Lilacs

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

I have much to learn from the canines of my world. Frank, a blue-eyed Australian shepherd, displayed a keen loyalty to those who earned his trust. Pixie, short, pug-nosed and stout, taught me to never pretend to be something I am not. Peanut, during a short but fun-filled life, taught me that if what I want lies buried deep, to dig until I find it. And while my parents battled devastating health problems, Baby, with her soft Cocker Spaniel eyes, demonstrated when someone is having a bad day, one of the best things you can do for them is to be silent and sit close by.

Brownie, the latest love of my life, continues to counsel me in the ways of the canine mind. And he has literally taken a few human expressions and turned them into dog day moments of advice. 

For instance, most folks say “stop and smell the roses.” My dog somehow knows I prefer lilacs.

Shattered Glass

 By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

While running errands with my five-year-old and three-year-old daughters, I stopped by a friend’s house to drop off a glass baking dish. My oldest daughter volunteered to carry the dish up the stairs to the front door. I told her that I would carry it because I didn’t want her to accidentally drop it and hurt herself. But she begged, “I can do it, Mommy! I’m big enough!” I decided I was being overprotective. My little girl was growing up and needed the opportunity to do a “big girl” job.

And the Lord said: Whom shall I send? And one answered like unto the Son of Man: Here I am, send me. (Abraham 3:27)

I had a nagging feeling that something was going to happen, but again blamed it on my overprotective nature. I watched from the bottom of the stairs in horror as she tripped on the top step and fell directly onto the glass dish. Blood poured from the deep cuts in her hand. I rushed up the stairs and knocked on the door. My friend answered. Immediately she called for her husband to bring a towel to help stop the bleeding. I wrapped my daughter’s hand tightly. As the blood continued to ooze from the cuts, guilt stabbed at my heart.

Happy Birthday, Mom

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

It’s my mother’s birthday today. She would have been 73 had a post-operative staph infection not ended her life at the age of 58.

Already this sounds like a sad, heavy-hearted piece, but I don’t want it to be. Yet there is a part of me missing her today. I’m sure my sister is feeling it, too.

March 17, 1944. The luck of the Irish brandished itself as luck for my grandparents. A tiny baby was born too early, too small, too weak. Luckily, the baby survived the night. Luckily, the nurses and the doctors at the hospital took good care of the baby. Luckily, the baby continued to fight. Luckily, she got to go home several days later to a mother and a father who were too frightened to hope for luck, but prayed for it anyway.

Alta Jean Adams. The name Alta was insisted on by her grandmother – which grandmother, I’m not sure – and my mother was always a bit miffed that, as a Utah girl, she had essentially been named after a ski resort.

Mom’s parents weren’t so thrilled with the name of Alta either, so they called their little girl Jean.

I’ve often wondered if, back in the 40s, baby naming books were available to guide parents in the baby naming journey. Did my grandparents know the origin and meaning of their little girl’s name? Jean, Hebrew, “God is gracious.”

The name couldn’t be more apropos, though I’m sure Mom would have balked at the idea that she had anything to do with God’s grace.

She was shy, cautious, insecure. In her timid world, she didn’t see herself with God’s eyes, though she wanted to and, at times, tried to.

I’m glad for the times she felt and realized God’s grace flowing within her. When she was proud to say that she’d grown up a hard worker and her work ethic had enabled her to take on difficult chores and duties when my father’s health prevented him from performing such tasks. When she saw the beauty of genetics in her grandchildren – two granddaughters, two grandsons, all four with hints of her charm. When she realized her own moments of tenderness – caring for a grandson’s scraped knee and assuring that a grape popsicle would make the pain go away, bottle feeding scraggly kittens back to health, calling long distance with “Doctor Mom” tips when my own little girls were ill, caring for an elderly neighbor.

I can backtrack through time and see so many moments of service, all provided by my mom, that she never recognized as God’s graciousness shared by her hands and her words.

Shy. Cautious. Insecure. No, that last word didn’t fit my mother during her last years on this earth. She had grown away from insecurity into boldness, courage, determination. The moxie was in her all along, she just needed a few life adventures to shake it up and let it flow.

Happy birthday, Mom. We're thankful for you, for all that you did, for all that you are.

Herself

"...her shattered pieces began to bloom -

blossoming until she became herself..."

- Becca Lee

Bella Grace Magazine | www.bellagracemagazine.com

Secrets Between Friends

A Short Story by RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

I could have avoided all the trouble if only I had remembered to hide the peanut butter. I had, with criminal savvy, disposed of the empty chocolate chip bag in the lobby trash can. No traces of brown sugar lingered on the counter top. The small but efficient hand-held mixer had been scrupulously cleaned of fingerprints and cookie dough. And I returned my private stash of sugar to its covert location behind a University of Washington duffel bag and an abnormal psychology text book.

