The Sobering First Snowflake

   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over Coffee and Eggs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Not!

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

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

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

As he headed to his dorm she called out, “Hey would you like a rice cake?”

Stunned he said in the blue light of the moon as it reflected off the freshly fallen snow, “No thank you.”

Because he didn’t know the girl that asked or her persistence to meet him, he again started to make his way to the dorm. “Come on, you must be hungry,” she called after him.

Though the light was poor he stopped to get a better look at this girl, “Ok, why not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Gift Money Can't Buy

    I woke up late this morning after midnight shopping for Christmas. We started out on Thanksgiving night to get some Doorbuster deals. I went against my convictions that families should be together on Thanksgiving, to get the special offer.

    As I entered the stores the buzz of excitement was in the air. Five dollar sock bins and extra-large game sets lined the aisle marked off for the crowd to walk through, this is America, the land that I love. For me to try to separate from the culture literally takes getting on a plane and serving in a 3^rd world country. It is only then that I gain perspective that we have all we need and still want more. The rest of the world does not think like we do.

    As I woke up this morning with a dull ache in my heart, I realized that what I really long for is a connection with my family, reconciliation with some friends, and peace with God. No matter how many cool things I eyed last night or smart gadgets I carried in my cart, my heart remained in want.

Sitting on the guest bed in my husband’s parent’s house, I thought of all the lovely moments we have had as a family. I am thankful that I have been grafted into the Singleton clan.  I am thankful to see how both Brad and his brother have become loving fathers and honorable sons to their worthy parents.

    I remember the loving arms of his Grandma Singleton. She lived down the road from Brad’s parents in a small white house on the other side of the cornfield that separated the two homesteads. On our way home we would always pull up her drive so she could kiss each one of us goodbye.  Leaning into our cramped child packed van, her soft arms and wet kiss communicated her love for each of us. This was her last goodbye, as we pulled out of her driveway and down the long country road to the highway.

    I think of the hospitable kindness of Brad’s only living grandmother, Mary Stephens as she offers us a soda or a piece of fudge on our visits.  A mother of six children of her own and many grandchildren, still she treats each one of us as if we are the only grandchild she has.  In her ninety years, she has blessed many lives with her kindness and hospitality.

    I think of the beautiful sister in law, Brad’s brother’s wife, who has raised two girls that are smart and funny and reflect her silly humor.  I think of Aunt Debbie’s crazy laugh and the fun we shared at the holiday game nights together.  I think of Aunt Jane and Uncle Bruce’s love, humor, prayers, and support as we have journeyed through the ministry.  I smile as I think of the many cousins I have talked with, prayed with, and played games within these eighteen years we have been wed.

    Such memories are why we travel through hectic traffic to spend a few precious hours with this group called family.  It is what really matters in life.  It is what we hang all the happy memories upon.  I am thankful that God gave me not one but two families.  I am doubly blessed and it doesn’t take any new gadgets to make this blessing more real, or more tangible.  All it really takes to actualize the joy I feel is to say, Thank you.

    I know I am still standing because of the prayers of my mother and father in law.  At times in their lives they have lost sleep praying and listening to the Lord on our behalf, thank you.  For Emily and Aaron they have supplied friendship and inspiration in the way they live their lives, thank you.  For Brad’s Cousin Brian and his pretty wife Christina who have inspired us by their faith and passion for the gospel, thank you.  For Aunts and Uncles and cousins that have filled in the gaps with their wisdom, prayers, hilarious stories and faithful concern, thank you.  I love all of you and I just realized today how much you truly mean to me.  

    Putting down the wallet, and the store ads and picking up the pen I have instantly lifted my own heart from a credit card depression to a mirthful state of contentment.  My life is full of precious people that have made a difference through the simple things: a pie, a hug, a crocheted doily and an open-hearted acceptance.  I am thankful today not for the many things I have but the people I can’t live without. 

