Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Lessons from Horseback

    
    There is power in the name of Jesus to… break every chain. In my life, I have one very meaningful gift in the work that I do and that is to see chains broken.

    I will not try to sugar coat stories because life is tough and sometimes things don’t work out like a Christian movie with happy tears and cheesy self-disclosure lines. No, in life many of us have heavy chains pulling us down, keeping us from true peace in life.

     I think the story of chain breaking would have to start with me. I didn’t know how bound I was until I started going to church again at the age of 16. My eyes became open to the ugly thoughts and destructive habits. 

      I started my rededicated walk with God by becoming a great rule follower and outward behavior corrector, but my heart was still full of conflict. I am so thankful for my zany and energetic friend Amy who had a way of making me feel like I belonged no matter what.

     One late spring day she invited me to take a horseback ride with her out in the country. I am afraid of big animals, horses included, but I didn’t want her to know that. After all, “God has not given us a spirit of fear but of power love and a sound mind.” So we mounted the horses. Being a horse lover she led the way confidently while I took deep breaths and nervously but bravely said, “Way to go girl!” to the horse.

     I thought in that moment I will pretend to be confident. Pretending had been something I had grown very accustomed to. As the trail lead to the lonely country road, I felt my anxiety increase as I thought of the cars that could pass us. What if the horse got spooked? “Nice little horsey,” I called out.

     Soon a group of cars passed us and with each one I cussed loudly. Embarrassed I apologized to my Christian friend. She just laughed all the harder. In frustration, I tried to reign in my fear, but low and behold another car passed and another foul word escaped my lips. I felt doomed to failure on this horse.

     When we got back to her house I felt so dejected because the broken Dianne had risen to the surface on that horseback ride, but Amy continued to just laugh. In that moment of self-condemnation, I saw the grace of God. In her loving face, I saw that I still had a place in her friendship and I still had a place in God’s kingdom even when the ugly bled out for all to see. In that moment a chain fell off. Though I didn’t hear its plummet to the ground I felt the freedom of its absence.  

     I learned that day that I could be accepted by God and his people not just when I did everything right and exemplified Christian character impeccably. Living a perfect life was impossible then and now. And I venture to say, that to whoever is reading this blog, it is also impossible for you. No, I learned that day that when fear kicks up an ugly thing lurking in my heart that I thought was gone, or that I strained to keep well-hidden it is not for my condemnation that it is revealed. When those foul words started to erupt it was for me to see a greater need for my Savior. He is the only one that can break the chains.

    I hate it that even today when I am given to fear or under tremendous strain a foul word will come to the surface. Sometimes it will spill out in the van as I am driving, or erupt as I am trying to handle a crisis. Just like the seventeen-year-old girl on horseback I feel defeated and mortified. In confusion, I wonder how I still could be chained to that ugly old habit. And then I picture the loving face of my friend Amy accepting me despite my fault. 

    Grace is a gift that is unmerited, freely given, and undeserved. It comes in that moment of failure when I again open my heart to the Lord. His grace flows over my faults and washes me clean again. I am not perfect but I am changed by the grace of God in those moments of surrender. His grace breaks the chains.


Thursday, December 22, 2016

A Cookie Cutter Connection

   

   I dug through the pots and pans, grumbling that it is time to organize the tumbling on the floor mess I am creating while looking for the purple bowl. So I guess my cupboard is a pot, pans, and big bowl space that is like a migraine to manage.

    Finally at the back of the cupboard, I reach in, almost fully inside, legs wiggling out of the end. I carefully pull the bowl from an unsecured pot pile and a group of teetering pans. With the purple bowl in hand, I triumphantly place it next to the eggs, measuring cup and package of sugar cookie mix. A tangle of cookie cutters is scattered on the table with an assortment of sprinkles and colored sugar crystals.

    After mixing the ingredients together the dough is ready to roll out flat for the cookie cutters to shape into Christmas stars and joyful bells, singing angels and fancy trees. I love this time of year and the fun of baking something special.

   After the cookies appear from the oven I call to the girls, “Elaina, Lydia, come here.” As the excited feet come bounding up the basement stairs they both let out a gleeful cheer, “sugar cookies! Can we decorate them?”

    I smile as I hand them the decorating supplies. Happy chatter pours out as the girls sprinkle color over frosted shapes. It brings me back to snowy afternoons when the kids were small with play-doh spread out on the table.

“No, don’t put that in your mouth.” I would say to a child tempted by the bright colors of the sculpting dough.

Back in the present, I see Lydia licking the knife of pink frosting, “Lydia, don’t do that!” I playfully scold as she giggles guiltily.

   In ten minutes they are finished frosting the cookies and tromp back down the stairs. We just shared a brief fun moment together. These days a brief moment together is a gift. Gone are the days of wanting mommy as the playmate. Time changes things and stages change things, luckily I have one thing to count on: my cupboard of disheveled pots and pans.

   Even on the best of days opening the cupboard door can make me grumble. It just seems I don’t have time to clear up that problem. I live with the mess because there is always something more important to do. I guess that is why I am willing to make a cookie mess for ten minutes of connection with my girls. Mess might be required to get to the things that really matter in life. The things that sprinkle color on life and make it worth a heavy jog up the stairs.

And that is why I love to make sugar cookies




It's Time to Go

   
   When the lights go down and everyone goes home I stand alone on the stage. Was I enough? It feels empty in that moment not just because the show is over, but because the void is never filled.  Why is it that I absorb the negative comments as part of my identity but the compliments just fall right off unto the ground?

   The soul is such a needy thing. Even in the holy place of worship, it can’t be completely filled it waits for something…Someone. Tonight as the dress rehearsal ended and excited voices decreased to the sound of the last door shutting I stood on the stage again. It is a place that I love and yet the emptiness climbed up the stairs and stood with me looking out at the vacant seats.

   "It’s time to go," I whispered. The ache in my back started to call out. In the busyness of scene change and light cue, I had forgotten to sit down. In the rush of schedule, I had forgotten to eat. Yes, it is time to go. With one more look out at the seats and balcony, I picked up my music book and walked out the door.

   The night sky hung lonely with a glittery moon looking down at the sad traveler. Why should my heart feel sad? It was a good rehearsal for a great service to come. The familiar question echoed in my head, “am I enough?”

    Sometimes I wonder how long I can sing. When I give it my all and feel such emptiness I wonder if my song has been sung and it’s time to hang up the act. But tonight on the first song, I felt like I still had the magic. I smiled as I open the door and sat down in the darkness while fumbling for the key.

    I have never felt old before, but lately, I have been. It seems like the culture of what I love to do is moving too fast for me. I always thought ministry was about people and helping them use their gifts for God, but I feel crammed into a different model that doesn’t seem to fit me. So I wonder was I ever meant to do this anyway.

But I felt the magic on the first song…I remind myself.

    I am not sure if anyone has the power to whisper confidence into my heart but the inventor of my soul. Psalm 139:13 “For you created my inmost being, You knit me together in my mother’s womb…”

God, it’s me, Dianne. The van is running but I can’t seem to put it in gear. Are you through with me?

-Silence-

   The hum of the motor fills the still pensive moment. With a sigh, I turned on the radio. Somehow the song playing captured my attention as I pulled out of the parking lot…

When it feels like surgery
And it burns like third degree
And you wonder what is it worth?
When your insides breaking in
And you feel that ache again
And you wonder
What's giving birth?

    My swollen tummy reminds me that change is not only surrounding me but growing within. I guess I am not ready for change when I am actually walking in it. It feels so romantic when looking into the future and so nostalgic when looking back at the past. But in the driver’s seat, I feel lost even on the familiar road home.


   In my mind I still see the vacant seats and the balcony as the stage lights illuminate my lonely figure. Yes, it’s time to go. 

