Kitchen Table

God smiled the day Shelby boldly said, “I can work from anywhere in the lower 48 states. All I need is a kitchen table and wifi.”

The dark years of widowhood had given her a thin sense of invincibility, a silver lining, a super power that came from knowing she’d survived what was once unthinkable. And now, at age 60, she knew it was time—time to take off her wedding ring and begin living again.

And so it began—the adventure, an intentional act of opening her heart to the possibility of finding someone to converse with over coffee or dinner, perhaps see a movie or a play.

Friends from church recommended a dating app designed for the over 50 set, and Shelby gathered a few photos then went to her daughter for a little coaching.

A bit fearful, Shelby asked, “What do I do if some guy sends me a nude photo?”

Her daughter replied with laughter, “Tell him that stuff belongs on SnapChat.”

“Ok, then” Shelby thought, her eyebrows coming together creating creases in her forehead, “Let’s give this a try.”

After Shelby uploaded her photos and completed several questions, the app posted one photo over the prompt “How about we…” and Shelby wrote “… be authentic. Let’s meet for coffee, drinks, dinner (or Saturday morning hot stretchy yoga?) and see where it leads.”

No one showed up for yoga.

In the section called “Details” Shelby clicked boxes: Self-employed. College. 2 children; 0 at home. Christian. Non-smoker. Height 5’10.”

On a whim she did a little digging and discovered that only 3.9% of American adult males are 6’2” or taller. “That explains so much about my adolescence,” she quipped, remembering the awkwardness of being the tallest person in her 7th grade class.

Then, rising to the statistical challenge of weeding out 96.1 percent of men, Shelby set her profile to include guys 6’1” and taller.

She quickly discovered… MEN LIE.

Shelby first posted her profile on January 4th and 8 days later she met guy #1 for coffee. He was 5’7” at best.

On January 22nd she met guy #2 for dinner one weekend and lunch the next. He lived on a houseboat docked on the Mississippi, which promised summer fun, but it was winter. Shelby moved on.

Scrolling the app she challenged Bachelor #3 to a small wager on the Super Bowl, and accepted a lunch invitation from guy #4.

When she had lunch with #4 at a local diner, he was tall, clever, greeted her with a hug, and managed to overcome Shelby’s objection to being walked to her car. Apparently it’s an app thing. The guy walks you to your car, like it’s the front door of your apartment. “Good to know,” thought Shelby as she drove away, then later found herself wondering if he’d expected a kiss.

About the same time, Shelby side-stepped an invitation from a much younger man. “I’m flattered AND it would just be awkward,” Shelby said. “You’re the same age as my daughter.”

Then, on Valentine’s Day there were six messages from age-appropriate men.

Shelby, who didn’t much care for Valentine’s Day, couldn’t help but recall that time back in high school when the Future Homemakers of America had frosted cookies for a bake sale with “Happy VD.”

“That was great” thought Shelby, laughing out loud before listening to the messages and updating her calendar: coffee Wednesday with #4 (he’d walked her to her car), a drink Thursday with Bachelor #3 (he’d lost their Super Bowl bet and owed her a shot of Tequila), AND dinner Friday with #5 (he’d appeared on the app after she’d expanded her search to Minnesota).

As a woman who highly valued monogamy, this 3-night, 3-guy lineup left Shelby feeling stressed. After thinking about it for a bit, Shelby was convince authenticity was the way to go.

On Wednesday #3 didn’t show up for coffee. “Well, that’s authentic,” said Shelby, feeling a little snarky.

On Thursday, the tequila led to a margarita, appetizers and great conversation. When Shelby left the pub, she found herself looking forward to seeing #3—again.

During her drive home that night, #5 texted, and Shelby inwardly groaned. At this point meeting another guy seemed like a waste of time.

On Friday #5 rolled into town, selected a restaurant, then texted her. Shelby happened to be at a nearby car wash, so when he came through the door, she was standing at the host station wearing a 70s retro shirt, jeans and a pair of clogs with 3” wood heals—just in case he’d lied about his height.

