I love to walk and struggle physically and emotionally when I can’t do this simple activity which makes me feel better about life. I started walking in 1998 and with the exceptions of a few health hiccups during the last 23 years, I’ve never stopped my walks or reaping the benefits from it. The length of my walk ebbs and flows depending on how my body’s doing (legs and feet/blisters).

I resemble an uncoordinated, inflatable advertising ballon fighting gale force winds when I walk. If I’m being up-front about it, I need to own that statement. The first 5 years I was in great shape and I was fast. For a couple of those years I dipped my toe into lighting a fire under my big butt and added a bit of jogging to my 5 mile repertoire after watching the local high school cross country team train across the street. But I hadn’t hit 50 yet, had no arthritis or bad joints causing me grief.

I’m deaf and suffer from Meniere’s which affects my balance, so I’m a weaver-walker. I have to closely monitor where each foot lands or I’m flat on the ground. Earbuds sound like tin cans so I wear humongous, expensive headphones which make me look like Mickey Mouse (our similarities don’t end there, I have his muscle-less arms, a big belly and butt but lack his cute little tail which could possibly help with my balance issues).

I love watching walkers and joggers, especially those who look like they’re floating-just above the ground. Gliding effortlessly, muscles flexed, head up, back straight, feet lightly pounding the pavement, arms bent at the elbow like a train on the track. A fine tuned machine. I look like every belt on this 1950 straight 6 has cracked, broke in half or slipped off it’s pulley under the hood. And fluids are leaking from every orifice. It’s not pretty.

I am a loner and an introvert, except when I walk. My inhibitions go out the freakin door. I sing loudly (off-tune, I blame my deafness) to whatever playlist is throbbing in my one semi-hearing ear. People honk and wave, but for the most part I don’t pay attention. I’m definitely in my own little world when I walk. I like it there.

After knee replacement in 2019, I was determined to start walking again ‘with purpose.’ But it took me a full year to recover (which is a major reason I’m putting off having my other knee done. After my cortisone shot this week, I told the surgeon I’d be happy to die with one new knee and one original).

After I got psyched to start walking I decided for safety’s sake I needed to use a walking stick (Hubs was instrumental in this decision). I was determined not to let this change in my routine be anything but a helpful tool to keep my feet moving, my face off the pavement and my capped teeth still in my mouth. Had to swallow my pride and accept this change in my aging process. My balance is shit and I’d better to deal with it.

I installed an app on my phone to track how many steps I walked a day and set that sucker at 10,000-at first. Lofty goal which dwindled down to 9,000, then 7,500 as my leg worsened. The tricky part was trying to keep my new knee limber (ha-my range of motion is awful) but not do any more damage to my missing cartilage, sore, worn-out left one. For the first time in my life, I became inexplicably obsessed with an app. It owned me.

For a period of time during 2020 (everybody’s favorite year) when my app posted I had not made my goal for the day and it was 7 pm, I’d scoot down the basement and do some laps, which is laughable. This would be cool in a normal house, but lapping my basement actually makes me dizzy it’s so small. But I was determined not to miss my daily goal and break my ongoing streak.

In the beginning of this miserable pandemic my life was not much different than before. I was home 90% of the time, cooking, reading, blogging, canning and making certain that little confetti parade showed up at the end of the day on my app, documenting another day’s goal had been reached and all was well in my little corner of the world.

But nothing ever stays the same and by Halloween my left leg was hurting. But I did not stop. (Curses on you app). Not my knee as much as the back of my leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf. If I stood for more than a few minutes, my leg would hardly bend when I sat down. When I sat longer than an hour, I could hardly get up and my leg felt like it wouldn’t support me. So there I’d stand, left leg bent enough not to buckle, waiting for my support system to kick in. It ached all night long. Every night.

My goal was 180 days without missing a day, but I missed it. We were leaving after Christmas for a couple months and I decided to rest my leg while we traveled. I love to drive, but there’s something about the way my leg rests on my Jeep seat that causes a lot of discomfort. It’s weird but the best remedy so far has been shoving a tennis ball under my thigh. Sounds like that should hurt like the devil but the ball relieves the pressure from whatever nerve/muscle/piriformus/hamstring/sciatica that’s causing my misery.