Monday, December 19, 2016

The Side Door Nativity


Driving to work the other morning I felt rushed. The kids were in school, and my work day was about to begin. As I stopped at the red light I looked over at the row of houses lining the street. I had time to sip the coffee in my to-go cup. In that moment I noticed a plastic nativity set up by the side door of a house. The light turned green as I frowned.

Time for work, and there was a lot to do. The Christmas season was fast approaching the Christmas jingle reminded me as it crooned on the radio. A side door nativity how strange?  Whistling to “I’ll be home for Christmas,” I pulled into my usual parking space.

Gathering my bag I braved the cold to walk the short distance to the church office. As my breath made little white clouds in the crisp morning air I shifted my thoughts to the tasks of the day. In a few minutes, I was elbow deep in emails and the to-do list for the day.

It wasn’t until I drove home that night that I again remembered the side door Nativity. Why would the Christmas story be segregated to the side door? The lawn looked big enough to make festive with the stable scene. On the way, I saw many homes lit up with colorful lights. At one house I even saw a blow-up dinosaur bobbing in the wind. All such decorations were lit brightly and fashioned to draw attention to the eye as if to say, “Happy Holidays.”

But the side door Nativity did not proclaim a “Merry Christmas,” in the blue shadows at five PM as the moon began to peer through the overcast night sky. No spotlight illuminated the Virgin Mary as she looked upon the miracle child. No light revealed the peaceful countenance of the animals gathered in the stable, or the look of worship on the stand in Father, Joseph’s face as he looked upon his Savior. Only the moon’s light illuminated the Christ child’s face looking up into the eyes of a broken world, one he had come to save. No, this Nativity scene was sitting in the cold away from the light abandoned by the side door.

As I frantically try to shop for those on my Christmas list I often forget the real reason for celebration. It is not that I mean to leave out Jesus at Christmas, it’s just I am a bit too busy. After all, there are Christmas cookies to bake, and a tree to decorate, concerts to attend and parties to enjoy. Sure there is plenty of red and green and carols to sing but am I guilty of leaving the nativity at the side door of this season? Do I display gifts and traditions on the front lawn with brilliant lights illuminating everything but the little babe born to save the world?  

Worn out after a day of shopping I realize I missed my devotions and the list is still not completed.  It is here on the couch, in pajamas and slippers I hear the whisper of the Holy Spirit calling my heart, “O Come and adore Him.” I am reminded that it is Jesus who has changed my life. In the quietness of reflection, I decide to return the Christmas Story of Jesus born in a manger from the side door of my life to the front door of my heart.

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head. The stars in the sky looked down where he lay the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.


Sunday, December 18, 2016

A Closer Look at the Star


   They followed the star in the east...the three wise men will be portrayed by thousands of little children this Christmas in pageants across the land. In royal purple and gold, emerald green and silver, ruby red and gold costumes bearing gifts these mysterious Kings will traverse across platforms and down center aisle’s to the minor melodic tune of “We Three Kings.”

    Could these three great Kings of orient speak a message to the seekers of the truth today? Do they call from ancient bible story to the modern reader to look up beyond personal accomplishment, and ability to seek something greater than facts, something bigger than reason?

    Sitting in church today the preacher said, “We were never meant to be the star of the show.” Hmmm I thought, he is right and yet how many times have I tried to be. How many hours, how many days, how many years of my life have been spent trying to be good enough to be labeled “’the star.”

   It is hard to live for God without having a mental checklist to attend to, to rate yourself by. Read my bible (check), prayer for world peace (check), drive through traffic to get a last minute Christmas item without yelling at other drivers----

    If I really put down the checklist and follow the Star like the Wise men did, will it lead me to the Savior? To follow such a star meant they had to put down their own plans. They had to be willing to go on a quest into unknown territory to find a promise their hearts had always longed for.
I don’t know about you but I long for the promises my heart cries out for: Peace, Love, and Joy. I see these words printed on Candles and pillows in retail stores. But such items can’t touch the real ache inside to find the treasure at the other end of the Star.

    So who or what is the Star? Did the Wise men know? Or did they just decide to set out, to find out, to discover for themselves a truth that had risen in the East? A mystery gleaming high above from the heavens beckoned their wild at heart spirits to go, and not empty handed, but bearing gifts.

   I have heard the most treasured things in life will cost you everything, and yet they are worth everything you have to give. Where does our treasure lie? Is it found in the here and now? Is it wrapped up in something that can be purchased or does it lie somewhere out beyond people or things? I think the ancient star of the Magi gleamed beyond their wildest dreams and it continues to gleam past ours.

    I have read on Coffee Cups, “Jesus is the reason for the season.” I have heard the bible speak of “seeking and you will find.” It seems as if seeking is more than a bible study or a self-help book, it seems to be a lifelong quest that demands all that you have to gain more than you knew you needed.

    I cannot be “the star” in the story. I must become a seeker of the star. With all my heart just as the Wise men, I must press on. I need to traverse so far beyond my own opinion, ability, or strength to find the truth wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. I need to find Immanuel, God with us.


Saturday, December 17, 2016

A Little Girl in Lane #1

    
    The snow began to fall a little before three PM. I ran into the grocery store to get a few things for my youngest daughter’s Birthday Party. As I walked through the automatic doors I noticed many others were coming in for a few things too. In fact, each aisle was full of hustle and bustle as the feeling of snow was in the air. Finally. I gathered my items to check out and discovered that all the lanes were filled with at least 3 shoppers, so I decided on check out #1. As I leaned over my cart I noticed the woman in front of me with several kids, 1,2,3,4 and a baby carrier in the shopping cart.

    Silently I watched the mother handling her little gaggle of children calmly. Wow, I thought to myself. I can’t even count all those kids. As I drew closer to start to unload my cart on the conveyor belt I noticed one of the children was a little girl with blond hair. Looking at all the others I realized she was the only girl of the family. She smiled at me as I unloaded the marshmallows. I smiled back, as I asked if the baby was a boy or girl because the top of the carrier was covered.

The little girl replied, “He is a boy baby and he is already a year old,” pushing back the canopy of the carrier to reveal a sleeping tot, “I was pretty sad about it.”

     In that moment I felt connected to this little stranger. Her candid honesty reminded me of all the reasons why I wanted a sister too. I was the third of four children and the only girl.  As much as I tried to fit in with the boys, it was obvious I wasn’t one. I longed to have a sister to talk to about girly things. I dreamed of how fun it would be to wear matching clothes and tell each other secrets…instead, I was chased by brothers dangling spiders from branches. I was bullied for getting in the way. I was left home while they went on fishing trips together.

Yes, I knew what it was like to be “pretty sad about it.”

   In the pretty blue eyes and soft golden curls unfurling under a hand knit hat, this little girl bravely revealed her heart. In that moment we were instant friends. That quality is the very reason I love having women in my life.

    As much as I love my husband, and I think of him as my best friend he can’t touch my heart in the way a great conversation with a warm mug of coffee can with my closest girlfriends. They get me, they understand, they are able to hear through my many words to what I am really trying to say. When I come home from being with them I am more able to be present with my family, more focused on the job, and more content with who I am.

Yes, I always wanted a sister, but instead I was given brothers.

    I continued to chat with the little girl until her mother finished paying for the groceries. I waved good-bye as they hurried out into the wintery afternoon.

    Returning to the task of unloading the rest of my groceries I checked my phone for the time. I had to hurry home to prepare for the party. On the way to my minivan with a sack of groceries in my arms, I thought about my own daughters. I am so happy God gave me two so that they could have what I always wanted.