If arriving early or Shelby’s enhanced height caught #5 off guard he didn’t miss a beat, greeting her with a hug. Then a moment later, when he went back out to his car to get something and he left her standing there, she gave him a smidgen of grace.

The something turned out to be chocolates in a red heart-shaped box. “So much for authenticity” she thought accepting the candy with a smile, hiding her true feelings about Valentine’s Day.

3 ½ hours later, when #5 yawned, Shelby realized it was time to call it a night. He paid the check, held the door for her, then walked her across the parking lot. As they reached her car, Shelby opened the back door and tossed the chocolates onto the seat, then watched in horror as the candy skidded to the floor.

“Glad I didn’t open THAT box.” she thought, silently.

A moment later, when #5 took Shelby in his arms and kissed her, she didn’t want the evening to end. But, before she could object, he tucked her into her car and said goodnight.

Sometime later he texted an invitation to breakfast, making it clear it was her turn to pick the restaurant.

The next morning they split an omelet, then spent the day exploring her city. That night they enjoyed a play at the performing arts center, and made plans to attend church on Sunday.

God smiled again when, after church, the pastor in her city reached out to a good friend—the pastor in his, and before #5 arrived home, news of Shelby had already spread.

12 days later she drove to his city and met his daughter. Shelby kicked off her clogs in the entryway, and later discovered the dog had used one for a chew toy. Go figure!

The following evening, on the way to dinner with some of his friends, #5 pulled up in front of a house Shelby wasn’t familiar with and put the car in park. “If it’s ok, I’d like you to meet my mom.”

“Yeah. No.” thought Shelby, her face contorting into a grimace as she got out of the car.

A few minutes later, in the awkward silence, Shelby leaned into authenticity, “Well, this is awkward,” she said. “I haven’t been introduced to a guy’s mother like this since 1985.”

61 days later Shelby relocated.

Her sister uses the word Thunderstruck.

Shelby now works from the kitchen table in a cozy Rambler owned by #5. His house. Their home.

She laughed recently, recalling the words that began this adventure: “I can work from anywhere… all I need is a kitchen table and wifi.”

Then she sat down and began working on a new short story, her first few keystrokes revealing the title: Kitchen Table.

-rjw

Originally shared on 02/04/2026 at the Cultural Centre & Gallery Valentines Waffle Bar

The LORD makes firm the steps of the one who delights in him. Ps 37:23

Apples

“Over the river and through the woods…” the lyrics flitted through Shelby’s mind. Whenever she heard this Christmas melody she couldn’t help but think about her paternal grandparents, especially her grandmother Irene.

Shelby was pretty sure her family didn’t cross a river during the hour-long drive to her dad’s childhood home south of Stetsonville, and she knew for certain she and her siblings had never ridden in a sleigh. Still, the song brought to mind Sunday visits that began with a hearty meat-and-potatoes meal, followed by an afternoon of Sheepshead or Pinochle, and games of Scrabble. Sometime after the sun went down, the visit ended with three generations gathered once more around the sturdy oak table, just before her dad and the uncles went outside to warm up the cars that would carry everyone home.

While the mid-day feast featured fried chicken, roast beef, or baked pork chops, the evening spread was always canned ham, sliced for sandwiches, homemade bread and creamy butter, with oatmeal cookies and canned apples for dessert. The canned apples were served from quart canning jars that Grandma Irene brought up from the cellar.

Each year apples grew and ripened on trees that lined the gravel driveway east of the house. The apples were smaller than the ones sold at the grocery store—each one the color of applesauce and  just a bit larger than a marshmallow. The homegrown apples were canned stem and all in a sugary homemade concoction—the recipe not written down, but kept within Irene’s memory. By the time Shelby was deemed old enough to play Scrabble (5th grade) Irene had been canning apples and garden produce for decades.

Irene carried a bouquet of lilacs when she and Grandpa Joe had married in the spring of 1931, less than two years after the Wall Street Crash that kicked off the Great Depression. Shelby’s dad, born in 1936, was their second child of seven—three girls and four boys.

