Hunker Down Low

     One night as a family we piled into the minivan to go out for dinner. After a trivial argument about who gets to sit in the front seat, we made our way to the celebrated “Red Robin”- the home of the bottomless fries. Just the title alone gave us all a thrill. In our minds, we pictured endless salty hot and crispy potato sticks. Could these fried appetizers be the tool to bring world peace? Do the world’s diplomats just need to try a bottomless fry campaign?

    Ok, no. have you looked at us Americans lately? Bottomless fries have created a Bottom problem. Skinny jeans might try to slim the rear but it just causes the extra to be pushed up creating a muffin top crisis. No bottomless fries won’t promote world peace, but they definitely created peace among the Singleton tribe.

    Pulling into our driveway later that night everyone abandoned me in the van. As I sat there enjoying the silence, these three words mysteriously came to me. “Hunker Down Low!” In my best Granny voice, I whispered them, right there in the front seat, with no one around.  Leaning out the passenger side window I spoke them to the side mirror, “Hunker down low.”

     Going inside I tried my new phrase on the kids, ‘Hunker down low,” I said, but they stared blankly. I decided to try again with a bit more granny twang “Hunker down low, come in close, I’ve got something to tell you.”

     Gaining their full attention I began to explain the wonderful blessing of the modern shower. How it beats the old water hole idea by a landslide.  Seeing they weren’t convinced I told them, “Hunker down low from their heads down to their toes, Hunker down low.”

     By God’s grace, they all took showers that evening and a pleasant odor returned to our humble abode. 

     In the morning the three words were still a fire in my bones, so after all three tweens/teens were dressed I said: “Hunker down low, come close, I’ve got to tell you-uns' a nugget of truth.” Unaware of my plea they scurried around finding shoes and combing hair.  

     Stomping my left foot on the floor I exclaimed with a quavering voice, “This mother needs a hug, life is too short to leave her destitute of a little neck squeeze before you run off to get an education.”

    All three of them stopped in their tracks to stare at this magnificent creature most commonly referred to as "Mom." Being compliant I received three hugs before they left in a flurry for school.

     For the next week, those three words would come to me. Playfully I would share them with the kids. We laughed at my silly granny impression. It turns out I could only hold an accent for 30 seconds before it spun out of control into crazy.

    With such simple silly moments, we have fought the tension that comes with the shift in dynamics as kids become teens, as “easy going” turns to “erratic emotional.” I have always found it hard to look beyond the present parenting stage. It always seems like this moment is the biggest challenge I’ve faced yet. Who knew that parenting would continue to pose new challenges? Maybe you feel the same way in your life.

     Regardless if you have kids, life can feel like a rollercoaster. You just got around the bend when you hit the secret tunnel! What was that? Or the triple cork screw that leaves you in serious need of a back adjustment.   

    Can I just tell you in my most southern granny voice, “Hunker down low, come near Darlin, hang on! Life is hard but God is good. He will see you through this one, just Hunker Down Low!”       

In Care of the Cardinal

      On Valentine's Day in 2011, I drove to Cedar Falls, Iowa with my Dad and my husband. We were going to visit my Grandma Tullis in the Care Center. On the way, we stopped at CVS, my favorite store. Why is it my favorite? Well because you get coupons and occasionally “extra bucks.” I am a bargain shopper through and through.

      I looked for something I could buy for my grandmother. Now, before you pass judgment on my store choice, please understand I am a spontaneous giver. Five minutes prior to spotting the store sign I had no thought of a gift.  Pressure is the secret to my inspiration. So as I walked up and down the candy aisle because sugar is my favorite, I tried to think of something she would like. It had been several months since I last visited Grandma. She still recognized me then, but I wasn’t sure if she still would now. Seeing a little plastic cardinal figurine I smiled and made my purchase.

       She always loved cardinals. She often told the story of when she went on a walk one day after my grandfather had died. Grief was almost overwhelming her that bright spring morning. With a heavy heart, she trudged along when she spotted a cardinal perched on a nearby branch. Suddenly she felt peace, that God was taking care of her husband. A hope that she would see him again filled her heart as she looked at the beautiful red feathers against the newly budding leaves.  As a result of this encounter, she started taking walks and writing poems to God. These moments in the early morning brought comfort in the midst of grief. Standing in the middle of aisle 3 the plastic cardinal suddenly seemed like a perfect gift.

       As we stood outside the facility the air was crisp and our breath billowed in white puffs as my Dad punched in the code. We heard a mechanical sound as the door unlocked to allow us to enter. Inside there were tissue paper hearts hung from the ceiling and elderly people scattered around the lobby. Some were pushed in wheelchairs, others were wondering and talking to themselves.

We found grandma in her room. Dad greeted her first, “Hi Mom, I brought Dianne and Brad to visit you today.”

      She was surprised to see us. Like a young child she looked at me happily to make my acquaintance and said, “Dianne you came to see me? Oh and you are beautiful.”

      Rising up from her afghan covered bed she took my arm proudly. Her once strong body now bent and frail as she held my hand. Looking up at me as if I was Miss America. We walked slowly to the community room to sit around a table.

      Sitting down she looked at us delighted to have visitors. Her hair was disheveled which was unlike the woman I knew growing up. Grandma was always looking her best. To our surprise, my brother David had arrived with his wife. They too sat down at the table. “Grandma,” I said, “I brought you something.” Handing her the cardinal she looked at it with new wonder. “Oh my Dianne, you didn’t have to do that?”

She shifted her gaze from me to David. “David you are so handsome. Did you marry Dianne?”

David smiled and said, “No grandma Dianne is my sister, I married Julie.”

Julie said “hello.”

“Did I go to the wedding?” Grandma asked with strain on her face.

“Yes, you went to the wedding,” he said.

       What she could not remember is that David had been on the outs with the family for some time now, and for us to all be sitting around this table was a miracle, a very uncomfortable miracle.

With her, right hand she reached out for mine.  With her left hand she grabbed David’s then she said,

 “Well it is good that our family gets along, such a lovely family.”

      We looked down in shame. Turning to Julie I said, “Julie I am sorry we haven’t got along.”

At the same moment, Dave looked at Dad and said he was sorry. Around that table, as Grandma sat smiling at all of us the walls of unforgiveness began to crumble. She didn’t look fancy like the woman I remembered but she was doing it again, trying to bring her family together.

      When I was young I remembered Christmas parties every year at grandma’s house. She gathered all the grandchildren together to teach them about the true Christmas story. Little cousins gathered around the little Charlie Brown tree. With wooden ornaments in hand, we took turns hanging them while she told us about the infant King born to the Jews who came to save the whole world.

     Afterward, she would go to the piano and play a Christmas Carol. I can remember the warm inviting smell of her kitchen as we sat down at the extended table to eat together. I remember the holy hush as Grandma said Grace, while cousins peaked at each other through folded hands.

     As a teenager, I started to see the weaknesses in her love. I grew angry that sometimes her love seemed like favoritism, and sometimes like control. Eventually, I just had to forgive her and accept her imperfect affection. Then I could smile at the delight my singing gave her and the joy shared in prayer. The sobering reality hit me fresh, time is short. Sadly, her memory of me was even shorter. But as we sat around that table on Valentine’s Day the true heart of Arlene Tullis cut through the disease of dementia.

     She cared about her family. She lived for her family, she loved her family in all the broken imperfect ways. Around that table as tears spilled and “Sorry” was whispered, her prayer was answered. Looking on happily she did not understand the depth of the grudge being laid down. She did it again, she gathered her family together.

     Three weeks later I got a telephone call that grandma had passed away in her sleep. Once again we gathered as a family to remember the wonder of this energetic, spirited woman. I could almost picture her smiling face holding out her hands to us saying,

“Well, it is good that our family gets along, such a lovely family.”

      It has been several years since she passed away, but I think of her more often now than ever. Sometimes I see her as I look in the mirror or play a song on the piano. But it is the cardinal that reminds me she is happily walking on the streets of gold with Jesus now, the One she longed to see. And as I see the beautiful red feathers against the vibrant green leaves, I know that I will see her again.     

