Monday, October 31, 2016

A Tribute to Ginger Ale



     I have always loved the way you sparkle and shine in a fancy clear plastic cup at Christmas. The way you calm my stomach when I feel sick. I love the way you blend with cherry syrup on ice. 

     Sometimes when I am feeling down and don’t know what to do, I go to the store just to purchase you. In England they call you “Ginger Beer” with the accent I think it sounds good on you.

   When I ride in a plane I am excited to sip you as I eat the small bag of complimentary peanuts. When I went to India I ordered you more than once on the flight, you really helped me with that green bean that turned out to be a hot pepper. I felt as if I was turning green and in danger of exploding, but thanks to you I had some relief. 

    When I plan a party I always think of you. You always give the Punch an extra kick! I like that “Ginger” is in your name, because I love ginger everything and anything. But can I get real?  Right now I am having a really bad day, and as much as you bubble and fizz I don’t think you can fix me. It seems in the past when times were tough I thought maybe you would do the trick, but life is hard and I’ve reached my sugar limit. After all it is Halloween and I have already snagged a handful of my children’s candy.

     In reality, as much as I like to consume you I have to turn to something in-consumable for hope. It feels weird to say this out loud when I just got done watching television. Every commercial seems to promise that food or drink can fill my every void. No, tonight I just have to face the loneliness of a wanting heart. 

     Dear Ginger Ale your goldish gleam can’t wash away my discouragement. After all, you are just a fountain drink. It turns out I need to drink from a source that doesn’t run dry. I know one of your name Brands is Canada Dry, but I don’t think there is a place on earth that carries the refreshment I seek. 

   Pause…Sigh…it’s here in the quiet that I begin to remember who I am. I am sister, wife, friend, daughter, mother, and aunt. I am laughter and tears, listening ear and prayer all while holding a cup of you, sparkling ginger ale. The precious moments we have spent sharing with those dear to me are a treasure. But I am afraid Ginger Ale, it is the memories I really want to hang unto and the One who made them possible. Tonight I am thirsty for a moment of refreshment, so would you join me in a frosty mug as I draw close to the worn out bible? Over the quiet hiss of your carbonation let's listen for the Words that bring life to this needy soul. 

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Love is Worth Fighting For


      On this Sunday afternoon in late October the steady bounce of the basketball is heard from the driveway as Lydia practices her bank shot. Her Dad's cheers reverberate of the patio window. Meanwhile, I sit at the table trying to put words to page. As I hear them playing I start to see a memory coming back into view from long ago.

     My mother is hunched over dribbling the ball in the tie breaking game of 2 on 2 Basketball, Parents versus the Boys. Quickly she cuts down center court to make a shot, but she is blocked by Dave, my oldest brother. He quickly dribbles the ball between his legs and passes it to Mark who is ready to go in for a lay up. Swoosh! The basketball hits the back board just right. “Score!” the Boys called out victoriously.

“Score is 20 to 24, Boys are ahead but Parents still are in the game and have the ball,” Dad reports like a sports commentator as he passes the ball to Mom.

    She gets down low and fakes right before taking a swift turn left, this time successfully making a three point shot!” The Boys stand in proud amazement. “Way to go Mom!” they say in admiration.

“Score is now 24 to 23, Boys have the ball and it is now down to the wire, as the first to 25 points wins it all,” Dad reports.

    Mark dribbles the ball with skill for an eighth grader. With a confident smile on his face that pronounces the dimple in his right cheek, he looks for David.  He is weaving between a fierce Mom and Dad team that believe they could whip these Boys. David’s arms are reaching for the expected pass but Mark decides to dribble his way to the basket. Miss calculating the heavy defense from Mom she suddenly faces him down. With a sturdy stance she blocks him and then tries to steal the ball. With quick footing he pivots past her and jump turns to make the shot. They all watch as the ball hits the backboard and falls through the hoop.

     The boys let out a triumphant cheer as Mom and Dad congratulate them on the winning point. Mom’s face still bright red from the scrimmage leads the way to the house for some much needed hydration.  As they gather around the table the boys recount their Michael Jordan like moves. Dad interjects in exaggerated detail Mom’s pro-like three point shot. They all laugh and mimic mom’s girlish moves. She acts offended, but really she is happy to connect with her men.

    It is not easy to connect with your family as they grow older. But in this memory I see her victory, she is fighting for love. Her growing sons need to know that their mom still wants to get in the dirt with them, and with all of her strength she plays to make the point.

     As a parent I start to realize just how great an effort this Parenthood thing is. Even if I am tired, my children’s needs send off internal alarms. As they grow and become harder to talk to, I have to try new ways to express my love. But as I sit at the table writing out my thoughts, the memory of my red faced mother reminds me that it is all worth it.

      The thing that matters more than possessions or success. The thing that touches deeper than promotion or fame is being loved and truly known. This is the heart of family. Somehow in the busyness of life I can forget that. In the temptation to be self-focused I can even dismiss it, but it doesn’t change this truth. We need each other.


     Right now I have to wrap this up because its my turn to play PIG with Lydia. I rarely ever win, but I want to continue the tradition my mom modeled for me. Love is worth the fight and it scores much higher than the winning shot.         

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Surprised by Grace


     We moved to Cedar Rapids in the spring of 2008. In a rush to find a place in our price range that could fit our family of five, we settled for a house on 42nd street. We liked our new house with a connected one stall garage, but there was one drawback, the traffic. Behind the house, there was a wrap-around driveway to an extra two stall garage. We felt that we could manage the busyness of the street if we could just use the long driveway to turn our vehicles around so we didn't have to back up into the thick traffic. We were thankful we had found a home in less than a month's time since we had to move out of our sold house in Washburn, Iowa.

     The winter had been unusually heavy in snow fall across the state that year, so when the spring thaw began heavy flooding occurred all over Iowa along the Cedar River and also the Mississippi. Heavily engrossed in my life as a new resident and young mom I didn’t realize the dangerous flood warnings that started to be reported upstream from us.
    
     On June 11th, the day before my 31st Birthday, we were loading the van for a visit to the grandparents in Indiana. I heard over the radio that the city was planning on shutting down Highway 380 over downtown within the day. Already sweating in the heat of summer and the tangle of three small children I began to panic.

“We have to go soon,” I said to two-year-old Lydia, as she was digging through the bag I had just packed to find her favorite stuffed animal.

“Lydia, no! put that back! We have to go.” I said exasperated but she just looked at me with her thumb in her mouth as she twirled her hair.

    Finally after an hour of coercing I managed to load, buckle, and sippy cup each of the children, while also managing to load the suitcases for our trip into the green van. This was our good vehicle and I was proud to be able to drive it instead of the little blue car. Unfortunately that day I was feeling very stressed and distracted by the howling children in the back. So when I backed up the van behind the house to face the street, ready to pull out into traffic, I didn’t realize I was too close to the siding of the attached one stall garage. That is until I heard the loud scraping noise as I tried to pass it. 

     All of a sudden the children were quiet as I nervously whispered, “Oh no, Oh no, Oh no!”
Knowing that the flood waters were rising made my heart beat out of my chest. Quickly I jumped out of the driver's side to assess the damage. A large scratch ran the side of the van from the sliding side door to the right bumper. Unable to handle the damage I called Brad on my pink Motorola RAZR flip phone. Trying to sound calm I said, “Hi Brad, promise to not get mad?”

Hearing the tension in my voice Brad slowly responded, “Its ok Dianne, what happened I promise I won’t get mad.”

     In a flurry of tears I told him the embarrassing truth, I hit the side of the garage as I was pulling out of the driveway. The result was a big scratch on the side of the van. As I finished my confession I waited for the impending reproach I deserved. But instead Brad said quietly, “We will take care of it, don’t worry, just come pick me up and be safe.”

     Calming down I pulled out of the driveway unto the street heading in the direction of the church. Turning on the radio to reports of water levels rising made it hard not to speed. Finally I pulled up to the church, to see my husband come out to meet me. Seeing the side of the van caused him to wince, filling me with shame. I got out of the drivers side to hear his assessment of the damage I had done. Fresh tears sprung to my eyes, as Brad put his hand on my shoulder.