Up On The Heights

    

   

  It was warm that late June day as we pulled into the National Park surrounding Sylvan Lake. The minivan was full of an excited family on their first Vacation to the South Dakota black hills. Finding a parking spot we all jumped out of the van. Everyone but Brad had remembered to pack their tennis shoes. Remembering again with disdain that as I asked for the fiftieth time on the highway leaving Cedar Rapids, did we forget anything.   Brad said annoyed, No we didn’t and even if we did we will make do without it.

     Standing at the base of the “Harney Peak trail” he looked down at his trendy Toms made more like slippers than anything fit for a trail and sighed. Lydia giggled as she leaped on his back to start the 3 1/2 mile trail. Energetically we passed the paced trail blazers. “Why is everyone going so slow?” the kids asked as we kept our brisk pace for a while…until the incline started to make our legs burn. Isaiah then 13, Elaina then 11, and Lydia then 9 started to get thirsty. In my little backpack I thought I over planned by bringing 5 water bottles, but as we neared the first-mile marker two water bottles were already consumed.

    Going up on the heights was harder than we first thought. An elderly man briskly passed us with his walking stick as we sat panting on a huge rock overlooking the grass covered valley below. Even in the perspired state, we felt the beauty and majesty in nature. The breeze felt refreshing on our tired bodies yet we still were only a third of the way up the trail. Before we were ready, Brad rallied us to keep going. On we went, soon Elaina wanted to turn back so I gently encouraged her to keep going. This helped her for about a hundred yards until her pace slowed again, so for the next mile I put on the hat of encouragement to get my eleven-year-old to keep moving.

“I lift my eyes to the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” Psalm 121:1-2

     At mile 2 ½, I switched shoes with her because she had drenched hers in a mud puddle. Luckily her feet had grown to be comparable in size to my own. For the last mile, the incline was intense. With legs burning and lungs heaving, we made it to the magnificent tower called Harney Peak. From this location, you were supposed to be able to see the boundary lines of four different states. South Dakota, Nebraska, Montana, and Wyoming.

    Standing on the tower we enjoyed the fourth bottle of water. We only had one more for the 3 ½ mile decent.  We stood with smiles as we looked at the trail we had just come from. We enjoyed the breeze and the view as long as we could but it was already nearing four o’clock. We would need to get to the bottom before sunset.

     Mustering our strength we started our trip back down. Our legs were so tired our pace was slower than when we first started the trail several hours earlier. The shoes on my feet were still wet but we keep going. Stopping 1 mile down we drank the last bottle. I hadn’t packed enough water after all. My shoulders felt tender in the afternoon sun as I remembered I had forgotten sunscreen, but on we walked.

    It is on the trail that I realized that my life has been blessed. Watching Brad walking happily with our son. I remembered how the report of Endometriosis in my annual check-up had given fear that I wouldn’t be able to have children, but God had blessed us anyway. Lydia and Elaina walked together with their arms around each other. They were born only 20 months apart. In the beginning, it was so hard, I didn’t know how I would survive, but on the descent of this long trail, I realized the work was worth it. The sacrifice was an investment for a lifetime of joy. Over the bend, Brad called out to the kids, “Look a fresh stream! Let’s fill up the water bottle!”   

“No,” I called out, “that’s not safe!” But in their thirst, they ignored my warnings and filled up the last water bottle with fresh water. “Delicious,” they all exclaimed as I prayed for supernatural protection.

“The Lord will keep you from all harm-he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.” Psalm 121:7-8.

    With the fresh water, they seemed to get a new burst of energy. The trail didn’t seem as long on the way down as we talked about all we had seen together that day. We also started talking about what we wanted to eat for dinner. Everyone felt famished from the rigorous exercise. Finally, at the bottom, we rejoiced! We had made it.  

    God created us to go up on the heights, but it takes courage to step out and get moving. As a family, we loudly complained at times of the steep incline and the distance still left to travel, but our perspective began to broaden through the process. We were successful not because we were the most in shape or the best dressed for the occasion. We were successful just because we kept going, one foot in front of the other.