I made an appointment with my surgeon when we returned home to figure out the pain in the back of my leg. Walking in Alabama was sporadic but I tried most days. Sleeping with a pillow under my knee helped but it wasn’t getting any better. After some tests showed nothing wrong with my back, a round of physical therapy was ordered. Three times a week for 3 months and not much to show for it. My limp was worse.

As fate would have it, something medically unrelated ended up helping my gimpy leg. My ‘hand’ doctor sent me to a rheumatologist for a follow up to determine if my arthritis was age related or rheumatoid. After bloodwork he ordered a 5 day prescription of prednisone to see if it might help the swelling and inflammation and give my hands more flexibility and strength.

By day 3 on 20 mg. of prednisone I was able to wring out my dishcloth again and squeeze my fists tight. More surprising though, my limp disappeared and the pain in my leg was down from a 6 to a 2. I couldn’t believe how much better I felt when I wasn’t wincing in pain or limping. But the side effects from prednisone are no fun and not something to take long term unless absolutely necessary.

So I’m trying a different medication which takes 8 weeks to start working. To tide me over he prescribed a decreasing dosage of prednisone. While I’m not overjoyed with taking 2 new prescription medications, I gotta say I’m feeling really good and grateful something is working-finally.

I haven’t used my fabulous walking path since heading to Alabama at the end of 2020. Six months without walking after we left Gulf Shores. But the other day I dusted off my New Balance shoes, made sure my Bose headphones were charged, started my Wednesday playlist, grabbed my walking stick, sunglasses, lip balm, a Kleenex, mace and my knife and lumbered out the door with the speed of sloth.

But there’s no way I’m capable of 10,000 steps a day, and I’m trying not to fall into old habits by checking that damn app 10 times a day. I’ve lowered my expectations and humbly accept that 5,000 steps is more suitable until I have more stamina and see how I feel. Doesn’t mean I’m without a goal. Just 163 more days in a row and I’ll break my own record. Piece of cake…

Traditional things during my life that used to bug me when I was young are now what I miss with such an acute ache, it almost feels physical. Many of these feelings I struggle with are about religion/church/preachers/customs. Not God so much. I feel like God and I are on the same page and doing relatively well, considering it’s me He’s trying to work with. (He said I can be trying at times. Who knew)? This disillusionment didn’t just creep up on me. No, this started well over a decade ago. I was immersed in a job, (a calling really) a church and felt my work/good deeds/volunteerism were needed, worthwhile and appreciated.

I might be thin-skinned. (Ok, I am. No denying it). Lengthy story I won’t get into about issues I have with the church and organized religion. (Ministers and church politics mostly). Suffice it to say, since 2009 my time spent inside a sanctuary has been limited. Bitterness blossomed after my feelings were hurt, and I stopped spending time in a house of worship. And I was ok with that for several years, but find I still have this ‘longing’ for all the things I disliked about church services when I was a kid. I know, it’s complicated.

Some of my friends have embraced/accepted there’s no need to attend/belong to a specific church to know Jesus as your savior and rest assured that when the good Lord calls you home, you’re heaven bound. Most of me agrees with this, but part of me longs for the fellowship of belonging to an actual church. A building with a group of people who worship comfortably with you as a part of their church family. I know how easy it is to relinquish a habit which you’ve grown accustomed. When I’m physically hurt and can’t walk every morning, it’s not long before that daily habit is all but forgotten. Same thing when going to church on Sunday morning stops. Pretty soon it’s hardly missed. Not a feeling I’m comfortable with. Makes me uneasy.

First Reformed, the one I consider my home church, Rock Valley, Iowa…

We’ve been back in Jackson for 6 years. When we moved to Jackson the first time (from 1987-1994) we never went to church. It was like we moved out of Iowa and lost our religion. We had been very active in Davenport. But that would change during our 21 years in North Muskegon. Fifteen of those years were church infused. Equal parts of fulfilling and frustrating. The last couple years were downright unhappy-church wise. Once we settled back in Jackson, ‘going to church’ fell by the wayside. Again.