“Dianne its ok. We can buff it out,” he said reassuringly, but I didn’t believe him. The deep scratches looked like I tried to take out the side of the house on purpose.

     He drove us out of Cedar Rapids through heavy traffic as many other panicked people were trying to get out before the flood waters washed over the down town bridges. As we passed the Iowa city exits I finally started to catch my breath. How did I do such a stupid thing? And why did Brad not give me what I deserved? How many times had I unleashed my fury on him for something less trivial or expensive to repair? Looking behind me at the three quieted little darlings in their car seats buckled up munching on baggies of cheerios, I felt surprised by grace.

     How did I get this far in life? How did I chose a husband that would love me so gently in my most flakey moments? How did I get three healthy children to sit quietly on the most stressful afternoon I had all week. Taking a deep breath, I allowed the raw reality to settle in. I was deeply blessed.

      We got married in 1998 when I was 20 years-old, and he was 22. We had no savings yet we went to school full time paying our tuition as we went. Somehow we got through the last two years of school without having to drop out due to financial inability.

      In 2001 we moved to Waterloo, Iowa because Brad got a job as a Youth Pastor. After six months we bought a house and started our family with a baby boy name Isaiah. In the years to follow Elaina and Lydia soon were added to the family, our quiver was full. As I looked at my little ones in the green van as we were driving at 70 miles per hour away from the flood, the miracle of it all again became real.

     Then I remembered how at 16 years-old I just decided one Sunday morning, with a hangover, to go to church with my mom. That one Sunday changed the course of my life.  Who would I be if I had hit the snooze and refused to go so many years ago, instead I have been surprised by grace.


      Many times in my life when I have been treated better than I deserved I have sat stunned. In a world that is always moving in a hasty rush it is hard to take a moment to count your blessings, but on that van ride to Indiana, I felt overwhelmed. I decided that day, I want to allow grace to spill out of me towards others, so they too can can be surprised by grace.      

Friday, October 28, 2016

More than Enough


     I started working at the church about 6 years ago as the temporary worship leader. It was a big transition to go from Stay home mom to working woman. Lydia, my youngest was just four years old, but she had started pre-school that year so I felt peace about starting a new chapter of my life.

    I would call this chapter “the dream.” From the first time I stood up on a Sunday morning to sing a special in church when I was 16 years-old, I had hoped for a chance to sing for the Lord as a career. But saying yes to the fill-in position was still a challenge. Our previous Worship Pastor had a great reputation and had worked for 17 years at the church. He left huge shoes to fill, and I wasn’t convinced I could succeed.

     In November of 2010, I starting my temporary position diving in completely at a quick pace. I found it hard to juggle this new passion with a young family and my husband’s ministry responsibilities, but the excitement was my fuel for success. Even in the thrill of the new, a pattern started to form. I was constantly faced with my limitations on the job and at home. How does a working mom do it all?

     One of my daughters was showing signs of food allergies, so at home, we cut out gluten and dairy in the cooking menu. At work, I was spending hours to try to resemble the previous Worship leader’s style of leading and trying to also find my own style of leadership. On Wednesday nights when Brad was preaching, I found myself preoccupied with my own workload instead of connecting with students. My dream didn’t come without its challenges, as dreams in this world rarely do.

     In the fall of 2011, our Pastor had stopped pursuing Worship Director applicants and turned to me. After ten months I was finally in the running for the position.  I would have been thrilled except my mother was gravely ill. All the symptoms pointed to cancer, and in her weakness, she even hoped for a diagnosis. I began to pray.

“Lord, if you want me to have this job, I can’t take it if my mother has cancer. I couldn’t handle it, Lord will you heal her?”

Was I bargaining with God? Maybe, but it was more of a cry than a deal. I had never felt more vulnerable in those moments of prayer. Meanwhile, on Sunday mornings I put on the happy face and led worship by God’s grace.

    In early October I was the guest worship leader at a women’s conference in Cedar Falls, Iowa. On that Friday afternoon, before the conference began, my mom had asked me to accompany her to the cancer treatment center for her diagnosis appointment. Trying to show her support and be braver than I felt, I agreed.

    Sitting in the waiting room I felt sick to my stomach as tears were pressing, but with deep breaths, I kept them at bay. On the wall, there were professional pictures of men and women cancer patients posed beautifully with their families. Though the images spoke of strength and dignity fear crept into my mind, so I looked away from the decor.

“Oh Lord, hear my cry that my mother would live and not die but would proclaim the works of the Lord,” I whispered to the heavenly ears that interpret the cries of the heart.

“Gerri Tullis” the nurse called flatly.

    Slowly my fatigued mother rose from her chair leaning on my Father’s arm as I followed like a helpless child behind them. But even now I hoped for a miracle, some kind of Good Report. We were led to a small sterile blue room. As we sat, waiting, I prayed out loud. “Dear Lord, we ask you for the Good Report of the Lord to be released over mom today, Amen.”

     Soon a grave woman in her fifties came into the room with my mother’s chart. She held the results of the tests to determine the future plan of action. Standing before us she angrily declared that my mother’s tests for all cancers came back negative. Slamming down the chart she continued to state in frustration that my mom also didn’t appear to have the autoimmune disease they suspected. Stunned, my mother sat in her chair trying to process this report as the doctor declared she could not help my mother any further.

     Did we just receive the Good Report of the Lord? Or was I just having wishful thinking? As we left the cancer treatment center that day my mother felt overwhelmed. She had hoped for an answer, but she walked away still sick with no breakthrough.

     I led worship that night for the women’s conference with my frail mother sitting in the audience. In her fatigue, she was a shell of the former woman who had just celebrated her fortieth wedding anniversary the previous April. I sang songs about faith, healing, and the favor of God fueled by the hope that God can still do the impossible.

     The following day after the last teaching session we gathered at tables to pray together in small groups. At my table, my mom and I sat across from a sweet little older lady. After the closing prayer was shared from the front of the Sanctuary we stood to leave. The older woman of about seventy years said goodbye to us and turned to leave when she instead turned back around to face us. Though she stood at around five feet tall she suddenly appeared much taller as she declared with authority over my mother from Psalm 118:17, “You Shall live and not die but will proclaim the works of the Lord.”

     Suddenly my mother fell to the ground and began to shake as the woman continued to pray and prophecy over her. Other ladies came to pray with her over my mom. In that moment it was like the heavens opened up and ministering angels were lifting off all of the sicknesses. The winds of prayer rose as we all cried out for mom. I fell to my knees with tears streaming down my face as I felt the peace of God lifting the heavy burden of death off of my mother.The woman then turned to me and began to pray over my worship ministry. I could feel the power of God giving me the courage to step out in faith to pursue "the Dream."

     After a time the prayer ended, and my mom sat up. She looked as if she was rising from a refreshing nap. She offered to drive herself back to her home in nearby Waterloo. As she drove she felt better than she had in months. When we arrived at home she put the kettle on for some tea while we sat down to talk. It was like I was sitting with the “well” mom. For the first time in months, she was able to talk about living. I sat mesmerized by the transformation in her.

“Mom,” I asked, “What did you see when that woman was praying for you?”

      She sat quietly for a moment then with eyes glowing vibrantly she said, “As she prayed I saw a million little lights surrounding my body and then touching every part until I felt whole again.”

     As we had tea and talked on, I felt as if God had given me a most precious gift, divine healing for my mother. It was there at that table that I felt the peace to receive the job as worship director at our church. I knew God was going to take care of my mom, and that he would also help me.


    Driving home to Cedar Rapids that afternoon I sang, “I believe that your my healer, I believe you are all I need…” No matter what challenges my home life created with serving a young family. No matter what challenges church created with both Brad and I in ministry. I knew I could confidently declare: “Jesus, you are more than enough for me.”  

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

No Longer a Slave


“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord not for men since you know that we will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward.” Colossians 3:23.