   Are they always happy with each other? No, but they seem to make up quicker than the quarrel lasted. For years I would find my youngest sleeping with her sister even if it meant waiting until everyone fell asleep to sneak into her bed. On family trips, they sit close whispering secrets and laughing at inside jokes. I am glad that I have daughters.

    I am thankful today that when you trust in the Lord He does give you the true desires of your heart. As the snowflakes fall outside my living room window I reflect on his goodness. The hyper squeal of six sugared up girls comes drifting up the stairs as I can almost hear them singing, "Girls Just Want to Have Fun."

   Balloons are scattered on the floor along with little bits of wrapping paper. My baby is now eleven. Time flies when you are having fun.

    No matter how your life looks today, it is not the full story. As I wished I could whisper to the sweet-faced little girl in Lane #1  this is just a scene in that story. Trust in the Lord, even through the disappointments because He knows your hearts cry. In His timing, he will surprise you with more than enough.   
  

  

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Over the River and through the Woods...


     It was a hectic evening after the basketball game. I just had to run into Walmart to get a few things, but I was hungry so more things started to pile in my cart than were on the list. As I walked down the Christmas aisle looking for a gingerbread house my eyes were drawn to a green square box, "Old Fashioned Ribbon Candy." 

    Immediately I picked it up, saying, "We always had ribbon candy for Christmas when I was a kid." Without having to purchase it, I could remember the taste and texture of the hard candy. My memory was both fond and truthful. Reminiscing the way it sweetly melted in my mouth but frowning as I recalled the way it would cut my tongue every time on a rough patch. The sugary flavor would then be tainted by the sting of the cut and the salty taste of the blood the candy had produced.

    Almost instantly I was transported to my Great Grandma Chase’s house. It was a little white square house on the corner of an old street. My most distant memories are of all four of us children sitting on the gold colored davenport.  At each visit, six little dogs yapped and nipped at our heels from their hiding spot under the couch. Luckily I was too little for my feet to hit the ground.

    I remember studying this ancient woman named Great Grandma. She always had a smile on her face and seemed oblivious to her nipping dogs terrifying us. I stared at her gray and black hair that resembled a giant rose the way it curled around her face in big waves that never moved.On the side of her hairdo she had a sparkling barrette holding the immovable hair in place.  

    She was the first person I would meet who owned a lava lamp. In her little living room the four of us would quietly stare at it while avoiding the dogs and drowning out the adult chatter. Visiting Great Grandma seemed to take an eternity, but the purple Lava bobbing up to the top in a waxy liquid ball transfixed our attention.

    At some point in the adult conversation, Great Grandma would ask if we would like some candy. This would brighten all of our weary bodies after trying to sit and be good for so long. So off the couch, we bravely jumped and lined up in the narrow entryway to the kitchen. On a shelf too high for me to reach Great Grandma had Old fashioned Ribbon candy stored in a green glass jar.

    It never failed, I would always hear from the living room Mom calling out, “We always had ribbon candy for Christmas when I was a kid.” If the truth were told, the candy stuck to the bottom of this green glass jar might have been that old. The red ribbon candy would be stuck in a ball with raspberry candies and green little lime flavored sticks. David, as the oldest of the four, would get the privilege of breaking off the pieces for the rest of us to eat. Even though the candy was brightly colored I was always a little bit frustrated with the taste.

    All I can compare it to is biting into a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich only to discover it is peanut butter and raspberry jelly. With nosed crinkled up, I would keep eating it, after all, the lava lamp and the ribbon candy were the only highlights of this eternally long visit, but I was disappointed.

    Over the years of my early childhood, I would repeat the same routine, stare at the lava lamp eat ribbon candy and wait. It is hard for the young to understand the importance of sitting in the room with their oldest relatives. Individuals that blazed the trail of life before them.

    I learned as I sat in those visits that I inherited the gap between my front teeth from Great Grandma. I also shared the same long-fingered hands and  love for art. I was too young to know that she was a dreamer, always thinking up a new dream.  Regardless if I knew it then or not, I shared more than ribbon candy with my Great Grandmother or even DNA I was the carrier of her story.

   She thought once that she would like to have a family, but could she see into the future to the great grand-daughter that would come and sing to her as she lay in the hospital in her 90's struggling for every breath. I will never forget the gleam in her eye as I sang for her then. Her life was almost spent, but her story carried on. I am sure in her youth she could not picture such a day.

    Now as a mother of three I have moments where my mind drifts to Great Grandma. I wonder what her life was like when she was my age. I wonder what her dreams were then. I wonder what she would tell me when times are hard. Perhaps that is why my mother took the time to bring her four little children to sit in the cramped space to share a corner of the room with her grandmother. To take in life from her grandmother's point of view. 

    Putting the Old Fashioned Ribbon Candy back on the shelf I smiled at the thought of Great Grandma Chase, the memory of her is enough. 


Monday, December 12, 2016

A Warm Cup of Coffee


Over a warm cup of coffee, I stare at the blank computer screen. It is time to write something. But what? God give my heart words to speak…

This morning in the van I shared angry words with my teenager. Lost are the days of “mommy I love you.” Storms seem to be brewing daily and I am not handling them well.

As my abdomen swells with the coming baby I take in life tearfully and wonder how much emotion is authentic and how much is hormonally caused.

But as I sip the warm coffee I feel the warmth sink into my bones on the chilly morning of mittens and scarves. Snow is piled on the ground outside the little coffee shop as the Christmas music plays quietly in the background. All around me, students sit with ear buds and thick books open studying for finals.

College happened a long time ago now, but life still has it’s, “finals.”

As a mom how am I scoring? As a wife am I still on the honor role? As a Christian woman, what grade am I earning ? As a friend, daughter, relative what is my GPA?

I tend to grade myself through life’s tests, as I think God must be. Up there in heaven, He must have a big clipboard rating my class participation. What notes did he add this morning in the van?

I can tell you what grade I would give myself and have been giving myself lately…

Still, I am reminded that God does not actually love me from a distance. He isn’t just leaving me down here to figure it out on my own. He isn’t just tuning into my life like it’s some really juicy reality TV show.  I get that wrong a lot, it’s my legalistic nature painting a picture of God I somehow learned as a child, and carried with me as a teen, and propped up as an adult, but He is more than that picture of Him.

He shines through my friend Sarah every time she sings. Through the look in her eyes, I see his love. He speaks through my close friend Nichole when she holds the broken pieces of my story and helps me sort it all out and hope again. He loves me through my daughter’s hugs, hugs she offers to a less than perfect mom again and again. He works through the prayers of friends, acquaintances and sometimes complete strangers.

God is not far away, but He came near through Jesus, “Immanuel” which means God with us. I am reminded again that He saved me by his grace not my works that I would never boast of myself but wholly of Him.

"Jesus I need you," I whisper from my corner table.

As I sip this coffee, thankful for a new setting to continue this day I am reminded of the miracle God has given me…this moment. I don’t have it all together but I do have faith that God is not through with me yet, in fact, that very thought gives me new hope. I am thankful that he has placed people around me to point my eyes back to Him. So I chose to put down my own report card and instead hum a little song I used to sing in church...

All to Jesus I surrender... 


Saturday, December 10, 2016

A Portrait of Steve

 
     He was tall and gangly, but fast as a gazelle. He was awkward yet had a nice face, but always a bit of mischief stirring around. His neighborhood was like a Lost Boys hideout. On the dead end street of middle-class houses outlined with woods they nicknamed the “Daniel Boone Forest,” he spent his afternoons and summer vacations. This was the location on Chicago street for the superhero to take his abode. He lived with his mother, a strong-willed little woman who loved her children fiercely and could win a competitive game of Spades with the roosting mother hens gathered in her living room. His distant father seldom seen was always tinkering or studying when he was home.

