Kristi Holler

Mother’s Day

May 13, 2012

Today I’m thinking about those who have given birth.  I’m also thinking about those who were ready to give birth, then something happened; stillborn, miscarriage, the unexplainable…

Today I’m thinking about Mom, and the way she impacts my life; her tendency to sit quietly and listen while those around her might be arguing about this or that; her work ethic, spirit of fitness and commitment to everything she cares for, especially her African Violets, and Rose Bushes.  She is always present, careful not to interfere, and admits to not knowing the correct boundaries of caring too much.

I remember leaving home for the first time to attend college.  Of course, I went to classes, but I recall visiting the phone booth to call Mom, more than any appointments I had with a Professor.  “How’s our dog Bonnie Belle,” I ask, “Does she miss me?  Does she sleep in my bed waiting for me to come home?”  I remember hiding my pain, my secrets from Mom, not talking much about anything heavy on my heart.  She didn’t ask questions. 

Thinking about the time Mom left Sioux Falls to retire in Arizona.  The night before she left we did all of the favorite things we did together.  We went to the ½ Price Store!  We had dinner together and toasted to her new life she so deserved.  That night, Mom drove me back to my apartment.  We sat in her car, and said goodbye.

I held back my tears until I unlocked the door of my apartment.  Then I rushed to the window to see if I could still see her in the parking lot.  She was gone.  I cried.

I’ve tried to fly down to see her every year since she moved.  Today I called my Mother on Mother’s Day to tell her how glad I am that she is my Mom and thank her for always being there when I needed her.  “What are you doing today, Mom?”  She was going to spend the day reading a novel and catch an NBA playoff game.  “I wish I were there to spend the day with you, Mom.”

Shadows, Ladders, and Trucks

May 5^th, 2012

    When Kody was a puppy, the first thing she barked at was her own shadow.  We walked outside together and she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.  The shadow of her little body reflected on the side of the house was as big as a golden retriever, and it scared her.  She sat down facing her shadow and barked. 

    I thought of this because in the very spot she barked at her shadow, there are now five ladders, scaffolding, and piles of shingles.  The roofers are here and Kody is barking hysterically.  I tried taking her out the front door for a walk, but there are two trucks parked in the driveway and she doesn’t like that AT ALL.  She runs around the yard barking.  I wonder how long this roof job is going to take.

    There have been times, when other big trucks pull up to the house, like the UPS truck, or a Construction Truck.  If I have to talk to the drivers, Kody disappears behind the house, down the hill near the creek, and waits for me to go get her.  The only reason I can think of for why she does this, is because she thinks that since I’m talking to the drivers, that she’ll have to greet them too.  She doesn’t like strangers, any more than she likes shadows, ladders, and trucks.

    Sometimes I wish she wouldn’t bark so much.  And as soon as I think that, I remind myself there will come a day when she’s not with me anymore, and I’m going to wish that her barking would be all I hear.  Sometimes I wish she wouldn’t bark for 10 minutes straight when my friends come over.  Then I remind myself how much I would miss her voice if she weren’t next to me when a friend arrives.

    The ladders will be in her spot for at least a week.  If I walk out with her and lead her away from them, she follows me.  We will avoid the trucks parked in the driveway.  And I’ll (try) to cherish Kody’s barking when she starts hearing footsteps on the roof, hammers, and staple guns.

What I learned from Missy, the Poodle

    Missy was two years old when I first met her.  She welcomed me by immediately sitting on my lap the moment I sat down.  I loved her instantly.  I met Missy when I was emerging from one of a half dozen “wildernesses” I would trudge through.  She didn’t know the secrets I kept or the past I left behind.  She knew what a lot of us forget, that love is a verb.  She loved me when I didn’t deserve it.  Sat on my lap when I didn’t deserve it.  Stayed by my side when I didn’t deserve it.  That’s what I learned from Missy; unconditional love and acceptance.

    The other night, I watched her closely, watching her breathe; wondering if she is comfortable, or struggling.  She is sleeping soundly, I decided, reaching out my hand to stroke her tired, hurting body; carefully, not wanting to startle or disturb much needed rest.  Too late.  She anticipated my love, raised her head slightly, looked into my eyes as deeply as she could, then lay back down. 