On the Exhale

     In my senior year of highschool, I decided to get fit. My goal was to start jogging from my house to the elementary school and back, approximately a 1-mile distance. I planned to repeat this route as much as possible. Lacing up my running shoes and pulling back my hair, I set out with my Walkman in hand. I need to pause right here and give the MP3 player some recognition. The 90’s Walkman was like running with a dessert plate, it’s laughable now but I thought I was really trendy at the time. The elementary school was situated on a hill, so the last 100 yards were grueling. At the top of the hill, I would stop to breathe, exhaling loud quick breaths.

    During the fall season, this exercise became a routine. Each time I jogged I challenged myself to go further until I reached a 3-mile run. The changing leaves were a colorful inspiration to take in as I huffed and puffed along. Unfortunately, I took a cold. Undeterred, I kept running each day but my cough got worse. Finally, I had to go to the doctor. I was surprised to hear the diagnosis “Exercise-induced Asthma.” As a result, I stopped running immediately.

     To breathe is something I think most healthy people take for granted. We wake up in the morning breathing. The morning regimen carries on as usual: taking a shower, getting dressed, and eating breakfast. But how often do we stop to think of the miracle that is life? In fact, I think life can be like a marathon we run every day trying to get a better time than the day before. We can find ourselves enraptured in the American Dream: Be more, do more, earn more, spend more.

   

     I reached the top of the hill of ambition, gasping for breath. Discontent I started looking around at what other people were doing to cope, but this only gave me deeper problems. To be honest, in my darkest moments, I felt unable to breathe, even wishing I could die. I hate that there is an end to my rope, but I am thankful that I have retrained my eyes to stop looking around and start looking up. I’ve become aware that each breath I exhale is a gift not originating with me, but a God-given gift. This breath I breathe has a grace, an unmerited favor given by the Creator God.

     In Genesis 2:7 it says “Then the Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground and breathed into His nostrils the breath of life or spirit of life, and man became a living being.” We are alive and have our being because God saw fit to create us.

     Our lives were formed from God’s exhale. He made me and he made you so uniquely. I can’t begin to run anyone else’s race as well as the one he planned for me and neither can you. Put down the self-help book and pick up the book he wrote for you.

“All Scripture is God-breathed and useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting, and training in righteousness. II Timothy 3:16.

     When I was struggling with exercise induced asthma I was prescribed an inhaler. As I inhaled a puff of medicine, I held it in my lungs for ten seconds before slowly exhaling. In this process, my lungs could get the full benefit. During my coughing spells when I was so worked up that tears were rolling down my cheeks, I would feel the cool ease the medicine gave my lungs.

     What if we thought of God’s word like that. Like a treatment to deepen and enrich our lives. We can strengthen our lives by speaking His word over ourselves. If you are depressed begin to say God’s word over yourself. See how he can change your perspective.

    Eventually, I got back into running, but I couldn’t go about it the same way. Instead of rushing into running longer distances I had to pace myself. I had to be careful that I didn’t start breathing too hard too long. I probably won’t be a marathon runner but that’s ok. I guess I am just learning how to run my own race.  As I inhale all this life has to offer I want to speak God's word on the exhale. 

Dahlia and Her Dolls

      On the carpet square next to Eddie she sat criss-cross applesauce with tears rolling down her cinnamon freckled cheeks. As the tears fell she tried hard not to make a peep. Mrs. Sneidler had already scolded the class for talking, so obediently she sat mutely. Her head throbbed where Laura Fields had yanked her golden brown Dorothy braid for spite all because she made it to the pink square before Laura.

      Dahlia wished with all her might that she could grow up to be Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. She wasn’t allowed to have a pet, but she dreamed of the warm curling fur of a little Toto dog in her arms. She imagined the warmth of his little tongue licking her hand and the cool touch of his sniffy nose. She knew he would protect her.

      A nudge from Laura snapped her back into reality. Eddie was answering the teacher now. She looked at his clean white button up shirt and bright blue shorts. He must have a lot of money she thought, as she looked down at her big toe poking out of the end of her old tennis shoes.

      When the bell rang the other children ran to awaiting parents. She saw Laura and Stacia walk hand in hand as they talked excitedly. Noticing her, Laura rolled her eyes and made Stacia change direction so Dahlia could only see their backs as they strutted away. Why did Laura hate her so much?

      Tightening the straps on her backpack she started the two-mile walk home. She wondered what it would be like to have parents that could pick her up from school. Down the alley, she walked startled by the neighborhood dogs barking out their boundaries. By the white picket fenced in yard, the strange man stood. He had an intent look on his face as he studied her. She felt uneasy for a moment until he smiled.

“Hello there Dahlia,” he said. “I am a good friend of your mother’s that’s how I know your name, don’t be afraid.”

       Even with the friendly smile, Dahlia felt strange and shy. She kicked the loose gravel with her foot.

“I told her not to worry about you, I was going to show you my litter of kittens. They are only a week old. Your Mom thought you would like to see them, would you?”

       Dahlia was curious, she loved kittens, but she felt uncertain about this stranger. She dug a small hole in the gravel with her toe.

“If you want to see them it won’t take long. The mother cat, she's real pretty too, has them right behind the bushes."

      Turning toward the bushes he asked her to follow.

       But as he turned toward the bushes she ran, and ran, not stopping to look behind her. She made it all the way to 1^st. street. She pressed the crosswalk button to safely travel to the other side of the busy street. From the opposite side, she finally looked for her pursuer, but he hadn’t followed.  

      After a half hour, she turned down the dead end street. With a sigh, she spotted her little green house with the “For Rent” sign in the front yard. The blue Datsun was parked in the front. Dad was home! Rushing through the front door she called out, “Dad I’m home.” She could smell cigarette smoke as she heard the television blaring from the living room. Walking into the living room her dad was sprawled out on the couch snoring with a Budweiser in his hand. Cautiously she left the room not wanting to awaken him. She didn’t know what to expect when he was drinking.

“What do you mean you lost your job?” Her mother yelled as she slammed the cupboard.

“They didn’t give me a chance,” He explained with a slur.

      Hidden away behind her door she promised herself she wouldn’t speak out or act like she heard her parents talking openly about divorce. With frustration, she realized the pain wouldn’t be silent. She began pulling her own braids, and tears came again. The little tattletales revealed that she really did care that her world was crumbling quickly to the ground. As she sniffled they argued over who had to feed ‘The little rat.”

“Am I a rat?” she whispered as she sat silently in the dusky light of the evening.

      From outward observation, she appeared dull and withdrawn. But inside, her mind was moving quickly. The world of adults was shaky, dangerous, and uncertain. On the inside, though, she was free to say whatever she wanted. Carefully shutting her door she found them, cut out and hand-drawn paper dolls. Hidden in the huge family Bible her mother received from a relative before Dahlia was even born. Pulling them out she smiled with delight.  

     Her paper dolls didn’t look like much but they held endless possibility. They held the power to make her  a beautiful queen with great wisdom. She could then banish cruel neighbors and issue peace treaties between parents. She could be so lovely and intelligent that Eddie would even sit to listen to her talk. She would be just too, sentencing only the meanest citizens like Laura Fields to clean all the toilets in the kingdom.

     Knock. Knock. Fumbling to put her dreams away and out of reach she quickly rose to her feet.

“Time to eat Dahlia,” her mother mumbled

     As she stood to leave the room she glanced at the Holy Bible the source of the only freedom she knew. Hidden there in the pages she hadn’t learned to read, she would someday find healing for this present chapter of her young lonely life.

    

Great Expectations

      I remember the desk I sat in during Mr. Andersons’s English Literature class spring semester of my Junior year of high School.  It was situated in the middle of 5 rows, the 2^nd desk back. From this vantage point, I could listen without distraction. With light blond hair cropped short and a petite and slender build, he stood my favorite teacher. His soft voice told stories to captivate the ragtag bunch of students in his English literature class. His glass eye gave him a unique and peculiar look that added character to the words he shared.