But I got this hankering. Something’s missing. So I’m church shopping again. Sigh. I’ve been to 7 churches so far. I might be too picky. Seems like all the ‘old-fashioned’ church service customs/traditions/music I ‘crave’ are like me, worn out and no longer relevant. In roughly 20 worship services I’ve not heard the Lord’s Prayer or The Apostle Creed. Not once. Same goes for any responsive reading-save for one church who does their scripture reading responsively. No liturgy before Communion. Only a couple churches offered a bulletin. When I asked for one, a gal responded, “just download the church app, that’s the way we do our collection too.” Ugh. Just ugh. That same day as I wandered around looking for the non-existent bulletin I noticed a folding chair in the Narthex, just outside the sanctuary entrance. On the chair sat a forlorn Communion tray, half filled with the newest fad, ‘hermetically sealed lunchable communion.’ No explanation, just sat there like it had been forgotten since the prior Sunday.

I’ve tried non-denominational, Presbyterian, Community, High Praise, Christian Reformed and 2 Baptists. Any more than ONE loud band-led, drum thumping, arms in the air, including 2 repetitive, monotonous verses sung over and over and I’m out. I just don’t get the allure of praise songs. Nothing excites me less about God than these awful songs except standing to sing them for 15 unbearable minutes. Nothing.

Yep, I thought you might notice. A Baptist Church. Actually, two of them. This from a Calvin Christian Reformed/First Reformed kid who memorized all traditional hymns/Lord’s Prayer/Apostles Creed sixty years ago. But there’s something spiking my radar when I stepped inside this big Baptist Church. (I checked out their website for service times beforehand and was happy to see 3 pastors-2 with small children. Children are a healthy part of Christian fellowship I think). Picked up a bulletin, stepped into the sanctuary, found a seat near the back and was blown away looking where the pulpit should be. Looked like a scene on a movie set from, ‘Under the Sea.’ The pastor explained Vacation Bible School was starting on Monday. Don’t know if this was a kit they purchased or their original concept but it was far superior from when I helped with VBS 40 years ago. Impressive. Slightly humorous that the small portable stand preacher man used for his sermon was sitting directly under a great white but I guess the lesson here is, the good Shepherd protects His sheep from the wolves or in this case, the shark.

Immediately I spot Bibles and Hymnals in every row. Hallelujah! I flipped through a hundred pages of the hymn book and recognized half of them (although they’ve not sung one that I know so far but they are traditional hymns). The bulletin lists several activities for men, women, teens and younger. By the time the service starts I gauge around 200 people in attendance, and I can see I’m in the minority in a couple categories. Not a lot folks with grey/white/silver hair (another good sign of a healthy congregation) and I’m about the only lady not wearing a dress, which I find a bit odd. (I won’t be dyeing my hair nor will I be wearing a dress. We’ve talked it over and God agrees to let me slide on both matters).

No praise music (thank you Jesus, can I get an amen)? A choir of about 20 line up to sing their special number first so they can disperse and sit with their families. Couple of hymns, prayer, announcements, then scripture is read responsively. His sermon explains the Bible verses in detail. Service was about 90 minutes. My reasoning has always been, God gives you a whole week, you can certainly give Him an hour (in this case hour and a half, probably making up so I don’t lose any more of my religion)…

For the first 4 plus years of my life our family of 5 (me the youngest) lived in a small house on the west edge of town. Surrounded by mostly empty lots and fields, a couple blocks north of Highway 18, this was the section of town that would get an enormous building boost in the years ahead. We didn’t have a lot of neighbors or kids my age but I was little and stayed close to home anyway. That would change when we moved a few blocks north and east, into the heart of Rock Valley. Houses in back of our alley facing 16th Street, more houses across 15th street. Not long city blocks, small town sized blocks. On the northeast lot of our block was the Methodist Church. As far as I can remember we had 5 houses and one church in my little corner of the world.