But no, in my haste to return the tiny kitchen to its preposterously meticulous state, I had inadvertently placed the inorganic peanut butter in the cupboard next to the overly organic oatmeal.

That was my first mistake.

My Favorite Line from Lewis Carroll

I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, 

that it kisses them so gently? 

And then it covers them up snug, 

you know, with a white quilt, 

and perhaps it says, 

“Go to sleep, darlings, 

till the summer comes again.” 

― Lewis Carroll

Wondrous Little Stranger

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl 

That first kick. Sleepless nights.

An ache to hold you in my arms.

Thoughts of you and dreams untold,

My wondrous little stranger.

 

Counting days. Hushing fright.

Striving to be calm and strong.

Wond’ring what our future holds,

My wondrous little stranger.

 

Joseph’s face, creased, concerned,

Belies his calm demeanor,

As we wait for you to come,

My wondrous little stranger.

 

Journey long. Taxes paid.

But where to stay in dark of night?

Cavern meek, but walls secure—

A restful piece of heaven.

 

Strains of pain. Sweat-strewn brow.

I snatch my husband’s hand and pray.

He wipes away what he calls

Sweet dewdrops sent from heaven.

 

First soft touch. Downy hair.

A cry so strong and hungry.

Sleepy-eyed, you yawn. I smile.

My newborn Prince of Heaven.

 

Who would know, sentinels

Would ’round us stand on cloven hooves?

Those thick with wool bay to the child,

“Warm welcome, little stranger.” 

 

Eastern star, magi come

To kneel on straw before you.

Mustached smiles, delighted eyes

Adore this promised stranger.

 

Time will pass, you will grow,

And carry out God’s plan for earth.

But in my heart you’ll always be

My wondrous little stranger.

 

A Newlywed Thanksgiving

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

As a teenager, my domestic skills contributed towards the toxic waste problem within the United States. Thus, each year for our family’s Thanksgiving meal, I was relegated to mashing potatoes and whipping up a pitcher of Kool-Aid.

Once I was married and living hundreds of miles away from my family I realized that, with Thanksgiving a few short weeks away, it might be wise for me to do a practice run in making a proper holiday meal. Without my mother’s capable hands to rescue the meal, I was forced to pay attention to the culinary details of seasoning the turkey, cooking the potatoes to fork-tender perfection, and thickening the gravy without turning it into sludge.

I roasted the turkey in a large baking dish — a wedding gift I hadn’t yet used. I whipped up a magnificent batch of Stove Top without scorching a single stuffing crumb. Cubes of potatoes boiled away. And black cherry Kool-Aid was waiting for ice.

At last, it was time to create the piece de resistance: the gravy. I carefully placed the turkey on a platter (okay, it was a cookie sheet — this newlywed didn’t yet own a platter). I placed the baking dish on the stove’s burner to heat the tasty drippings. I measured two tablespoons of flour and stirred it into the drippings, just like I’d watched my mother do at least a hundred times.

All at once, gunshots sounded. I took the duck-and-cover position on the kitchen floor. My heart pounded as I waited for more gunshots to sound. And the phone to call the police? Heaven help me, it was in the other room.

6:15 in the Morning

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

At 6:15 a.m., I can be found in a state of consciousness that lies somewhere between an awakened-from-hibernation Nandi bear and an uncaffeinated King Kong. In other words, I don’t do mornings. So between 5 a.m. and 6:30 a.m., when my bladder is demanding attention and I’m grimacing over the still-darkened view from my window, I delve into a sleep/no sleep state of grumbliness and freakish dreams.

This morning was no exception. I try to convince myself to crawl from bed at five, but end up in a blitzkrieg of dreams that I shan’t describe for fear of them turning the tide of the universe.

10 Activities to Celebrate Sisterhood

By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl

“A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.” 

~Marion C. Garretty

She has annoyed you, frustrated you, and raided your closet on more than one occasion. And, although you can’t prove it, you are sure she is responsible for the Brussels sprout incident that was entirely blamed on you.

On the other hand, she has applauded you, inspired you, and held you close when you cried. And you’re not quite sure how it happened, but the teen magazine you wanted but couldn’t afford ended up on your pillow.

Your sister is a mixed bag of wonderful. During her younger years, she may have ruffled your feathers now and then, but in the long run she proved to be a keeper.