Part One~ In which we meet a character named Gretchen in Michigan who is learning to wear what fits, with discussions of pies, concerts, and old fashioned cars…
Part Two~ In which we find out Gretchen’s trauma, Gretchen swings for the fences in 2027, and using her powers of optimistic thinking, Gretchen goes viral— without AI
Part Three….
Gretchen started her day by giving away all of her stickers. She made the ones that remained into thank you notes and bookmarks for twenty friends. As she broke a sweat decorating her bookmarks, she lamented having broken a lot of good and bad habits over the years. She was now a former pipe smoker, a former subscriber of craft magazines, and an ex-ballet dancer.
Gretchen often reminisced about her time as a dancer in New York City. She was remembering her time in the city that needs no introduction, as she hemmed a skirt. She remembered that funnily enough, she was made to take a self-defense class at the dance studio. She had just arrived, and several different well-meaners told her, “Keep your head down, and don’t make eye contact with anyone.” You have to remember that those were the days when music was really off putting, because it’s always darkest before the dawn.
In her head, she imagined the other sewing projects waiting on the backburner. She cycled through easy and hard, wishing away her woes about her plans for selling her Lotta Jansdotter book later in the day. She must have had one too many Moscow mule mock-tails to love Drunkard’s Prayer that much. Damn good wine for those who know how to taste it…
Before she packed the Lotta book into a beautiful basket with other free goodies - Marilla chocolates, a vanilla scented candle, and an unnamed perfume. She flipped through it again. Inside, there was a little blurb about Fika. The Swedish coffee break was more about socializing than cookies or caffeine, or anything. And so she wondered… What is fika?
The genius of this book was its ability to make sewing “seam” easy. And it did not just appear easy. Lotta had designed her patterns in a way that even a dunce could make beautiful sewing projects quickly. She remembered her mother trying to teach her- painstakingly, or not- how to make sleeves for a fancy dress she had once made with a Simplicity pattern imitating/mimicking a dress from Ann Taylor Loft. For the sleeves: simply hold taut the entrance of your needle and thread, then gather the material as it scrunches before tying off the knot…. Puffed sleeves never looked so good…. and, she never made a dress again! But she made plenty of aprons, bags, wallets, skirts, blankets, small quilts, simple pants, and baby jumpers (without sleeves.)
She met the woman, Angela, at Price Chopper who had agreed over Facebook marketplace to receive $20 for a priceless book. This woman struck up a conversation before she had to run into Eyeglass World.
“How did you come upon such a wonder, such a marvel?” She asked as she flipped through pictures with modern, fresh design and inspiring fabric.
“Oh, I just got it on Amazon. Anyone could.”
“No, dear. No, no, no. That is what you don’t understand.” The woman closed the book.
She saw a twinkle in this woman’s eyes, like she had a secret code to the underbelly of her town. It was so mystical, it gave her a creepy chill down her spine as rain started to softly, gently fall all around her.
Gretchen pondered the woman’s words on her walk in the nearby park, ascertaining with a deathgrip that all humanity desires these whispers of the divine at work. Eating a snack, she saw a white duck scurry quickly to the river nearby, scattering a few white feathers and flies in its trail. She remembered a quote from Augustine of Hippo. “It was pride that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels.” How will we find it… how will we find it. Life was about to teach her exactly how to find humility, the miracle cure.
Gretchen texted her thoughts to her friend. “What is fika?” Her friend Astrid was wise, trim, and she owned an incredibly cozy home. She was like a Swedish monk with a pulse on the collective unconscious and hive mind. She called her friends family, she had a wide network, and she always overflowed with mystical wisdom and puns.
I suppose this woman from Eyeglass world… whoever she was , maybe she was an angel… I suppose she meant you have to know what to search for. I suppose she meant you have to have the right experiences in order to give it the right prompt. I suppose she meant you have to be in the right place and time with the right tools to appreciate it. I suppose she meant… you have to be special? She chuckled to herself. Reject self, seek not your own success.
Gretchen’s friend Astrid texted back:
“The reason Swedes love fika so much is that it’s like a magic stress-reducing, balance-creating pill, but, you know, with coffee and pastries. It’s like their national therapy session, and hey- wouldn’t it be nice to keep that bill down?? “
Gretchen: I guess you Swedes have community in spades, or something?
Astrid: Fika is where Swedes pretend adulthood isn’t so hard! Our polish may be lackluster, but our community is a beautiful disaster! Hey, that rhyme was totally unintentional!
Gretchen, giggling, resolved to keep in touch with Angela. Her once-distant friend now hung on her every word. They used to play Jenga and The Contenders video game, back in the early aughts, at game night, back when she lived in the nation’s capital, back when black and white curtains were on trend with a spray of one bright color in the room, like a red bouquet of poppies in the bay window. They would pray, eat homemade Indian food, then break up into small groups, and play violent video games where they all shot each other endlessly. It was great fun and hilarious. Once they had a cookout where Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty played on a loop. “Wildflowers” and “Thunder Road” droned meaningless in the background. She reminisced about her days at the cookout, where a secret service member for the White House mingled with an ER medical doctor and world-class scientist. Soon what they all had in common would cause her breath to snag in her throat.
One day Gretchen woke up to an alert on her phone. Sixteen messages. She quickly scrolled through them in a panic. Two minutes later: twenty-eight messages. She sipped her strong black Starbucks coffee, her stomach grumbling. The home she was living in was owned by a sweet carpenter and his wife. They had several children even at their young age. Her playroom had once been their son Isaac’s bedroom. They had moved a couple blocks away, now renting the house to Gretchen and her first husband. The carpenter’s son, eight years old, had been playing hide-and-seek with some friends, then became trapped in an overhot car, and couldn’t escape. The next day after spending the night on a ventilator, Isaac passed away. A few short weeks prior, she had watched this little funny guy playing on a playground with some fellow children from their parish, happily laughing, peering out through his thick glasses. The ghost of his soul lurked in their house that day, his former home, haunting her imagination and all her memories. She had some friends over to discuss what had happened, and these encounters were shrouded by an eerie strangeness, a sinister macabre unknown.
