Some of my friends will be aware that over the past few months I’ve been working on a new novel: one that, for the first time, is entirely unconnected with the story line that gave birth to ‘The Road to Meadowvale’ and the three books that followed it.
It’s going to be a while before this book is finished, but I thought I’d give you folks a taste of the first few chapters. This is Chapter Eight.
Oh, and by the way, I should make the usual disclaimer, which is that the people in this story are fictitious and none of them are meant to represent any person in the real world, alive or dead. That’s not to say that some of them don’t have similarities to people I’ve known. Authors are lazy that way; making up people from scratch is too much like hard work. But for the most part, these people are still fictitious. Especially the clergy. It’s important that you know that. For instance, the Anglican diocese of Saskatoon has had an indigenous bishop, but my Bishop Caleb isn’t meant to be him. Most of the churches mentioned in this story are also totally fictitious.
One more thing. This story alternates between two narrators, Luke and Jo. Usually you’ll find out who is speaking by looking for their name in the chapter heading. Very occasionally, there’s a switch mid-chapter.
Chapter 8
LUKE (DECEMBER 2014)
The snow came at the end of October, and by the middle of November there was a permanent covering a foot and a half deep. Most people were wise about snow tires, careful braking, and all the other features of winter driving, but there were a few who weren’t, and for a couple of weeks we saw some fender benders, people skidding off the road into ditches, and old cars that wouldn’t start on frosty mornings. For myself, I’d put my winter tires on my truck the last week of October, and a few sandbags in the back to give weight over the wheels. By the end of November Cooper was riding in the cab with me when we drove to the regional park or the river valley, and on our daily walks I was wearing winter boots and a warm parka. I didn’t think anything of it; I’d been born in this country and in this climate, and the cycle of the seasons was as familiar to me as the cycle of the school year.
Jo had been born in Toronto where the climate was very different—she still wasn’t very forthcoming about that, and I had decided not to push the issue—but she had lived in Saskatoon for eight years, so cold weather and block heaters were already a part of her life. But the particular features of winter in rural Saskatchewan—the need to carry blankets, warm clothes and an emergency kit in case your car went off the road miles from home, the advisability of packing a towing chain if you were driving a small car, in case someone had to tow you out of the ditch—these things were new to her. But she was a good listener and a good learner; she wasn’t afraid to ask questions, you never had to tell her anything twice, and it didn’t take me long to stop worrying about her.
She had expressed an interest in birding, and I had begun to take her out with me on Saturdays to places where I knew she would see particular species. She bought a fairly decent pair of binoculars, and before long she was finding her feet, learning to identify the common species, learning to hear the different cries and songs. I told her she’d chosen the best time of year to learn to be a birder; in the winter there were only a few different species around and it was fairly easy to distinguish them. The spring would be more challenging; when the spring migration arrived, the woods would be bursting with life and the air full of the sound of hundreds of different—or not so different—birdsongs. She was keen, and it was fun seeing her finding her feet in a world that was completely new to her. And I had to admit that I was happy to discover something new we could share.
Of course, we were both busy at work. She continued to give her best time to visiting her new parishioners; she was determined to be available and accessible, and to lead by her example of listening and caring and loving. I knew her well enough to know that this was not performative with her; despite the fact that she tended to be an introvert, her care for others was genuine, and most people sensed it very quickly.
As for me, the school year quickly clicked into high gear, and the weekly schedule I had previously described to Jo became my lived reality. I had been teaching long enough now to know my own strengths and weaknesses, to enjoy the good days and roll with the hard days, to be patient with those who struggled, firm with the troublemakers, and encouraging to as many as possible. I enjoyed my colleagues, especially Nicky and Lisa, both of whom I counted as close friends. Lisa as our principal was thoroughly decent, patient, firm and wise, and I counted myself lucky to be at Westbury Community School with her. Nicky, being a Grade 6 teacher, was in a different section of the school from me, but I was always happy to see her at lunch breaks and in the corridor with her fiery red hair and her sparkling Scottish wit.
