Wrangler Dani

Dear Betty,

I had to write you, in hopes that you’ll take time out of whipping Heaven into shape to read my scattered thoughts. After all, you always had time for our girlish exclamations and goofy stories – you would not let us be stupid, but silliness and fun was your specialty. I didn’t have many girlfriends before I met your daughters, and your house was a feminine oasis – incredible to me. You loved to shop and craft and can and sew and bake, and there was always a litter of kittens to cuddle or a plate of cookies on the table. You showed us womanhood that was tough and tender, funny and creative and kind.

Us kids knew that if we were hungry, if it was late or raining, we could go to your house. We played cards at your kitchen table as you made sandwiches for bottomless teenagers until the middle of the night, when you finally kicked us out. You remembered what we liked – I loved your fry bread and if I was staying for dinner (which I always wanted to) you would flour up a board and start making it without being asked. You remembered our birthdays and you smacked the boys over the head with a newspaper if they let a cuss word slip.

Dave said yesterday at your service that you were the “church mom” and I think that would give you a good laugh to hear, you would probably pat him on the arm but before he could get too comfortable you’d tease him about something else he’d said, just to make him blush. You were mischievous, I can still hear your chuckle in my ears, the way you would glance sideways at us and snicker good-naturedly. You wore sensible shoes and slacks, mid-length flowered skirts and chunky gold studs in your ears. Your casket reminded me of your earrings, did you look down and see it? It looked like you – all pink and gold and comfortable, like an autumn morning. It laid out peacefully in our little community cemetery, with the sounds of cows chewing from the field beside. I imagined you patting my arm as I sat there and wept, how you would have clucked at me and handed over a tissue from your purse, which always had a tissue or Advil, a comb or a toothpick for under-prepared girls like me.

Every baby and bridal shower, every party and funeral at Bonanza church had your fingerprints on it. After your graveside service we went and ate soup out of a dozen crockpots for two dozen people, that’s exactly what you would have done. More than enough, full to overflowing, God’s grace in blue ceramic. After the memorial service, only an hour later, there was yet more food, fruit and cheese and crackers, and your favorite, Peanut M&Ms, laid out in the church gym. How you would have hugged and kissed and laughed! I could feel your presence all around, a little good-natured ribbing for everyone. None of us was safe from your humor, everyone got a piece of your heart without withholding. You drove us teenagers to camp in your giant black-and-gray Suburban and you fed us and you cleaned the church kitchen and I never, ever, remember you being put out by all this work, on top of running a farm and homeschooling and honestly never sitting down. You taught us girls to shop sales and stretch a ham to feed a crowd and get stains out of our shirts. When we had teenage heartbreaks, you listened and patted, you were empathic but reminded us all things work together for good. (Boy were you right – look at all the kids and jobs and lives we have, can you believe that the crazy young folks who used to play pranks and hide in the haystacks and drive too fast on the gravel are now responsible adults?)

I should have done a better job of telling you how much your mentorship and mothering meant to me, how much I loved you, how I can’t smell cinnamon sugar without thinking of you. You wouldn’t be walked on but you weren’t proud, you worked hard but took time to play. You loved us so well, Betty. I hope someday I get to offer some goofy, insecure, wild, unkempt kids at least a poor imitation of the love you gave us. You showed us the love of God in a farmhouse, in everyday grace and small acts of kindness. You lived your life pointing towards a God with muck boots on; a God in sensible shoes; a God who laughs and delights and gives good gifts. Thank you – you are already missed but I’m sure your corner of heaven smells like cookies and hot coffee already.

Love, Dani