    The following morning, I laid down by her side and knew it would be the last time I did so.  I whispered in her ear, “I love you.  Thank you for loving me.”  Then I laid there remembering how much she taught me.  It was as though during her last hour, she gave me final instructions.  “Give to the poor, welcome the stranger, visit the sick and imprisoned, feed the hungry.”

    Do not judge.

    Today Missy passed away at 11:30 am.  She was at peace and did not suffer.  It has been a weepy day and all of us in the household know it will take time to adapt to this awful change in our family.  Hans sought comfort immediately, and now lies sleeping beside me as I write this. 

    The house is quiet, which is strange, since she was so quiet these last few weeks.  We all painfully feel her absence, because her love for us was not so much vocalized; her love for us was a verb. 

From where I sit, I see the sky stretch for miles.  At this particular moment, clouds are fast approaching, like a herd of white buffalo claiming the Midwestern sky over the Great Plains.

I breathe in the wasted eyes of a sleepless night.

I breathe out the serenity of snuggling in this chair, covered with a blanket, and writing creatively this chilly Saturday afternoon.

In place of attending a Good Friday service last night, I watched most of “The Passion of Christ.”  This week was Holy Week.  While I started out on Palm Sunday, mindfully observing the meaning of Holy Week, hoping to be more compassionate, and loving, by Thursday I felt no sweeter than the Jelly Beans we all were buying for a dollar.

I breathe in the self-pity and self-righteous thoughts that choke out a gnat and swallow a camel.

I breathe out the satisfaction of being willing to change for the better.

I tried to attend a Maundy Thursday service.  I drove to the Church and parked near the Sanctuary entrance.  I walked in and there wasn’t a soul in sight.  The Sanctuary was dark, so I wandered around, looking for people.  I followed a hallway leading to double doors and began hearing voices.  No, not in my head; real voices.  I stood there with a dilemma of what to do next.  So, I decided to go to the bathroom.  I looked in the mirror and confronted myself, “You’re not going to chicken out.”

When I got back in my car, I decided to pull around the corner to locate the entrance everybody else used.  I parked across the street from where there were a lot of cars in that parking lot.  Then I saw people.  They were carrying pans, tupperware bowls, dessert dishes.  Oh, dinner.  I didn’t bring anything because I thought it was going to be a prayer service.  So, I drove back home.

I breathe in fear, feelings of inadequacy, worthlessness, and worry.

I breathe out the love of God that loves us as we are.

From where I sit, I watch the clouds and look for images in their forms.  Look, there’s a horse.  There’s a lion.  There’s a mother holding her baby.  The wind is fierce today.  I wonder if birds can build nests in these conditions. 

I breathe in the sound of Good Friday, the sound of one lonely cry that shook the world and wiped out the sun.

I breathe out the eyes of the crucified King gazing into our eyes with a look of understanding because of his own anguish and spilled life at Golgotha.

I breathe in the cross, a testament to our brokenness and all that is wrong in our lives; the sight and consequence of human cruelty.

I breathe out “Easter is coming.”

Picked these lemons myself off Mom's lemon trees in Arizona!

Bookcases

March 26, 2011

    Today I decided it was time to reorganize my bookcases.  The bookcase in my office needed the most attention, so I started there.  Right off the bat I made a pile of my Marcus Borg books (they belong upstairs with the others) and Barbara Brown Taylor books (they have a special shelf all to themselves above Marcus Borg)  and Peter Rollins and Brennan Manning get along just fine next to each other.  I decided it was time to let go of John Grisham, David Baldacci, and Ken Follett, thinking shoppers at the Goodwill might notice their names, and feel good about a good bargain on a great novel. 

    The bookcases in my bedroom hold books from the College days, Studies of feminist theology, Social imagination, and Poetry from greats like Maya Angelou.  Goodwill?  Nah.  I’ll hold on to them a little longer.  Maybe I’ll get around to reading them.

    I felt like a drill sergeant glancing down the rows of books I read in Seminary.  All of them, in perfect formation, made me realize how WAY more imperfect I’d become since then.  I felt like apologizing to the authors, especially when I recalled the book reports I'd written.  I quickly moved the books to a lower shelf so they wouldn’t be such a blatant reminder to me that I hadn't followed too much of their advice yet.  Noticing them so suddenly made me feel like a long lost lover, who had abandoned them at the altar.  The oldest bookcase in my bedroom has my twin sister’s name carved in it.  She carved it herself with a steak knife when she was in the 7th grade.  Because of her carving, I’ll never get rid of that bookcase.  Though it is full of books, the most valuable thing to me is K-A-R-L-A.

