Heather Plett, Author at Heather Plett

Where have the years gone?

by Heather Plett | Jan 30, 2007 | Uncategorized

Because all the cool kids are doin’ it, I wanted to join the fun and post some pictures of me as a young child. Unfortunately, it turns out that I have only a very limited number of pictures of bygone days in my house. I think it’s time to root around in those old cardboard boxes my mom has been moving from old farmhouse to apartment to apartment in the last few years. I need a better selection.

Here’s one of my favourite photos. I’m the blonde in the dark stripes and my sister is the cutie-patootie in the light stripes. Apparently we’re in the process of mauling my dad. As a hardworking farmer, my dad didn’t nearly always have enough time for his kids, but when he gave us his attention, he made sure that at least for those brief moments, it was quality time.

The picture below is of me with my oldest brother (who occasionally shows up in the comments as bbb). Doesn’t he look smashing in the bowtie? (And for those who know him, doesn’t he look alot like Caleb?) I was apparently fairly attached to that soother and dolly. I suspect it was a ploy to get me to sit still long enough for the Christmas photo. Even though we were fairly poor, Mom loved to dress us well – especially for Christmas. Almost every year, we got a new Christmas outfit. Usually it was something Mom had sewn.

Notice the drywall tape on the wall behind us? For the first seven years of their married life, Mom and Dad lived in an unfinished house. It must have driven my Mom a little crazy. Things didn’t get much better either. From there we moved to a tiny farmhouse with only one cold water tap in the kitchen, a strangely named “cash and carry” toilet in the winter and outhouse in the summer, and so little space that when mom and dad went to bed at night on the hide-a-bed in the living room, their feet were in the kitchen. It was another seven years before we moved into a new house on the same farm property. My mom had to put up with A LOT back then! But… we were happy.

Sunday six

by Heather Plett | Jan 28, 2007 | Uncategorized

Six ways to avoid laundry.

1. Play Bingo with your kids.
2. Let your kids convince you that you need to play ONE more round before tackling the laundry mountain.
3. Write a lame blog post about avoiding laundry.
4. Tell yourself it’s character building if the kids occasionally need to wear mis-matched socks or scrounge through random piles to find that last pair of threadbare underwear.
5. Phone a friend and commiserate about the never-ending laundry duties.
6. Pretend there’s been a restricted quarantine placed on your laundry room and ONLY MOTHERS are not allowed to enter.

Sigh. Okay, so I’m getting tired of wearing the bottom o’ the barrel underwear – the kind that slides into places it’s not meant to slide – just because I’ve avoided laundry too long. Self – get thee to the laundry room!

No entrance

by Heather Plett | Jan 25, 2007 | Uncategorized

At the rock-hewn churches of Lalibella, where history is so thick it seeps from the walls, I stood outside the holy of holies. By virtue of my gender, I was barred entrance to that most sacred of places.

The men at the door said “no women allowed.” I heard “you are unclean. Unworthy.”

With some measure of discomfort, the men in our party stepped inside. “We’ll report back,” they said. “We’ll take pictures and show you.” Their words hinted at the guilt they carried for being the chosen ones. They didn’t want to leave us behind.

Waiting on the outside, we three women made light of the situation. “What if we storm the entrance?” we laughed. “Perhaps if we trip on the doorway and fall into the room…” Kebede, our Ethiopian companion, didn’t take it so lightly. “They will stone you,” he said, his face reflecting the seriousness of the offense. “Or beat you with their sticks.” All of the priests in this place carried long staffs with silver or gold crosses on top. I imagined those crosses smashing down on our backs.

In this foreign country, it was not my place to challenge history. I stayed outside.

Twinges of memory poked at my consciousness – my own history ringing in my ears. “You cannot read the Bible in church. You are a woman.” “You cannot be class president. You are a woman.” Each time I heard the words flung like stones – “You are unclean. Unworthy.”

I looked down at my bare feet on the stones worn smooth from centuries of worshippers. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that these feet could walk on holy ground. I knew that these feet were no less worthy than the feet of those inside the holiest of rooms. After years of stones, I had learned to hold my head up high and believe the truth of “neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female.”

I am woman. I am worthy. I can only put my faith in a God who tore the veil of the holy of holies and welcomed me to step over the threshold. “You are worthy,” he/she whispered in my waiting ear. “Come and be clean.”