It's a good thing too, because our church is planning a garage sale, the proceeds of which will go toward a mission trip to Mexico. Though I won't go this year, I've gone before. It's someone else's turn to feel completely at home far away.

With the garage sale as my deadline, my house gets some attention, the church raises some money and I feel good. It's a win, win.

And it's perfect timing because my little Carrie has grown like a weed. Before bed, after she's exhausted "a quick drink of water" and "one more book," lately she's complained of growing pains. Reminding her that she's catching up with her classmates seems to be the best remedy.

As Carrie's castoffs make their way into a pile for the garage sale, I turn my attention to the stack of Rubbermaid totes back in the attic. It's there, with my sleeves rolled up, that I've already begun to unearth blessed hand-me-downs.

Of my favorites are lavender, gingham capris that Carrie's big sister, Haley, wore in kindergarten. Holding them is like peering through a portal to 2002.

At that time Haley attended Wasmer Elementary a place where children from lots of different soil put down strong roots. I remember she had become fast friends with one little girl whose family came from Mexico. As is only natural between bosom buddies, Haley desperately wanted to have her over to play.

It was warm as I waited on the sidewalk for the school bell to ring. Haley was dressed like a lilac and skipping, her feet happy in new white sandals. But my eyes were following the little girl with thick, black braids. When she found her mama, I made my move.

They were laughing and, though I couldn't understand their words, seemingly rehashing the day. I extended my hand to the little girl's mother and introduced myself. She smiled. But, when I invited her daughter to our home, she politely declined.

"I'm very protective," she said, as if it were a strange concept. "But thank you. Maybe another time."

It took me off guard, but I recovered. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense: how they abruptly stopped their conversation when I approached, the way she guarded her child from a stranger and the general look of wariness behind kind eyes. We were more alike than different. I hoped she thought so, too.

Building relationships amongst diversity required a little more patience, a little less fear and an open mind. And doing so helped me learn about myself, too some things I'd rather keep buried. But never was time so well spent.

Time in the attic is well spent, too, because some things, like lavender gingham, are always worth revisiting. And there's nothing like a splash of color to help us forget our growing pains.

And thank the good Lord, we don't have to stay small.

I wrote this while reflecting on the hospitality I encountered on a visit to Mexico, which, in turn, led me to evaluate my own.

Mother Tongue

Mother Tongue is warm and soft,

Like so many hand-slapped tortillas

Stacked and steaming in terra cotta warmers,

Awaiting hungry hands and white smiles

In the kitchen her wise words,

A friendly banter popping and percolating

Between generations, she the mother and daughter,

Proud of position, never idle, proven to be

She's the aroma of just-laundered shirts

Waving to her children in the wind,

Or bleached and starched, ironed stiff,

As if to shield her family from earth's filth

A meandering lullaby, her gentle salve,

Like honey submerged in tea, thick and heavy,

The dark half moons beneath tired eyes

Closed tight in whispered prayers

How hospitable she is drying her hands

To extend to me kind, neighborly words

Unsure but determined, she offers

A timid hello in mine

Contact Kristen Friesen at hervoice@theindependent.com.