The neighborhood was a mixture of young growing families with a few older couples nearing retirement or already ensconced in their slower lifestyle. Seems odd that a young girl could spend as much time with the older folks on the block as I did with kids my age. A morning spent sitting in the enclosed front porch of Bessie Jacobs, listening to her stories or watching as she hand stitched a doll quilt for my doll that I still have. Her husband worked for the railroad and was gone a lot. She didn’t seem to mind the interruption when I knocked on her door. Sometimes she made me a 7-Up float (sure doesn’t sound very appealing now). Bessie lived just west of the church.

In between her house and ours but after the older couple moved out (related to the Ribbons’ family maybe) was a young couple, fairly new to marriage, their name escapes me, Ver Steeg perhaps)? They had a baby boy named Miles. (I had never heard of that name before). I must have been around 9. I went over as often as she’d let me in to play and ogle Miles. This wasn’t my first baby crush. That ‘bug’ had hit me hard soon after we moved to 15th street.

Her name was Cindy. She was the baby sister of my first bestie, Lori who lived in the corner house of my block. (In between us was another older lady but my ‘senior citizen empathy app’ didn’t shine as brightly for her). She crossed the wrong side of Neese. Although it wasn’t really her fault, she was blamed nonetheless. My parents decided to take a ‘real’ vacation in 1960 and visit some of their sibs on both sides in California. This was in our pink (Canyon Coral) 2-door 1958 Chevy Biscayne, with no air. During late June. I would have the whole backseat to myself-or so I thought. This older neighbor lady offered to pay mom and dad to ride along in our stifling hot 2-door car all the way to the west coast. Sigh. Then she asked if her granddaughter could tag along? I was allotted about a foot of space in the backseat. Miserable trip until we dropped them off. But I digress.

So between old people, a strange family that was a little scary but truly fascinating, babies, my playhouse, homemade swing set, eating rhubarb with gobs of salt as we played drive-inn (something radically new in our small town) and kids ranging from younger than me (finally) to some high school boys across the street, my little corner of the world was sweet indeed. Plus there were new worlds just a couple blocks away-in both directions. The school was another block east and had an awesome playground, a slide that reached the stratosphere (honestly 2 stories tall) and burned the backs of your legs from May until September. So hot but so cool!

To the west another block was our budding metropolis-downtown Rock Valley. Restaurants, hardware stores, dime store, grocery store, bakery, post office, couple of lawyer’s offices, bowling alley, car dealerships, gas station, utilities office, my doctor’s and dentist’s offices, even a clothing store. A true shopping Mecca. It looked a mile long to this young girl but actually was a few blocks long and just as wide.

From the time I was old enough to cross the street by myself (after my big brother Larry was hit and killed by a car while riding his bike), these precautions were repeated daily. For the first couple years I was not allowed to cross Main Street if mom wasn’t with me. It was very wide and quite busy. Our infamous “One Stoplight” was one block south from where I walked, but the 3 (if you count the grocery store) which captured my attention and money were all on ‘my’ side of the street so I wasn’t tempted to disobey my parents. (I was young, there was plenty time for me to get in trouble in a few years when I became a rousing success at it).

The store closest to our house that got the juices flowing was our bakery. Van Olst’s Bakery. When I was a teen it was a frequent stop on Friday nights after football or basketball games because they baked drool worthy confections all night long. The whole town smelled like donuts after 10. Heaven. Pure heaven. Bismarks, glazed, frosted, long johns, date filled bars, cookies, cones with that sickeningly sweet white creamy filling, almond patties, unsliced bread. Just thinking about that smell wafting through town makes my mouth water. And the Van Olst’s liked to talk after we snuck in the back door while they worked through the night. A mom and pop operation who worked very hard, as did their kids to make their business thrive. But my nighttime teen visits weren’t for a few years yet, so I brought my nickel or dime to spend during regular business hours, usually after school.