      On a bright spring afternoon, he stood by the chalkboard writing out our reading assignment: the first 3 chapters of “Great Expectations” by Charles Dickens. Setting down the chalk he turned to us and spoke carefully.

"Class, mark my words, there are few things more disappointing than unmet expectations, but it is the person who can't move forward that experiences the greatest tragedy."   

     I sat down on my waterbed to start reading that evening. I was speed reading because I also had an assignment in Algebra II and Economics. Tuned into 105.7, the radio played “Smells Like teen spirit” but…HOLD UP! Miss. Havesham is sitting in a dark room still wearing the wedding dress from that tragic day in her past and spiders are crawling all over her? Whatever else I had to do that night, left my mind. The song playing in the background became a whisper as I physiologically tried to understand such a picture. I couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than having a spider crawling on me, let alone many. “Ewww!” I said as the story drew me in further.

     The story was about Miss. Havesham, the wealthy eccentric spinster that was known to be very odd and Pip a young orphaned boy asked to visit her and her adopted daughter Estella. The picture Dickens paints is so visual. He transports the reader back into the old 19th-century English society. Pip is a kind hearted young lad in need of a job, but Miss. Havesham is a woman blind and chained to the past. Never able to get over her broken dream, being stood up on her wedding day, she creates a cruel plan to ruin all of Pip’s and Stella’s hopes of experiencing love. Conflict and tragedy shape the bizarre story that is “Great Expectations.”

     Skipping forward in my life to the fall of 1998 as I was entering my Junior year of college and a new season. I was a newlywed, living in my first apartment, with new student loans to pay. I had great expectations on myself to prove to everyone I could make it as a new married student. I had heard so many women say that they wanted to finish college but got married and became mothers instead. Not me, I vowed to myself! I can handle all this responsibility.

     In September we decided to pursue a weekend ministry opportunity. The position was for a youth Pastor to hold a Sunday morning and evening service each weekend, at the Marshall Assembly of God church 2 1/2 hours away. The pay was $100 a week. Looking at the financial need we faced and the opportunity to impact a small town we thought, why not? We applied and landed the job.

      The following Sunday my new husband preached at Marshall Assembly of God. The church looked big from the outside, inside it seated 500 people in the Sanctuary. It was large for a town of a population of 12,000. As Pastor Bean gave us a tour of the church we were amazed at the many rooms, but we had an eerie feeling as the doors opened. Each classroom looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years. There was even a calendar hanging on the wall from 1987, the year of the huge church split. It was as if the church had been frozen in time on that dreadful Sunday when 450 people left to start their own church in town. With broken hearts, the remaining 50 just stopped that day and waited for the rest of the church to return, but the people never came back.

      As Brad preached that morning, he looked out on 30 white headed church parishioners. He had worked up a sweat to keep the man in the back row from nodding off, it didn’t work. Four rows back, he tried to avoid looking at Sister Smith who was rolling her false teeth around in her mouth with her tongue as she listened to his message “Taste and see that the Lord is Good.” Finally, he shared his conclusion. As I sat in the front row I smiled proudly at his “Ability” sermon and three sound points. Our homiletics professor would have been proud.

     Pastor Bean and his joyful wife Carolyn invited us to the only sit-down restaurant in town, the Golden Corral. We were excited to eat more than the Macaroni and cheese our measly weekly budget allowed. Stacking roast beef, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans on my plate I sat down to enjoy a feast. At the table sat the Pastor and his wife next to the board member and his wife. A light conversation about Carolyn’s musical outhouse collection transpired as I enjoyed the first slice of roast beef. Brad arrived with a heaping plate.

  

     Pastor Bean interjected with his love for “Precious Moments” figurines and the blessing it was to visit the “Precious Moments Museum.” He paused with his golden cod loaded fork suspended in mid-air just to savor the memory. Brad was so focused on the wonder of such food variety, without looking, he moved his left foot out straight behind him to get up for another plate. Before he had time to rise there was a great CRASH!!!

     Pastor Bean was startled out of his reverie as we all turned to see an elderly woman face down on the floor with her tray of food splattered everywhere. Covered with Jell-O, gravy, and stove top stuffing she was looking around angrily, “Who tripped me? Who tripped me? Somebody tripped me!”

With a lettuce leaf hanging from her permed short hair she narrowed in on Brad. “It was you! You tripped me!”

    Brad was looking down at his empty plate as if there was still a drop of dressing he could devour. Under the table, I kicked him. Realizing there was no way to avoid the embarrassment of the situation he jumped to his feet to help her up apologetically. She was ruined but accepted his youthful hand. Soon the lighthearted conversation continued on about Carolyn’s impressive collection of antique bedpans. Thankfully the uncomfortable moment passed so that Brad could get a second plate.

    Later, in the back seat of Pastor Bean’s car a headache started to form from the many foods we had just consumed. I vowed to never eat that much again.  We sat quietly as the Beans gave us a car tour of the community, before heading back to the church. From the outside of the church the heavy metal door opened to a narrow dark stairway to the second floor.  As we carefully climbed the old wooden steps I saw spiders quickly dash into holes out of sight. Trying to be brave I ignored the unwanted critters. At the top of the stairs we walked into the little dusty apartment we would be staying in on the weekends. It was small but comfortable enough. There was a kitchen with an old 1950’s Frigidaire refrigerator, a living room, and bedroom finished with a small Pepto-Bismol pink tiled bathroom.  

      Excited and perplexed we drove home to Springfield that Sunday night. We talked about the eventful day and the future weekends to come. When the next weekend arrived we started our ministry with one youth. Sitting around a long folding table she sat on one side as we sat on the other. The room was so quiet we could hear the cricket chirping in the corner.

“So what do you like to do?” I asked cheerfully breaking the silence.

“Nothing, ” she said.

“Do you like school?” I tried again.

“I don’t know.” She mumbled studying her hands.

     For a painful hour we tried to connect with the only student we were given. Dejected on the drive home that night we came up with a plan. Earlier that morning we remembered seeing 3 children in the service. We could start a children’s church! With new hop, we came up with a strategy. Later when we shared our idea with the Pastor he was happy.

    The following Saturday we combed the neighborhood for possible children that we could invite to come. That Sunday morning we had 6 kids in children’s church. Brad preached for them, but even with 6, we realized this wouldn’t be easy. As we drove home that night we had fresh ideas for the next weekend. Through the fall and winter season, we kept working hard to reach the children on Sunday mornings. We had built the ministry up to 16 children. Still on Sunday nights we only had 1 student.

     Spring arrived and with it a problem we hadn’t fully imagined. As the 2^nd story apartment sat during the week in the warm weather it became the perfect place for spiders. It was a quiet repose for the “brown recluse” spider. We had seen spiders, especially in the children’s church room. Every Saturday we would draw pictures as visual aids for our lessons with the kids. Then we would tape the pictures to the basement wall. But the moisture in the air would cause the drawings to fall down in the night. The following morning we would find a spider stuck to each piece of tape, legs wiggling to escape.  We also expected to see a furry brown arachnid dart out at us if we moved a box or table.

     When we mentioned the obvious spider problem to the elderly couple that cleaned the church they just mumbled to themselves and walked away. It was just something they had accepted about the church as they waited, like Miss Havesham, for their dream to return.

    Nothing could prepare us for the amount of spiders that would infest our apartment as the Missouri temperatures rose. On a personal level, I was starting to feel the weight of my own great expectations to be a good student, a good wife, a good worker, and now a good minister. I frequently found myself bursting into tears for no apparent reason. The pressure of full-time student, employee, and part-time minister were taking their toll.

    On a late Friday night, we came sleepily trudging up the narrow stairwell in the darkness.  In the kitchen by the table, I lifted up an Aldi’s fruit box left from the week before. Suddenly 6 hopping spiders darted toward me. 

