If These Walls Could Speak...

As you might have suspected,
I have just a few more things to say about the last couple weeks, months, and years.

I already feel completely and unconditionally in love with you, so this letter should come as no surprise. Even now, I picture you pouring yourself a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and heading out to your tiny 2nd or 3rd floor apartment balcony. There are potted plants and flowers lining every inch of that 6 x 8 foot slice of out door life that extends the place you call home to a comfortable square footage. Like me, you chose strong red geraniums for the summer and golden hearty mums for fall. Your Boston fern hangs just above your head, healthy and on guard, as if to say, "Eat right, and you'll grow up to be big and strong like me." Tiny white Christmas lights meander through your black wrought iron railing and lazily, yet lovingly, are tucked under your eaves trough. You leave them on all night, as well as all year. Your view is not spectacular, but it is yours, and hints of water nearby. There may be a fountain trickling, or a lazy winding river that you walk alongside when time allows, or you need somewhere quiet to think. This morning or early afternoon you bypass the red and white soda fountain café table and head for your familiar comfortable Queen Anne chair. The chair you've tucked far enough into the corner to protect it from the elements, and have lovingly dubbed "old blue". Today on one of your rare days off, you'll spend it here on your porch, searching for roots and wings as you read the book for the 5th or 7th time. The world has stopped for you today, as it should for everyone, on occasion. As you sit there, with your feet propped up on the hand me down ottoman, your coffee grows cold, or you've stopped refilling your wine because today you've reached the chapters, postings, or album pages about your mom's wedding day. Before you know it the morning or afternoon has slipped quietly away and a hot sun, or hazy dusk has lulled you…

…oh, wait…there were no walls, only row after row of soybeans ruffling in the damp, brisk morning breeze. The sun was just starting to lighten the sky as I snuck out of bed that morning, early enough to ponder and clear my mind before the festivities started. Here I was, in my childhood home, that my father and his siblings had grown up in, getting ready to host the celebration that would be Jen’s dream wedding. I had wanted to get married out in the barnyard, but mom suggested a church wedding followed by a poolside reception. I complied, because that's part of my personality and that's a good thing. My mom wasn't supposed to wear a fancy wedding dress, or anything out of the ordinary, because of the strict apostolic church views on drawing attention to yourself or conforming to worldly standards. She chose the most beautiful understated wedding dress anyway, because she is strong and a bit stubborn, and that is a good thing. Her parents left that church affiliation in their eighties, because of a false teaching that connected works to the free gift of salvation. They opted to think and believe a truth that went against their traditions. And that can be a good thing.

On my little sunrise tour of this farm, my mind wandered to the family before mine. And then, the one after. My dad's dad grew up right down the road, and then raised a family of nine here. My seven aunts slept in the same bedroom that I shared with my two sisters. It's the same bedroom that my two daughters & daughter-in-law were still sleeping in right now. They did their chores, just like we checked off our lists, as have mine, "helped" their grandma with this labor of love. My uncle played here as a young boy, as did my brothers, and then Nic & Ben took over and christened every inch of this place with their pranks, personalities, dreams. Work and play are both good things.

As I wondered behind the tool shed on it's neatly manicured lawn, I couldn't help but think of the soil and the land. Land, as far as your eye could see, with neighbor's barns dotting the horizon. A windmill keeping time with the wind, ever moving, never used. Family land that had been worked and reworked, disked, plowed, seeded, and harvested over and over again. Always producing the exact yield of the crop that was planted. You reap what you sow. Take the good with the bad. Weather the storms. Soak up the sunshine. Choices, consequences, and a positive attitude are good things.

I peeked into the living room, which had recently been turned into the bride & bridesmaid's dressing room. It's the living room that was the parlor for the generation before me. The living room that was, in actuality, my family's family room. The living room that turned into the music room as we grew older, and now, until two days ago had been my parents sitting room, reading room, and where they prayed for each of their children and their families on certain days of the week. I think the Wilke's had Wednesday. It's where prayers of thanksgiving, praise, petitions, and forgiveness ascended daily, sometimes hourly. Sustaining prayers, which you could almost feel through the walls and years. Prayer is a good thing.

Someone--a cousin, a great or grandchild, a friend, an acquaintance, or maybe even a prodigal will come to read about it and their hearts will warm, as their coffee grows cold. Today will be a good day. The day the Schmid's throw their personalities, dance moves, traits, traditions, grace, love and faith into the legacy ring. I'm positive the stories will speak for themselves. It's a love story, alongside the barn, on the farm without walls.