     If you are growing weary, wondering if your life even matters, it might be time to get moving. I can tell you confidently that God hasn’t given up on you, or concluded that he is through with you. No, He is calling you higher. So when you feel stuck on earth when everyone else around seems to be moving forward I encourage you to say in faith, “God I believe you are calling me up onto the heights.”  

In the Eye of the Storm

    

    She was just a little girl riding in the back of her grandmother’s old car. The sky had grown dark like the night that humid afternoon as the wind picked up. On the road, her little face pressed against the window watching as the storm blew rain and debris through the air. All of a sudden everything got quiet, mysteriously quiet as the old muffler buzzed along. The light outside her window looked green and oppressive in the stillness.

 “Grandma why is it so quiet?” She asked.

    But her grandma just sped up faster as she looked in the rearview mirror. When they finally made it into town, they parked, but Grandma wouldn’t get out. She sat looking into the distance gripping the stirring wheel, saying over and over again, “Jesus, eye. Jesus, eye.” The little girl didn’t understand as she looked at her grandmother sitting in a catatonic state. She didn’t understand that they had just driven through the eye of a tornado and came out alive, and not only alive but untouched.

     My friend shared this story today in the break room as I was warming up my hot pocket. Her description was so clear it was like the storm had blown in yesterday. I felt as if I was sitting next to her grandmother in the front seat with the lap seat belt buckled around my waist. I felt curious because I have never been in the eye of such a furious thing as the Midwestern tornado.

    I do remember hearing the tornado siren go off in the summer when I was eight. I grabbed three yogurts and headed downstairs to the little creepy closet under the stairs. There I huddled with my little brother Jon. I was frightened as mom reassured me that everything would be all right. Sure enough, the storm blew over and I didn’t get taken away to the land of Oz. My adventure ended in five short minutes  when the sirens stopped. Disappointed I climbed the basement stairs with my half-consumed strawberry yogurt.

   Later in my teens, I gathered with friends to watch “Twister” the storm thriller about people that actually live to chase storms. Mesmerized I watched as the tornado ripped through the film. It was the closest I had ever been to the eye of the storm.

    I am not sure why I have a desire to inch so close to natural disaster just to get a glimpse of that powerful wild eye of nature as it unleashes its fury on earth. In such moments I guess I feel like something bigger is in control. No matter what plans I have I put them aside for a moment to look up at the storm, to behold it’s raw power.

   Tonight in the cold drizzling rain my van splashed through inky black streets on its way to the bank. The heater was blowing in warmth as the song came on the radio. “The eye of the storm,” by Ryan Stevenson came flooding through my little van speakers. The words “In the eye of the storm You remain in control…Your love surrounds me in the eye of the storm…” captured my attention.

    God’s protective arms surrounded that little old car as it drove in the middle of the raging tornado so many years ago. My grown-up friend lived to tell the story. It was only one of many storms that would rage over her young life. I have heard much of her story, a tale of much heart ache and pain, but God brought her through it all. His hand led her to a place of faith, healing, and restoration. She knows more than anyone that God’s love surrounds us even when we don’t see him. Even when we are so caught up in the disaster that all we can talk about is the mess. His love still surrounds us in the eye of the storm.

.      

  

Let's hear it for the girls!

   

   I call my mom the “baby bundler” because she loves blankets. If you go to her house she is always wrapped in a fuzzy blanket or offering one to her guests. When my children were little she always made sure they were warm and cozy. Through her blankets, we feel her love.

   My mother in law is a wonderful cook. She shares her table with her family and friends with delight and takes special care to make sure we feel comfortable and special. I am not sure how many table cloths and napkin sets she has, but I have always loved having a meal around her table.

   I have a dear friend named Carol who is a gifted story teller. She welcomes me with a stirring account of a meeting she had on the street with a stranger who had lost their way. She touches my heart with the care she takes with people to let them know they not only matter in this world but to the One who created them, the big man upstairs, GOD. At the end of our time together I feel as if I can see God more clearly and feel his love more deeply.