I sat on the little stage as the minister read the scripture slowly and with great passion. I had a guitar in my hand and a handful of music on the stand in front of me. In a moment I would stand to sing with my freshly tuned guitar. It had been a long week of singing, every night filled with a rehearsal. To be honest, as I sat on the long wooden pew facing the small congregation I didn’t feel like singing at all that night.

As he introduced me as the musical guest I felt humbled knowing that I could barely make a chord sound on the instrument. “Dear Lord, hear my prayer make something beautiful come from this mess,” I whispered as I stood.

Standing in front of the microphone something happened. I looked out at the small number of bodies sitting in the echoing sanctuary and felt…Hope. Their weathered faces looked back at me as I stood speechless for a moment. As a single tear spilled down my cheek I could only utter the simple phrase, “He is here.” Though I couldn’t see the Lord with my eyes I felt him in this small gathering of unlikely saints.

It is one moment in the presence of God that makes a million rehearsals worth it. For one glimpse of the Creator all the sleep deprived car trips to drop off that last kid at the lock-in seem worth it. For one word from the Holy One all the greeting, setting up and tearing down, and difficult counseling sessions are a little offering in comparison to His presence. With the tear glistening on my cheek I began to sing.

You unravel me with a melody
 you surround me with a song
of deliverance from my enemies
till all my fears are gone.
I’m no longer a slave to fear
I am a child of God.

To my surprise, I felt the love of God envelope us. My voice filled the hollow hall as several worn voices joined in harmony. “I’m no longer a slave to fear, I am a child of God.” The broken praise rose up resounding against stain glass windows ever lifted higher to the invisible God.

I came that night only out of obligation, but I was amazed by the Lord’s reward. On each face I saw joy wash away the hardness. In calloused and dirty hands lifted to the Lord I witnessed their surrender. “Amazing Grace how sweet the Sound that saved a wretch like me.”

Thank you God for helping me to see the raw reality of your heart. To bring the broken to Your side soothing them with peace, and mending them with hope.  A peace not of this world but from your heavenly home. In that little church I encountered the hospitality of the King of Kings as he welcomed us all to come just as we are.

I stood unraveled by His melody of grace in awe as he surrounded us with a song of His deliverance
I felt His perfect peace as all my fear melted away.

I’m no longer a slave to fear, Oh no, I declare I am a Child of God.    
  


  

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

I Love This Church


What does it mean to love your church? I have answered this question many times in many seasons always confident that I finally understood the depth of this biblical gathering of saints. But with every new turn, the dimension of the church changes.

When I was sixteen, loving my church meant enjoying the benefits of a thriving youth group and serving in the 200 member Easter Production each year. The church meant large group experience.

In Bible college when I was highly discouraged and insecure, loving the church meant finding a place in a 25 member choir where a few actually knew my name and invited me over for coffee. In that church, loving church meant enjoying a half hour at the altar on Sunday nights when sometimes older godly men with strong cologne prayed for you and occasionally helped you get “slain in the spirit.”

Upon graduation from Bible College, church came to mean not only gathering of saints, but income for a poor young minister and his wife. With such a blend of heart and occupation, the church grew in complexity. Not only was the church where God speaks to his people, but I witnessed my husband (the Sunday night preacher) practicing his message in his PJ’s the night before. In the young preacher’s brow, there was an earnestness to carry the torch his grandfather had light before him. On Sunday mornings I would listen for the special moments he had worked on over and over again.

I loved going to church to see individual faces, receive special hugs, and enjoy baked pumpkin bread. It became many quiet moments of wiping off counters or picking up teenagers for service. It became Saturday night Bus Ministry phone calls and Sunday morning donuts. It became my heart beat even when I felt weary and discouraged. Church became a young girl’s prayer request for her broken family to be restored. It became an orphan boy's dream to sing for God.

Many nights Church also became an unwanted burden that I wished to escape because I couldn’t quite seem to be "enough". It appeared to be an endless sea of need that I could not meet with my little bit of talents from the Lord.

To love church meant singing behind a little black stand with a corded microphone and a series of repeated hymns and choruses. That is until one day I started to dream, pray, and seek to be more. I dreamed for that word “Revival.” I whispered those two words “Divine Healing.” In Bible College, I arrived with fire in my eyes and excitement in my heart for the move of God. “Let the River flow.” By the end, I felt disillusioned that such words even belonged in our common faith anymore.

It is like God to suddenly appear when you least expect him and fill you with a hope you didn’t know could still exist. This is how he fell upon me. Through a two-month series of messages, our Pastor preached on reaching our neighbors for Christ something began to stir. I had been so afraid to open my door to my neighbors. Feeling like I lived too differently and wouldn’t be able to relate this challenged seemed impossible. But the Pastor continued to harp and preach on until I could barely handle it anymore. “Lord,” I cried out. “I am terrified to reach out what will they think of me?” But the burning fire of conviction wouldn’t lift.

A young family lived next door. For weeks I thought about asking them over, but came up with a handful of reasons why it just wouldn’t work. Finally after a Sunday night message I couldn’t take it anymore, at the altar I surrendered. “Ok Lord, I give up. Fine! I will have them over.”

The next day I gathered the courage to cross my front yard to knock on my neighbor’s door. With a pounding heart and a choked up voice, I asked her if her family would like to come over that evening. To my surprise she cheerfully agreed. With a light heart I hurried away to fix some sort of meal. A few hours later they came over with their two small children. At the time Isaiah was a baby so the seven of us crammed around a little kitchen table in our little starter home. After spending several hours of pleasant conversation they went home, and Brad and I experienced the joy of reaching out of our safe little church world.

This was the beginning of taking steps out of the church to spread the light of the gospel of peace into my neighborhood. Each time the Lord would speak to me, I felt uncomfortable. Trembling I wondered if I had heard him right. Lord are you sure you want me to pray for my neighbor who is going through cancer? What if I pray the wrong thing? Lord, are you sure you want me to visit the woman who just lost her 14 year-old son to suicide? What in the world could I say to comfort her. But the Fire of God would move me, propel me forward to show up anyway.  

What does loving the church look like today? I was thinking about that as I drove to church this morning. The fresh fall leaves brilliant against the gray sky on the drive down the church lane. To me it is hope. Every time I pick out a song or sing for a service it is the hope that I love most. I see so many faces, I think of so many stories of people I know who have gained hope by rubbing shoulders in the community called church. I think of stories of miraculous healing. I think of marriages healed. I think of little children growing in beauty and wisdom. I think of the love of God being displayed in beautiful expressions of art everywhere. But most of all, when I quiet myself I see the face of Jesus the one I love.

If it wasn’t for his people I don’t think I would be able to see Him as clearly. Have his people hurt me, let me down, betrayed me? Yes at times they have, but they have also prayed for me, fed me, and nutured me back to health. I love this holy thing called the Church of Jesus Christ. With all the burning of my heart I love this Church.      
    


Monday, October 24, 2016

The Power of Words

   
     Have you ever received a word of encouragement that changed how you felt about a situation? I did, on the worst day of my life. It was the spring of my seventh-grade year. The year had been tumultuous with friend crises.

     Going back in time to the previous summer, I was confident that seventh grade would go like sixth, a raging success story. I had entered junior high as a sixth grader "Big", big hair, cool walk and big attitude. According to Seventeen magazine these components were all you needed to become popular. Popular, even saying the word made my heart flutter. True to the written word, I thought I was Big stuff in sixth grade, and the popular girls agreed for a time.

    It was a mid-July night when we gathered at my best friend’s house for her 13th Birthday party.  All the girls talked about the boys we liked and played party games. Around 9 o’clock I left after pizza and cake feeling happy with the experience. Little did I know, I had been tricked. The rest of the girls had been invited to spend the night. I could have gone on my merry little way not knowing I had been duped, but life very rarely gives us the easy way out.

    Around 10A.M. the next morning, I crossed the living room to answer the phone. 

Unsuspecting I answered, “Hello.”