“Brad!!!” I yelled.

     Usually unmoved by the creepy crawlers, he let out a scream as he jumped around smashing the aggressive beasts. On the alert, we began the hunt. Though we were both exhausted I refused to sleep with the thought that one of these spiders could be crawling underneath the sheets and onto me. Behind every door, 2-3 huge spiders darted toward us. If I had a plastic bag hanging on a door knob there would be at least one caught inside. Finally, after 25 minutes and many smashed remains the apartment was cleared.

     Each weekend this episode would repeat itself. The problem stemmed from the fact that the huge old church had not been touched, for the most part, in over 10 years. It became a perfect breeding ground.  Each week I became depressed at the thought of the creepy apartment. The stress I was putting on myself through my own great expectations led me to see a counselor.

     One Sunday morning in late July Brad spotted me in the bedroom of the upstairs apartment. I was bent over putting on my shoes, as the brown recluse spider slowly crawled toward my shoulder. “Hi Honey,” he said as I felt a pat on the shoulder. Looking up he gave me a funny smile. He had just saved the thread of sanity I had left.

     In August we resigned unable to keep up with all the demands the ministry had on our lives. We said good bye to the dear people we had met that year. We high fived the 16 children and the 2 students of our ministry and we drove back to Springfield. With the windows rolled down in Brad's 83 Cutlass I thought back to the words of Mr. Anderson in English literature class.

"Class, mark my words, there are few things more disappointing than unmet expectations, but it is the person who can't move forward that experiences the greatest tragedy."     

                   

     

Angry Mama says: Beauty better not be “Just” skin deep!

    I had to go to the worship team sound check in 20 minutes. This morning was the second day of the Women’s conference. On the final mirror inspection, I still felt vulnerable. I checked to make sure all the tags had been clipped from my new shirt, and I studied my jeans again, were they hipster of hobo? The pressure was building inside as I reminded myself to take a deep breath.

    Every criticism another woman has ever spoken over me flashed through my mind. I deeply wanted to be rewarded that morning with the spontaneous hug-greeting and the “Wow aren’t you cute,” comment. I wanted to belong.

    At least I thought I did until Angry Mama came to the surface. Dianne, you best be lookin’ at Jesus a lot more than you are lookin’ at yourself! You know what that’s called, don’t you? Vainglory, if you take that vein it will lead straight to the comparison game. Besides isn’t this a ministry thing? What are you doing taking the focus off of God and unto yourself?”

     Frustrated with the Angry Mama I said to the mirror, “Well I am not Amish! And I’m not a 20-year-old, so I have to work harder on being beautiful.”

     She just shook her head slowly and paused, “Dianne, there ain’t a woman you could meet today that is going to come to Jesus because of your outfit, your hairstyle, or the bag you carry. Beauty better not just be skin deep!

    The statement hung in the air.

“Do you think Jesus is beautiful?” Angry Mama probed.

I thought for a moment and concluded, “Yes.”
  

     Not satisfied with my answer she pressed further, leaning into the mirror staring at me with intense brown eyes, "Have you seen Him, Is he all GQ?”

“No,” I said annoyed, “Of course not.”

“Really?” she said, “So why are you trying to look perfect? Are you drawing people to God or to yourself?”

“But I want to look nice,” I said defensively. Flipping my hair upside down one more time with a mist of hairspray.  I left the bathroom and the Angry Mama voice.

     Arriving just under 5 minutes early I scrambled to get ready for the sound check. Everyone was tired because it was early on Saturday morning. We all complimented each other on our outfits and tried to review the songs in the shortened technical rehearsal time. After leading the worship set for the first session that morning I took a break. I was feeling a little lonely and disconnected as I decided to make my way toward the bathrooms. Turning to my right I saw her approaching. With a big smile she said, “I heard you sing and was hoping to meet you, could you pray for me?”

     What she didn’t know is that I needed to have an opportunity like this. I needed to know that I was making an impact on someone’s life. Sometimes singing on stage feels like all smoke and lights, and no personal connection. Joy filled my heart, as we found a place to pray in the lobby.

    For the next 30 minutes, she poured out her concerns and together we lifted her requests to God. It almost seemed as if one layer of burden was removed only to reveal an even deeper more painful layer. Tears fell with no Kleenex in sight.

     I read Isaiah 61:3, The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…to provide for those who grieve in Zion, to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

    When I mentioned beauty, fresh tears came to her eyes. After sharing the many hardships of her story she added this one detail.

“I have never thought I was beautiful,” she shared brokenly through the tears.

No matter how many times she heard someone else say “you are beautiful” she felt like it was impossible to believe it.

    In that moment I realized that beauty better not be just skin deep. It seemed silly to think with all the details of her story that a nice make-up job or new hairstyle could heal the brokenness to her identity years of hurt had eroded. My eyes studied the simplicity of her beauty. Hers was a tenderness of heart.

    So I began to pray again. This time, we prayed her through each stage of her life and declared, in Psalm 139:14 it says, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” The tears began to recede as the peace came.

She turned to me and thanked me for praying,

“There was just something about you that made me risk reaching out.”

     I explained, it is the essence of Jesus. Every believer has it, the light, shining through human flesh and blood. Looking directly at her, I said, “You have it too.”

    Jesus paid it all for us. In Isaiah 52:14 scripture foretells the abuse Jesus would take for us to have beauty instead of ashes: “his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any human being and his form marred beyond human likeness.” He made a new way through the cross for us to find our identity in him, our beauty in him.

    Beauty is an essence thing. It goes beyond the outward. It actually flows from the inward. I shared with her when a person stops to say “You are beautiful” That individual is sensing the fragrance of who God designed you to be, fearfully and wonderfully made. When we look in the mirror we need to praise him for the image we see. Maybe you don’t like your arms, or maybe it is your nose. Maybe it is the spider veins on your legs. Regardless of the flaw you see, look at yourself in the mirror and put on the Angry Mama voice. Tell that reflection of yours, how fearfully and wonderfully made she is: arms, nose, legs and all.

    Before we parted for the next session we gave each other a big hug. Even at a women’s conference, we can be afraid to reach out to one another. We can literally be bumping into each other and still hide behind a practiced smile. I am thankful to God for that moment of connection. I needed to hear my new friend’s story, I needed to believe with her that God wasn’t through with her yet. I needed to know just as much as she did that beauty is not just skin-deep. 

Breaking the Hobbit Habit

       One of my favorite movies of all time is “The Hobbit, the Unexpected Adventure.” Every time I pop in the movie I instantly feel captivated by the music motif playing as Bilbo Baggins begins to write his story down with ink quill pen in hand. His hair is gray and his face aged, but as he writes an impish smile brightens his face with the memory of the adventure from long ago.

      I am drawn in closer as a flashback reveals a young Bilbo sitting on his leisure bench in front of his clean, warm, organized Hobbit home. He is smoking his pipe happily content to sit alone enjoying the sun shining on the green beauty of the Shire. While he rests, he forms rings of smoke with his lips. His repose is broken by the tall shadow of Gandolf the Grey. Looking up, perturbed, he didn’t recognize his old friend.  Indeed time had changed Bilbo so much that an invitation to adventure appeared ludicrous to him. Hopping to his feet he tries to graciously leave the imposing Wizard with a clear decline and polite, “Good Day.” Gandolf will not let him off the hook so easily. With intense eyes that bore into Bilbo’s soul, he reminds the hobbit of his adolescent days when he dreamed of going on the adventures he overheard his father share.

      Despite the touching story of the past, Bilbo practically sprints with his overgrown bare feet to get behind his freshly painted closed round door, and away from the wizard. On his doorstep, Gandolf crouches down to carve a magical symbol with his walking staff, before disappearing down the lane. 

As the footsteps get further away, the hobbit sighs. Thinking he is safe from the unwanted intruder he settles into a nice meal, by a nice warm fire, surrounded by nice things, in a comfortable little corner of his nice safe little Hobbit hole. Knock! Knock!