Life was all about hard choices back then. If I stopped with my nickel or dime at the bakery then I would have no money to spend at Ben Franklin, and that store was the bomb. Near the store’s entrance, a couple doors south of Van Olst’s stood an epic candy counter. Almost a square, missing a couple feet on one side so a clerk could sashay in and out while you were making your selection. Consisting of glass on 2 sides and dark wood, the different candies were divided into large compartments. This necessitated a couple of trips around the loop. Tough decisions in the life of an under 10 year old. A nickel bought a sizable paper bag of chocolate stars, chocolate covered peanuts or malt balls (my favorite). Mom left loose change (nickels and dimes) in a yellow candy dish with a glass lid that eluded dings and chips through my chubby finger days, a miracle in itself. The candy dish was one of mom’s parent’s wedding presents and sat daintily in the middle of our dining room table. If she was at work I was allowed to walk to town and use this money as I saw fit (a nickel at a time).

While I was enamored with the 2 live babies on the block, my dolls at home were just as important. Oh I had a fancy lady doll who had seams in the back of her nylons, and a walking doll (named Cindy, after the real baby on the block) that was nearly my size. But they both paled in comparison to my favorite, a baby doll named Lori Jean (yup after my best friend). I played with that baby doll for at least 5 years. Mom even had a seamstress make some clothes for Lori so I could change her outfits.

One day I asked mom for some money and not just for my nickels worth of candy. I had been visiting Miles while his mom gave him a bath. After she hoisted him out of the baby tub and dried him off, she took baby lotion and rubbed some on his arms and legs. Johnson’s baby lotion in a pink plastic bottle. He smelled so good while she got him dressed. Right then I decided I needed lotion to make Lori Jean softer and smell gooder.

Far away from the candy counter in the dime store was a section for babies. Goodness, I could spend some serious money here. Rubber pants, baby oil, lotion, booties, special soap, nighties, I wanted it all for my baby-doll. But with a limited budget my money would only go so far. I bought a white bonnet and the smallest bottle of baby lotion. Do you know how long it takes to rub a glop of lotion on a hard plastic doll? The friction alone nearly heated that doll to the melting point. These are some of my best childhood memories. Picking out and paying for after school treats by all by myself. Visiting my elderly neighbors, playing with new babies and friends on the block and my favorite standby, babydoll Lori Jean…

We didn’t watch a lot of television when I was a kid. Our black and white TV was in a small room off the living room that had been Larry’s bedroom before he died. I remember watching Captain Kangaroo before school and sometimes Captain 11 after school, but not many programs after supper. Ordinarily Dad had church commitments most nights. Mom was an avid knitter/reader, plus housework and laundry. I think TV bored her, so immersing myself with hours of the boob tube was frowned upon.

For the first decade of my life the only music I was familiar with came from school, church or TV. School consisted of, “Touch down every morning, 10 times, not just now and then. Give that chicken fat back to the chicken, and don’t be chicken again. Push up every morning, 10 times, push up, starting low. Once more on the rise, nuts to the flabby guys. Go you chicken fat go!”

Church songs were whatever our choir director had us practicing for our turn of special music during the morning worship service, or the songs we learned at summer church camp like, “We are climbing Ja-cob’s ladder, we are climbing Ja-cob’s ladder, we are climbing Ja-cob’s ladder, sold-iers of the cross.”

TV songs were usually the themes from popular programs like, “Keep rollin rollin, rollin, though the streams are swollen. Keep them doggies rollin, rawhide! Through rain and wind and weather, hell bent for leather, wishin my gal was by my side. All the things I’m missin, good vittles, love and kissin, are waiting at the end of my ride. Move ‘em out, head ‘em up, head ‘em up, move ‘em on, move ‘em out, head ‘em up-Rawhide!

Somewhere around 1960 (I was about 9) mom purchased something that revolutionized home entertainment for this family of 3. I think mom’s paycheck was used for discretionary spending and saving. When she had a hankering for something new, she’d head to Vander Ploeg’s furniture in Sioux Center. It was her choice, dad was not interested in furnishing our home which was fine by mom. She wasn’t an impulsive shopper and rarely bought something ‘expensive’ on the spot. She needed to mull that over for a bit before deciding.