     Snickering voices were heard in the background as a familiar voice spoke slowly and cruelly,   “Dianne we all stayed over at the party last night without you. After discussing all the things you have said about us, we have decided that you are no longer fit to be our friend. Someone like you doesn’t deserve friends.” Laughter rocketed in the background before a sudden dial tone filled my ear. 

    I stood frozen holding the receiver in my hand wondering what had happened. Did my best friend betray me? Was it true that all the popular girls had just labeled me "Loser?"

     Such thoughts were like a swinging stick smashing the Pinata and all the sweet dreams of being accepted crashing to the ground. As the ring of laughter echoed in my head emotions began to rise from somewhere deep within. “I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m ok,” I said as I held my head. The heat seemed to be rising in my veins and my heart began to pound. "Ring" "Ring" the telephone called out again. I wondered if I should answer it. What would Blair from “The Facts of Life” do? Picturing her assertive face in my mind I concluded that she would face this problem head on.

“Hello,” I said bracing myself.

“We hate you!” the chorus of girls called out in the background, then click. They hung up.

     Hot tears finally reached my eyes. As the idea of great loss came flooding over me I ran to my room to blast “Should’ve Known Better” by Richard Marx. Looking at the bulletin board covered in magazine clippings I tried to find a model I could try to look like, try to be. If I just looked prettier maybe then they would take me back. What did I say? Pausing on that question I thought, what didn’t I say?

    A true picture of these friendships turned out to be a shallow view. We got together to talk about each other. Who was the cutest, and who wasn't as cute. We discussed who was dating, and who we wished would break up. Who got told off and who should get told off. Now it became clear, it was my turn to be knocked off the ladder.

    Going into seventh grade was a lonely experience. For the first time, I noticed the other students. The majority of my peers had taken verbal abuse from the "populars". With a red face, I remembered the ugly words I had spewed out at other students that had been labeled geek, dork, or nerd. During the lunch hour when it was time to set my tray down at a table, a quick scan of the lunch room revealed no allies.

   Out of courageous desperation, I turned to the only people that knew me, the "populars". Maybe if I acted really nice they would forgive my sins. Graciously they allowed me to sit at the end of their table, but their bodies turned away from me in conversations. If there was a juicy secret they would whisper to one another while giving me the eye rolled message, “You can’t hear this, you are no longer one of us.”

    In Social Studies the class following lunch, I cried every day. Such tears flowed like an unwanted river in front of the “populars” within the class. Whispered snickers again communicated to me, that they had won. They had been able to crush the "Big" right out of me.

    Miraculously through crushing moments when humiliation permeates the air a new perspective can arise. Because I lost all my friends that year I was forced to look harder at the classmates around me. Instead of seeing their flaws like I had been trained to do the year before, I started to see their unique gifts. I joined a storytelling group that year because I made a new friend, Brooke. She also got me involved in an acting troop. It was also during this year that I grew close to my cousin Stacey, who pushed me to sing. As a result, we started taking voice lessons together. With all the good that was developing in my character and abilities, I still hoped to be popular again.

     On a spring day, we all gathered, the 400 students of Hoover Intermediate School for an assembly. The woman who spoke had various topics from AIDS awareness to self-esteem. At the end of her speech, she gave something like an altar call for anyone that would like to share something with their peers. My heart started beating in my ears as I felt a deep urgency. Before I could reconsider I felt my feet walking to the front of the auditorium and my hand reaching for the microphone.

     Looking out at the myriad of faces my throat became suddenly dry, “I just wanted to say I am sorry to all of you. This year I have learned how it feels to not have friends. I realized that in sixth grade I was mean to a lot of you, and I am sorry because I know how it feels, and I don’t ever want to do that again.”

     In tears, I went back to my seat as the students clapped in support. After the assembly, the group of "populars" came over to me. Each one took their turn to say that I was forgiven. I felt reinstated into my dream team. Maybe now I wouldn't feel as if I had to wear the scarlet letter every day. With a smile, I shut my locker after school, and quietly rode the bus home.

     The next morning I couldn’t wait to go to school. Looking in the mirror my bangs couldn’t be higher and my side part fanned out perfectly. My cardigan sweater with the white tee with shoulder pads underneath made me look taller as I slipped on my penny loafers over my blue checkered stirrup pants. I was feeling cute and forgiven.

     As I walked up the stairs to the seventh-grade hall the hustle and bustle suddenly quieted as my peers silently watched me walk by, gone were the praise and forgiveness. 
   In the first hour, the "populars" passed notes as they whispered about me. With flushed cheeks, I tried to keep my composure. Even my new friends avoided me that day at lunch. Sitting by myself I tried to list the good things in my life, and how I should seriously write a ballad about hating school.

     Finally, in the last hour of the day, Choir, I found my seat in the front row next to Eric Kresser. Feeling completely deflated I stared at my music pretending it was captivating when he broke my reverie.
“Dianne, I just want you to know I thought what you did yesterday took a lot of courage, and I am proud of you.” He said matter of factly.

     Looking at him and trying to keep from crying I said, “thank you, Eric.”

     From that moment on I felt the color come back to my cheeks, and hope come back to my heart. A dream died that day, the wish to be popular. In its place a new dream rose up, to be real, honest, and kind. Thank you, Eric, for helping me to see that such courage matters in a world that judges us by our appearance and how we can dominate others.


     His words transformed my worst day into a historical moment that has changed the course of my life. Words are powerful, I learned that the hard way that year. Words can break others down, but when they are used to build others up they will never be forgotten nor will the people who spoke them.  

Sunday, October 23, 2016

The Art of Being Thankful

    
 It has been a busy day to end a busy week. In my PJ’s and cozy robe, I would like to take a few minutes to be thankful.  

    When I think of the way butter melts on freshly toasted Engish muffins, I’m thankful. The color hot pink, especially in shoes, is a delight. Biting into a piece of chocolate mousse pie, savoring the rich velvety texture of every bite, makes me thankful. When I peel a fresh orange smelling the citrus aroma in the air, before taking a juicy tangy bite I am thankful. 

    For Four-year-old girls’ hugs that are crazy tight for such little people, I am thankful. To wake up this morning in my own bed, in my own home amidst my family, I am thankful. For the smell of freshly baked bread as you are pushing a cart into Walmart, I am thankful. To still have my heart speed up when I see my husband from across a crowded room, after 18 years, I am thankful. 

    Having the opportunity to sing for Jesus and hopefully carry a tune other people enjoy hearing, I am blessed beyond measure.   For God the Father, Son, and HolySpirit and the mystery of never really understanding how magnificent God really is, I am thankful. 

    For the love of my dog Boomer, the truth is I don’t really like to pet you, but you forgive me every time you see me, I’m thankful. 

    For the grace of God….every day, in a million ways, I am thankful beyond words.

     For the smiling faces of all my friends and when I remember the uniqueness in each one of you, I am speechless with gratitude. 

    To experience my three children in all their brilliance and raw character I am amazed at the responsibility but so thankful for the opportunity. 

    I am thankful for Boomerang perms and lip gloss (without which I would not be able to have blog.) 

    I am also thankful for new dreams, new talents, and new "why not" moments. Life truly is amazing. It can feel dreadful one moment and then redeemed the next. It is definitely worth hanging on to and not giving up on this crazy thing called living. And faith in Jesus has remarkably changed my life over and over again. 

    Right now I am thankful to be sporting gray hair and at peace with embracing this aspect of myself. I am grateful for every person who has allowed me to pray and hope with you that God is big enough to meet your need. Such moments are the joy of my life. 

    And lastly, I am thankful for words. I spent so many years with a heart burning to speak, but as I picked up the pen I couldn’t let the words out. If they did spill in self-reproach I tore them up. Thank you to my friend Nichole who helped me realize that I had a voice worth hearing even if it wasn’t always upholding a positive and cookie cutter perfect life. (Big sigh) that revelation literally saved my life- Thank you. 

Finally, to all of you readers who have taken the time to read these words- you have been instruments of my healing and I am grateful for you!

Love,

Dianne       

Friday, October 21, 2016

Diving In


      Darting across the living room I lunged for the phone before my brother Mark could answer. “Hello,” I said with a hint of victory as I gave my angry brother a smirk. He was waiting for a call from a girl because he was a big seventh grader going into 8th grade. My friend Sarah on the other end asked, “Is Dianne there?”