    This is where Steve grew up and lived his adventures. It is here that he escaped the angry neighbor’s thrashing after stealing his apples by pole-vaulting over the fence on his hand-made 10-foot cane pole. This is how he became a  record-breaking sprinter as he escaped to his own backyard and protective mother’s arms. It is here that he created cherry bombs with his friends and thought up all sorts of mischief. Little did these boys know in a few short years most of them would travel to a beautiful place called Vietnam. But it would be filled with horror as the violent blow of bombs would tear apart everything in their path: friends lives, ancient villages, and the hope for peace.

    It is through the back squeaky door, past the kitchen table, and up the creaky stairs and onto the springy bed Steve dreamed of being an Olympic runner. In highschool, his name was framed for the pole-vault record. In the middle of a sprint, in stride and exhale, life was bold and gleaming best. On his pillow, Steve’s mind drifted. It is from his perch on the twin sized mattress when he was eighteen, decided to sign up for Vietnam. He felt ready to change the world with his neighborhood buddies. With bags packed and hair buzzed he looked one more time in the mirror hanging over the modest dresser.

 “Steve you are now a man,” he said to the young thin man smiling, with perfect teeth each a twin side by side, in the reflection.

     Little did he know that the army would look into his medical records before he could officially enlist and would see the BB gun wound to his left eye. It happened in the "Daniel Boone Forest" when he was thirteen. His friend Eric Backens meant to aim for the squirrel a few yards away. Aiming at a squirrel he accidentally hit a Steve. He was not a good shot. For almost a month Steve would lay in the hospital recovering. Miraculously he could still have some vision out of the left eye, so he was shocked that he wouldn't be able to serve his country, because of the injury.

    He was so convinced that he was fit to serve that he took his last paycheck and gave it to his family. He took the time to say good-bye to all his friends, and even his father. Walking off to the bus where his friends awaited him ready to leave for basic training he heard his name called, "Stephen D. Tullis, report to the health office at once."

    Sitting on the metal folding chair he looked down at his enlistment papers with “Denied” stamped in red ink across his name. Angry tears threatened to betray his disappointment as he was dismissed from the army. Leaving the health office he waved good-bye to his neighborhood buddies on the bus. Making the humbling walk back home to his upstairs room, swept clean, and packed up he hung his head. Embarrassed he realized he would have to get all his stuff back. He had given away everything of value in his passion, to save the world. All the goals he had of being a superhero while he soared through the air on his handmade 10-foot cane pole came crashing down to earth.


    Little did he know that he would soon meet the One who saves souls. He would get married to my mother and have four children. He would teach Sunday school as a new believer learning the bible from the righteous little sixth grade students he was supposed to lead. Little did he know he would fill the lives of his children with silly adventures of hide and seek and Monster tag. Little did he know that he would be known as an evangelist to all his friends, co-workers, and family. His adventures were only beginning, but in the quiet of his upstairs room, there was no wide toothy grin on that day, just angry tears as he had to say good bye to the Lost Boys of the little dead end street.

Friday, December 9, 2016

The Gift out of Nothing

    
    The winter musical was fast approaching, I had volunteered to be a part of the stage crew. One of my responsibilities was to paint the faces on the backdrop. I had planned to take the Saturday in early February to finish my commitment. Being a newlywed usually meant that Saturday’s were dedicated to time with Brad and ministry. We had already discovered that just because we were married didn’t mean that college was any easier or that we had more time together. Life was hectic.

    Normally on Friday night we would load up the car and head 2 ½ hours away to Marshall, Missouri, where we were children/youth Pastors for the weekend. Because of my commitment to the musical, I stayed back while Brad went to Marshall alone.

    Before Brad left that Friday evening I took our only vehicle, the Oldsmobile Cutlass, to Walmart. We were on a fixed income of pennies. At the time we were paying for tuition by semester without taking loans. That day as I drove to Walmart for weekend provisions I only had one dollar to spend. In those days I didn’t have to go on a diet, our budget did it for me. As I pulled on to Grande Ave. I saw him standing on the side of the road with a tattered cardboard sign. Instantly the Lord spoke to my heart, “Give your dollar to that man.”

    I swallowed the lump in my throat of both fear and sacrifice. Turning into the Walmart parking lot, I decided to buy him a $.99 cheeseburger and water. With the fast-food bag in my hand I crossed the highway to where the man stood. Snowflakes began to fall as the brisk air hit my stocking covered legs and ruffled my knee length dress melting on the red wool coat I had worn to classes that day.

     Handing him the sack I explained the message God had spoken to me. With gray weary eyes, he listened. “God cares about you,” I said. In that moment as I gave him the little gift I also shared my hope. A smile began to immerge on the depressed man’s unshaven face. “Thank you,” he said. Feeling moved to tears I quickly left him to cross the highway and return to the “black beauty” Brad called his hot rod.

     As I approached the car started to think of the fact that I hadn’t bought any food for the weekend, and the cupboards were bare. But I also faith that God would somehow change my nothing into something. Arriving at home I gave Brad a quick hug. He said goodbye as he quickly left to get on the road for the lengthy trip in the snow.  In Springfield, it is relatively warm in the winter, and snow doesn’t last, but on that Friday evening, the snow continued to fall.

    A friend invited me to go to a movie, her treat, so I happily consented. This would be the first weekend without Brad. I couldn’t imagine sleeping in our apartment alone. After the movie, the snow had piled to more than six inches deep. Saying goodbye I ran into my apartment building. As I unlocked the door of my apartment I heard the phone ring. On the desk in between the small living room couch and dining room table the forest green phone rang. As I picked up the receiver I heard Brad’s welcoming voice. He had made it safely to the church. 

   Smiling, I suddenly saw something move from under the couch to the dining room microwave stand, a mouse. Instantly jumping on a chair I stood screaming to Brad who helplessly listened from the other end of the line. The little gray mouse seemed to be frightened by my erratic screaming and kept darting back and forth to escape the shrill sound.

    Getting a burst of courage I told Brad goodbye and darted down the hall past the microwave stand to my bedroom. Putting a pillow under the door so no foul creature could get me I prayed, Dear Lord kill the mouse or get it out of my apartment, Amen.” Sorry to say I am not a critter activist and I hoped selfishly that God wasn’t either.

    Somehow I fell asleep and woke up early the next morning to work on the set. Looking out the window and cautiously looking for the mouse I discovered more than a foot of snow piled on the ground. This would mean a mile walk in a foot of snow to the school that morning. Because of the mouse sighting, I was more than ready to get started on my adventure. Now feeling hungry, as I had fasted the evening before I looked cautiously in the kitchen for something to eat before the trip, but there was only an empty box of oatmeal and a jar of pickles in the fridge. Looking around the house I did manage to gather $.90. My plan after consuming the 2 dill pickles left in the jar, was to buy a snicker bar at the school from the vending machine. I loved snicker bars but I rarely splurged to buy one.

    Layering my clothes as best I could I set out to walk to the school. The sun was bright on the white sparkling snow. The street I lived on was a straight shot to the school, but the sidewalks were not clear and the traffic was thick, so I walked where the sidewalk usually was now knee high in the snow. Thankful I was not cooped up with the mouse I walked on with a positive attitude. Finally, I made it to the school. My clothes smelled wet and wooly.

     Entering the Art building I shook off the snow and started my work. I was thankful that it was warm in the building. My clothes were damp from the high snow drifts but instantly started to dry in the heated air. After a few hours of painting, I was ready for my long awaited snicker bar. Walking up the flight of stairs to the common area I made my way to the candy machine. Putting in my three-quarters I pushed D3 expecting the snicker to drop to the retrieving door…but nothing happened. I pushed the coin retrieval button…but nothing happened. Looking at the dime, nickel and five pennies left in my hand I felt forsaken.