    Bookcases are homes, like Robin nests.  Every story belongs somewhere.  Some lose their way, because of poor guidance.  Others end up on the wrong shelf simply because they are opened too often to be put back in its’ proper place. 

    Today I had a doctor's appointment.  I brought a book along to pass the time since I was early for the appointment.  I’m not kidding you, three people said hi, then quickly studied the title of the book I held in my hands.  I realized then that the book had two homes; a bookcase, or our attention.  Either way, the story is there, waiting to be read.   

(Karla and Zachary greeted me at the airport, holding these signs they made.)

    Arizona means several things to me.  First, it lured my mother from a life of retirement to a leisure world full of creative options she never had the chance to try.  Next, my twin sister fell in love with the sun, and the place she would give birth to her son.  She loves her job, and she lives in a beautiful place.  I understand why she’ll never leave Arizona. 

    Arizona is like another world I enter when I visit.  I leave the daily routine behind, and anticipate reliving memories with Mother, Karla and I.

    One night we made a spaghetti supper together; I made the sauce, Karla made the salad, and Mom figured out the garlic bread.  At one point, I looked back at Karla, sitting at the table, pulling apart lettuce, and thought, “We never did this together when we were growing up.”  I wanted to hold that moment as long as possible. 

    Another night we went to a Carnival; something we hadn’t done together since we were kids.  Karla rode a train-like thing through a dark, scary tunnel with her son, Zachary.  Mom chased Zachary around on the bumper cars.  And I rode a silly ride called, “Fly” where you really did...well… fly.  I felt and flew like Superman!

    One morning we met my Uncle Donald and Aunt Alice for lunch at a restaurant called, “Garcias.”  They live in Casa Grande part of the year, and south of Chicago the rest of the year.   I love Don and Alice so much.  I remember the Christmases they surprised us by sending gifts made with their very hands; the birthday greetings they sent; the special attention they gave when they came to visit.  When Grandmother Zola died, Aunt Alice was the one who found me sobbing uncontrollably at the back of the sanctuary after Grandma’s funeral, and wrapped her arms around me.  She didn’t silence, or shhishh me, but let me cry in her arms without trying to clean up my mess.

    During lunch, while Alice talked, I hung onto every word.  When Don talks, he usually makes us laugh, because he is so funny.  This time, though, I asked him about his service in World War II.  I was curious to know about his life, how war affected him, how he met Alice, and what he did following his tour of military duty. 

    When we finished lunch at “Garcias,” we all gathered around their mini-Van.  Don sat in the driver’s seat.  I sat in the passenger’s seat.  I located their CD player, and slid in my CD, “Alpha Love” and forwarded to the familiar hymn, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.”  The music started, and Uncle Don began singing along.  I joined him a moment later, and we continued singing together to the end of the song.  I leaned over to hug him, and said, “I love you.”  I pushed replay on the CD control, stepped out of the Van, hugged Aunt Alice and said, “listen to the song that’s playing.  Don and I just sang it together.  I love you.  Call me and let me know you got home safely.”

    Later that night, Aunt Alice called....

My Grandmother Zola

    My Grandmother Zola taught me many things, including how to play the piano.  She taught me how to read, write, and spell “Mississippi” when I was four.  She taught me how to color “inside the lines” and create my own story books.  Grandma taught me how to feed her goldfish, and how to clean the fish bowl without killing the fish.

    I remember Grandma as far back as I can remember; at our birthday parties, at Christmas gatherings, family reunions, and every Sunday at Church.  I remember all of us piling into the car to drive to Chicago.  I was sick and she held the bag while I vomited the first several hours of the trip.  She was there when I was baptized, attended every Chorus Program, and gave me my very first Hymnal.  She taught me Scripture.    

    I loved Grandma.  When our family moved from Hartford, SD, to Sioux Falls, we moved one block away from her.  My sisters and I slept over often and we were spoiled with a bedtime snack of one scoop of vanilla ice cream with saltine crackers.  The room we slept in had a painting of Jesus on the wall at the foot of the bed.  The moonlight came through the window just enough for us to fall asleep staring at a painting of Jesus.  I felt safe at Grandma’s house.

