OPEN STRETCH OF PRAIRIE GROUND -Poetry

 Open Stretch of Prairie Ground

As tumbleweeds move across the plain,

As the parched land cries for rain,

As the antelope gather to feed,

This is where the spirit is freed.

The open stretch of prairie ground,

Offers respite from the city sound.

It’s time to answer its persistent call.

Surrendering yourself to its all.

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Open Stretch of Prairie Ground

by Stephanie Daich

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A MIRACLE OF THE HEART -Memoir

 

I hadn't planned on getting caught. I adjusted the cold handcuffs digging into my wrists. Although the tightness of the sharp metal cut into me, it was the least of my concerns. My parents were on their way to pick me up at the police station. Dread consumed me as I waited for their arrival. As I thought about the events of the police sting, heartlessly, I had no compassion for my alleged victims. I only regretted getting caught. Could an angry teen like me, filled with immense anger for the world, learn to love others?

-It would take a miracle.

About a year after my arrest, God planted an undeniable urge in me, a desire to serve the community in some way. I couldn't shake it. The yearning pestered me day and night. Most people offered the same idea when I asked everyone I knew for suggestions.

"How about serving in a nursing home?"

"No, that isn't for me."

Then I'd ask the next person. And they would say, "You might like volunteering in a nursing home."

Seriously? Is that all people can come up with?

"Can't you think of anything else?" I asked my mom, who also suggested a nursing home.

"Maybe you should ask our Bishop."

"That is a great idea."

The anticipation grew in me as I waited for my appointment with the bishop. I expected an epiphany from my religious leader, calling me on a grand mission to serve God. I thought he would shed a tear as I offered myself to the Lord. But instead, he told me, "Maybe you would enjoy helping the elderly."

My mood darkened like clouds rolling over the beach, torrential rains driving me away. His advice smothered my desire to serve. Oh well, I would return to my self-centered life.

A couple of nights later, I went on a midnight stroll. My route took me by a nursing home, where I passed a picture window spanning the length of the building. Inside, an older gentleman sat isolated in an empty dining room. He looked lonely in such a large area by himself. I watched him when he turned to me and waved.

He sees me?

Awkwardly I waved back. His face lighted up as if I was his greatest friend. He excitedly talked and moved his hands around. Then he gestured for me to come and visit him.

It is midnight.

I couldn't go into a nursing home in the middle of the night, but I went to the main doors, relieved they were locked.

Oh well. I returned to the window and mouthed I was sorry.

He got up, wobbled to a side door I had not noticed, and opened it, inviting me in.

That unseen door surprised me.

I had to fight my stiff legs to go through the door.

If I get caught, they will arrest me for trespassing. I can't go through that again. I don't even want to be here.

The man pulled a chair out for me and said, "Sit."

Despite my trepidation, I sat. I tried to ignore the pungent smell of the place.

And we talked.

The conversation smoothly flowed, surprising me with how delightful it was. A pleasant warmness swirled in me.

Later, I couldn't stop thinking about that man. He had left an imprint on my soul.

About a week later, I returned to his nursing home during business hours.

"Can I volunteer?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. Oh yes." The activities assistant said to me. She had a contagious smile as her eyes twinkled with kindness. "Our residents just love young people."

She guided me to the dining room, where the residents gathered in a circle.

"Isn't this fun?" She said as she stood in the middle and tossed a beach ball around.

What is she doing? These are adults. Why is she doing a kindergarten activity with them? I gazed around, ashamed to be part of the degrading activity.

I shifted back and forth on my feet. I shouldn't have come.

"Now it's your turn," she said to me.

I looked at the side door I had entered several nights ago. I wanted to run out of it and never return. What was I thinking coming here?

Despite my reservations, I griped the ball and entered the circle. I tossed it at a lady who didn't even try to catch it. The ball smacked her on the chest.

"Oh, sorry," I said. What an idiot I am. This isn't for me.

Yet, I kept tossing the ball.

"Wahoo!" a man called out, then laughed a hearty laugh that reminded me of my grandpa. Surprisingly, the residents seemed to like the activity. Most of them had pleasant smiles as they laughed and joked around.

As we played, something happened. The conduits of heaven opened, and Heavenly love poured inside of me.

I love these guys!

Where did that come from?

Pure Christian love flooded my heart, chipping away at the hateful-crust built around it.

Was it possible to love strangers so profusely?

That moment was the second miracle that changed my life. The first was when the elderly man opened the side door and let me in. God bestowed upon me the gift of the healer's heart. He took this bitter teen and blessed me to find love for almost any older person I met.

I couldn't stay away and volunteered at the nursing home five days a week. Eventually, working at an assisted living facility.

The older generation is the valiant savior of our communities and country. They served before us, laying down the foundations we ride upon today. They have stories and hopes. They have needs and desires. But sadly, many of the aging are tossed aside by the younger generation. These beautiful people have lost so much and no longer feel valuable. As many seniors live alone with broken hearts, they plead with God to be noticed and remembered.

After I had children, I left my job to raise my family. I missed working with my older friends and continued to make time in my life to serve them. Now, I could teach my kids this same love for our society's forgotten population.

How had God changed the heart of a rebellious teenager? He taught her to love. My story has many miracles laced into it. God inspired me to serve during a time I only cared about myself. He directed me to appreciate the older generations, and I resisted, so He opened a side door and gave me a formal introduction to the older man who changed my heart. And God filled me with love more remarkable than the empty path I was on.

That was a miracle of the heart.

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A Miracle of the Heart

by Stephanie Daich

OUR TREE -Flash Fiction

Our Tree

“Mom! There’s floating poop again.”