     Despite the mouse, I had felt positive that God would take care of my needs, after all, I gave my last dollar to the homeless guy. But as the clock in the courtyard began to strike twelve noon, I stood by the thieving candy machine feeling cheated. Tears threatened to surface as a group of students sat down on the couches near where I stood. Taking a deep breath I decided to take a walk outside, to clear my head.

     Tomorrow Brad would be back with the little bit of cash he received from the Pastor for ministry on the weekends. It would be ok. If Jesus could fast 40 days and nights, I could live on 2 dill pickles for a day. Trying to be positive, but not convincing myself, I walk dejectedly to the glass front doors. As I opened the doors to the brisk winter breeze I spotted my friend Miriam. 

“Dianne,” she called out, “Shaun and I just went to Applebees and we thought you might like a salad.” She held up a black take-home sack with the Applebees logo on the side. Instantly I heard angels singing. God had provided for me when I had nothing.

    Sitting down in the dining commons she shared the events of the day as I slowly savored the salad. The breadstick on the side was still warm and fluffy. The portion of chicken was generous and the ranch dressing over crisp lettuce almost brought tears of praise to my eyes. I could feel my concaved stomach begin to fill out again. God had heard my cry.

    In gratitude, I promised the Lord and myself that day that I would never forget the blessing of giving and receiving. As I sat in the dining commons cheerfully listening to my gracious friend’s conversation my drama professor walked up to us. 

“Dianne, she said, are you here working on the set today?” 

"Yes," I told her. 

With a proud smile, she held out her hand. “Well then, here is a punch card for dinner,"

This meant that I would be able to dine in the cafeteria that evening without having to pay.


     Little did I know as I crossed the highway the previous afternoon with a little cheeseburger in tow, that as I gave my little God would bless in return in much deeper and richer ways than I ever could have imagined. I learned that what appeared to be nothing much by the world’s standards: a cheeseburger, means a lot to the God who sees the motivation of the heart. My nothing became the perfect soil for this unexpected gift.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Life? What's God Got To Do With It?

 
 
     Life, why is it so hard sometimes? It is a gift don’t get me wrong. There is nothing so precious as the shrill newborn cry as a baby is introduced to the world…but life is complex. Like a beautiful rose blooming in the early morning sun covered in the misty haze of dew, it is radiant. Yet just like the morning dew the awe of living can leave so quickly in the wake of circumstance.

    Life is good, but sometimes it feels lonely. As I sit in the movie theater already emotionally stirred by the previews I laugh at my dramatic nature but I long to share my embarrassment with another person. It seems like life was not designed to live alone, but to be shared. At this time of year, Christmas, when so many families are pictured everywhere gathered around Christmas lights and tree they seem so happy, perfect, and whole. There is another picture that materializes, but it is not painted on billboards or flaunted on Television ads, it portrays the lonely soul unable to celebrate with loved ones.

   Life…even when we feel alone is worth living. The sky whispers this message in the morning as streaks of pink and purples paint the dawn in beauty. Oh lonely heart, beauty still awaits you, hang on. Though the image in the mirror may look worn and tired your mouth was made to smile again, and your heart will surely laugh…hang on. If we could only see the future maybe we wouldn’t despair, but life is mysterious in that way.

    For the hopeless there is hope He came as a baby to earth. Life is of God and is God. Looking from his heavenly throne God the Father invited the Son to step down from glory to be clothed in our humanity. In this mysterious thing called Life on earth, he grew up. He walked among us experiencing pain and disappointment until the day He made the ultimate sacrifice, His life for ours. On a crudely made cross with arms stretched out He gave up this wonderful gift, Life.

   Darkness filled the scene of the slain Savior. Thunder pealed and earthquake trembled as the unlookers fled, Life seemed to be defeated in that moment.

   When depression hits with all of the negative thoughts and bleak conclusions we can sometimes feel like everyone has abandoned us. Such moments of pain feel so dark, so dismal, how could anyone really know such despair? But…God.

    Laid in a borrowed tomb Jesus was left alone. His followers fled in fear that they would be the next to pay for the angry fury of the people. The miracle worker couldn’t save them after all. Their tears of disappointment fell quietly as they stood in the shadows of their lair. But…God.

   The wonder of Life is that it doesn’t give up, and so the story was not over. The power of God filled the forsaken tomb where the Savior was laid. Like the brilliant sun mounting on the heights Life filled the body of the sacrifice for all mankind. With eyes of love this God man, this King of Jews rose from the grave. Life rose in victory.

   Life is hard but….God redeems. Life is hard but…God restores. Life is hard but…God revives. In brokenness Oh Lord, I surrender. I invite you to fill this heart of woe with the brilliance of your life.

    After Jesus rose from the grave He went up into heaven to prepare a place for us who believe in Him. And like the dew in the morning he sent his Holy Spirit to rest on us and remind us that this earth is not our home, but there is more. With nail pierced hands God made a way for us to experience freedom not only when we go to heaven, but right now during our dash on earth.

    Life was meant for living in freedom, in peace, and in joy. These gifts aren’t found in a drink, or a television show. They are not even found in another person, but they are found in a relationship with the Creator God through his son Jesus Christ, the God who walked among us. Emmanuel, God with us, Oh come let us adore Him.



     

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

A Pom-Pom Pep Talk

   
    The alarm clock said 7:23 in red numbers. Seven-twenty-three in the morning? It was Monday, Lydia had to be at school in 7 minutes. How did my alarm not go off? Pulling on my robe I tried to calmly wake her up. As I gathered her bag she asked, “Mom shouldn’t I bring my winter stuff?” Frantically I recalled that her “winter stuff” was somewhere strewn about the basement in totes we loaded and stored last March. Looking at the oven clock, 7:27AM. “I can do this,” I whispered as I two-stepped it down the stairs to the basement storage room. “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength,” I cheered to myself.

    After making a bigger mess of gloves, scarves, forgotten coats and snow pants I found what we needed. Huffing and puffing after the swift assent of the stairs I handed her a Walmart sack of her winter gear and off she went to school in the white mini van.

    Surprise! It's Monday morning and I am not ready. Life has a way of showing up when I want to hit the snooze. Thankfully I woke up just in the knick of time to get her off onto her day.  Turning away from the back door I marched into the two remaining bedrooms of sleeping children to raise them for school. After grumbling and angry declarations of “I am up!” underneath piled blankets and pillows they finally emerged. In 20 minutes they joined their sister at school grouchy but clothed for a new week of education.

    I didn’t know how hard it would be to wrangle three children out of bed every school day when I sat in Brad’s Cutless enjoying the scenery of the lake we had decided to picnic at. We were engaged to be married and as we looked out into the blue sky and green foliage of trees and grass blowing in the gentle April breeze our future seemed endless with peaceful possibilities. “I want to have three kids I think.” I said with my freshly painted toes perched on the open window. He looked at me with a smile, “I bet you will be a great mom someday.”

    Flash forward to the present as I park the van in the school parking lot to attend “Moms in Prayer” I feel barely coherent for the day. Mentally jogging my mind: did I brush my teeth? Yes. Did I put on clothes? Yes. Ok, I sigh, I am ready to represent the Singleton family then. I have to be, I have no choice.

    I have struggled to feel like I fit in at the Christian school because I find parenting three children to demand all of me. Monday mornings bare the truth, my struggle isn’t hidden behind fashionable clothes or flawless make-up and hair. But I have learned a little secret to allowing myself to be seen as I really am. I take out pom-poms and give myself a cheer. “Dianne, you belong because God has made a way for you, you can be yourself.”