    Five years ago I started working alongside a fellow creative. I didn’t know her well, but from the very beginning, I could tell she cared. We worked together on worship music and schedules. As the months turned into years she lent her caring ear to the concerns of my heart. Not only was Nichole a partner in the ministry, but a dear friend. She has never boasted of a green thumb, but she still is an expert at working in the soil of wounded hearts and helping hope grow afresh and anew.

   I knew her first for her white blond hair and exuberant hugs, Miss Judy. I didn’t know that a woman could so easily love others. When I started to see her on week days and she still had the same disposition, the same hugs, and the same kindness my heart began to believe. There really are sweet women in the world with no guile. Through the past six years, Miss Judy has blessed me with simple hugs, and tender prayers that have helped me to trust again.

   Little Sarah comes running up to me on Sundays after the second service. The worship team is leaving the stage as the people are leaving the church sanctuary to get lunch or go home, but not Sarah, she rushes in to see me. Her little blond curls bounce across her shoulders as her little cowboy boots scuff over the gray carpet. Sometimes it’s a quick hug, and sometimes it is a squeal, but little Sarah makes my day every time with her greeting.

   Women are needed in our lives. They speak to us through blankets held out to comfort and food cooked with care. They inspire us with stories of compassion and lending a listening ear. With hugs from grown-ups and hugs from little ones they send the message that we matter, they care, and without them, life would not be the same. In big and small ways they have impacted my life for the good. I am thankful for the women in my life that fill my heart with joy.   

   

Christianity is not a Name Brand Fad

In fifth grade I visited a new store called Walmart. It had all the things that Kmart did but it was just…nicer. I remember my mom bought me a light pink jumper with buttons running down the front and little white leggings to go underneath. As I got dressed for school I admired my new outfit in the sliding glass door of my closet. I felt trendy and cute, as I grabbed my backpack for school.

In sixth grade I was introduced to brand names. ESPREE, Benetton, and Guess were among the most sophisticated brands. I learned quickly that all the popular girls had two requirements for acceptance into their fold: High bangs and name brand clothes. I was so excited when mom bought me a pair of stone washed guess jeans. I proudly wore them until a hole started to form right underneath my rear. Good thing biker shorts under jeans made the trend. Such fads probably resulted because stone wash jeans only had a wearing life of six months. Fitting in was of paramount importance to me, as a result, I was constantly trading clothes with my friends to keep up the appearance of a large wardrobe of name brand essentials. The effort was great to keep "the look."

As I was driving to a different coffee shop this morning I glanced in the rearview mirror at a messy bun of gray and brown hair. I smiled, because I have accepted this non-trendy choice I have made to live honestly with my gray hair in an over dyed world. This thought came to me in that instant, Christianity is not a brand name fad. No, in fact, we were meant to shine brightly as unique individuals changed by God's grace.

That may seem like a strange thought, but as I remembered the sacrifice to my pride to start the process of letting my roots show I remember the reproach I felt from some Christian leaders because I didn’t look young and trendy. I started to feel that maybe I should conform again to the proper "Christian" look I had seen other leading church leaders model. 

But the voice of Paul the apostle whispered in my ear: "Dianne, I pray that out of the riches of His glory, He may strengthen you with power through His spirit in your inner being, So that Christ may dwell in your heart through faith. And I pray that you being rooted and grounded in love may have power, together with all the saints, to comprehend the length and width and height and depth of His love." Ephesians 3:16-17

 Christianity is not a brand name fad it is a spiritual awakening.

In the nineties when Christian t-shirts were all the rage I remember making sure I was properly clad in one before going to a church event.  After all, I wanted to fit in. Then as I went to college I learned quickly that to fit in the music department, perfect make-up and sharp dresses to gain the nod of approval from the music professors. At one music lesson my talented vocal coach set me straight with a little talk.

 "Dianne, you would be a lot more successful if you didn’t dress so frumpy and if you would just stand up straight. Your right shoulder hangs lower than your left. And on top of all that when you talk you don’t sound very intelligent." I thought I was learning how to serve God with my voice, but that day started a long struggle with appearance, approval, and the ministry.