My heart sinks. Not again. Didn’t the toilet just back up? I run downstairs, forgetting about the baby. Before I get to the bottom of the stairs, the stench hits—the heavy smell of sewage. Brown water spills out of the bathroom onto the hall. The filth permanently embeds into the carpet. This is getting old. I press my fist into my chest.

Tears stream down my face. How come this always happens when my husband is in the field?

Hailey looks up at me, ankles deep in pipe sludge.

“I didn’t do it,” she stammers after seeing the expression of horror on my face.

“I know, but why are you standing in it?” My voice comes out sharper than I meant to. She has her ballet slippers on. “Hailey, you ruined your slippers. Why are you standing in it?” I scream, unable to control the rage that flames within. Her huge brown eyes widen on her four-year-old face.

“Go wash your feet. And your shoes are ruined. I can’t afford to buy new ones right now.”

With my husband serving Uncle Sam, I had thought we would live financially comfortably, but instead, we live off maxed-out credit cards.

“Stop crying, and go wash your feet,” I bark.

I don’t have time for this today.

I find the shop vac in the garage while spewing profanities at life.

When I get back downstairs, my eleven-month-old baby is splashing and giggling in the sewer pool.

“No, Edith!” I wail as I drop the shop vac and rescue my baby. The putrid water will have to wait.

I bathe Edith and Hailey in the upstairs tub. After the girls are clean, I call out for my ten-year-old. “Julie!”

She doesn’t come.

“Julie!” I howl.

Still no Julie.

I carry Edith on my hip and drag Haily to Julie’s room. When I open the door, Julie looks up from the floor. She holds up her picture.

“It’s our tree,” she says, looking at me. “See, there is the robin in the birdfeeder we made. Then look, Hailey and Edith are on the swings, and that is me on the top branch.”

I love that tree, one of the reasons for buying this house. She has done a wonderful job on her picture, but I don’t have time for this.

“Julie, the toilet has backed up again. I need you to watch the girls.” I put them next to her. Her eyes drop. I guess I should have told her how much I like the picture, but I can’t think.

“What about ballet?” Hailey asks.

“I am sorry. You are going to have to miss it,” I say as I run downstairs.

After the horrific job of sucking up sewage, I shower, then take a break and look for my kids. I hear giggles outside.

There they are, just like in Julie’s picture. Edith contently sways back and forth in the baby swing. Hailey propels from the tire swing. Up in the branches, Julie maneuvers around with grace smoother than Tarzan. I climb the branches and sit next to Julie. All my tension and frustration carry away into the leaves.

“I love our tree,” Julie says.

“Me too.”

My fingers trace the etching I had put up here the day we moved in. Elizabeth & Doug. When we looked for a home in Brigham City, Utah, we considered a few other homes with more room than this one, but this tree had called to us. We bought this house for this tree.

The Roto-Rooter truck pulls up, and my serenity vanishes. As the serviceman stands at my front door, I drop out of the tree next to him, and he jumps.

“Hi, Beth,” he says.

One shouldn’t be on a first-name basis with a Roto-Rooter guy.

“I can’t do this again,” I say, trying not to cry.

“Well, I told you what you need to do. When they built these homes, they used Orangeburg piping. Eventually, everyone in this neighborhood will have to replace it. Those pipes were made out of cardboard.”

“I can’t afford that.”

“Well, then, I guess we’ll have a standing appointment every other month. I don’t mind. You keep us in business.” His front teeth protruded while he chuckled.

“Just let yourself in,” I say, climbing back into my leaf cathedral.

After the Roto-Rooter guy drives away, I put together a lovely picnic of peanut butter sandwiches, cookies, and punch and spread the blanket under the tree.

“Can we dress up?” Hailey asks.

“Yes, we need something fun today.”

Soon enough, we dive into a world of make-believe under the tree. As the tea party wraps up, my phone rings.

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

“You sound chipper. What is going on? Your voicemail sounded frantic.”

“It happened again, Dad. The sewer backed up again.”

“Didn’t you just go through this?”

My voice cracks up. “Yes, I can’t keep doing this. The guy says we will have to change our piping. We can’t afford that.”

“Listen, you can’t keep doing this. You keep putting a Band-Aid on an artery bleed. I will lend you the money to fix your pipe.”

“Oh, Dad, I can’t ask that of you.”

“Where is Doug?”

“He is in the field.”

“Elizabeth, just let me help my daughter.”

I swallow my pride. I make the appointment with a pipe guy on Dad’s credit.

A week later, as I push Edith and Hailey on the swings, the pipe guy carries a pile of papers to me.

“All right, I have good news and bad news,” he says. He had just spent a good amount of time scoping our pipes.

“Okay.”

“The good news is that the previous owners swapped out the Orangeburg pipes.”

I feel the weight of the world dissipate. I won’t have to replace the pipes.

“The bad news is,” he looks up at Julie. She stops moving and peers down at him, feeling his gaze.

“Your tree is shredding your pipes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you know what type of tree that is?”

“No.”

“Well, it appears to have aggressive roots. They have mangled your pipes. We will have to replace all your pipes. You would be good to cut the tree down, or it will just do it again.”

My heart sinks.

“You can’t cut down my tree,” Julie screams.

Hailey picks up on Julie’s hysterics. Her eyes fill with tears. “Don’t cut our tree.”

I watch the pipe man leave and crumble to a pile under the canopy.

This tree is our sanctuary. The girls spend half of their day in it. It shades our home, and I hardly have to run the air conditioner in the summer.

I bought this house for our tree.

Why does Doug have to be gone right now?

Julie drops from the branches and throws her body over my back. Hailey joins. Both girls wail as if I had just told them their dad had died.

“Please don’t take our tree.”

“Mom, promise you won’t take the tree.”

I don’t have an answer.

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Our Tree

by Stephanie Daich