   As silly as that may sound, it somehow calms my fears of judgment. It somehow helps me to be kinder to myself. I then can allow others into my cluttered, spontaneous, and weird little world.  On this hectic morning, I joined the small group of ladies. Together we poured out our hearts for the school and students. I smiled to myself that I was able to be myself, honest, and broken.

   This is a small miracle considering my Christian school history. I went to a Christian school as a child for Kindergarten and first grade. It was a very strict school that didn’t allow girls to wear pants. For gym and recess we could put shorts or pants on under our dresses so that we could play in modesty.

    In those days my own mother was so uptight about how the other mothers viewed her that she hung back and watched from a distance. Sadly, I gathered that fear and internalized the lesson I learned from her. To fit in with churchy people you must be a better form of yourself. You must not wear less than perfect clothes, and you must always put on a happy face. You must aim to be the best at everything you do for God and more importantly for God’s people that are watching.

   Such warped views later drove us from the church as a family.  When in high school, I would return to God I would make sure that I had perfected the outward image, so no one ever excluded me again. But time has a way of working the truth out of you. This I believe is one of time’s greatest gifts.

    The turning point came through the challenge of motherhood. It brought me to a moment of truth. One by one the children came and with each of them a completely new personality and set of challenges. In my scramble to make my life work with three little people the act began to crumble as I discovered my need for real help.

   Sitting in a bible study I sat prepared to be in control and ready to report how God was using me in great ways. Instead reality overwhelmed me to tears as I humbly asked for prayer. Children were harder than I thought, and eventually brought me to my knees. In that broken condition I had to get the pom-poms out and give myself a cheer: “Dianne, God has called you to love these children and try your best. You are called to be a mom and you can do this with God’s help.” And so the honesty started to come out. I struggled to keep my patience, I struggled to stay above the demands, I struggled to keep a good meal on the table and socks in the drawers and papers off the table, and library books returned….

   In 2013 we decided to enroll our son Isaiah in Christian school. He was excited to try out his sixth-grade year at a private school, but I was afraid. Somehow I felt like I was transported to 1983 and as I stood in the parking lot watching him walk in for the first day I felt like my mother did. Desperately, I wanted to belong, but I felt held back by the old fear, “I am not a good enough parent and everyone will know.”

   I am ashamed it took me a process of three years to overcome the old thoughts and fears to accept the truth God had been whispering in my heart all along, “Dianne you are accepted and loved because I have made a way for you.”

   I need those little pom-pom moments in my life. They help me to let go of the past hurts, fears, and conclusions to reach out to a new way, a new day, and a new hope.

    I am thankful to say that God has helped me to accept myself as a humble mother that doesn’t have it all together. If I did, you probably wouldn’t want to read this blogJ And there is something to cheering yourself on in the truth, you deserve it and so do I.

   Life is meant to be lived to the fullest, not to perfection, so, however, messy your life looks let me encourage you with this: God is cheering you on to better things, so take up the pom-poms and agree with him.

Monday, December 5, 2016

A Taste of Chinese on a Snowy Day

    
    In the slushy fresh snow as I crossed the parking lot I couldn’t help but remember the little Chinese restaurant I used to visit on snow days or sick days when I was a kid. It was a tradition for my mom, Aunt Vicky, and my Grandma Tarbox to come together when it was cold or we had a cold to eat together at the little Chinese restaurant called the Mandarin Inn.

   This little restaurant was located downtown and was rarely busy. As we opened the heavy wooden doors our eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting as our senses awakened to the sound of the trickling fountain and oriental music. The smell of sautéed meat and steamed vegetables filled the air.
After being seated at the table our tummies would rumble as my mother, aunt, and grandma would chatter in excitement. We were excited to have a taste of the hot mustard along with the egg drop soup, the fresh eggs rolls, and the warm crab rangoons. The hot tea served in a small metal pot seemed to flow unending into the mini china tea cups placed before us.

    As the food was ordered we pleasantly awaited the main dishes. We munched on the egg rolls and sipped the warm soup. Each feeling the warmth drive out the cold day. Looking around at these women I resembled, I took in their stories and enjoyed their laughter. Over time I grew from a little girl to a teenager, and one day as we pulled up to our meeting place we discovered it was no longer open.

   Time had changed our tradition as we also found ourselves changed. It has been years since I gathered with my little clan to enjoy the hot mustard over the warm dishes served with chopsticks. As I trudged through the freshly fallen snow I longed for those little snow covered meetings again.

    I am now the age my mother was when she drove us to meet Aunt and Grandmother. Inspired by the memory I decide to gather my family for a little Chinese meal. I visualized the little restaurant I had passed many times, Yen Ching. Like the Mandarin Inn, it seemed to hold the special touch of the authentic experience I remembered. I suddenly notice that I was humming at the very thought of enjoying a Chinese meal on a slushy winter day. Could this little restaurant have the hot mustard I remembered so clearly? The hot mustard’s spices somehow traveled like fire all the way up my sinuses, bringing tears to my eyes. With a giggle, I invited the family to take a trip in hopes that they too could share in this strange but wonderful experience.

   Pulling up to “Yen Ching” we were happy to discover there was plenty of room for us. A teenage girl seated us in a corner booth. There was no trickling fountain or cultural music, but they served us egg rolls, crab rangoons, hot egg drop soup and delicious Chinese dishes over a hot cup of oolong tea. I challenged everyone to try the hot mustard. As they grimaced I laughed like a little child at an amusement park. We finally gathered for a little meal on a snowy day as a family. Though they didn't like the hot mustard (I forgive them) it made this snow day perfect.

   
    Sometimes it is in the small details of our stories that love speaks. The little slip of paper pulled from  the fortune cookie couldn't  predict this moment of bliss for me. So friend, look for those memories, those moments that brought you joy. Perhaps there is another opportunity to share and pass on the wonder that you experienced even on a slushy snowy day.
    


Saturday, December 3, 2016

Why I play the Bass


   It happened on a Wednesday night in March, my greatest fear. The youth band I loved decided they must move on. They had been my team for around 6 years and now in their last few months of their senior year, they felt it was time to move on. As a youth leader, this reality is always hanging out in the future. I know I will have to face such a day, but when the day looms its weary head I am never ready.

    In the spring of 2014, I realized it was time to turn over a new leaf. Thankful and reminiscent I moved forward without this cherished team I loved. The next Wednesday I sheepishly stood behind the keyboard to play a few songs of worship. Feeling as if I was standing up on the stage without a stitch of clothing on, I played as best I could (which wasn’t very good).

   It was hard to feel that God would bring together another team in that moment. Finally, Brad came up to rescue me from my broken effort to worship. Through the months to follow surprisingly a team started to immerge. I laugh now as I think of the sacrifice of pride it took on my part to stand up on the stage behind a keyboard to help those better equipped to gain the courage to help a sister out.
   
   Soon I had a vocal team, a drummer, and keyboardist, so I took up the acoustic guitar. Again this was a stretch for me. For the first few weeks, I almost died under the nerves of playing in front of actual people. I prayed before every worship service, “Dear God please help me to play better than I can, for you are the miracle working God.”

    You might think practice was the key, and that is correct except that in the middle of raising three children and balancing both my husband’s and my own ministry obligations, practice was hard to come by. One Friday night about a year after my piano worship debut, I met a young lady who was gifted at playing acoustic. I encouraged her to join the youth worship team, and to my delight, she started the following Wednesday.

    Seeing that now the piano and acoustic positions were filled I decided to pick up the electric bass that had been sitting in the corner since it’s player had gotten married a few weeks prior. Under the inspiration of my assistant Amanda, who can let it rip on the bass, I decided to try it.