As an adult, Shelby would encounter a photograph of the Irene & Joe's children taken near the apple trees and wonder why there were eight children, arranged from tallest to smallest. Grandma Irene explained that the “extra” one, Janice, was the only child of her sister-in-law, whose husband farmed the place a mile down the road. When Shelby asked why Janice was included, Irene shared that Janice and her mom always came by to help with picking and canning the apples—after all, apple canning was a family tradition.

-rjw

The Green Ribbon

Nature. Growth. Renewal. Hope. 

I am living Up North, in the State of Hockey. The sunlight is fleeting. Each night is getting longer; each day growing shorter as December moves us toward Winter Solstice. Honestly, I miss the quickly melting snow of Oakville, Missouri... and the innocent childhood joy of snow days in Cornell, Wisconsin. 

I am feeling... well... a bit blue. 

This morning, over coffee, I typed "Mental Health" into the DuckDuckGo search bar which yielded multiple websites listing illnesses, disorders and symptoms, and referencing the DSM V. Ugh! After a few minutes of frustration, I discovered that "Mental Wellbeing" is the key phraseology.

Here I found concepts to embrace.

"The World Health Organization (2004) defines mental health in the following way: It is a state of wellbeing, in which the individual realizes their abilities, can cope with the normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and can contribute to their community." - Positive Psychology 

How do we signal our support for mental health awareness? A green ribbon, which serves as a conversation starter. The color green is also a symbol of nature, growth, renewal and hope. 

In this season of Christmas green and red, with Winter Solstice fast approaching, I'm embracing the green.

Nature. Growth. Renewal. Hope.

R

Blue Jay

A blue jay chirped angrily at me this morning apparently upset that I moved the corn cobs it feasted on yesterday. I looked up and found its white breast in the tree overhead, its blue head jauntily tilted, its piercing eyes looking down on me. I responded, “If you wanted breakfast, you should have gotten up earlier, before I started raking these leaves, after all it’s almost noon.”

Today is Sunday, a stunning autumn day with warm sunshine and a bright blue sky—the kind of day that beckons, Come outside and play. I locate the rake and clear leaves from the curb that lines our street, pulling my quarry up onto the front lawn, adding it to the shallow piles the wind has gathered overnight. 

As I begin to bag the leaves for transport to the community compost site, the blue jay takes flight, perhaps in search of another autumn display of gourds and field corn, a breakfast buffet.

R

Photo by Jeremy Hynes on Unsplash

Grow

 

The earliest memories are of a garden at my parents' home in Medford, Wisconsin, in the backyard, between the house and the huge pine tree-- circa 1967. I don't remember what vegetables my mother planted in her tidy rows. Nor was I old enough to reliably weed and water. My most vivid memory is of the rhubarb, tucked in the far corner of the garden, and the bees that chased me into the house one summer morning, after I'd pulled a stalk of rhubarb from the plant that shaded their underground nest. Ouch!

I got stung several times. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!

While the incident left me less-than-fond of proximity to bees, my heart remains true to rhubarb. I planted some yesterday, on the southeast corner of the foundation that will become my she-shed. This is my second year gardening in this place-- in the rich loamy soil of Renville County, Minnesota.

My partner, who's lived in this place for most of his life, expanded the garden to a third raised bed this year, and we're attempting to grow red potatoes. Earlier this week, I selected the two Big Beef tomato plants he'd requested ($2.29 each) and left Babe's Blossoms with an additional $89.44 in plants including the aforementioned rhubarb.

The morning glories from 2023 left behind enough seeds to propagate 8 tiny green butterfly-shaped plants, more than enough to fill the trellis beneath the picture window. What was a dirt pile covered by weeds on the north side of the deck barely a year ago, is nearly weed free with a 3' volunteer lilac and several clusters of violets-- an interesting combination as lilacs prefer sun and violets grow best in shade.