      Who could be at the door? No one was expected at this hour. As he opens the round door, in comes a very burly, rude, and grunting Dwarf. Soon another knock is heard at the door, two more dwarves come in. The scene in the Hobbit hole has become clamorous, loud, and disorienting for poor Bilbo as dwarves keep arriving. As the tall Wizard bends down and steps over the small round threshold Bilbo puts it all together. This is the adventure the wizard had spoken of earlier. With a look of perplexity, he wonders why 13 dwarves are gathered around his table. 

      His once spic and span little home has been turned upside down in less than 20 minutes. All the food in the pantry has been ransacked. In a frenzy, the little hobbit tried to redirect the hooligans. Snatching heirloom dishes, and handmade linens. Muttering and uttering, “Please be careful.” and “Don’t touch that.” and “that was my mother’s antique...”  Meanwhile, the dwarves carry on as if the hobbit does not exist.

      When Gandolf finally makes it clear why he had invited this motley crew to this cramped little place, Bilbo was named the burglar for the company of Thorin. This band of dwarves was on a quest to regain the mountain of Erebor, the kingdom of the dwarves.  They would need a burglar to steal the Arkenstone, a jewel believed to be the heart of the mountain. Such a stone was protected by a ferocious dragon who guarded the mountain’s treasures with the deadly strength of his fiery breath. At the very mention of a dragon, Bilbo swooned.

      Awakening in his parlor, Gandolf is settled on a stool near him. Distressed Bilbo objects to the invitation to join the company on the dangerous quest they were about to embark upon. Looking frustrated Gandolf says, “Since when did you grow so fond of your mother’s doilies?”

     Early the next morning Bilbo awakens to an empty house. Rising quickly he checks every room. He is filled with relief and anxiety. They were gone and the home had been put back into good order. He almost thought for a moment it had been a strange dream until he saw the contract left on the kitchen table with all of their signatures. The next thing we witness is his short legs whipping down the lane to catch the adventure that was leaving town. In the forest, he catches the gang on ponies traveling in a line on the path. With the contract in hand, he joins the company in the Quest of Erebor. Bags of silver are thrown around to winners in the group who won the bet that Bilbo would join them after all.

    Strong arms lift him up onto the pony’s back. After only a few paces, the refined hobbit begins to sneeze. Halting the party, he declares they must turn around for his forsaken handkerchief.  Thinking quickly one of the thirteen tears off a piece of cloth from his pants to suffice. The company moves on, and Bilbo learns quickly he must adjust to the conditions of adventure.

     I love the introduction to this story because it reminds me that I too can become comfortable like the little Hobbit. Delighted in the cleanliness of my spice rack and the bounty in my cabinets. I can easily build a comfortable existence away from the unpredictable world. All of this can be a carefree existence, a happy life as long as no one trespasses on my property.

     Gandolf somehow reminds me of how God pursues me. He reminds me that I might forget the big dreams of my adolescence, but they aren’t forgotten by God. In fact, some visions in my heart were put there, written upon the very fabric of my being.

“Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Psalm 139:16

     What if the book all my days are written in, is a book of God’s dreams for my life. A book of God Adventures that are too great for me to imagine embarking upon. I am ashamed to say I have slammed the door on God’s invitation to such adventures at times in my life. But just like Gandolf, He has a plan to bring the adventure back to me.

     I am amazed that I get the opportunity to sing for the Lord. I am amazed that He saved me and has opened up doors for me to share the gift He knitted into my soul. When I use that gift whether people are around to hear or I am alone in the car, I feel alive, encouraged, and renewed.

     Unfortunately, with every gift, with every dream, there is a struggle to really use it to its full potential. If left to myself, I would have stopped singing a long time ago. There are too many critical words I have received, believed, and spoken over this gift. In my own understanding, I tend to curl up in my own snug little Hobbit hole with a freshly painted sign on the round green door that politely says, “Go Away.”

    Thanks be to God who pursues me, and I venture to say pursues you. He never stops sending new dwarves into my comfortable quarters to bring chaos to my complacency. In such moments I scurry around trying to keep control over my normal. But what if God is trying to get my attention. Could I be made for greater adventures than a quiet reclusive existence?  All I know is I don’t want to wake up someday and realize I missed my opportunity to join the company. I will never get to see what lies on the other side of the Shire. 

A Tribute to Amy Grant

     In the Fall of 1996, I dressed up like Amy Grant for Halloween. As a freshman in college I didn’t have much money to donate to a costume, so don’t judge.  To be honest, I thought I was her biggest fan anyway. Proudly, I wore my hair like hers, long and brown. I tried to wear oversized sweaters with combat boots like her poster in CCM (Christian Music Magazine). Who is Amy Grant, some of you young folk might ask? She was a ground-breaking contemporary Christian artist who peaked in popularity through the 80’s and 90’s. She had a simple inspiring style and she wrote songs that seemed a lot less Sunday and a lot more everyday Christian. If these walls could speak, Amy, they would tell you that I love you.

     During the same season, her separation and divorce were hitting the tabloids. “Baby Baby!” I was mad, bewildered, disappointed and grieved. How could my icon, the “Miss America” of Christian music struggle in her personal life? It was a new heartbreak to learn that Christian music artists weren’t perfect either. Didn’t she know she had “Her Father’s Eyes?” My teenage perspective viewed her as a flat character. A “once upon a time” kind of celebrity who lived on a ranch with pretty horses in Tennessee drinking good coffee and writing great songs.

     After finding out that Amy Grant struggled I realized love is hard. No matter who you are and what you believe, relationships can go tragically wrong. “Love in any language” is hard to figure out. I might have the idea that I am showing love by trying to protect, but you are offended because you want a love that has space to breathe.  It turns out I have a lot to learn about love too. I used to wonder what I would have done in her shoes. Now I realize that it is better just to pray. No other person can know what it is like to walk in your shoes.

     I used to say, “If I were Amy Grant I would…” Such statements implied that because she was well known- she had arrived at the epic point of wisdom because of her success. But much like me, she needed and still needs “El Shaddai,” God Almighty. He is the only one whose love is more than enough.

     “El Shaddai,” used to get stuck in my head even though the words are in Hebrew. I found myself humming it most of the time. I even went on walks with my Mom, around the block, hand in hand half singing and half humming the song together. But I only just recently narrowed in on its true meaning: Almighty God, all sufficient one- the “more than enough” the “I got this” God. It turns out I really need to know God is big enough for the troubles and big enough for my “If I were Amy Grant” dreams. I hope Amy, you know Him that way. 

      Here is another one of my favorite songs, Thy Word. “Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.” As I say that phrase I can almost see a youth group of students with feathered hair and stonewashed jeans. The melodic rhythm rocking through the Boom Box as the students stand in front of brown folding chairs. It seemed to get stuck in my head all week as I walked down the halls at school. Later I gained the courage to carry one of those big bibles on top of my other books. I wanted to be bold and strong after listening to "Songs from the Loft".

     Dear Amy, you need to know I still get goosebumps when I hear “Breath of Heaven” at Christmas. And I can’t hear the song without picturing your red velvet and white feather Santa dress on the cover of that album. I must pop the CD while in the car as the snow is falling on the windshield. You have become a tradition.

    Thank you, Amy for living a brave bold existence as a songwriter and recording artist. Even when life was hard and the whole world was looking in on your broken heart. You have encouraged so many of us. I hope you continue to sing "Praise to the Lord." Because of you, I too write songs, sing on Sundays, and occasionally wear cowboy boots.  

Chosen

  

       Being the third child in birth order creates a “wait your turn” kind of mentality. In my earliest years, I watched, admired, and waited for my two older brothers to go first. They lost their teeth, they went to school, they even road their bikes first. At the table they were first to tell a funny story, in the car, they were first to choose a seat. At "Adventureland," they were the first to ride the “Tornado” because I still didn’t come up to the height limit on the cartoon dog posted out front.