     As I picked up the heavy instrument to plug it into the practice amp I instantly felt cool. Though I am 39 and probably not as trendy as I would hope, I instantly felt like head banging and yelling “Rock it!” so I did, right there in the music room when no one else was looking. Because this is the youtube age, I quickly searched “bass lesson for dummies” to find out how to play the five metal strings. After watching carefully I tried out the first song. It would have been good if my fingers would have been playing the right notes, Bummer!

    By the following Wednesday, I marched up the stairs to the second floor where the youth stage was awaiting the new bass player. I wish I could say I wowed everyone, but I don’t even know if I had my bass plugged in because I kept stepping on the cord and accidentally unplugging it. But for the first time in my life I wasn’t afraid or embarrassed to try.


   I play the bass because I can. I am thankful that it took the challenge of rebuilding a team to give me the courage to try something new. I know because I was willing to look foolish it helped young people that are more skilled to step forward.

    So to all of you who have had the courage to use your musical gift for God even when you were afraid, thank you! Even if you sweat bullets, or played more wrong notes than right you did it.

    No matter how frustrated I get at times with the responsibility of preparing music for God's people in the church I can’t shake the desire to sing praise. Even when I am tired or up against a wall, I find a melody stirring in my heart. 

    Music is important and frankly I can’t live without it, but I also realize I can’t produce it without many willing hands. So to all those teammates who have agreed to partner with me in bringing forth praise not only in the youth ministry but everywhere else, thank you. I deeply love you and appreciate the gift within you. Let's take a moment, right now, to throw our heads back and forth a few times until we feel a little dizzy and yell together, “Rock it!”  

Friday, December 2, 2016

From The Many Layers

   

    Sickness hit my home on Monday night. My little girl was sick in bed for the next few days cold then hot, as her temperature fluctuated. In an effort to help, I tried the old method of making a pot of bone broth. This is a long process of cooking down, in my case, chicken bones as I added various nutritious spices to make the broth tasty and vitamin fortified. Dropping the diced onions, ginger, garlic, and turmeric into the pot I covered the brew to a simmer.

    The next morning I tried to get my sick little girl to drink the broth, but she frowned and gave me back the piping cup of nutrients. Disappointed but not dejected I decided on trying a new approach, homemade chicken noodle soup. That morning I rolled out the egg noodles I made from the old blue “First Presbyterian Church cookbook” I bought at a garage sale. The dollar I spent was worth it for the recipes are all tried and true. With confidence, I rolled out the dough and began cutting it into noodles. Meanwhile, the broth gently rolled to a boil in the pot as I sprinkled in more spices and onions.  
  
    By lunchtime, the soup was ready not only for her but for my ailing son who also stayed home from school. She happily consumed the bone broth as it hid underneath juicy noodles and tender carrots and chicken chunks. Satisfied as if Betty Crocker herself, was smiling down from her heavenly kitchen I felt the joy of sharing a good bowl of soup. 

   In my imagination, I pictured getting the Master Chef trophy for healing sick kids and at the podium taking a moment to thank…onions.  If it wasn’t for the onions, the soup would have been a disaster. Of course, there is a price to pay to enjoy the flavor, in just one onion slice my eyes will burn and become swollen from the powerful gasses, but the flavor is unbeatable.

     Soon the children were finished consuming their lunch and were off to their beds for an afternoon nap. As I picked up the bowls I scooped up a pile of unwanted onions my finicky son had picked out of his bowl. He has an eye for anything healthy to quickly fish it out, but I smiled knowing that the benefits were already consumed in the tasty bone broth within the soup.

    With a good bowl of soup, I began to think: onions are important, but as I think of them I can’t help thinking about the mysterious truths these vegetables hold not only for the recipe but for the human heart.  

   The Layers of the heart are mysterious. I often think if you cut the soul in two you would see rings like the stump of a great Red Wood- and with every ring a new revelation of who and why we are. Through every chapter of our lives both sad and wonderful, victorious and uneventful each ring makes our story stand alone.  

     We are each unique like the curious pattern of a thumbprint or the melodic ring of joyful laughter. We make our mark on the world, we break the silence with our existence. So in the wonder called “human” why are so many of us lost, wandering, and searching for an explanation? “Why was I born?” “What is my purpose?” The mystery I believe is found in the layers.

    I read somewhere if you peel an onion and leave it on the counter it will absorb all the toxins in the air. The odorous vegetable will absorb the germs meant for us to breathe in so we stay healthy.

    This same onion if chopped up and thrown into a skillet with oil will release the sweet flavor trapped inside as it marinates. The heat breaks down the eye-watering potent strength into a sweet caramelized flavor.

     How many layers in me are so opinionated they bring tears to Your eyes? Oh Lord, I wish I knew. Unfortunately, it is in the shedding process of the layers that I gain insight. And when the heat is turned up, is there anything sweet coming from me? In Your culinary hands, you are crafting all my layers into something both powerful and sweet. In me, You are creating something of both healing and meaning.

Though it is hard to look at the truth sometimes, I do not wish to walk upon this earth soul denying. I do not wish to wander but to stand in wonder. Perhaps we were never meant to get the full picture of who we are on our own. Perhaps the Master chef is the only one who can really see the purpose of all that is within.


     Over my own empty bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup, I sit quietly in introspection. It is time to open the Master’s cookbook I keep on the end table in the living room. Within its pages I have highlighted and underlined all the secrets He has written out for me to learn. His ingredients are tried and true. I begin to understand why I sometimes feel a pinch here and a sprinkle there. Through the tears I discover healing and hope. But I also have faith that he is making something beautiful from all the layers of my heart and all the chapters of my life. After reading for a while, I too drift off for an afternoon nap full and satisfied from the meal I received at the table of the Master Chef.     

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

The Sobering First Snowflake

   
     I walked by the bulletin board today at the church. Pinned with a red thumb tack, a bit higher than eye level was her face. On the small bookmark shaped obituary, I read of her death. It seemed like only yesterday I had enjoyed her joyful face in the choir. I remember one time giving her a ride home because her car had broken down. Standing in the middle of the hall I just stared at her frozen smile.

     I remembered, in the beginning, she was one of the first ladies to encourage me in directing a choir. She always sat in the second row of the sopranos. She never sang with command but she was faithful and kind to the other ladies. Just like that, she is gone.

     Later in the day I witnessed the first snowflake of the season. It was light and airy as it tumbled over my coat and unto the ground. My shoulders were heavy with care. Life in all its fullness still gets weighed down from concern. My choir friend will never see the wonder of the snowflakes again this side of heaven. I frowned as I thought of her funeral already passed, last week when I was in another state celebrating Thanksgiving. I didn’t even know she was gone, but God did.

    He was waiting with arms open wide. And how fabulous heaven must be. I used to try to think of its golden streets and endless praise but Sunday hymns from wooden pews can’t paint the picture of what it must really be like. I do believe when we get there we will be changed. The sickness, the trouble, the wrinkles, and the scars will somehow be transformed into something beautiful. I picture her standing in a choir singing with all the freedom she ever wished for, and oh what a pretty tune.

    Life is shorter than I want to think about, admit, or prepare for. Like the falling snowflake it is fragile yet beautiful. Today as I stood in shock in that narrow hallway reading the few paragraphs describing her life I thought: but I didn’t get to really know her, if only I had more time.

    Such wishes are hard to quantify because we are all given equal time to spend on this earth in any one given day. But I want to turn my request into a prayer: Lord, help me see who you want me to see today. Help me to speak what you want me to speak today. Looking back at the day I see a lot of mundane moments. I went to the doctor with my two children for a diagnosis on the sickness they both seemed to be sharing. I went to work to plan things and work on details. I went to the drug store to pick up a prescription (Stop!) It was there at CVS (my favorite store) that I talked a little longer to the cashier, and not because I got a coupon. I genuinely meant “Have a nice day,” when I left with a smile.