Jo’s rectory was a fairly basic sort of place, though she quickly made it home. But my house had the added attraction of the open fireplace, and early in the Fall I got in a load of wood. I rarely visited her at the rectory, but a couple of times a week (often before or after dog walks or birding expeditions) she came over to my place to sit by the fire, sip a beer or a cup of dark roast coffee, and just put her feet up and relax. We would talk about the sort of day we’d had, shoot the breeze about politics or music or religion, and just enjoy each other’s company. I knew people were making assumptions about us (you can’t park your car outside someone else’s house in small town Saskatchewan without people noticing), but I had long since decided that none of that mattered to me. Marcus and James and I had been friends for years, and I had never thought I needed any more than that, but now, to my surprise, I had a new friend, and I was glad of her company.
***
“So—how was the trip to Pine Lake?’
Jo stretched her feet out toward the fireplace, took a sip of her coffee, and cupped her hands around the mug. “Interesting,” she said with a slight frown. “Not like anything I’d expected.”
“How so?”
She shrugged. “Well, for one thing, it’s so spread out, isn’t it?”
“It is that.”
It was the first Saturday morning in December, and the mercury had gone down to minus twenty-five Celsius overnight. We had walked our dogs together that morning, bundled up in our down parkas, winter boots and thick tuques, our breath hanging in the frigid Arctic air that had enveloped the central prairie region since the middle of the week. The dogs had seemed happy enough to run, but as soon as we got back to my place, they had positioned themselves as close to the fire as they could, and were now sprawled out in front of us, entertaining us with their snores.
Jo had shucked her parka in the porch, but was still wearing her thick woolly tuque. She was sitting on my left, and she glanced across at me. “It’s not like there’s this big patch of land, and in the middle of it a town or a village. It’s more like there are these little clusters of houses scattered across the whole—what was it? Fifty square kilometres?”
“Fifty-six, to be exact.”
“Right.”
“So Stephen showed you around?”
“Yeah. First he took me straight to the church, where we sat and prayed for a while. I found the church very moving.”
“No stained glass, but lots of art.”
“Yeah, including that really striking painting behind the altar.”
“Christ as a young Cree man. Yeah, that catches your eye, doesn’t it?”
“He said it’s recent, and local?”
“It’s by Della Stonechild. She’s originally from James Smith First Nation, but she married Dwayne Sutherland and moved to Pine Lake about twenty-five years ago. They’re the parents of Stephanie Sutherland, who works at the Arts Barn café. Della’s a really talented artist. Her paintings fetch good prices in Saskatoon.”
“I remember you mentioning her to me, but I haven’t met her yet. Anyway, after the church we went to the band office and I met the chief…”
“Ivan.”
“Ivan Burns, who is apparently Stephen’s cousin—is that right?”
“Second cousin, once removed.”
She laughed at me. “You certainly know the place!”
“The people, anyway. Ivan married a Sutherland, so he’s related to James and his whole clan.”
“Are there just a few surnames in the whole place?”
“Pretty much. Sandersons, Sutherlands, Burns’, Matchaps, Baldheads, Pauls, Birds, Rosses. That just about does it. A few who’ve married into the community—a couple of Nowakayas’ from away northeast, Stonechilds, McKays…”
“Did you know them all when you were growing up?”
“Dad had his steady workers—Sutherlands and Sandersons and Pauls—but once I started hanging out with James I got to know a much wider group. Anyway, you met Ivan…”
“Yeah, he’d brought three elders in—Caroline Sanderson, Silas Matchap, and Thomas Ross—and we had the most amazing time drinking tea and sharing stories about the old days. Heartbreaking stories, some of them—poverty, racism, alcoholism, residential schools—but also some of the most hilarious—oh my God, Luke, I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in months!”
I smiled, enjoying her obvious sense of delight. “They do have a good sense of humour, don’t they?”
“Yeah. By the way, your Cree kokum is apparently under the impression that you’re dating me!”
“James likes to get me in trouble.”
“Oh, he’s to blame, is he?”
“Well, partly.” I met her gaze. “Caroline might have noticed that I talk about you from time to time.”
I saw the sudden stillness on her face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I like you, Jo. I like spending time with you.”
She nodded slowly. “I like you too, Luke Hiebert. You’re good for my soul.”
“Me and my fireplace.”
She grinned. “Your fireplace is good for my soul and my body!”
“Getting back to your day at Pine Lake…”
“Yeah, well, Stephen drove me around to see the place, and we stopped by and visited a few people. He took me into the school for a while, introduced me to some kids, some teachers—James says hi, by the way—and I met Janine, the principal…”
“She’s a good one.”
