Enter the Story

Dear Daughters,

I am now 38 years old. By the time you read this, I will be much older. And by the time it really penetrates your heart... well... that's up to you and if you listen to the experiences in your life.

Over the past years I have found that there are certain people in my life who have become extra close friends. Each friendship began with an introduction, often awkward. "Hello my name is..." followed by sweet inquiries from where one came. Maybe talk of a favorite restaurant. Most relationships will dwindle and stay at the pleasant "Hello, how are you?" stage. Don't despair...if we're honest, our hearts can't hold hundreds of close friendships anyway.

But the ones who rise to the surface... the friendships that steal our hearts from the ordinary... those are the ones worth noting.

I have done a rough inventory of my friendships. It sounds mathematical and cold, I know. But stay with me.

When I consider the friends who have truly penetrated my life, they are the ones who have stopped talking about themselves and started asking questions of me. And they are the ones of whom I want to ask questions as well. I want to live vicariously through their vacation stories and get misty eyed over the birth of their children. I want to laugh at their idiosyncrasies and have them tease me about mine.

They are the ones who listen. Who don't just "hear" my story about getting my child to sleep and then volley back information about themselves. No, they are the ones who set aside their storehouse of knowledge, tell the left side of their brain to "hush" a minute and ask great questions. Questions about feelings and moments. And then... then they respond with great facial expressions and hearty laughs and quiet pauses.

In essence, they enter the story.

I can't tell you how important it is to enter the story of life.

In fact, if you meet people in life who don't have a lot of friends, I challenge you to see how they communicate, to see if they allow themselves to enter into the minds and shoes of another person while that person tells a memory. If they're eager to quip a story back, it's clear that they're not living in the moment or reading the pages.

Here's how you know when you're entering the story: You feel it. You listen to the details and immerse yourself in their memory. You offer "you must have felt elated" or "wow, that must have hurt."

Your closest friends will want to enter your story. And you will want to enter theirs. It won't be a burden. As you become closer, you'll get to the point where you will anticipate their reaction to something and laugh at it. I can't tell you how many times I have found myself in a curious situation and thought, "Sweet mercy, this is ridiculous and hilarious. I cannot wait to tell my friend about it."

The reason that entering the story is so special and important, precious daughters, is because it will help you to know yourself and to get beyond yourself at the same time. Finding a friend who is willing to be a mirror, to reflect your fears or joys and show you other facets of something you believe to be true... that is very valuable.

Sometimes it will hurt to enter the story. In fact, during one period of my life where my womb wouldn't cooperate with bringing a baby into the world, I found myself unable to celebrate the pregnancies of my friends. It utterly paralyzed me. If these people are truly your friends, grace will cover.

Conversely, when you have a cheerleader in your life who encourages you during life's difficulties, sheds some light on the gray areas and bursts with excitement at your achievements, well, congratulations, they are a friend worth keeping.

Some of my favorite friends are my husband and my mother. I'm so grateful to both of them for making my story richer and more truthful.

I'm not sure who these friends will be for you. I see inklings of who they could be.


With some practice, I'm hoping you'll consider me one of that number.

I have been married twelve years now. And while that may seem to be a drop in the bucket compared to, say, my grandparents, it's still something worth noting.

During weddings, star-struck brides and grooms often leaves scraps of paper in pews or on reception tables asking their guests for them marital advice.

The advice ranges from

"Don't sweat the small stuff"

to

"Do one sweet thing for each other every week"

 My personal favorite is: "You can't be naked and angry at the same time" and I make sure to always write this because it is funny and truthful.

When my daughters *hopefully* marry one day, I intend to give them this advice, however:
"Speak kindly and sincerely to one another."

While our dozen years of matrimony hardly makes us experts, I will say that over that span of time, Dan has shown me how to communicate.

We don't yell in our house.

Let me qualify: We spouses don't yell at each other. I bark at the children on occasion and they return the favor. But spouse yelling matches don't occur in our house because Dan Dykstra declared it so when we were first married.

I know because I tried to yell at him when we were newly married and he calmly said, "We don't do that in our house, Emily."  *Gulp*

Those manners that we learned as children... "Please", "Thank you", "Pardon me"... They go far in marriage.

If I am in Dan's way in the kitchen, he'll say things like, "Excuse me, hon."

If a spouse is unaware that they are standing in a busy hallway, the other one will lightly touch the back of the other and say, "Pardon me."