      In school, I wasn’t the head of the class. In fact, it was hard for me to keep my head in the class. I was so easily distracted by all the things I would do when it finally became my turn. As much as I didn’t appreciate my position in line, I didn't realize how comfortable it is to not be seen, to blend.

      It wasn’t till “the rock” in third grade that I realized how much I wanted to be noticed. In the evening performance of “King Jehoshaphat” at church, my desire was made known. As a result of a self-conscious audition, I landed the part of “extra.” Sitting on the "rock" prop while smiling at the audience was my stardom.  Empowered by each person looking at me, I was sure that no one even noticed the main character, the rat-tailed King Jehoshaphat. It was clear, I loved the stage even if I wasn’t first.

       After our performance, my mother said, “Wow Dianne, you sure have stage presence.”

      In fourth grade, I started to grow. As I was experiencing a shift in my height. I also realized the rest of me was changing as well. I started noticing that my new best friend Sarah always had a crowd of boys around her. How did she do this? We could be lined up for recess and one of them would ask her if he could take her jump rope in for her? I started to study her.

     Was it her pretty brown eyes and blond curly hair? That afternoon I marched up to my mom as I threw down my backpack, “Mom I want a Boomerang Perm! Sarah has one.” After several months of consistent begging, she relented! As I walked out of the salon with the heavy chemical smell in my frizzy corkscrews I felt all eyes fastened on me, so I strutted to the car.

     At school on Monday, I excitedly arrived hoping to see an attention transformation. All the girls surrounded me, complimenting my hair. For a moment I was first until Chad came.

“Is that you Dianne? I could hardly recognize you with that poodle on your head, but then I saw your teeth… you could fit 5 quarters between your front teeth,” He teased.

     Hot embarrassment flushed my cheeks. If he wasn’t the cutest boy in fourth grade I would have stomped his foot, instead, I ran away to the bars. Lifting my right leg over the top, my hands on each side. I began pulling myself around and around. Next to me, my friend Aubrey said, “Don’t listen to Chad, he is mean to everyone.” But his words became a sore in my eye every time I looked in the mirror. I will never be first with a gap in my front teeth.

      That following summer I got corrective braces.  Every day I was happy that the gap was closing a little more. Shortly after I got them off I sat next to Sarah at the lunch table while Chad sat across from us. I felt satisfied that he couldn’t make fun of me anymore. I continued to study Sarah.

“Hey, Dianne now that you don’t have braces I want to show you something,” Chad said friendly, “hold out your tongue and say “Ship.”

     For the first time, his eyes were fastened on me, and so were the other boys: Ronnie, and Brent. So happily I obeyed. “Say it real loud, now that you don’t have braces.” He said like a best friend. So with the whole table now staring, I finally got my “first” moment.  With my tongue between my fingers, I said “S***”

     Everyone gasped, as the table monitor, the scary second-grade teacher “Mrs. Harmon” turned on her heels to coldly stick out her finger at me and point to the dreaded “naughty table.” Chad’s hand burst in the air with all five fingers shaking vigorously like they had caught fire. “Mrs. Harmon, Dianne said a bad word.”
 
     I lifted my tray and walked with shame to the table in the middle of the gym. Laughter echoed as the boys all high-fived Chad. I didn’t even argue my case because everyone had heard the dreadful word. I was the first of our class to sit at the “Naughty table” that year, tricked by that lousy Chad. My poodily perm and corrected teeth hadn’t changed much for my position in line, accept to bring demotion. Holding my breath to suck them back in, I cried unwanted tears. Humiliation had set them free.

     I wish I could say, I had learned my lesson that day, but I still had a secret crush on this mean boy. I still wanted to look, act, and be my friend Sarah. I still wanted to trade places with anyone who was ahead of me in line. This is the reality of the tween years. It is an awkward hunt to find your place. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized that there was One who had chosen me.

     In another season of my life, High school. I woke up early on a Sunday morning. This was not my plan, but mother’s voice was calling. “Dianne, get up! Let’s go to church.”

     As I rolled on my side another fresh wave of pain washed over me. Remembering my conversation with my boyfriend, Dane the night before, “It is over,” he had said with finality. Internally it felt as if I was at the “naughty table” again.

“Ugh…ok mom I’ll go,” I mumbled.

     Still muttering I sat up in bed. There was still a hint of alcohol in my system that morning as I sluggishly sauntered toward the bathroom. At 2 AM I had snuck back into my room, so 8AM felt early. Staring in the mirror, I looked at my straight ungapped teeth, my nappy curls, and the reddish break out on my cheek. “Worthless” I whispered.

     A small miracle happened that morning. For the first time in years, I went to church with my mom. We sat near the back hoping to blend in unnoticed. Trying to be “first” hadn’t worked out very well for me. I seemed to be meeting too many Chads. As the message began I felt something stirring inside. Looking around, everyone else seemed to be fine. There it was again, a shifting. Without warning tears began to spring up, my nose began to run and my ears began to hear, “Dianne I choose you! I choose you! Just the way you are, come to me, be the first to surrender!”

     I looked over at my mom for help. There is a heavenly rule that states: All facial tissue must evaporate into thin air whenever there are tears in a church service. Instead, sleeves and pant legs are required to bring inner healing. She looked back at me with tears streaming down. As the minister said “Amen,” we held hands. Like a little girl again my hand rested on hers. With mascara lakes on dampened cheeks, I said, “Let’s come back tonight?” She nodded.

“For He chose us in Him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in His sight. In love.” Ephesians 1:4

  

This is Not a Woodland

      Huffing and puffing I rushed the children to the, awaiting van. The school’s tardy bell was about to ring. As the van door shut, I watched them pull out onto 42^nd street to go the entire block’s distance to elementary school. I know, they could have walked, but life had become hectic, spinning out of control. Just to pack their lunches gave me a mental cramp. All the early morning devotional time was obliterated in 5 minutes of trying to wrangle my middle child out of bed. On these mornings I vowed to be smarter, more organized, more “with it!” As I walked back inside in my frumpy robe and disheveled hair I hurriedly got ready for work.  “Messy bun day,” I declared, as hair help would take much longer than the clock had allotted.

      As I pulled away from the house I spotted a hawk perched high in the Oak tree shading our driveway. Locking eyes with its piercing stare, I whispered, “This is not a woodland.”

      On that very busy morning, something started happening in my city neighborhood. As I say city, don’t picture urban projects and skyscrapers. Our city really should be categorized as a town, but even in this town I would claim it is not a woodland. Maybe you are wondering right now, what is a woodland? Because my second grader Elaina, had just finished her science unit on woodland creatures I knew I was dealing with animals from the back woods.

      Every day I took the highway exit to the bustling 42^nd street. On this same afternoon, I saw not one but two ground hogs happily popping their heads out of the unearthed tunnels they had burrowed on the roadside hill. “Kids,” I called out, “look! Groundhogs over there in the grass!” Three faces leaned toward the right side van window to see this natural phenomenon. “This is not a woodland,” I declared.

     A few weeks later, after I pulled on my running shoes, I opened the door to behold a full sized doe laying on my front lawn. As I gazed on Bambi’s mother, she looked like she was just taking a rest. “Kids,” I yelled, “Come here!” As fast little feet burst up the stairs, I looked again. Surprised I discovered a police officer standing over the doe and quickly putting the deer to rest. Lunging in front of the door, I tried to think quick. All three of their inquisitive faces studied me. “Fruit Snacks! Surprise!” I announced happily.”  They shouted “yeah!” as they change their course to head for the kitchen. With a sigh, I leaned against the closed door, “this is not a woodland.”

      One night coming home from an evening Walmart run, as I was about to turn off the exit ramp onto our street I saw two pairs of eyes reflected in the headlight beams. I slowed the van to study the creatures. “What do you think they are?” I asked. “Two kitties,” six-year-old Lydia replied.