She spent a morning gazing out at a serene pond, but her mind was elsewhere, consumed by a dense fog of depression that had been following her for what seemed like an eternity. It made everyday tasks feel like climbing a mountain alone, leaving her feeling extremely isolated. Worst of all, she was losing touch. She went for a walk taking pictures, and everything seemed symbolic, but it was confusing and it taunted her. “What does it mean, what is it meant for, who is it meant for?” The dishes and mopping were crowded by the unwanted blahs, rendered irrelevant. Nature was no cure for a churning mental stew. She had a dream that night. In it, she had lost her ability to sew. Her kids sat her down for a talk. Her eldest said, “We have something to tell you. Your music taste was like fresh and saltwater mixing in a stream. He was on a detour! His confusion led to his insanity.” Is someone blaming her, or worse, calling her musical taste a disability? She was just being honest, and besides, the whole thing was an accident! In the dream, a foundation with her name stamped on it had been formed. “The Gretchen Foundation.” They used the funding to provide music therapy to people sick in hospitals, nationwide. Positive, encouraging music - often classical- was chosen. Christian rap, all the rage.
Her family went away for the week, and missed the funeral, but the night before their trip, they dropped off a smorgasbord for the grieving family. Swedish meatballs, delicious gravy, mashed potatoes, and lingonberry sauce in neat covered glass Tupperware containers, all combined in a cloth Aldi bag. Covering their porch were dozens of covered casserole dishes. So many lasagnas, stacked in the middle of the porch, with spider webs in the corners by the front door. The community overflowed with compassion and unity in the wake of tragedy. No one should forget this event… no one should ever, ever forget the purport of this death. Let it not be in vain! What do we need? What do you need? Scars are our glory. Scars make us worthy, for they signify our valor. They qualify us, showing the race we’ve run. AirPods in, she heard a long lost song from 1995 wafting in and out of her consciousness, recalling the humility of ages past…
“The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today
Is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips
Then walk out the door and deny him by their lifestyle.
That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.
What if I stumble, what if I fall.
Is this one for the people?
Is this one for the Lord?
Or do I simply serenade
The things I must afford?
You can jumble them together
My conflict still remains
Holiness is calling
in the midst of courting fame
Cause I see the trust in their eyes
though the sky is falling
They need your love in their life
Compromise is calling
What if I stumble
What if I fall?
What if I lose my step
And I make fools of us all?
Will the love continue
When my walk becomes a crawl?
What if I stumble
And what if I fall?
What if I stumble
What if I fall?
You never turn in
The heat of it all
What if I stumble
What if I fall?
Father please forgive me
For I cannot compose
The fear that lives within me
Or the rate at which it grows
If struggle has a purpose
On the narrow road you've carved
Why do I dread my trespasses
Will leave a deadly scar
Do they see the fear in my eyes?
Are they so revealing?
This time I cannot disguise
All the doubt I'm feeling
What if I stumble
What if I fall?
What if I lose my step
And I make fools of us all?
Will the love continue
When my walk becomes a crawl?
What if I stumble
And what if I fall?
What if I stumble?
When you know that
You're up against a wall
It's about to fall
Everyone's got to crawl
When you know that
Everyone's got to crawl
When you know that
You're up against a wall
It's about to fall
Everyone's got to crawl
When you know that
I hear You whispering my name
You say
My love for You will never change
Never change
What if I stumble
What if I fall?
What if I lose my step
And I make fools of us all?
Will the love continue
When my walk becomes a crawl?
What if I stumble
And what if I fall?
What if I stumble
And what if I fall?
What if I lose my step
And I make fools of us all?
Will the love continue
When my walk becomes a crawl?
What if I stumble
And what if I fall?
What if I stumble
What if I fall?
You never turn in
The heat of it all
What if I stumble
What if I fall?
You are my comfort
And my God
Is this one for the people
Is this one for the Lord?
-DC Talk in their peak glory days….
“Astrid, why do people make fun of me for liking Over the Rhine?”
“Oh Gretchen, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with liking Drunkard's Prayer. It’s heartfelt, poetic, and musically rich. If someone’s mocking you for that, the issue isn’t with your taste—it’s more likely about them projecting something or not understanding the depth of what you enjoy.
Mocking others’ tastes can be a way people try to elevate their own status or feel more confident about what they like. It’s usually a sign of insecurity, or they are protecting themselves from feeling their own feelings.
A lot of people haven’t heard the bands or books you like, and unfamiliarity can make them react dismissively. Some folks write off anything they don’t recognize, especially if it’s more introspective or not mainstream. Remember, there’s a cultural pressure to like “what’s hot,” especially in certain social groups. If you enjoy something outside that norm—especially something that’s slow, poetic, or spiritual—it might get sneered at by people who expect fast, loud, or trendy.
Drunkard’s Prayer is deeply emotional and raw. Some people get uncomfortable with music that exposes vulnerability or talks about relationships, faith, or pain in an honest way. They may mock it because it touches something they’re not ready to deal with. Perhaps the kind of pain you’re dealing with looks really messy to them. Your taste in music reflects something personal about you. Liking Drunkard’s Prayer says you value depth, emotion, and authenticity. That’s not something to be ashamed of—it’s something to be proud of.”
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