    Later I went to church to help the youth worship team in rehearsal (stop!) I love spending time with each of the students and their musical gifts even if at times I feel unqualified to help them. I stopped at Aldi to pick up something to eat. In the checkout the cashier ran to get me a Gluten Free Pizza, because my daughter had picked up a regular one by accident from the freezer. Only 3 people work in that store at any given time and there was a line (stop!) I smiled and genuinely thanked her, and as I walked to the van I felt faith rise in my heart that there are truly kind people in the world.

    These are simple moments in an average day, but reflection makes my heart grow fonder. If time slips away regardless of our struggle to hold onto it, then there is only one solution to the problem. Taking time to ponder, taking time to reach out, and taking time to enjoy the big and small ways life is a blessing. It turns out, people are a big part of that. Today some of the moments that made me smile were with strangers.

   Someday when my time comes to be pinned to a bulletin board with a few paragraphs to describe my beginning and end, I hope there will be many people who can attest for the “in between”.  I wish I paused more often on this sobering thought, but like the falling snowflakes on this last November day such moments soon melt away in the busyness of life.


Monday, November 28, 2016

Over Coffee and Eggs


   This morning I enjoyed a skillet of Denver eggs at a local restaurant with my husband. It is our morning off together. In hopes of reconnecting, we chose a corner booth. Over coffee and orange juice, a pleasant conversation begins to flow. Like ocean waves, it ebbs and flows, but our conversation has more of a Midwestern focus: Wintery December.

   December the busy month of concerts and services, a birthday and traditions. Already I see the early birds donning their Christmas lights. Already the Christmas music plays suggestively in the retail stores. Already I have tried to make the list of Christmas gifts I need to purchase. But for a moment on this overcast morning I stop to look into my husband’s brown eyes. We have seen a lot together.

   Reaching out for his hand I feel callouses from the heavy weights he enjoys lifting. I can see a scar from the last home improvement project he attempted. His posture is relaxed and casual as we wait for our breakfast orders to be delivered. It is easy to ramble on about something, anything, especially when I have coffee, but I chose to stop and just look at him.

   He has stood by me through three pregnancies and now we’re into the fourth. I couldn’t calculate how many times he has left the house at night to fetch some snack I couldn’t live without. He has gotten up many nights to help a sick child, because I vowed after the first year of sleepless nights nursing each child that it would be his turn. Unfair? Maybe but he lovingly attends to the children anyway.

  As the warm skillets are placed on the little brown table before us, I happily pick up my fork. We are sharing another moment, one of many that have been, and one of many to come. No matter what, my heart is bound to his and his to mine.

   I decided a long time ago that I don’t want to travel the world and leave him behind. No, this adventure was meant for us to journey together. That journey has been painted with teenager’s faces as we have worked together to let young people know that they matter. For countless Wednesday nights I have stood by his side, listened as he preached, and knelt at the altar next to a student.

   I smile as we begin to eat together. It has been an adventure, one I am thankful I have agreed to hike with him upon. In all the ups and down, the curves and steep ravines there is One that has led us all the way…to this moment of eating eggs on a gray Monday morning in late November. Both Brad and I vowed to love God most of all and to promise to forgive one another. How many times? When I am mad it seems one time too many.  It is the Holy Spirit who dwells within me, who chides my stubborn heart to remember the promise to stand with my man through good and bad times.


    Little did I know that within the first 24 hours of saying “I do” I would want to recant my vows.  Anger is a wild thing, but I have learned that love is greater. That God, who is love is greater still. Having him as the King of my heart has helped me to concede, to make amends, to work for peace. Have we lived a perfect life? No, but we have lived a blessed life.  As I sit in this little corner booth, in this little locally owned restaurant with my little white mug of $.99 coffee, I think I am looking at the most handsome man I have ever seen.          

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Why Not!


August looked at his young wife Matilda as he eyed the notice in the paper and said, “Meine Liebste, warum nicht.” (My Dear, why not!) The ad spoke of an opportunity to go to America. It would mean traveling to Hamburg, the port city of Germany. In the late 1800’s, travel to America by boat was still dangerous but looking into her husband’s eyes, the dreamer, she believed.

“Ja, warum nicht!” (Yes, Why Not!) she said hugging him. After sailing to America they would later settle in Faulk, Wisconsin. Where August later purchased farm land and started a Blacksmith business. Atop a grassy hill, they would spend their years on the front porch overlooking their cattle and crops watching their seven children grow. Their daughter Amanda would later have a child named Patricia. She would later become my grandmother.

On a Sunday night in early January 1997, on a small bible college campus, a nineteen-year-old girl was walking back to her dorm after a Sunday night church service when she spotted a handsome young man also returning from church.

As he headed to his dorm she called out, “Hey would you like a rice cake?”
Stunned he said in the blue light of the moon as it reflected off the freshly fallen snow, “No thank you.”

Because he didn’t know the girl that asked or her persistence to meet him, he again started to make his way to the dorm. “Come on, you must be hungry,” she called after him.
Though the light was poor he stopped to get a better look at this girl, “Ok, why not.”

She smiled so big he could see her little white teeth in the glittering January night. She laughed as she realized she only had a half-eaten piece of rice cake in her hand as she quickened her pace to meet him, “Great, but there’s only half a piece left.”

Bravely the leather-jacketed cool guy with spikey hair took the rice cake remainder and met the girl he would later marry…me.

On a Sunday afternoon in mid-July 2007, the phone rang. All three children were sleeping soundly down for their afternoon nap. Brad picked up the phone and stood listening intently. He started to pace the floor ah-huhing while I tried to figure out who he could be talking to. Finally, he said, “Thank you Luke, I will talk it over with my wife.”

Hanging up the cordless phone on the receiver he turned to look at me, “Dianne what do you think about taking a leap of faith? I just got off the phone with the Youth Pastor from First Assembly in Cedar Rapids, and he wants me to come and work with middle school students. He can’t guarantee a job, but I can start as an intern and see where it leads us? It would mean that we would resign our position immediately and you would have to get a job.  What do you think?”

(Pause) My children were 5, 3, and 1. I had been a stay at home mom for five years. The gut reaction should have been, No. But instead like my great- great grandma Matilda I called out, “Why Not?”

Brad went to audition for the junior high position on a Wednesday night. He had practiced his “best sermon ever” for two weeks straight. Five minutes into his message the Tornado sirens went off so the youth group evacuated to the coffee shop and Brad never was able to deliver his well-rehearsed message, but he got the job.

Seven months later we moved to Cedar Rapids and I was able to quit the job I had as a pre-school teacher’s assistant. Brad was hired on full time and I returned to being a stay home mom. But we felt the surge of excitement as God was opening a new door of ministry to us. For the past nine years, we have both grown in our ministries as our children have outgrown their little tike toys and entered into their double digits. Could it possibly be time for another “Why Not?”

On Monday, September 26th after a brief trip to Walmart, Brad and I discovered we would soon be parents again! At the realization that Lydia our youngest would soon be turning 11, we both burst out laughing as we stared at the solid double blue lines of the pregnancy test. “Why not?” we said to each other. 

I had secretly wanted just one more cute little one for a long time. Just one more toddling Singleton. Feeling overwhelmed with awe that we were able to have just one more opportunity, we vowed not to tell anyone. But we are not good with secrets and soon the news began to spill…a little here and a little there.


Yes, we have concluded that in life all good things take a little risk, whether that means a voyage from the old world to the new. Accepting a rice cake from a complete stranger, to saying “I do.” In my life, I am thankful that when everything seems settled and as normal as can be, a little opportunity may spring up to throw caution to the wind and just sing out a hearty, “Why Not!”