    One Saturday our family went shopping at Sears.  When we got home, we had an early dinner at our house with Grandma.  When we were finished eating, my twin sister and I asked if we could stay over night with Grandma.  We packed an overnight bag and walked with her the one block to her house.  One half block into our walk, Grandma had to sit down and rest.  Sensing something was wrong, Karla found a low lying branch of a tree to swing from, trying to get her attention.  “Look at me Grandma!”  I remember her face; she wasn’t even looking in Karla’s direction.  When we walked into her house, she said almost immediately she wasn’t feeling well.  She sat in a chair, and Karla and I, wanting to make her feel better, started giving her a back rub.  I was standing in front of her, and when I looked down at her face, her head was hanging to the right, her tongue hung out of her mouth and she was sputtering.  I jumped back and screamed.  Karla ran to the phone, dialed home, and I heard her cry, “Grandma looks funny.”   

    When our parents and the ambulance arrived, they told us to go home; everything will be ok.  But before we did, I looked into my Grandma’s eyes, fearing that she was dying, and I’ve never forgotten that look. 

  Grandma recovered in the hospital.  But the next summer, our family moved across town, and we saw less of her.  Then the most awful thing happened.  Grandma died when I was 13 years old.  She died before I ever knew how she really felt about me.  Now, I can only imagine.  And when I imagine, it’s a punishment I give myself over and over; like a grieving that will never end.  How would she feel about me now?

Parable of the Lost Cows

March 2, 2012

    For my twin sister and my birthday one year; we were, I don’t know, 5 years old;  we got a flock of sheep from my Grandpa and Grandma of Pierpont, SD.  I remember them pulling a trailer down the long gravel driveway.  Looking out the window, our eyes were wide to the ceremonial process.  Dad walked out to the rig, and soon, Grandpa appeared in full cowboy get-up.  He and dad exchanged words, then together they pulled the ramp down.  Then, another door opened and one, two, three, ten sheep stepped into their new home.  When we were all together in the house,  the announcement came, “Happy Birthday, Kristi and Karla!” 

    How does a 5 year old respond to a birthday present that is a flock of sheep?  The day we watched the sheep parade down the ramp was the last memory I have of them.  When I’ve asked about our long lost sheep, I’ve received conflicting reports. 

    I’m surprised that this memory of our birthday sheep has surfaced since my welcoming of the cows finding a home in the field behind the house.  The cows are back now, and I’m learning not to worry so much about them when they wander off.

    I’m having trouble eating burgers lately, because of… you know, the cows.  I’m not much of a meat eater anyway as I eat burgers at either Culvers, or the Monarch.  That sums up my meat menu.  Well, now that these living, breathing animals are back, looking at me, I’m having a problem.  You see, I missed them.

    I wasn’t kidding when I said I would drive around the county roads looking for them; no, not to bring them back, but just to know where they wandered off to.  Makes me think, if I care about cows that I have no personal connection to, how much more, does God, who lives in and through us, care about us?  How much more does God care, when we wander off, when we feel lost?

     I’m not sure we’re ever lost.  I believe we are always loved, and God knows where that one lost calf is.  Wherever it is, God will find it. 

To be continued...

When Cows come Home

February 26,2012

    One morning I looked out the window to see that dozens of cows had made their home near the backyard.  Kody was the second one to notice when I let her outside.  I’ve never seen her run so fast through the yard.  There she stood barking, no doubt wondering how she was going to herd in so many.  The only critters we have seen beyond that fence are, cats, raccoons, and deer.  Once I saw a Siberian Husky running way out yonder, then looked around the yard, and realized it was MY Siberian Husky, Gypsy.

    Every Spring a farmer arrives in a big John Deere Tractor and plants either corn or soybean.  Kody barks the entire day.  Now that the cows have moved in, we need to learn how to live peacefully together.  From what I can tell, the cows couldn't be more peaceful.  They look bored with us, and they chew, look away and lift their tails to fertilize the soil. 

    Then one morning, when I opened the door to let the dogs out, Kody charged out the door with a bark ready for the cows, and she stopped mid-sentence.  The cows didn’t come home last night.  There was not one in sight.  Where, oh where, have they gone?  Are they over east near the stock dam that doesn’t have any water in it anymore?  No.  Are they over west near the neighbor’s house?  No.  And through the binoculars, I see nothing north but a cow-less field.  I’ll give them a day or two to find their way back before I go on a serious search mission;  wait, isn’t that what the saying means, “you’ll be waiting ‘til the cows come home?”