As with our phone calls, Anne and I were immediately comfortable with each other. As Anne later said, “the weird thing about [having me in her home] was that it wasn’t weird.” There was no awkwardness--it was like being in my mom’s or aunt’s or grandma’s house. An extension of home. Her kids came home from school and the babysitter’s about the time I got done showering away the airplane grime. As I opened the bathroom door, I heard little-girl-whispering at the top of the basement steps.
“Is she really a princess?”
“I think so...”
Anne’s daughters began calling me Princess Rose a long time before they met me. The name came from a movie. I had doubts about its accuracy...but it was pretty flattering. i wasn’t going to argue and hurt their little-girl feelings. They were even more beautiful than the pictures Anne had sent. Her son was a handsome, delightful little boy with a mischievous grin.
The first part of our visit was spent around the woodstove, watching the snow blow outside the windows. I kept thinking of the descriptions in “The Long Winter” by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I had heard and read about prairie blizzards, but had never seen one before. It was beautiful, but the thought of surviving a winter in this barren wilderness 150 years ago was a sobering one. It helped me see in a new way how truly tough the western pioneer settlers...and their descendents...had to be. I was suddenly keenly aware of how tough I wasn’t, especially right then.
But in spite of the bitter weather outside, inside it was warm and cozy. There was a teakettle of hot water on the stove from the time we finished the coffee in the morning till we went to bed at night. Who’d have guessed that we both went through cold winter days with a hot cup of tea (or, in my case, coffee for mornings) never too far from our hands?
The funny thing was, that, while we certainly did lots of talking, silence wasn’t awkward either. I think, at first, we were each getting used to the idea that the other was real. Sometimes, it had seemed like, after we hung up the phone, that the voice on the other end was just that--a voice. We knew so many details of each other’s hearts, minds, and lives...but sometimes it still seemed a bit surreal. Maybe God gave us the phone number of a ministering angel...was it too much to hope that she was a real person?
So, at first, we sort of marveled at how cool it was to add facial expressions and body language to our conversations. We had exchanged a few pictures, mostly of our families, had thrown in were one or two of the more flattering shots of ourselves. However, as we hung out around the table, on the couch beside the fire, playing with the kids...we realized that we had hardly known what the other looked like. Thanks to the marvels of modern technology, we also talked on the computer with my parents and my kids. i think (especially given my mental state of the previous months) that, deep down, my mother was just a bit relieved to find that Anne was really and truly a real person and that I wasn’t just floating around the Great American West somewhere. Not that Mom thought that my husband would let that happen...but it was nice that she could actually see us, talk to us, and even take a bit of a virtual tour around Anne’s house.
It was a wonderful week. We spent a delightful Sunday afternoon wandering through a beautifully restored late 1800’s hotel a few minutes from Anne‘s home. Looking down the wide main street, a person could almost hear the thunder of hooves as a long-ago cattle drive came through town. It was a slow tourist season, this first week of February, and the owner of the hotel was gracious and welcoming. She left us wander through her meticulously restored establishment at our leisure, except for the few rooms that were occupied, of course. Modern conveniences had been discreetly blended into period decor; bullet holes had been left for ambiance. The Teddy Roosevelt room seemed as if Teddy himself couldn’t have left that long ago. Also preserved was the room where Owen Wister stayed (the author of “The Virginian”). It had an adjoining writing room--really not much more than a cubbyhole--with a writing desk and a window. Many more and less notorious characters had passed through the doors--Calamity Jane, Billy the Kid, and other famous outlaws and lawmen. The place was full of photographs and history preserved...I was awed and a bit intimidated by the flavor of the old west that permeated everything. I was again acutely aware of how eastern I was and how tough I wasn’t.
In some ways our time was bittersweet. I could see for myself the toll that EDS had taken on my friend. The pain that had her rocking against the grocery cart in the store--I knew we needed to get out of there and get her home so she could rest and take her meds. How thin she was, how she ate constantly to try to satisfy the hunger that resulted from her damaged system being unable to process nourishment well.