“This is she,ten speed,” I said.

“Do you want to ride our bikes to the pool today. Looking around the corner to the kitchen clock I saw that it was 11:45AM. Knowing my mom was gone today with my younger brother Jon at an appointment I said, “Yes.”

“Ok I will see you in 20 minutes,” Sarah said before ending the call.

     Putting down the receiver I went on a hunt for loose change around the house. The cost to go swimming was $1.50, plus I wanted an extra $.50 for a snack. In my jewelry box, I found $.59, by the Dryer I found 3 quarters, and finally on Mom’s dresser I found a whopping $.89. This made my grand total $2.23. Happily, I wrote a short note to mom telling her where I was going and off I rode my ten-speed bike to Sarah Eihler’s house distance of one and a half miles.

     Upon arrival 20 minutes later I was dripping with sweat as the humid 89 degree day was perfect weather for a day at the public pool at Burnes Park. After a quick break to drink a cup of Grape Kool-Aid we were off for the 2 1/2 mile ride to the pool. We both felt grown up to be riding by ourselves to the pool, but when you finish fifth grade the whole world of opportunity opens itself to you.

      As we pedaled up to the outside pool entrance there was a line of hot and restless kids wanting to cool off in the pool reaching the parking lot. I scanned the group for him, the cute boy with sun kissed blond spikey hair and the long rat tail. He was nowhere to be found.
    Soon we paid and were free to swim. I was relieved to gain entrance because I felt hot and sweaty from the long bike ride. In the changing room I quickly applied my hot pink lip gloss by looking in the groovy mirror on the side of the tube. In the bathroom mirror, I reapplied my electric blue eyeliner to the inside of my lower eye lids. My boomerang permed hair was in a high pony tail. I wondered as I stood there for a moment if I was pretty like my friend Sarah.

“Come on, Dianne you look great!”

     Grabbing our towels we walked to our normal spot at the corner of the snack shack and the 5ft edge of the pool. I was tall enough now to swim in the deep end. I had already shot up to 5’4. For my grade I was one of the tallest girls, in fact I towered over my cute blond friend Sarah. 
    Laying out our towels we decided to take a stroll around the whole pool. I learned from Sarah, to get attention you have to know how to walk. She had on a light blue two piece swim suit that tied the upper and lower pieces at the waist. My suit was a modest Baptist navy blue one piece.  I was hoping my lip gloss and eyeliner would make me look cooler than I felt.

      On our way back to our towels I saw him, the blond boy with the spikey hair, pull up to the outside of the fence on his BMX bike. He had long skater shorts and no tee shirt. Mysterious older girls gathered at the fence to talk to him. They all seemed to be having a good time. I wondered what they were talking about. What do boys with cool blond spikes care about?

      Soon he sauntered past us as we sat on our towels soaking in the sun and warming up from our first refreshing swim. I tried not to make it obvious that my eye was upon him as he strutted past to join his group a few feet away. I didn’t want Sarah to tell him that I had a crush or anything.  I had heard he was a 7th grader at West Intermediate Junior High. My cousin Stacy knew him, she said he even smoked. A good Baptist girl shouldn’t like boys who smoke, but with a spike like that it was hard to overcome temptation.

        As we laid on our towel the pool speakers blared “You're the Inspiration” by Chicago. Sarah and I sang out loud with silly voices, “If you love somebody…” As I thought of my secret flame I wondered, is this love?” Last summer at the pool I had a boyfriend for the last five minutes it was open. His name was Joe, he had a dark spike and I am not sure what he even looked like dry. His cousin swam over to our normal spot at the corner of the 5ft. and asked if I would go out with Joe. I said yes and waved at him from across the pool. That was it, a wave and the pool closed and I went home, but for five minutes I was admired.

      At 2:45PM the life guards blew there whistles for the “adult Swim” so all the kids reluctantly climbed out of the water so five old people in swim caps and goggles could do laps. I couldn’t imagine being old, like my parents. Because of our strategic location next to the snack shack we always made our way to the concession line early. 
   Both Sarah and I ordered a Twix Bar. Walking back to the round umbrella concession table set up in the snack shake area we sat down to enjoy our Twix Bars slowly and meticulously. Sarah had taught me how to eat carefully to enjoy every last crumb of the twin Twix bars. 
    First we gnawed off the top layer of chocolate, then the caramel and lastly the crunchy cookie. The entire process took the whole 15 minute break. Soon the whistle blew and a hundred hot and sugared up children jumped back into the pool.

     On the high dive he stood, He waited for everyone’s eyes to be drawn to him before he did a front somersault dive. He seemed so cool and confident. Even in the water as he swam his hair poked out of the rippling waves in a spike. As “Walk Like an Egyptian” played above the background noise of loud splashing and laughter I watched mesmerized as he climbed out of the water to the cheer of his friends.
I wondered what it was like to be somebody. Looking down at my own sprouting body I felt uncertain how I was perceived. Glancing at Sarah, as she finished the last bite of her twix cookie she seemed restfully confident in herself. How did one get to that place?

“Dianne let's go, the Adult Swim is over,” she said urgently.


      So we walked to the edge of the 5ft. and jumped in. Turning around she splashed me and I dove under the water to grab her leg. We both came up to the surface laughing. She challenged me to a race, so off we swam toward the 3ft end of the pool. In the thrill of the challenge, I forgot about the blond boy with the notorious spike to enjoy instead, just being a kid, if only for a moment longer.     

Thursday, October 20, 2016

On an Early Morning Jog

     Autumn runner feet Royalty Free Stock Photography



Walking down the quiet street in the early morning light is tranquil. The only sounds are the dry crunch of the fallen leaves under my sneakers. The trees overhead are a splash of red and gold, and the air has the crisp smell of fall. My hair is pulled back in a bun as I start to pump my arms. It is time to get serious. For four blocks have been ambled casually but now as I search my iPod for techno tunes I am ready to run. As the beats begin to roll I start my stride.

     It took four blocks to get motivated and four weeks of staring at the muffin top, I had developed while eating Pumpkin bars, to get me moving. Why is motivation so hard to obtain? As I pump my arms and legs to reach the next cross street the stress of the week begins to fall away. The truth is, I had been eating pumpkin bars, by the pan, because I was nervous about what people think of me. Sometimes a little ginger spiced square can feel like a hug from a really good friend, that is until you have to try something on in the dressing room at Target. What is wrong with the lights in that place? Do they have clown mirrors? It was after such an experience that I finally decided to get moving.

       Still running on song two I feel my breath getting heavier. Come on, Dianne you can make it to the stop sign, don’t fail me now! It seems like I have done a lot of sprinting lately. Life hasn’t slowed down since the kids were born. The to-do list just keeps getting longer and the expectations have grown in proportion. As I jog I briefly remember the request for parents to bring baked goods today. Today? With an extra surge of energy, I focus instead on the fast approaching stop sign. Just 10 more feet!

      Looking both ways before crossing I decide to continue. Maybe to outrun the parental demands on my life. Did I have any idea when I saw the two red lines on the home pregnancy test that I would have to crank out an endless supply of tasty and artful cupcakes for the next 18 years? Such thoughts suddenly make my pace quicken even more. I now believe I will be able to make the mile mark. The breath now making white steady clouds on my exhale I move with purpose now. Just down the lane, I will reach my destination. The decline on the hill helps my body as I start to feel the exhaustion of unconditioned couch potato legs.

Come on Dianne you can make it!

      The thought of pumpkin bars seems like a foul mockery now as I struggle to get to the finish line, 50 yards, 10 yards, just a few more feet. Finally I make the goal. Victorious I slow down to a walk. The breath coming hard now as I turn around to make my way back up the hill. The cool air feels refreshing against my reddened face and perspiring brow. 

    Can I make it back? That is the problem with running, you have to pace yourself. At the turning point, you need enough endurance to get back home. Not sure if I can run back I walk slowly, contemplatively. Allowing my heart to come back down from pulsing in my ears, I started to sort out my baked goods predicament. 