“She’s related to James, right?”
“His older cousin—through his dad’s older brother.”
“So yeah, that was it, really. I went back to Stephen’s place and met Mary, his wife, and we had more tea and bannock, and then I came home.”
“So what did you learn?”
“I’m still processing that, Luke. I appreciate the question, but can you ask me again in a few days? I feel like I have to take that one for a few walks and journal it before I really know the answer.”
“I can respect that.” I took a sip of my coffee. “So, you plunge into the Christmas season.”
“Advent. We’re in Advent right now.”
“Right; Marcus and Nicky have explained this to me. Well, Nicky more than Marcus. She’s the high church member of the family.”
“Yeah. So we use an Advent wreath, and follow an Advent theme each Sunday, but by the time you reach the middle of December Christmas is starting to swallow up Advent. But I like the Advent themes—the return of Christ, the coming of the Kingdom of God, the messianic prophecies of hope—all that stuff—so I try not to rush toward Christmas too fast.”
“I like that about you Anglicans. You’re kind of like the Lord of the Rings, aren’t you?”
“Are we?”
“I’m thinking about how there’s the story on the surface of the Lord of the Rings, and then there’s this massive backstory that Tolkien had written, but never published, and it keeps peeping through in the Lord of the Rings. You guys are like that with all your traditions and customs. There’s a rich text there somewhere, but I don’t know where it’s published, so I can’t seem to access it. I like it, but it confuses me, too.”
She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “Luke, sometime in the not too distant future, I’m going to ask you to share with me what you enjoy about being a Mennonite.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I’m not just talking about farmer sausage and Dutch Blitz.”
“You know about Dutch Blitz? I’m impressed!”
“Well, I did have Mennonite friends in Saskatoon.”
“Right, I keep forgetting that.”
“Seriously, though—the way your parents have quietly lived their faith in the river valley for decades, and been reconcilers with the indigenous people, and the way you live your faith, too, quietly, without making a big fuss about it—I find it tremendously attractive. And it connects with that whole Red Letter Christian thing which has inspired me since before I became a Christian myself. So—not today, but soon…?”
I nodded. “Sure; I’d love to do that.”
“Thanks.’
***
As we moved through the month of December I saw less and less of Jo. We still walked our dogs together at least once a week (sometimes twice), but she rarely came back to my place afterwards, pleading the amount of work she had to do. The local ministerial association was running a food bank drive through the four weeks of Advent, and Jo was heavily involved in it, not only promoting it at St. Andrew’s, but also recruiting a few volunteers (one of whom, of course, would be her) to help sort and distribute the food once it had all been collected. She was also helping the Sunday School prepare a Christmas pageant that would be part of the service on December 21, the last Sunday of Advent. As usual, rehearsals were chaotic, as there was never a time when every single child was present, so the teachers were always playing catch-up with kids who had been absent for the previous session.
In addition to her regular Sunday services, she was leading several Advent quiet days, providing additional pastoral care for those who found the season difficult, and preparing for the special services on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. There would be a 7.00 p.m. Christmas Eve communion service at Westbury, an 11 p.m. at Rochdale (which would be a candlelight service), and a 10 a.m. Christmas Day service at Howden. And then, Christmas being a Thursday, she had her normal Sunday services to prepare for, three days after Christmas, knowing that even though she would be there, many others would take a break from church that day.
Also, someone was bugging her with text messages. I had noticed for some time that occasionally a text message seemed to cause her some discomfort or distress; we might be out walking and her phone would ping, and when she looked at the screen it was as if a shadow fell across her face for a moment. But only for a moment; she always recovered quickly, thrust the phone decisively back into her pocket, and gave me a cheerful grin. And I began to wonder, what aren’t you telling me, Johanna Rose?
***
In contrast, Christmas at Westbury Mennonite Church was a fairly simple affair, centred on two things: singing and food.
Well, singing, anyway. Food was present, too, but that was more of a home thing. Out at the farm my mom was making peppernuts (pfeffernusse) and sour cream cookies, peppermint cookies made with baker’s ammonia (I kid you not), and icicles (zuckerhoernchen), along with her usual home-made bread and bread rolls (zwieback). Of course, lots of other people were making the same things, and they soon began to show up at coffee hour after church on Sunday, so yeah, I guess the food was a church thing too.