The containers that in 2023 held the colorful blossoms of annuals, are repurposed to nurture tiny trees, both maples and pines-- an Earth Day gift from a friend.

On social media are photos of my friend's garden harvest in Victoria, Texas, and photos of blossoming honeysuckle in another friend's yard in Oakville, Missouri. Meanwhile, back in the raised beds, the onions sets are thriving. Sprouts of radishes, peas, and green beans are breaking through. 

God also told them, "Look! I have given you every seed-bearing plant that grows

throughout the earth, along with every tree that grows seed-bearing fruit..." 

Genesis 1:29 ISV

Photo by imso gabriel on Unsplash

Winter Dance

Overnight the snow silently shuffled across the patio gently covering the brick pavers with a thin blanket of white, an inch deep at most. High above me in the grey pre-dawn sky, a small dark leaf takes flight, plucked from the branches of a bare tree by a gust of cold wind, then beckoned downward to the snow-covered earth by gravity. The leaf waltzes with the wind, dancing in a perfect circle, before breaking away and twirling free, moving southward toward the fence and disappearing into the shadows.

I stand quietly for a moment, then open the door and step out of the garage. The cold wind greets me and does not invite me to dance. Instead I scurry to complete my task, bringing dry food to fill a dish for the white-and-gray semi-feral cat, one of three cats that roam this small rural community—a cluster of 500 households located 92 miles west of Minneapolis. When we first met in the warmth of summer I had refused to feed this cat, yet in the depth of winter my heart moves toward compassion. The weather has turned bitter cold. Wind chills of 20° below zero are forecast for today and I am reminded of Jordan B. Peterson’s insistence that Mother Nature is a cold-blooded killer, even as she nurtures life on earth.

In past years, six decades of living actually, I’d embraced and asserted that people should not be feeding feral cats as it simply supports unsustainable breeding/birthing rates. Yet on a recent morning as I stood warm and dry looking out the kitchen window watching this one make its way across the snowy landscape, my heart moved toward intervention or perhaps interference—which however well intended often is not a kindness. Am I painfully prolonging misery in the cold shadow of inevitable death Mother Nature brings? Or is my meager offering a welcome and simple kindness?

Rw

image: Olga Deeva on Unsplash [more]

Jordan B. Peterson, psychologist and author [more]

A Breath in Time

"It is widely reported that, a person at rest takes about 16 breaths per minute. This means we breathe about 960 breaths an hour, 23,040 breaths a day, 8,409,600 a year. The person who lives to 80 will take about 672,768,000 breaths in a lifetime." - Randy Clare

This morning with what feels like a giant leap forward in the writing careers for two women in my circle of friends [see The Bible App], I am thinking about breath and breathing and how quickly our time on this earth is passing.

From the modest bookshelf in the corner of the living room I retrieve the first book ever to cross my desk as an editor, Dual Obsessions by Don Jacobson. The note tucked just inside the front cover was written 21 years ago—and in my soul the journey with "Ole" and "Lena" resonates with a freshness that belies the passage of time. Can it really be that over two decades have passed? It feels more like a breath in time, that just yesterday I was sitting at the conference table in Rice Lake, Wisconsin, laboring beside the author and his amazing wife as the book emerged from the manuscript.

Referring to myself as an editor is a rather recent development, with my preferred self-title being assistant to the author—a behind-the-scenes girl Friday—part of the support-and-encouragement sisterhood. For the most part I play a small role in a collaboration of authors, designers, editors, photographers, illustrators, proofreaders, cheerleaders, mentors, friends, and prayer partners. 

The partnership with my friend and most prolific author is a 25-book journey that began in 2011 with Touch Stone. Though a Facebook page still exists, the website for my sole proprietorship Renew Collaborative was taken down when I realized that the proofreading and editing work that has blessed me with more than a dozen delightful authors has come by referral—personal and professional.

So, today I am grateful—for a breath in time, for the work that is on my desk, for those who've worked beside me, and for God's undeniable blessing on our lives. Go God!

Rw

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.  Psalm 139:14 NIV