     Well, I do have marshmallows and some rice squares. Yes, it is true, I am the no bake dessert mom. Memories of other mother’s Pinterest cupcake creations fill my mind for a moment, but in an effort to keep a slower pace I resolve to push the thoughts out of my mind.

      Dianne, you can’t be any other mom, you have to just be you, the Rice Krispy treat you.  The arrive at school one minute before the tardy bell in pajamas everyday you.

     Taking in a deep breath, I begin to smile. If it wasn’t for all the everyday failings and faults I wouldn't be able to write this blog. With this fresh revelation, I start to jog and enjoy the wind as it hits my face and blows my hair around like the swirling leaves falling silently to the earth. Falling quietly away like the pressure I had been carrying on my shoulders to be someone else. A someone more grown up, better put together, a someone more acceptable. Instead, I pick up my pace to return to the little home full of three sleeping children and a Strongman.

The dog barks at my return to a new day, a new opportunity to live, to be, to stir and press into a 13x9 pan, to present to the world a common creation from a one of a kind mom.
   

    

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

The complexity of dreams


     In my high school junior year, I had a 6 month period of insomnia. During that time I couldn’t dream. One day at lunch, my good friend Dana Bartekowski was talking about a strange dream she had involving a robotic pelican. I was jealous.

     When it came to bed time I fearfully went into my nightly routine. When I hit the pillow, no matter how exhausted I felt, my mind raced all night making it impossible to dream. My Junior year was packed with events and deadlines. In truth I was overcommitted in drama and music. I performed in nine plays that year and countless singing events. Ironically, it was the robotic pelican dream that really made me see I was missing out, and had to start saying “no” to something. Fortunately, the last day of school came and the pressure let up as the hot Iowan summer rolled in.

      In an effort to touch my goal of being an actress I had saturated myself in theater that year. In the spot light I felt free, even if it was for a split second. It was like I was catapulted high into the atmosphere, reaching out my hand toward the airy wisp of my aspiration, for a thrilling moment, I thought I could poke it. The composition of a dream though is very non substantial. Like water vapor coming off a raging tea kettle it can be seen and felt, but it can’t be handled. So I touched the dream, but I couldn’t sleep afterwards.

     Dream chasing is like that, it is an ambitious quest that takes many merits to prove that you drew close enough to the vaporous aspiration to call it accomplishment. For becoming an actress, I thought long and hard about that dream and compared it to the created purpose I started seeing emerge in my life and heart.

     Through that eleventh grade year I also attended youth group and church on Sundays. During those services God began to speak to me. “Dianne, you were made for more than making a name for yourself, you were made to bring people closer to me.”   I sat stunned and bewildered, how could God use me? Soon the music Pastor invited me to sing for the congregation on a Sunday morning. This opportunity had never been allotted to a high school student before. Excited I agreed to sing and started my quest to find the right song. One month later I sang, “His Eye is On the Sparrow.”

     In all the plays and singing events I had ever done, I had never seen the power of God move people like I did that Sunday morning. I had also never experienced the power of God move me like it did that day. After I was finished the last note I wept, because I felt like I had touched something higher than a dream. I had reached out unknowingly and bumped into my purpose.

     There is something within each one of us that is divinely planted. Like a seed is dropped into the ground by a skillful gardener and gently covered by soil, so each one of us has a divine destiny to shine in this world. On that Sunday morning in a newly purchased modest flower print dress, I stood shaking under a power I now call anointing.

     As I returned to my seat after the song, and the Pastor continued his message I quietly thanked God. In that moment I vowed to chase God not my dreams, because I knew he would take me to that place beyond dream, that place of purpose.


     After high school graduation I was led to a bible college to pursue drama and music. After graduation I have dabbled in drama, but I have been saturated in music.  It has at times felt like a lot of work, but on those Sunday mornings as I stand on the platform with the microphone in my hand opening the gates of praise through worship, I feel it again. The eerie sense of purpose and the indescribable power of God moving through me and touching hearts all across the congregation. The movement beyond dream to purpose again reminds me there is no better place to be than in the will of God and in the middle of one’s unique created purpose.      

Monday, October 17, 2016

A Sketch of a Farm Girl, 1934


     It is hot and sticky on this August afternoon. The Wisconsin air is damp with humidity even in the shade of the porch as the afternoon sun is letting up a little bit. The breeze is gentle as the buzz of a bumble bee fills the quiet space. My hands are folded on my lap atop a light cotton dress splashed with tiny pink flowers. Here I sit on the swing. My bare toes pushing me forward and back to the high pitch chirp of the chain link hanging from the ceiling. My palms are wrinkly- I wish that they were smooth and soft like my cousin Coreen’s hands. She said the wrinkles come from living on the farm.

    I don’t mind the wrinkles on my hands. Living on the farm is my own little wonderland. I like flowers and running barefoot through the grass, but today I feel mad. Buddy isn’t speaking to me. Smugly, I have decided it is just fine with me. But rocking back and forth is starting to become dull- I glumly admit I’d rather enjoy laughter and barn games with him.

     In the distance, Grandpa Hagadorn is plowing with his yoke of oxen. The smell of fresh earth fills the air. Inside Mother is busy painting. Secretly, I wish to paint too but whenever I try the colors run together the wrong way. Grandma Matilda speaks German but is often quiet as she still mourns for Uncle Walter. I am proud that my grandpa Hagadorn is a good farmer. He knows how to take care of his animals. 

    I like to play with the chickens, they are such a noisy bunch.  Buddy and I enjoy making them go to sleep by tucking their heads’into their wing. Many summer days have been spent playing with the chickens. And the Barn is always filled with hay for the horses and cattle.

    But I remember…today I am mad at Buddy – He called me a "chicken." Sometimes I think he is a human monkey the way he climbs on everything. Coreen isn’t afraid. Her and Buddy are younger than me and apparently dumber. Maybe I am more cautious because of Mother. She won’t even allow us to buy a bicycle. She says it would be the death of us. "It’s alright with me if I go the whole day without talking to Buddy." With arms crossed I jump off the swing and run down the front steps.

    One of my favorite things to do is to walk next to the field where grandpa Hagadorn is planting beans, Today I run carelessly on the well-beaten path. Above the blue sky brilliantly accented with white puffy clouds greets me with a gentle breeze. Out of breath, I stop and lay myself down. The lowing of the cattle in the distance soothes my troubles away. Gazing up into the sky expanded above me like endless possibility, a smile finally appears on my lips. Sometimes I like to just sit on this hill outside the old white painted farmhouse and watch the breeze move the tall green leafy trees to the unseen rhythm of the wind. Here in the peaceful calm, all alone, dreams are born.       


Sunday, October 16, 2016

Questions in the Scattered Photographs

     

     Do you ever rummage through old photos to find the answer to your brokenness? Why is it every time I find myself in the same situation, and I can’t seem to act better.

    My problem is how to treat the men in my life. I grew up in a home dominated by them, my Father and three brothers. Every day was a fight for attention, it just seemed I failed to win. I feel like I spent my young life trying to please them, and also trying to be completely different from them. Trying to be brave and yet being ashamed when my true nature bled through at the sight of any unsightly spider.

      My childhood was lived in the shadow of a fishing pole. It was a happy childhood, but I still hate fishing. My children have mentioned going fishing and I nod and stare off into space. The idea of actually going overwhelms me. What would we bring? What do you wear? And do you really just stand in the grass at the side of a lake, just stand there with a dangling string in the water? For how long? And what if it is muggy?

      The truth is, it might mess up my hair, and if I have that sticky lip gloss on and there is even a slight breeze it will get my hair stuck in it, like a fly in a Venus fly trap. Ashamed I have to admit, I have hit a wall. Looking through old photos I try to pinpoint what went wrong?