But the singing was central. Our church didn’t normally have a choir, but it did at Christmas time, as our music director strongarmed people into volunteering for it (no one ever said no to Elsie Dueck!). And, truth be told, people didn’t need much strongarming; there’s just something in the Mennonite DNA that breaks instinctively into four-part harmony at the drop of a hat, and Elsie knew how to bring it out of people, even if they didn’t believe they had it. We always sang a lot on Sundays, but on Christmas Eve (our only Christmas service) we sang even more than usual, and when we weren’t singing, the choir was singing to us. Pastor Dan’s sermon might have to be a little shorter, but no one dared suggest that Elsie cut out a hymn or two.
Pastor Dan was a good preacher, and I liked him just fine, even though some of our members thought he’d gotten a little too much of that modern biblical scholarship when he went to that fancy school in the States. Our church always had a contingent that thought Mennonite theology was straying a little too far from Moody and Sankey revivalism. I, on the other hand, took the view that if I wanted American evangelicalism I’d go to the Baptists or the Pentecostals, so I was glad Dan knew a thing or two about what made us different from them.
But that’s us Mennonites; we’re pacifists, but we love a good church squabble. There’s a tiny community not far from us that has seven different Mennonite churches in a fifteen-mile radius. When asked to explain this, they’re likely to smile at you and say, “It’s because we believe in unity in the church.” And if you’re an Anglican like Jo, your head will spin at a comment like that, and you’ll wonder if there’s an entirely separate Mennonite dictionary in which ‘unity’ means ‘disunity.’ In fact, of course, the statement makes perfect sense to us; we believe in unity in the church, so if there’s no unity, we just break away and form a new church made up of people who think exactly like we do.
***
One day when Jo did manage to come back to my place after our dog walk, I put her in the rocking chair in front of the fire with a mug of hot chocolate in her hands, while I took the corner armchair. I noted the dark circles under her eyes. “You’re tired,” I observed.
“Yeah. It’s been a week.”
“Christmas stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the food drive going?”
“Good, but it’s a lot of work, too. And I’m so stressed out about this Christmas pageant. I don’t know why I let myself get talked into helping with it instead of just leaving it to the Sunday School teachers. I like to be helpful, I guess. Nicky warned me about that.”
I grinned. “That’s our Nicky. I can almost hear her voice…” I put on my best imitation of a Scottish accent. “Now, Jo, the baby Jesus’ll no’ be fasht if you leave the wee pageant to Jenni and Amber…”
She burst out laughing. “That’s almost exactly what she said!”
“Fiery and rambunctious at times, but often wise too, our Nicola.”
She nodded slowly. “I know. Next time…”
We were quiet for a moment, the only sounds in the room the breathing of the dogs, the crackle of the wood on the fire, and the slow creak of the rocking chair. Eventually she sighed, put her head back, and said, “Then there’s the Christmas dinner dilemma.”
“If it’s to do with food, Mennonites can help!”
She grinned at me. “That’s what I hear. But this isn’t about food so much as where I eat it—or who I eat it with.”
“Ah—multiple invitations?”
“Yep. One from Caleb and Sarah, three from the church, and…” she hesitated for a moment, and then continued, “…one from Ontario.”
I raised an eyebrow. “This is from the family I’m not supposed to ask you about?”
“I’m sorry, Luke—I promise you, one day I will tell you the whole story, but at the moment…”
“It’s okay, Jo.”
“Is it? I feel like I’m not being fair to you.”
I shook my head. “Tell me about the other invitations.”
“Art and Carol, Lisa and Scott, and the Fulchers.”
“The last thing you want is to have to be ‘on duty’ for a few more hours after the Christmas Day service, right?”
“Honestly, Luke, I know from past experience that I’m just going to want to crawl into a corner and sleep.”
“And Caleb and Sarah?”
“I love them dearly, but I’ll be too exhausted to drive to Saskatoon on Christmas afternoon.”
We were quiet again; in front of the fire Cooper sighed in his sleep and rolled over onto his side.
“Come to Mom and Dad’s,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah; it’s going to be quiet this year. Normally we have at least one set of grandparents there, but this year they’re all going to other aunts and uncles, and my brother Joel’s going to Carly’s family. Jess and Aaron will be up from Regina, but they’re smart, and so are Mom and Dad, and if you and Finn want to curl up in the corner and sleep, they’ll be fine with that. My dad’s been known to have a Christmas afternoon nap himself from time to time.”
