How Guin Grew
This is my fantasy of how I could be a part of Guin's life. I think I thought of this when I first learned it was going to be a girl, or something silly like that. For Amanda and Guin.
This is my fantasy of how I could be a part of Guin's life. I think I thought of this when I first learned it was going to be a girl, or something silly like that. For Amanda and Guin.
I was raised by my parents, and I went to school of course. But it was from my mother's small group that I learned how to be a woman.
Every other Tuesday, they would descend on our house, smelling of their various homes, and workplaces, wearing jeans, and toting flour and bibles. My mother always prepared for their arrival in the same way, by putting a table cloth on the kitchen table. Her grandmother croqueted it, and it looked like lace, what with it being white, and the pattern. It was made for a round table, which was good, because the kitchen table was round, but it was made for a bigger table. So the edges always hung down about halfway to the ground. When I was three, I would hide under the table while they were arriving.
Hannah, the youngest besides me, was always the first one to get there. She always came a good four hours before the others. This was partly because she was homeschooled, and didn't have a job. But mostly, it was because my mom was her mentor. Hannah expressed her part of this relationship mostly with manual labor. For the first two hours, Hannah did laundry, or cleaning, or yard work for us. Whatever needed doing. Mom was happy to have a willing, and able bodied teenager to do some work once in a while. I often tagged along on her chores, and tried to help. I thought she was the coolest thing ever. I expect I mostly got in the way. In turn, my mother would call Hannah twice a week to nag her about doing her devotions. And for the last two hours before small group started, Hannah would talk about what was going on in her life, and Amanda would counsel her. Our book shelves were never quite full either. We were a lending library, but Hannah was the only regular patron.
Then, the rest would come in, a big lauging clump, removing coats and scarves, or muddy boots, depending on the season.
Rebecca was my mom's best friend since college. She was the mother of three boys, and an art teacher at the elementary school.
Jane, a retired woman who always wore long, colorful skirts. She was very beautiful, wrinkles and all.
Then Emily. I can barely remember going to Emily's wedding. All I remember of her husband was a man with a big smile who twirled me around and tickled me. He died in a car crash, three years into their marriage. They were both 25. For six months straight we cried with Emily at every meeting. I remember the funeral much more then I do the wedding. Course, I was eight, not five.
We still cried with each other, even before and after those six months. But there is more laughter then tears. Everyone said that the dinners were haven from regular life.
It was an oasis, filled with music- Andrew Peterson, hymns, or Skillet.
Every week a different person brought recipes and ingredients. Mom often offered to do food. But they wouldn't let her. "Amanda," the women said. "You open your house to us twice a month, rain or shine. Let us take care of the food." Pretzels, Basil Pesto on Pasta, and Greek Pizza were oft repeated favorites. We cooked, and ate. While the cooking was going on, there was dancing and laughter. Then, when the good was served, they discussed the book of the bible, or devotional material they were reading. And what was going on in everyone's life. When all the food was eaten, we prayed, hands on shoulders, asking the Holy Spirit to breath life into our circle.
Then, someone hopped up, and we started on dishes. When the dishes were done hugs and kisses were exchanged, and everyone left, making the house fell empty. Everyone took turns taking Hannah home.
From these women, I learned beauty, laughter, tears. Cooking, and work. Sitting and thinking.
Now, I am at college. Rebeca and mom are empty nesters together. They go out and paint murals on city walls, and make pottery that falls over. Emily adopted twin girls. She never remarried. Hannah is getting married in a month. The four of them keep talking about starting up small group again. I think they miss it. They stopped when Jane died, because it wasn't the same. We all visited her in the hospital. I want to die like that. So courageous. Sometimes, on Tuesday nights, I stop eating and stare into space for a half an hour, lost in the lessons that I learn. When I come back to reality, my food is cold. But I am better for the memories. They remind me to be a woman. And that I must find friends that I can share tears with, as well as the laughter.
Every other Tuesday, they would descend on our house, smelling of their various homes, and workplaces, wearing jeans, and toting flour and bibles. My mother always prepared for their arrival in the same way, by putting a table cloth on the kitchen table. Her grandmother croqueted it, and it looked like lace, what with it being white, and the pattern. It was made for a round table, which was good, because the kitchen table was round, but it was made for a bigger table. So the edges always hung down about halfway to the ground. When I was three, I would hide under the table while they were arriving.
Hannah, the youngest besides me, was always the first one to get there. She always came a good four hours before the others. This was partly because she was homeschooled, and didn't have a job. But mostly, it was because my mom was her mentor. Hannah expressed her part of this relationship mostly with manual labor. For the first two hours, Hannah did laundry, or cleaning, or yard work for us. Whatever needed doing. Mom was happy to have a willing, and able bodied teenager to do some work once in a while. I often tagged along on her chores, and tried to help. I thought she was the coolest thing ever. I expect I mostly got in the way. In turn, my mother would call Hannah twice a week to nag her about doing her devotions. And for the last two hours before small group started, Hannah would talk about what was going on in her life, and Amanda would counsel her. Our book shelves were never quite full either. We were a lending library, but Hannah was the only regular patron.
Then, the rest would come in, a big lauging clump, removing coats and scarves, or muddy boots, depending on the season.
Rebecca was my mom's best friend since college. She was the mother of three boys, and an art teacher at the elementary school.
Jane, a retired woman who always wore long, colorful skirts. She was very beautiful, wrinkles and all.
Then Emily. I can barely remember going to Emily's wedding. All I remember of her husband was a man with a big smile who twirled me around and tickled me. He died in a car crash, three years into their marriage. They were both 25. For six months straight we cried with Emily at every meeting. I remember the funeral much more then I do the wedding. Course, I was eight, not five.
We still cried with each other, even before and after those six months. But there is more laughter then tears. Everyone said that the dinners were haven from regular life.
It was an oasis, filled with music- Andrew Peterson, hymns, or Skillet.
Every week a different person brought recipes and ingredients. Mom often offered to do food. But they wouldn't let her. "Amanda," the women said. "You open your house to us twice a month, rain or shine. Let us take care of the food." Pretzels, Basil Pesto on Pasta, and Greek Pizza were oft repeated favorites. We cooked, and ate. While the cooking was going on, there was dancing and laughter. Then, when the good was served, they discussed the book of the bible, or devotional material they were reading. And what was going on in everyone's life. When all the food was eaten, we prayed, hands on shoulders, asking the Holy Spirit to breath life into our circle.
Then, someone hopped up, and we started on dishes. When the dishes were done hugs and kisses were exchanged, and everyone left, making the house fell empty. Everyone took turns taking Hannah home.
From these women, I learned beauty, laughter, tears. Cooking, and work. Sitting and thinking.
Now, I am at college. Rebeca and mom are empty nesters together. They go out and paint murals on city walls, and make pottery that falls over. Emily adopted twin girls. She never remarried. Hannah is getting married in a month. The four of them keep talking about starting up small group again. I think they miss it. They stopped when Jane died, because it wasn't the same. We all visited her in the hospital. I want to die like that. So courageous. Sometimes, on Tuesday nights, I stop eating and stare into space for a half an hour, lost in the lessons that I learn. When I come back to reality, my food is cold. But I am better for the memories. They remind me to be a woman. And that I must find friends that I can share tears with, as well as the laughter.
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