      A few days ago I talked to my older brother on the phone. All traces of rivalry or disdain have been removed by time and maturity. His voice was warm and affectionate, concerned for me and my family. I shook my head as I held the phone thinking, I would never have imagined that we would be friends. In adolescents we were enemies.  I never wanted to be distant I just didn’t know how to be close. He loved basketball and the outdoors. I loved music and the arts and hated nature (still do).

     I have a son, fourteen years old, and I find myself on the outside looking in. It’s almost as if I have a fishing pole in my hand. What in the world do I do with this thing?  I know how to clothe and feed this creature, but I fail to understand his passion for sports and video games. I find myself offering another fried mozzarella stick as a response to his rant on how the Panthers should have beat the Saints. How about a carrot stick? And can you just take a shower and brush your teeth?

     I look at his baby pictures and think, how did time fly? We spent hours together reading about Elmo and Big Bird. Now I spend my days working and checking in for brief moments to make sure he gets to school and does his homework. I remember his bubbling conversations on trains and automobiles while he munched on cheerios. Now I get a mumble here and an uh-huh there as he eats a late night bowl of cereal.

     It turns out, the past doesn’t whisper the answers we need through its still life photographs. The quandary is only solved as we stop to stare into the present at the mess we have made. The truth is, I need to connect with my son, but I can’t use plastic cars and train sets. Though the means are different I still must roll up my sleeves and dig deep for this one.

    I am still squeamish at the thought of a fishing trip. Let’s face it, prissy girls weren’t made for nature. I don’t have manicured nails, but I would almost go out and get some just so I didn’t have to touch a worm. But my hope is this, I am finally close to the brother I thought was untouchable. Maybe there is a chance that the story doesn’t end with the half a dozen photos of younger simpler times spread out on my kitchen table. Perhaps it is time to get the camera out for some new moments just waiting to transpire.   



Saturday, October 15, 2016

Breaking Up is Hard To Do

    
      Dear Spark, energy drink by Advocare. I have been faithful to consume you every day for so long I don’t remember spending a morning without you. At home, or on the road I made sure we had our time. I experienced such clarity of thought and such moments of sustained energy. Through your influence, I was able to write a blog every day for over a month even when others said, “Pace yourself!

     I packed you on my carry-on during the 16-hour flight to India. You followed me to summer camp three years in a row. You were stashed in my bag on Christmas Vacations and girl trips to conferences. After morning prayers we started the day with gusto and power.

     Without you, I am a load. Instead of getting up at 5:20AM to do a quick load of laundry before starting my early morning quiet time, I arose at 8:10. Instead of feeling focused and ready for the day. I sat on the couch staring off into nowhere.

     Without you I parked in nowhere all day long. No laundry was done, only cereal was served, and my hair remained in a messy bun, because it was impossible to comb. After two naps and a binge in front of the TV, my Saturday has become a waste land of slothfulness.

     You may ask why did I stop my romance with Spark?  I just don’t think we have chemistry anymore. I know we got a long for years. You showed up to all my important events, but I think we just need to spend some time a part. Believe me, this is going to hurt me more than its going to hurt you. And really, its not you…it’s me. I just want you to know even though I don’t think you are the one for me, doesn’t mean you don’t have a future with someone else. I am sorry it has to end this way.


     Goodbye energy with 120 mgs of caffeine. I thought it was the vitamins that made me feel energized, but maybe I was blinded by love. It is very hard to move on without you. Starbucks might get another junky, or I might just become a hermit. But with deep sorrow Spark I say farewell.

Friday, October 14, 2016

When "You got the Look"


     This blog is dedicated to my old friend Laura Richards. Today I saw your beautiful face on Facebook and felt that you needed to know all the fun times I remember with you. But most importantly I wanted to write about our bangs.

    It was fall of 1988 when I met her, Laura Richards. She had a cute face and dark straight hair and she was a new student at Kittrell elementary. Over the next summer, I spent more time at her house, eating Dorito chips and playing the Legend of Zelda. We were soon heading to junior high, and Laura had already started "doing her hair." I could tell that everyone was noticing. I wanted to get noticed too, but I didn't know how to transform my look. Fortunately for Laura, she had an older sister who knew the tricks. One day her sister Michelle came into the room as we were playing on the Nintendo.
  
     Michelle was two years older than us and had cool hair. What I mean by cool are high bangs. She was going into 8th grade and she knew how to dress, how to talk, and how to do hair. So gathering courage I asked her, “Michelle, would you teach me how to do my hair?”

      Up until that moment I hadn’t touched my hair much. I had a boomerang perm that left my hair in tiny corkscrew curls all over my head. But all I knew how to do was to wash it and put some gel in it. My bangs hung down in my eyes so I tried to push them back with a plastic headband.

    She turned to me studying my hair. Squinting in creative thought she finally replied, “I think I know what we will have to do, but it means wetting it down and starting all over, are you ready for that?” She challenged.

With an excited gulp, I said, “Yes.”

       So we marched off to the bathroom to wet down my hair. Soon discovering my hair was a mess much like a ball of mushy spaghetti noodles, we added conditioner. After a thorough comb through and rinse, she wrapped my hair in a towel twisted sophisticatedly on top of my head.

“Now Dianne, what I am about to tell you will change your sixth-grade year dramatically. If you follow the directions I am about to give you, your hair will look good every day.” She instructed.

    I nodded at her through the mirror. “Alright then, we will proceed,” she said with focused energy.
She unwound the towel and had me flip my head down. Next, she applied Aussie gel to my hair. I loved the grapey scent as she worked it through each curl.

“Now scrunch your hair,” she said.

     So taking my hands I started squeezing my hair while making fists. Then she handed me a strange shaped hair dryer called a diffuser and told me to dry my hair upside down. So bent over and I began blow drying my hair.  When it was half way dry she told me to flip my hair over. I gasped when I saw the huge curly mane staring back at me.

“The key to sixth-grade success Dianne is big hair.” She whispered near my ear.
Next, she opened the medicine cabinet and something like an electric guitar solo from White Snake played as she pulled out her purple can of Aqua Net Aerosol Hairspray.
“This is going to be your best friend Dianne, your best friend!”

     I studied the can of hair spray wondering what magical benefits it must possess. Taking out her fine toothed comb she parted my hair to the side. Suddenly I had a measurable volume shift. Taking a 3/8" curling iron she curled my bangs in the direction of my new part. Then she did what I only dreamed about. She took the comb and lifted my permed bangs 3 inches high and with a stream of hairspray coated them. Then before I could even blink she held the blow dryer one inch away from the damp hair. After drying the Aqua Net bangs they stood up without the comb. Then she started “ratting” them until I had high bangs.

     I stood in front of the mirror dumbfounded, who was this girl? All I needed now was hot pink lip gloss, blue eyeliner, and a pair of stonewashed Guess jeans and I would be set for the upcoming school year. As I came into the room to show Laura my new look she just laughed. and said, "Michelle you did it again."

    Little did I know how much better the year would go when "you got the look". Thanks Michelle and Laura. The problem is I am almost 40 and I still have the same hair style. Michelle, come quick! I need you to coach me on how to fit in with the moms of my upcoming 6th grader. Does the awkwardness ever end?



   


Thursday, October 13, 2016

Off to Grandmother's House We Go

   
  It was a hot summer day. The drive to grandma's house always seemed to take a long time. As we drove the hum of the muffler coughed out little puffs of gray exhaust while we passed quiet little houses on old Highway 218. The chatter of four excited children filled the 1968 Chevy station wagon with life. Passing the ice cream stand buzzing with summer visitors, my face was pressed against the window. A little girl with a candy striped romper held a snow cone. I wished deeply to stop too, but we were going to grandma’s house.

     Her home was not large but the yard seemed to go on for miles. As we pulled in, the front yard greeted us as the tires crunched over the loose gravel driveway. I hardly paid attention because the front door was never used. It was the side door under the carport we scurried too. The steps to the common entrance were stacked cinder block mounting to the old screen door with a heavy metal scrolling design. Such common details turn classic in the fabric foundations of Family. There she would stand always ready to greet us and plant a wet kiss on the top of our heads.