“Your mom didn’t seem very keen on leaving me alone last time.”
“True, but I’ve had a word with her about that since then.”
She smiled at me. “You have?”
“Yep.”
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Just that she won’t bug you.”
“Okay then…”
***
On Christmas Eve I went to Westbury Mennonite Church for our early evening service. I can tell you this for sure: there’s something special about a church full of Mennonites singing confidently in four-part harmony with a whole lot of Christmas joy on their faces. My German is pretty rudimentary, but even I loved that moment at the end of the service when, having sung ‘Silent Night’ in English, we proceeded to sing the whole thing again in the original language: Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht…
Pastor Dan Giesbrecht managed to offend the Bible-thumping contingent just a wee bit (as Nicky Fox would say) with his sermon on ‘The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.’ “The Word became flesh,” Dan said; “The Word didn’t become a book. Jesus is the true Word of God; if we want to read about God most accurately, we read the life of Jesus. Other words point to Jesus, but Jesus himself is the highest and brightest and clearest vision we have of the perfect will of God.” Thank you, Dan, I thought, for reminding people what makes us different from Baptists and Pentecostals. More power to your dangerous radical Anabaptist vision!
On Christmas morning I got up and took my dog for a walk through the quiet streets of Westbury. The walk ended up at my goddaughter’s house, where Marcus and Nicky and Daisy were opening presents and drinking strong coffee. Nicky cooked me a huge plate of bacon and eggs, Marcus gave me a couple of new bluegrass CDs, and then I got down on the floor with Daisy for an hour or so, playing with farm animals and Lego and reading her stories and even singing a funny song or two for her. At one point Cooper got in on the fun, but pretty soon I had to restrain her from trying to ride him like a horse. Cooper’s a pretty easy-going dog, but he draws the line at horseplay.
I took him home just before noon, put one of my new CDs on, made myself a fresh cup of coffee, and then called Jo’s cell.
“Hey,” she said, “Merry Christmas.”
“You sound remarkably awake and cheerful for a girl who’s just finished Christmas service number three.”
“Trust me, it’s all an act. I’m too exhausted to drive. Do you think we can fit two humans and two dogs in your truck?”
“Sure. It’s not too cold today, so Cooper can ride in the penthouse.”
“Sure?”
“He’s done it before.”
“Thanks, Luke.”
“See you in about fifteen minutes.”
***
The farmyard was a winter wonderland, with two feet of snow on the ground and hoarfrost on the trees. We left Cooper and Finn outside to run around with Mom and Dad’s dogs, and went inside to greet my family. Jess and Aaron were meeting Jo for the first time, but I had quietly primed my sister to give her some space, and after a few minutes conversation, Mom put a mug of herbal tea in her hand and sent her into the living room to curl up in the big armchair by the fireplace. When I looked in ten minutes later, she was fast asleep with a half-empty mug in her hand; I took it carefully from her fingers, watched her sleeping for a moment, and then went out to the kitchen to join the others.
“Wow, she really is exhausted, isn’t she?” said Jess as she and my mom worked on the vegetables.
“She’s had a big month,” I replied.
Jess gave me a mischievous grin. “She’s pretty!”
“Yes she is, but we’re not dating, so you don’t need to go down that road.”
“If you say so…”
Later in the afternoon, as the sun was going down, Jo and I took a winter walk. We followed the highway half a mile east to the edge of the trees, then cut north along the tree line until we found the trail my dad kept clear, winding through the bush toward a narrow frozen creek. The dogs ran ahead, and after a while I felt Jo take my arm. “Merry Christmas,” she said softly.
“Merry Christmas, Johanna Rose.”
She was quiet for a moment as we walked slowly under the snow-clad trees; off in the distance I heard a woodpecker’s beak tapping against a tree trunk, the sound amplified in the frigid air. And then I heard Jo’s sigh. “Luke,” she said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I—I don’t have a very good relationship with my family back in Ontario.”
“I’ve guessed that.”
“Dad’s a very successful businessman, and that’s what drives his life—business success. And I’ve never been remotely interested in that.”
“I imagine that doesn’t exactly make him proud and happy.”