I had thought long and hard about what to bring to her. She loved the pictures of the woods and greenery around my house; so it was a fairly simple thing, with modern photo websites, to design a calendar of pictures I had taken around home, for her to enjoy through the year. But another special thing that I was able to tuck in my suitcase was a print identical to one I had hanging on my wall, along with a copy of the Juniata Mennonite Historical Center Echoes newsletter titled “In loving memory of Noah Zimmerman.” Over the years, I had gained much respect for Noah Zimmerman, the late historian and director of the Juniata Mennonite Historical Society. His simple, quiet life had impressed me so...he had been gifted with the talent for remembering and preserving history, and had done so with all his heart, to the glory of God. In his correspondence, he had signed his letters with: “Until Reclaimed, Noah Zimmerman.“ He was faithful until he was reclaimed by his Lord and Savior following a battle with cancer at age 80. After his death, the historical society had commissioned a print in his memory--a picture of his well-worn overalls, coat, and boots against the backdrop of one of the walls of his home, along with some articles of clothing that had belonged to his parents, whom he had cared for until their deaths. The print was finished with a small inset of a picture of Noah and his sister Sarah. Sarah was a dear lady who suffered from mental illness; Noah had also cared for her as long as he was able to do so. The print was titled, simply, “Reclaimed.” He didn’t need the overalls anymore. His family responsibilities were finished. His simple, unselfish life was an example I was honored to witness. Anne had been captivated by his story and especially loved how he signed his letters, “Until Reclaimed.” As I watched her face, as she looked over the things I had brought, I wondered how long it would be until she was “reclaimed.” But I could not think of that. This was our week, to just enjoy hanging out together.
The hardest day was getting out the box of Jack’s things. It was barely touched since the funeral--all the pictures, all the memorabilia that Anne had saved for her children. Some months after Jack’s death, I had asked about reading the obituary sometime. My family always passes around the obituary after someone passes away. So, if it wasn’t too much trouble, I wanted to read Jack’s obituary. That was all. No biggie, no hurry. Anne had said she would email it to me--it was in “the Jack box.“ But she wasn’t quite ready to look through his things yet. The obituary had never materialized in my email inbox, and I knew it just wasn’t something she was ready to revisit.
So, when she offered to get out the box, I didn’t want to push the issue. The obituary could wait a few more years if needed. I didn’t want to go over territory that was too painful for them.
But that cold, snowy day in early February, Anne and the kids all seemed to want, or need, to revisit old times. It was not an easy day, but it turned out to be a good thing. The kids didn‘t say much, but they looked and looked at the pictures of each other as babies, and of their mama and daddy. I watched their faces, and realized that they were so young, and yet so old. I ached for them. But yet I was honored that they would share these memories with me. We looked at pictures of happier days, and sadder ones; watching the faces in the pictures change from a loving couple with smiling babies to strained smiles put on for the camera. Jack had known Jesus, but here on earth he had been so very broken. The sadness in his eyes and brokenness in his soul had seeped through the whole family until they, too, had broken.
But it leaped out at me, how, on Jack and Anne’s wedding picture, he had such a smile of real joy and love for his bride; as if, back then, he had hope for a future of a happy home and family. I could see how he had loved her. And I do think that Anne and the children gave him the most happiness he had in his life. We looked long and hard at the pictures of those early days. It was harder to look at the later ones, the sadder ones. Sometimes wounds have to be painfully debrided in order for healing to progress. I felt like I was watching that happen, that day. Jack was healed now. But those left behind still had raw, painful wounds.
“Rose, he had the greatest laugh. It just echoed through the room. I know he is there, with Jesus, smiling...and his laugh just echoes, up there in heaven...”
I held my cup of tea and sat with her. There was nothing I could say. But I could almost hear his laugh ringing, too. Sitting with her that week, I felt like heaven was very, very, near.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
We drove to the airport keeping our talk light. I thanked her for the wonderful week. Tickets, luggage, all was in order. She walked me into the airport as far as she could. One last hug; the briefest of goodbyes. We hate to cry. So we didn’t. At least, not then. She walked away, a thin pretty girl with a mane of beautiful curly hair that I will probably always be slightly jealous of. I pushed my suitcase toward the security checkpoint.
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