    Once inside, the hall was warm as my feet scuffled on the old linoleum. The scent of fabric softener and crackers welcomed me back to grandma’s kitchen filled with wonderful little knick-knack treasures. African violets were her favorite, I learned quickly as a little girl. Grandma Tarbox had a green thumb. Along the side of the carport, she always had a flower garden. In the yard beyond, she tilled the long square of soil called a truck patch. I remember running along the row of towering sunflowers as I tried to find a hiding spot…”25-26-27-28-29-30! Ready or not here I come.”

     Out of all the flowers, the purple African violet was always her favorite. I couldn’t understand why. The little indigo blooms seemed too delicate, so easily damaged. The leaves seemed too velvety soft, as if they were cloth. They made me think of the velvety appearance of a thistle, with one prick I learned to leave alone. But African violets were soft for real. I don’t think I ever knew that because I was never allowed to touch.

     But 30 years have passed…, and one day recently, I was rushing through the automatic doors of the HyVee grocery store, on a mission for granny smith apples. Unexpectedly I saw her, a little pot of pink African violets. For the first time in my life I looked at the mini potted flowers with affection, $3.50 I must have them. Scooping up the little plant in my arms, I found the apples, strawberries, and muffins on my list and stepped into line at cash register One.

      As I unloaded my items on the belt. The happy little pink blooms quietly moved toward the cash register, and I thrilled at the thought that for the first time I realized their beauty. The delicate blossoms and soft welcoming leaves- took me back to that outdoor summer evening of hide n’seek and fireflies. The muffled happy raucous of adult laughter spilling out from the living room, so small yet big enough to hold a family together. A family not exempt from hardship and trial. A family also full of dreamers and tenacious spirit. 

      As I picked up my plant and took the receipt, I loaded my arm with the plastic grocery sacks full of my purchases. But with special care I held onto the little pot.  She was a precious commodity and link to a past I had displaced in the chaos of my own adult life.


    It is funny how we reflect the family we have known. When I look in the mirror I see my grandmother’s dimple chin and her brown eyes staring back at me. When I sing I see her love for music and the twinkle in her eye. When I cook I use a pinch of this and handful of that just like she used to do when the family was all together. Clutching my little potted plant was like holding my grandmother’s soft hand, and saying I love you too Grandma, I love you too. 

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Unfortunate Events

   
 I heard a Pastor friend tell me a story of one of his most embarrassing moments. He had taken an elderly woman in the congregation to a doctor’s appointment. My Pastor friend is a very no nonsense type of man. He is an avid reader and a scholar, but in all his studies he was unprepared for the moment that was about to transpire.

    The little elderly woman was a talker, but unfortunately, all she could find to talk about were her many ailments. After the doctor visit, he carefully helped her out of his 1998 Buick Century. To be helpful he had pulled up to the sidewalk of the assisted living apartment building. Holding his right hand she walked slowly and carefully with her cane. It was a spring day and the wind was blowing her flower print skirt when suddenly something dropped. As he helped her get her footing, he felt a wet thud on his brown oxfords. Looking down he realized in a split second what had happened. With a gasp, she looked down to discovering she lost her disposable undergarment.

“Oh Dear,” she said.

     In that important 8th of a second, he had to decide how to handle the awkward and embarrassing moment. Being a straight shooter he quickly kicked it aside into a nearby bush and declared, “We will just have to do without that right now and move on.”

     She muttered something as she decided to obey his charge and keep moving, both of them praying that the wind wouldn’t blow anything else loose. Soon she was safely in her apartment, and he made it back to his car without even a side glance at the gift left under the shrub by the side walk.

     I often think of that story with a smile on my face, picturing my well put together friend in a falling to pieces situation like that. It also makes me think about how life plays tricks on us. We can be going along minding our own business when a circumstance smacks us in the face without warning.

   Life can drop unexpected embarrassing details into our no-nonsense plans. So what do you do when you feel shocked, humiliated, or horrified? This story gives us some great advice, “We will just have to do without that and move on.”

    There are certain embarrassing moments that make my face turn red just thinking about them. Like the time I tried out for a professional theater production in Branson, Missouri called The Promise. After I got the first call back I told all my friends and classmates at college that I landed a part. My name had almost gone up in lights as the prize drama student when I received the call that they had decided to choose someone else for the part. What? You mean I have to tell everyone to take down the banners? I really didn’t make it?

    I had never been more tempted to keep living the lie in front of all my bible college friends, instead of humiliate myself by telling the truth. I was so mad I yelled at God, “I can’t believe you did this to me?” How telling that moment was for the condition of my heart. Ashamed, I realized I had to fess up and move on.

    It is hard to get real about our pain, our mess ups, our embarrassments, but on the other side of that door there is a fresh new start. Life is a gift and every day holds new possibility.  So when you find yourself caught off guard with something unpleasant remember this story of the lowly Pastor just trying to be helpful, but receiving an unwanted gift on his new shoes. Just shake it off and move on.                         


Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Honk, Ava is 104!


  
 Honk, Ava is 104, the sign said as I drove by. Looking quickly at the house, it had overgrown bushes and a heavy screened-in door.  Yes, an elderly woman could live there, but 104 years old? Wow, that is amazing, so I honked for Ava. Way to go old gal.

    As I kept driving I began to wonder what Ava’s life has been like. Did she always live in Cedar Rapids, IA? If she was born in 1912, what did it look like then and how has this town changed? Was she pretty or smart? Did she win the hand of a handsome man or did she settle for someone not so charming? Did she dream of traveling or was she a homebody that just wanted to stay put. Did Ava live a life of freedom or regrets? If I was to meet her would she even remember the life she lived?

     Thinking about her made me remember a little old lady I cleaned for when I lived in Springfield Missouri as a poor married college student. Her name was Willette Lanning. When I knew her, she had just turned 80 years old. She stood only 4’10, but she wasn’t crouched over with a cane, no she was vibrant. As I vacuumed her curtains she happily spread her little body out on the living room couch to watch. Her arms folded under her head, she grinned as if looking up at a clear blue sky on a sunny day.

    As I dusted old wedding pictures I pondered the strange young couple in the photo. She stood petite with dark hair pinned carefully under white veil next to her gargantuan husband. She smiled when she talked about his height. He stood 6’8, in a time when such height was only put on display at a circus. He was an accomplished cellist, and as she remembered his music she held her hands clasped under her chin and would even rock back and forth.

    Theirs was a true romance. I don’t know how he died, I felt uncomfortable asking. Although Willette missed him, she didn’t lack a luster for life. Ironically, the bible college student that cleaned her house did. I was just climbing out of a year long depression and little did I know it would be Willette Lanning who would be the magic antidote to my gloom.

    After I finished vacuuming, mopping and dusting she would invite me to sit at her breakfast nook for a simple lunch. She always served the same, Tuna fish sandwiches, an orange, and a glass of milk. As we sat together her face was beautiful. Sure she had lines, her hair was completely white and her clothes weren’t in style but it didn’t matter. We were obviously from different generations but my young womanly heart needed to know that I would make it through the pressure of young married life. I needed to know that being beautiful went much deeper than a flawless complexion and great hair. When time erased most of the beauty and charms of youth, I saw in Willette something deeper and richer gazing back at me as we paused for a quick prayer.

    As I sat with Willette she would pat my hand and thank me for coming. “Oh you work so hard Dear,” she would say, “You are such a sweet girl, live your life for the Lord and love your husband.” I would smile back at her, picturing their wedding photo in my mind. Being 80 years-old seemed a million lifetimes away, but I hoped that I could someday live the life of Willette Lanning, a life of no regrets.

     Happy 104th Birthday Ava, I hope you have lived a wonderful life. And to you friend who has taken the time to read this blog today. Thank you for reading my wandering thoughts. But I want to take a Wilette moment with you right now. Please pull up a chair and sit down for a tuna fish sandwich, a peeled round orange, and a glass of milk. You my dear, are so unique and special. Live your life with all your heart. For those regrets you may have, I have some too, but let them go. Try your heart at loving God and allowing his peace to flow over the brokenness, and please know that you are one of a kind, a master piece. That is what Willette would tell you.