“No.”
We slowed a little as we got close to the creek, and I waited, knowing she would say what she wanted to say in her own time.
“The thing is, my dad used to call me Johanna Rose, and sometimes he still does.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah. But it’s not the words themselves; it’s how he uses them. It’s always coupled with a slow shake of his head and a disappointed expression in his eyes. It’s never a beautiful gift, which I know is the way you mean it. I just need you to know that back story.”
“Jo,” I said softly, “I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known before I started saying it.”
“I don’t want you to stop saying it. With you, like I said, it’s a beautiful gift, and I want to get more comfortable with it, so I can accept it and be happy about it. But I just wanted you to know why it’s not always easy for me.”
“Message received,” I said. “I will keep that in mind.”
“Thank you.”
***
By the time the six of us sat around the supper table, Jo had recovered her poise. She chatted easily with my mom, bantered back and forth with Jess, and talked quietly with my dad. She was seated across the table from me, and from time to time she tilted her head a little to her left as she listened to me, the ghost of a smile playing around her lips.
At one point my brother-in-law Aaron asked her, “Do you get a few days off now, Jo?”
“Tomorrow, and maybe half of Saturday” she replied. “Saturday afternoon I’ve got a little work to do, because I’m in the saddle again on Sunday.”
“Preaching?” asked my father.
“No—Marcus Janzen kindly offered to preach at all three of my services. But I’m presiding at the Eucharist, so I’ll be up front as usual.”
By now I was familiar enough with Jo’s Anglican-speak to be able to interpret for her when she was talking to Mennonites. “In the Anglican tradition it has to be an ordained priest who leads a communion service,” I said to Aaron, “and Jo’s parishioners are used to having communion every week, so she’s always on deck.”
“Wow, that’s a little different from us,” said Jess. “With us, we have different service leaders taking turns.”
“Although it is normally Pastor Dan who leads our communion services,” I said. ‘It’s just that we only have them once a month.”
“Right.” Jess frowned thoughtfully. “Why do Anglicans have communion so often,” she asked Jo. “Sorry—I’m not trying to be rude; I genuinely want to know.”
“No offense taken,” Jo replied. “We take our lead from the practice of the early Christian centuries, especially the apostolic fathers—the first and second century leaders who followed on from the apostles. Every time they talk about Sunday worship they talk about the Eucharist. There’s no record of any other form of Sunday worship among Christians.”
“But the Bible doesn’t require that, does it?”
“No, but these are the same church councils that finalised the table of contents of our Bible, so it’s a little inconsistent if we follow their lead about which books should be in the Bible, but part company with them in other areas.” She grinned mischievously at Jess. “But there’s no need for us to be controversial about it with our Christmas dinner, is there?”
“Agreed,” said my dad, “although another time, I wouldn’t mind hearing you unpack that argument a little more.”
“I could do that.”
“So what are you going to do with your time off?” Jess asked her.
“Tomorrow I plan to sleep late! But early in the afternoon I’ve got two friends coming to stay overnight, one from Saskatoon and one from Borden. The one from Saskatoon I’ve known since I was a student in Toronto; we first met fourteen years ago. The one from Borden is another Anglican priest; we shared an apartment together while we were seminary students.”
“That’ll be nice for you,” said my mom. “People you can let your hair down with, at least a little.”
Jo smiled and nodded. “I’m really looking forward to it,” she said.
I was watching her and listening to what she had to say, noticing the curve of her cheek and the intoxicating way her red hair tumbled down loose over her shoulders, and I suddenly realized that something else was going on, too; I was feeling something inside that I hadn’t felt for a while. Luke Hiebert, I said to myself, you’re in love with Jo Warren.
Except that you’re in love with the Jo Warren you know. And she’s told you explicitly that there’s more. Be careful. Wait for her to tell you the rest of the story.
Right. As you were, Hiebert.
“Anyone interested in coffee?” asked my mom.
“Yes!” said about three different people at once.
“You sit tight, Mom,” said Jess, getting up from her seat. “I’ll make the coffee.”
“Thanks, honey,” my mother replied.
Jo was watching me across the table. “You okay?” she asked.
“I am,” I replied with a grin. “Have you ever played Dutch Blitz?”
She laughed. “I have not!”
“Today might be your lucky day!”
Faith, Folk and Charity 