There’s something about the blessing of women friendships. For support, bonding and a sounding-off board, along with encouragement and a promise of prayer, we women need each other. Men need each other, too, I suppose, but I’m not an expert in that alfalfa field. (Everything in my brain has a farm analogy.)
In 2014, when our last one graduated high school (after a few schmaltzy tears), I exhaled a sigh of relief and inhaled a breath of expectation. Now it was my turn. Immediately, I contacted a friend inquiring if she’d like to start a book club. Enthusiastically agreeing, she asked a few of her friends and I asked a few of mine and voila, GAB (Girls and Books — quite appropriate) was formed.
During the years since, our membership has ebbed and flowed going at any point from an even dozen to our present seven faithful, which is very conducive to a roundtable discussion during our monthly meets at a local restaurant, discussing one book a month. Not only do we discuss the book, we hash over issues in our lives, celebrating victories and sympathizing with defeats. It is balm for my soul.
Another group I am blessed to be a part of is called DAG’s (these acronyms), which stands for Dorito Ann Girls. There are three of us who’ve been childhood friends, one since kindergarten and the other (whom we lovingly call a transplant) since seventh grade. In high school, the transplant lived in a small community where she was bussed into Marion, attending school with us.
Living in an A-frame home that bordered a small creek in her backyard, it reminded me of a fairy tale setting. Coming from a lumbering, old-fashioned farmhouse, this quaint little home was a marvel to me. The other friend had a simulated wood grain paneled station wagon (another marvel). She’d park it out behind the A-frame facing the creek, tailgate and back seat down. Lying on our bellies squished together, we’d inhale a bag of Doritos in one sitting while discussing the woes of high school.
Laughingly years later, we discovered we all had the same middle name — Ann — hence, DAG’s was formed. We make a point to meet every so often and always pick up just where we left off. We’ve had breakfasts, lunches, dinners out; a few pedicures and a pontoon boat ride along with visits to each of their beautiful cabins in the Northwoods. Catching up with each other, we discuss everything from soup to nuts. I am blessed for knowing them.
Yet another little threesome is my Marion-girls group. Alas, no acronyms for this one. We meet approximately once a month depending on their schedules as they, apart from me, have not yet entered the “retirement community.” As with the DAG’s, I’ve known these girls since kindergarten. What a rich history. We discuss Jesus with a passion and pray together, bringing our concerns and joys before His throne of majesty. We laugh ‘til our eyes water.
Alongside the blessings of childhood friends is my sister group; my younger blood sister and my sister-in-law, the beautiful woman my dear brother had the foresight to choose for his soulmate. We love each other deeply; our lives are connected intimately. Staying in touch daily, we chat on a personal message group we call “Warriors” because we storm the gates of hell as prayer warriors. All one of us has to type is “Prayer needed!” and we spring into action. We try to physically get together as often as possible.
One outing found us going for breakfast at Farm Inn on Main in Shawano, then heading to Lakewood to peruse the shops there. Driving into Cecil early that afternoon, we stopped for an ice cream treat at Dairy Cove.
Not wanting to leave each other that day we saw a matinee at the Shawano Cinema, and after deciding we were hungry enough for a supper, dined at the Torch Lite in Shawano. I mean, truly, I rolled home not needing to eat for a year. Pulling in at 9 p.m., we’d been yakking for 12 hours straight.
My husband said, “Didn’t you run out of things to talk about?”
“Heck no, we were just getting warmed up.”
All of these relationships are dear to me; every woman friend contributes a sweet portion of my life. It’s an inclusion thing. I am included, which is foundational to the human heart. I have a place at their tables, anytime.
Hanging in my living room is a picture called, “The Invitation” and displays an ornate table set with fine china and beautiful silverware, showing God’s open, inviting hands welcoming those in. The poem reads, “You are invited to come dine with Me from now through all eternity. Believe in the Father, Son and Holy Ghost and dine with Jesus as your Host. To live in heaven eternally, all you have to do is RSVP.” I love that. I have a place at His table for eternity.
In the meantime, I will enjoy my women friends. They have a place at my table, too.
(“A friend loves at all times.” Proverbs 17:17)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
Categories