     To our amazement, they were baby raccoons walking side by side. “Aww…”we all let out, as we coasted past. “This is a woodland!” we cheered as we made the mile loop to drive down the one-way exit ramp again. Their little bodies were still bobbing together in the headlights as they suddenly ran off into the prairie grass. Disappointed we concluded together dejectedly, “This is not a woodland after all.”

     I soon found a chipmunk living in our gutter spout.  Its mirthful little feet springing in and out of its home in the morning light. Inquisitively it would look around, flitting its fuzzy stripped tail before darting for the front yard. “Look, kids, at the chipmunk!” As the living room curtain spread and all three bodies piled on the overgrown chair. As their little faces made breath clouds on the window searching for the chipmunk, they whispered, “This is not a woodland.”

     In that season we enjoyed pointing out all the animals we noticed in our busy little neighborhood disturbing our frantic lives. How did the back woods collide with our little city street? In retrospect, I realize our heavenly Father tries to speak to us every day through his creation. 

  

“For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.” Romans 1:20

      Unfortunately, I am too busy to take notice most of the time. In the midst of spelling tests, food allergies, dance lessons, and casseroles I needed to be interrupted by wild beauty. My life had become too black and white. I think sometimes God tries to awaken us out of the doldrums with one of his wonders. Creation speaks of his love as more wild than tame, more heroic than pacifist. In his plan, He sent His very Son to earth to walk among us, to heal us, die for us, and ultimately to save us. That is not a picture of a God dressed in a white suit, but it is a portrait of a cherished Father with overalls and rolled up sleeves. A Papa that would pull us out of the dirt and wash all our wounds.  

     Present day, in the van loaded with teen/tweens I yielded the right of way to a pack of ten wild turkeys crossing the street. Hurriedly they crossed as if on a mission, red gobblers flapping in the breeze. I was tempted to say, “This is not a woodland!” but instead I just paused to thank God for his wonders.

    

There Was a Tear in His Eye

      Yesterday after the church service ended at First Assembly, I thanked the worship team for their time, musicality and heart for the Lord. He stood at the foot of the stage, waiting patiently, my Dad with a tear in his eye.

     I had seen him excited, proud, and happy with me many times in my life, but this was different. It is here in this place that miracles have happened for us. The day he found out I was going out for hurdles in the 7^th grade, his eyes were filled with shock mixed with fear. After two years of being undefeated, he watched confidently and beamed with pride. When I sang in the Mall as part of my first vocal recital he stood sweating with nervousness, not sure I could do it. He was afraid I might mess up and become embarrassed. Relief flooded his face as I sang out to the very last note and stayed for a bow. When I graduated from high school, when I graduated from college, when he held baby 1, 2, and 3. He was proud, but today there was a tear in his eye.

     In the summer of 1996, my parents were struggling. I was a new graduate planning to go to a Christian Liberal Arts school, far away in Marion, Indiana. My two older brothers were living on their own. Only my youngest brother lived at home, but he had hit the teenage rebellious streak. It seemed as if he wanted to out-do the rest of his siblings. Church attendance had become less important to Dad in these days. Habits and hobbies pulled him away from that place of Christian community. He was isolated, and he was depressed.

    One Wednesday night late in August my friend Amy invited me on a road trip. Jumping into the car we traveled to First Assembly of God in Cedar Rapids. She told me on the way that this church was experiencing revival. Cars filled the parking lot that night as we walked to the youth service in the outdoor tent. From the moment I entered I felt the presence of God. As I felt the Holy Spirit a tear was in my eye.

    Four hundred students were packed in under the tent. The worship team played and the students danced freely with hands in the air, eyes shut tight, voices raised high. At times students would go to the mic to share their testimony of how God had transformed their lives.

    The youth Pastor gave an altar call at the end of his message. In response, students flooded the front of the makeshift stage. A student-led prayer team began interceding for the mass at the altar. You could almost see the hand of God physically moving the teens. Many lay peacefully on the ground soaking in God’s presence. Others were crying out, on their knees. There were still more of them dancing and singing. Like the voice of a thousand angels, the praise rose to the heavens. I made a vow that night to come back to this place. In disappointment, I knew I would have to wait, because I was leaving that Friday for the fall semester at Indiana Wesleyan.

    At home, I walked through the front door to the clamor in the kitchen, mom was cooking. I could hear the hum of the television which meant Dad was watching television. Energetically I followed Mom as she diced potatoes to throw in the stew.

“…and that is why you have to promise me you’ll go on a Sunday on your way back from Indiana Wesleyan, it is real Mom,” I said energetically. I could hear dad coming up the stairs. In the evenings he had become quiet and reclusive.

“Dad you have to hear about this church I went to with Amy!” I said enthusiastically.

To shield himself he put out his left hand, but I bubbled over with excitement. In an effort to appease, he said he would think about it.

     Early Friday morning we left for Indiana. All of my belongings were packed into the van. I was excited about the fresh start, but just a thought of the revival made me overjoyed. I shook my head at the thought, that God moves on his people today. I started to believe that even miracles could happen like they did back in the bible.

 “Oh Lord please let me serve at that church someday,” I prayed.

     As I placed my feet on the new campus that afternoon with a box of clothes in my arms, I wondered if God could move upon us here. Later after every box was unloaded into the new dorm room we headed for dinner. As mom and Dad sat with me, I asked them again, “Do you promise to stop at the church in Cedar Rapids on your way home? It is like nothing I have ever experienced.” By the end of spaghetti with meatballs they agreed.

     On Sunday night as I was organizing my new space, Mom called.

“Dianne we went to the service they had this evening on our way back home (pause) Your Dad had a tear in his eye the whole time. We have never experienced anything like it.”

     As autumn progressed I attended classes, made new friends, got involved, but my true joy came from the phone calls from my parents. Each time they called new hope filled my heart. My dad would take the phone and rattle on about all the wonderful things he was learning. Mom would be laughing in the background. Who were these people? The joy of the Lord had changed them.  

    Looking around campus I hoped to see some revival fire, but as I made my search, literally walking up to different groups, I was met with blank stares. I was disappointed to find a very common experience. God seemed to be like an old relative we visit on Sundays. We honor him with dresses and highlighted passages of our bibles, but He isn’t invited into our personal lives. I knew this tradition all too well.

“Oh Lord please remember my prayer, I want to go back to that church someday.”

     Later I realized this longing in my heart was a call to ministry, so I switched schools during the Christmas Break. While I was at home, we went to First Assembly of God. Together we sang praises. My Dad clapping, dancing and free, truly free. As I looked over at him, there was a tear in his eye as he said, “Dianne, I dream of you singing up on that stage someday.” 

     There is no perfect church this side of heaven, but it is here in this place that miracles have happened for us!

       

    

      

His Eye Is On the Sparrow

     After 24 hours of travel, we arrived in Dimapur, Nagaland, in the country of India. It was a dusty busy city. As we traveled in the Black SUV, which my church helped purchase, my face was fastened to the window. People busy at work, walking home from school, selling wares, and groceries, lined the worn out streets. Taking in the Indian culture was an adventure.

     

     We were scheduled as a team to speak and sing in a little village, but first, we would have to travel 2 hours on extremely rough roads to get to our accommodations. On this road, we passed little villages, chickens, cows, and goats. The vehicle raced on, dodging countless obstacles in its path. The air was warm here in mid-January, but the vegetation was tan with dust. For Northeastern India, we were visiting during the drought season.  

     Finally, we arrived at a little 2 story home. As we entered, we saw white marble floors. In the summer the temperatures get so hot that sometimes the family said they would lay on the floor to cool down. In this part of India, they cook and eat fresh because there is no refrigeration.

The little room I stayed in was clean and quiet. I was relieved to find it comparable to an American bed room. There were no holes in the wall and the floor was not made of hard packed dirt. For my first mission trip without my husband’s hefty arms of protection, I thanked God.