I'm pleased as punch that my three year old has begun to say "pardon me" as she barrels through people. It's a step in the right direction.

I don't have a magic wand as to what marriages work and how they do so and why some turn out great and others disintegrate.

But I do know that Dan is a gift to me. A precious gift. And God willing, I will always treat him as one.

'Mater Matters

A pile of years ago, I stood in a hallway with Dan Dykstra at Calvin College. I was immensely smitten with him and hung on virtually every word he said.

"I never eat tomatoes until summer," he said. Actually he pontificated. Dan had an entire argument set against eating tomatoes that were stripped from maturing, labeled as "tomatoes" (since you couldn't tell by their peachy-pink color) and sold to unsuspecting, or uncaring, institutions.

He gave me this monologue as we stood in front of the cafeteria. I remember.

I remember because every March when I plan my garden, I make sure to include at least 6 tomato plants in order to satisfy his Calvin College speech to me. And because I love to see his eyes get big when we cut into a really red-ripe Big Beef.

Each year I make selections for my garden in the late winter. I buy seeds and map out how I want to arrange them. I don't create the layout because I am organized. The layout is necessary because I need to make sure that at least 6 tomatoes plants have room. I also do it because it helps me press through the cold, unfeeling, un-tomato months.

At the first sign of spring, I go to my local home improvement store and scan it for plants. "They're not here, yet, ma'am...," they'll explain, "Next week." I continue to drop in to the store which smells of potting soil and mulch samples, anxious for the plants to arrive.

Almost overnight an army of plants appear in the store. They're small, green, scrappy and uninspiring. It takes a bit of hope to see how such a fledgling plant will overcome its weed-like appearance and become a wonderful, productive vegetation. I read the plastic informational stakes they stick in each plant. Each year I hope for one that will produce tomatoes in June, but no such luck. Slow, steady growth is required.

The yellow flowers transform into pale green orbs which begin to blush before they turn fiery red.

Picking a tomato off the plant is immensely satisfying. When a ripe tomato catches my eye, I slide my hand under its heavy weight. I pull slightly to see if it is ready to yield. I twist it gently and feel its warmth fall into my palm. I bring it inside to the kitchen and set it on the sill of my window.

I don't like cold tomatoes. Warm tomatoes are juicier and richer.

When you eat a tomato-laden sandwich, there are certain unsaid rules. First, the moment is somewhat holy because these harvests from summer are so special. Talking isn't necessary.

Second, if you do try to talk while eating a sandwich, it won't be pretty. You can't hide the juices when you eat them. They soak in the bread of crusty sandwiches, they drip pale coral colored juice down your fingers. If you chomp into them properly, there is no room for Emily Post; manners are futile in this situation.
In fact, one might say that if a person invites you to eat a summer-ripe tomato sandwich with them, they must feel awfully comfortable with you. It's not a "first date" meal, as Dan would say. Other food that fall in the "non-first-date-meal" category are baby back ribs, s'mores and candy apples.

This afternoon, Dan and I came home from church and slapped together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for our girls. Our daughters don't share our affinity for tomatoes, so no tomato sandwiches for them.

We toasted some crusty bread. We don't need to talk when we make these sandwiches. Twelve years of marriage does that to a couple.

We cut the tomatoes and Dan put coarse cracked pepper on them. He assembled the sandwiches and waited outside on our patio with the food. We eat together. To be honest, however, Dan has already made a sandwich a few minutes earlier, swallowed it whole, probably felt guilty (or hungry) and made another.

Even so, he waited.

We ate. We relished in summer. We sat back, satisfied, knowing that summer tomatoes are still coming.

Ode to August

I'm immersed in summer.

Schedules are loose. Only a suggestion, really.

We rely on energy levels and weather to tell us what to do that day.

It's a respite from the sounds of school bells.

We eat lunch at a different time each day. But we start each day the same: with quietness, reading, coffee and conversation. 6:30am coffee and conversation. Beautiful.

I shun things that look like paperwork. I laugh at the intricacies of insurance companies. I play their game for now. I only vaguely remember the harried season of school days just 2 months ago.

Friends are eager for their children to be in school. But this is Chicago. We need to soak in every last pool day and sun-drenched morning. We need to resist looking at winter coats in catalogs. Pretend we live on an island. A very, very hot island. Winter is never coming. It is only warm every day.

It's time to quiet the mind before fall returns. Unplug.