I might have an allergic reaction right here. And I can’t guarantee that it will be attractive.”

“You’re so funny, Summer. Be patient. We’re almost there. Honest. I don’t want to spoil it for you. Just a bit farther.”

N
oelle led the way down a tree-lined road and across a retractable sort of bridge. The bridge arched over the canal but appeared as if it could be pulled back to either side if a small boat needed the extra headroom to motor past it.

“My father-in-law once told me that he could take me anywhere I wanted to go in Holland by boat. I never took him up on the offer, but I wish I had. Water runs through this country like lifeblood through veins.”

At that moment my veins were feeling the pulse of Noelle’s brisk pace. We probably had walked only a mile, but she had made it a fast mile.

“Are we going to your father-in-law’s farm? Is that what’s at the end of this lane?”

Noelle stopped walking. She turned and looked at me with an expression of disappointment. “You guessed.”

As soon as I saw her shoulders slump, I wished I hadn’t figured it out. She was having so much fun keeping me going. I realized
something important about myself in that moment. I like to be in control. Trying to manage a large family can have that effect on a person.

But that was more of a convenient excuse for my anxious need to have all the details up-front. At the foundation of my need for control was the thought that it was up to me to make things run smoothly or at least to make them go the way I wanted them to go. I’m sure that’s why I was so quick to put aside scheduling the biopsy. I wanted to be in control, even if the only control I had was when the results would be presented to me.

As is often the case when I’m suddenly confronted with an undeniable truth, I felt embarrassed. Not embarrassed so much for popping out the rather obvious summation that we were going to a farmhouse and therefore it must be her father-in-law’s. I was embarrassed by my need to be in control. If Noelle’s hobby was surprising people, my hobby was having everything organized and neatly controlled.

That embarrassed me because I knew that in many cases controlling could be the opposite of trusting. Why wasn’t I able to just go along with Noelle on this surprise? Did I have any reason not to trust her?

The same line of logic applied to why I had dodged the biopsy and delayed the testing. Did I have any reason not to trust God?

“Are you okay, Summer?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For spoiling your surprise.”

She brushed away my apology. “Actually, this farm used to belong to my father-in-law, but it’s been transformed quite a bit since he lived here. Come, you’ll see.”

I fell into step with Noelle but found it difficult to be as carefree about the path of denial that had brought me on a lark to the Netherlands. Now that I had figured out this small piece about my hobby of controlling, I felt bad.

Where was God in all this? What was He doing in my life? I really had no idea. I was pretty sure I didn’t trust Him as much as I had a short week ago when long life and comfort seemed to be the path stretched out before me.

We exited the tree-lined lane, and ahead of us sat a farmhouse built of brick with white-framed windows. The roof appeared to be equal in space and size to the house it topped. A single brick chimney rose at the back of the roof, and a large white bird perched on the roof near the chimney.

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 life.

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.