     The bed frame was made of wood and stood 2 feet off the ground. The main difference was in the mattress, or in this case the mat. It was about 3 inches thick and felt like a rock. Using my winter coat and fuzzy robe I tried to make it more comfortable. That evening we all turned in early. My added touches to the mattress helped me drift off into sleep. Unfortunately, at dawn, I heard them, the sparrows.

     Outside the window by my pillow they spoke to each other, fluttered around, sang, and bustled. I had never encountered sparrows so personally before. Rolling over I tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. I was in a new wonderful place. I had taken a leap into my dreams. I had heard and prayed for these people, the Nagas from Nagaland, but now I could reach out and touch them and hear their lyrical language.  

     The day before I had met some local pastors and their wives. I had visited the village church. I had heard their reverent songs of praise and their powerful voices lift up prayer. I had felt the faith of the bent over prayer warrior as I interceded for the healing of her stomach ailment. As I shut my eyes, her faith lifted my gaze to the heavens. Ah-lo-shey she called out “Praise the Lord.”  To this day, I cherish that moment deeply.

     Sitting up in bed, I listened to see if anyone was in the bathroom. Hearing no one I went in to take a bucket shower. This is when you have two buckets. One is filled with water (usually warmed up) and the other is used to stand in. With a cup you make your own shower by pouring the water over yourself.  

     Afterward, returning to my room I heard them, the sparrows. They were joyfully carrying on, as if to say, “Welcome to our world.” Looking out the window as the sun began to illuminate the morning. I spied a chicken with her chicks walking through the parched grass. I saw a little boy with his mother in the front of their thatched hut. Goats were grazing in the fenced in lot down the lane. I have not known you, little town, full of beautiful dark skinned, black eyed people, but I feel that I have always loved you.

     That morning when breakfast was ready we sat around a bright green table. Fresh bananas and toast, eggs and glasses of milk. The whole team felt refreshed after the night of slumber. Mentioning the sparrows being my alarm clock, we all laughed.

     Later in the service, I sang “His Eye is on the Sparrow” and as I looked on a hundred faces I had never seen before I realized “How great is our God.”  I grew up in Waterloo, Iowa. Until recently, I hadn’t thought about a place called Nagaland. An Indian state full of tribal people, each with their own dialect. But God had taken care of them.   

     I remember the first time I wanted to sing “His Eye is on the Sparrow” for a church service at Grace Brethren. My friend had invited me to sing, but tearfully I couldn’t find the cassette accompaniment tape (hey it was the 90’s). Later I sang it for my 91 year old grandma as she lay sick in bed. Her eyes lit up and with a smile she said, “Simply Beautiful.” I have sung it in restaurants, on street corners, on grand stages, and living rooms. This song is not just a song to me anymore, but a deep belief. A promise that no matter what God is there.

     As I sang over my new friends in the little Indian village, I felt the reassurance that God also wanted them to know his love for each of them. That Sunday morning about 100 people came forward to bow before the Lord. A village predominately Hindu, a village that had inflicted death to one of its first Pastors just a few years earlier. But on that morning they encountered the One who cares for the sparrows, They saw God’s love is real, personal and freeing like the words of this beloved tune…”I sing because I am happy, I sing because I am free, His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”             

Following the Dream with Water Skis

      I was 10, the year I went to my best friend’s cabin at Lake Delhi. To spend a whole weekend at the lake sounded fun, but what really excited me was the opportunity to learn how to water ski.  As soon as the car stopped, Christy and I burst from the back seat and out onto the lawn.

“Dianne, come on, let me show you the place,” She called energetically.

     The front screen door smacked behind us as we ran across the rug, through the living room and kitchen and the back screen door smacked behind us as we faced the lake. Quiet and moving, it looked dark but not murky. Sitting down on the sandy beach, behind the cabin, we chattered excitedly. Christy had been my friend for as long as I could remember, a conversation was second nature. We looked up when we heard her mother calling. We had forgotten to take our bags in from the car.

     After we got settled, we put on our swim suits. Armed with a grape Koo-laid in red solo cups, we went out to the water’s edge and buried our toes in the moist sand. The air was filled with the buzz of cicadas and the occasional ski boat’s engine speeding by. We waited contentedly as her Step Father was working on the boat still tied to the dock. We watched with anticipation.

“It took me 10 tries to get up on the skis the first time” Christy explained.

“Is it scary?” I asked inquisitively trying not to sound nervous.

“No, it’s a blast!” said Christy, the experienced member of the Lake Delhi ski team.

     Excitement mixed with fear stirred in my gut. Suddenly Chad, Christy’s older brother, came barreling past us, diving into the water. He let out a yell of satisfaction. Seeing the fun, we took a running start and jumped into the water after him. The water was warm this time of year and had a fishy smell. As I doggy paddled I could see little bits of seaweed floating around me. The thought of touching a fish with my bare foot made me inch closer to shore. We felt like queens, with the lake all to ourselves, as we splashed and swam.  

“Christy, look I can do 3 front somersaults, count!” I said diving end over end.

     Angie, her older sister also got in the water. Her mother was sunning herself on a lawn chair, and a boat radio started to croon. The day’s temperature was 86 degrees Fahrenheit, it was a perfect day to go boating.

“Everybody in!” Christy’s stepdad called to us.

      A Yellow raft filled the back of the boat, so we all gathered in the middle to the front. Chad was first to ski. It was fun to see the white foam in the wake left by the boat. He was a fearless water skier and even went slalom using only one ski.

     Next, Christy went, then Angie, soon it was my turn. Jumping over the side. My body felt tingly in the cool waters. I was nervous as the life jacket bobbed me as I tried to position the skis. They felt strange and hard to manage as the waves knocked me out of the cannonball sitting position.

“Come on Dianne,” I said to myself, “you can’t let them down. Keep the rope between your skis, knees bent and together and arms out straight and firm. Lean back as the boat starts to pull. Hold on: I-2-3 go!”

    Ugh…I let go, so I tried again. Ugh…I let go 13 times. Everyone including me was about to give up. Finally, on the 14^th try, I did it! I held on, straightened my arms, leaned back, kept my legs sturdy and slightly bent until I could stand. I was up! I was up! Now, what? I thought as everyone cheered. I wanted to stay in the smooth waters on the inside of the wake directly behind the boat, but the boat began to turn. Christy’s smile said I could do it, as it turned left I moved the skis right and over a small wave. My legs shook as I carefully went down over it. A smile broke out on my damp face, as I realized I had made it.

     The boat straightened out again and I returned to the middle. The spray from my skis made a little prism of water vapor. My arms and legs were getting tired from the pull of the rope, but my smile continued to grow. As I tried to cross the wake a second time my knees spread too far and I lost control. I wiped out. Coming back up with water in my nose and skis floating away, I was breathing heavy but feeling relieved that I wasn’t hurt.  Soon the boat pulled up and strong arms lifted me out of the water. Everyone cheered me on for my first water skiing experience. I sat in a quiet victory.

   

     Our dreams can be like this challenge on the skis. Dreaming itself isn’t intimidating, that part is fun, limitless, and freeing. Unfortunately, it is the execution of the idea that is difficult. Setting goals to see the dream actualized can feel scary and discouraging. But like the little ski beginner, when we jump in and get set up to go, there is often a period of waiting for the dream to materialize. After 13 tries, I finally got the hang of it. In working out the dream we can’t give up.

     Thomas Edison once explained the endless pursuit of actualizing his dream for the invention of the light bulb this way, “I have not failed I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” His tenacious pursuit of the dream later brought him success he worked for.

     So whether you are putting on water skis or stepping out in a new business venture at some point you have to decide to jump in. You can do it afraid and alone, or you can ask God to go with you. As a Christ follower, I have gained courage to step out “in faith.” On water skis you feel like you are walking on water, but if the boat slows you will be sunk.  As I learn to follow the One who walked on water, I begin to see His purpose for the dreams in my heart. Knees bent, arms extended and leaning back into the arms of God, take a leap of faith and trust him with your dream.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your path.”
Proverbs 3:5-6