Most of the rooms in our house were not big. The dining room was the largest but used the least. The living room was square with a double wide opening off the dining room, 2 windows and a narrow door leading to the TV room. We had a couch, 2 chairs, mom’s knitting basket, magazine rack, ugly hanging light fixture (off-center), a pole lamp, a shelf holding a few pieces of mom’s milk glass collection and a nice early American maple bookcase filled with World Book Encyclopedias.

The new piece of furniture (adding class to the room) was perched on the north paneled wall, under the milk glass shelf. It went along with the early American theme and was about as long as a compact car these days. A real piece of Americana, an RCA Victor Stereo Console (with a genuine diamond needle)! Goodness the times I was scolded for ruining another dang needle. I thought I was helping by removing the minuscule dust bunny which collected at the tip of the needle when I usually yanked the whole thing out by mistake. Mom would traipse down to Van Manaan’s Electric to replace the one I broke.

There was a sliding door on the top of the cabinet to hold records (we didn’t call them albums back then), the turntable/radio (AM, don’t remember if the stereo had the FM band yet) was the other half. Quite the centerpiece for our nondescript room. Mom and I were fascinated with the wizardry of this new fangled way of listening to music. Dad, not so much. I was never allowed to use the stereo console for my music. Once I became a teen I got a radio and small record player for my room. Until then though, I had to be content with the music mom bought.

Records by George Beverly Shea, Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Tennessee Ernie Ford and various orchestra’s playing every waltz known to mankind. Each orchestra record included, The Blue Danube which was ok because it was mom’s favorite.

Mom was born and raised in the nearby town of Sioux Center and always had a soft spot for it (however, Sioux Center was our arch rivals in school sports, we hated them). One day after she had been shopping in Sioux Center she brought home a new record to play. I’d give my eye teeth to have that vinyl today because I can’t remember the name of the quartet and can only recall about half the songs on it when I had every lyric of every song memorized for a couple of reasons. Not all the songs were religious, (yay, I was a kid after all, but some of the songs had a gospel feel to them) plus none of the orchestra (waltz after waltz) albums had words.

I remember the group was made up of 4 young men (college or mid-20’s, maybe Dordt College?) who harmonized magnificently. I’ve sung the few songs I memorized from that album all my life. Kind of strange that the one most often screeched by this deaf person is religious, as if Ernie Ford, George Beverly Shea or the big group of Mormons wasn’t sufficient.

One of the songs was a bit risqué for this quiet household. For the life of me, I can’t remember the verse, but I loved it. The line ended with the word ‘swell,’ so the last word of rhyming line should have been ‘hell.’ Couldn’t have that out of Sioux Center boys, so they sang, “wella, wella, wella.” The song was Little Liza. “I had a dream the other night-and baby it was nice. I dreamt I saw a crowd outside-and they were throwing rice, wella, wella, wella. Little Liza, I love you, Little Liza I love you. I love you in the springtime and the fall, honey, honey, honey. Little Liza I love you, little Liza I love you, I love you best of all.”

Another song was, “Yellow Bird, so high in banana tree. Yellow bird, who sits all alone like me. Did your lady friend leave the nest again? That is very sad-makes me feel so bad. You can fly away, in the sky away, you’re more lucky than I. Wish that I was a yellow bird, I’d fly away with you. But I am not a yellow bird-so here I sit, nothin’ else to dooooo.”

For all my whining about the religious records mom had in the house, my favorite song from the “I can’t remember the group’s name,” was, Standing in the need of Prayer, with that gospel vibe. “It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer. It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standing’ in the need of prayer. Not my father, not my mother, but it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer. Not my sister, not my brother but it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer!”

At the age of 10 I recognized the significance of that catchy gospel tune asking for God’s help, guidance and forgiveness. Sixty years later, nothing has changed. “It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer.”…