Pink Houses are Pretty, Too

 When I was a little girl, my Aunt Bertie lived in Nampa, Idaho. She lived up on what might be the only hill for miles. It overlooked massive amounts of farm land and you could see down into town from her large front window. Bertie was one of my favorite women. She was remarkable, really. She left her own family as they traveled through states with 12 children, to Oregon. When they stopped through Idaho, Bertie (Bertha) made friends with a local family. She then made the brave decision to leave her family around 14-15 years old and stay in Boise. Her mom must have been mighty brave, as well. But opportunity was better for Bertie there. Those were different days. 

Bertie was an artist - she could make the most intricate flowers from clay. Her home was decorated in sea foam green and pink pastel. Everything was in its place. It worked. Even the brick ranch that Bertie lived in was this interesting shade of pink. It was a soft pink, but still, it was pink. 

Bertie was my mom's aunt. She was my great aunt. She was my maternal grandmother's sister. My grandmother, Dorcas, died when I was 6. There are days that I'm sure that I can still catch a scent of my grandmother. Surely heaven isn't far on those days. Aunt Bertie was my grandmother's closest sister. I can imagine the different personalities among 12 children, can't you? And these 2 stuck through the ages together. So when grandmom died, Bertie never deserted us either. She and my grandad kept a close relationship and he would visit her in Idaho, and Bertie would call and check on us. 

After Aunt Bertie married "my Bill" (as she called him), they built that pink house up on the hill. It had a great basement, too. There was the most creepy painting of Jesus that hung on the wall in the guest room - his eyes followed you wherever you went. Truly, the Lord watched you while you slept in that house. So much so that we took the painting down when we slept down there. But only 10 years, or so, into marriage and Bill died. Bertie remained in that house on the hill until she, too, went to be with the Lord when I was 19.

I was Bertie's little shit. Wait. Say what? Like the pink and green decor, it was never offensive if Bertie did it or said it. She had the most perfect mid-western accent and talked loudly and thought it was the funniest thing to call me poopsy or her little shit. She could call me whatever she wanted. She was exactly who every little girl should long to be. Proverbs 31? Bertie.

Fiercely loyal to family. Made business decisions without flinching or flailing. Stood her ground. Stood before men confident in who she was, unconcerned if they cared for her or not. A trailblazer of single womanhood, running her own household, managing affairs and successfully fulfilling all that she set out to do.

So after she and her Bill built that pink house, a neighbor let her know how horrid he thought her house was. He told her that her pink house was ugly (it was not). But her choice of pink offended the neighbor enough to harrass Bertie about it. 

Finally in 1999, after Bertie passed, the most enormous painted plywood sign was thrown away from her garage. The sign was propped in her front yard for a long while, following the neighbor's outrage, with a reply to their disdain that simply said: "WE DON'T LIKE YOUR HOUSE EITHER". 

Here is what I learned from Aunt Bertie: if you're going to speak your piece, make a decision, do it clearly and no take backs.

Also, wear rouge, paint your walls whatever color you want them. Build it, create it, say it and do it. Take the risk. Love. It could last 10 years or a lifetime. Mail your nephew a box with 200 Idaho spuds. Call your niece poopsy. But quit sitting by the wayside complaining about life. That's a waste. 

The old saying: "more is caught than is taught", is true. 

Bertie never told me what to stand up for. She showed me.

When I visited her, in high school, hanging in one of her bedrooms was a sketch drawing I had done of Jesus. I'd mailed it to her because I looked up to her artistry and wanted to show her that I was working on mine, too. She never told me she got the letter with the picture. But when I visited, I saw it. She honored me by showing me. 

And calling me a shit. Well, what kid isn't one? But I was her favorite one.

Bertie was my first glance at Queen Esther. She stepped out to rescue her own life when she was just a girl. And she never looked back. 

I come from a brave line of men and women. I come from trailblazers who stood up and stepped out. We have all been told that girls shouldn't, that the thing is ugly, that we should be seen and not heard, but each of us hear Esther saying: speak. You might be the only one. They might tell you that you don't know what you're talking about. But what if the king listens? What if?

So, as for me and my house, we will empower the girls to paint the walls pink, to speak up, to be brave when they're scared, and to know that there will be many who don't like or approve of them, but as long as they serve the King, then their mission field isn't about approval. It's about lighting the way for the generations. 

Thanks, Aunt Bertie. My high school bedroom decorated pink and green was because a little girl looked up to an old gal who was pointing her the way. 

Forever yours, 

Poopsy