I must look my best for God and all his people I told myself, but God is not a brand name fad. He is a "come as you are" Daddy that longs for all His kids to reflect his love, his grace, and declare His words on the earth.

God is not found in a well-tailored suit or in perfectly flat ironed hair. He is not found in the slickness of a new worship song or the smooth delivery of a sermon. Although bookstores are lined with books to tell us how to jump into the name brand trend that will give you “Your Best Life Now.” To be honest, faith is raw and wild. It isn’t politically correct or socially acceptable because it is other worldly, the substance of heaven.

I have decided I will not bend to trends or brand name gimmicks to fit in. Christianity is an internal revolution that has outward fruit. It is a changing of the inner thoughts, workings, and attitudes. It is a surrender of will to an unseen God. You can’t package that, it’s something you just have to choose to believe.

Dear friend, there is something so unique about you, something God-given. Like the little fifth grader admiring herself in the mirror dressed in her new pink jumper, God invites you to stand clothed not in name brands but with His power. He invites you not to "get cleaned up" in appearance but to surrender all the darkness of your heart. He wants us to really be free, not to just look "good."
Because Christianity is not a name brand fad.   

Believe

“Believe”is painted on the side of my coffee cup. Although my cup is full to brimming with a decaffeinated brew my hope tank seems to be dangerously low this morning.

I take in a deep breath of the “stress away” essential oil I just rubbed on my wrists. The B vitamin I took earlier hasn’t seemed to kick in yet to give me the uplifted feeling I had hoped for. My hair was supposed to be full of smoothly ironed curls today, but they ended up looking fuzzy and flat. It is a Thursday morning.

As I sit here in this little booth typing these words as the early morning sunlight pours through the tall window I am nestled up against, I ask myself, “what is it you believe in?”  It is the belief I carry that governs my life.

If you were to peek into an average day of my life what would you see? Several words float to the surface quickly: sprinter, juggler, winger. It seems the alarm goes off and the rest of the day is met with a vigorous sprint to keep up. In my arms at any given moment are more items than I can possibly carry. Although I may be overwhelmed life creates opportune moments for action ready or not. When I am not ready my efforts feel faulty and less than expected, but I am afraid this is life.

We wake up in the morning thinking we have a plan, but the day unfolds to show who the real master is. Will my plan win or will circumstance? As I sit sipping my Café au lai, I think circumstance won today. Or at least up until 9:35AM. I believe regardless of how I feel or if my plans go on without a hitch, God is in control of my life.

On the gray days when my outlook is bleak this belief keeps me moving. This belief keeps me looking out for others. This belief keeps me hoping for more. All of us are handed the same 24 hours to live. I choose to spend mine in faith. Now, this morning I didn’t feel faithful, but more doubtful that is how feelings are. In fact, it wasn’t until I started writing this blog that hope began to rise again. Blah Blah Blah…I am rambling.

Ok, I am going to roll up my sleeves for a moment and lean in close, so close you can see the imperfections on my skin and see the smudged mascara under my eyes. I have been crying a lot lately. Because life has been looking different than what I expected. I have withdrawn into myself because I feel uncomfortable that my belief has been tampered with by circumstance, so I need to have it out right now.

I believe that Jesus is real because when I was sixteen I sat on my floor in front of the mirror in my room trying to rehash the top ten list of people I hate, but as I tried to get angry an invisible hand rested on my back and peace began to flood through my soul...His redemption.

I believe he is real because when I was twenty years old and serving on a drama team at a bible camp I saw him in the sunset as I sat alone on a bridge out on the lake. I was reading “because your love is better than life I will praise you” from Psalm 63:3. Such a love filled my heart I have served Him for the next 19 years in both good and bad times always remembering that day.

I believe he is real because I have seen him answer prayers in specific ways that couldn’t be a coincidence. I have felt his healing power. I have seen him calm the broken heart. I have experienced his forgiveness and I have given that same forgiveness to others.

“Believe” is not just written on my sweatshirt or painted on my cup, but it is written on every line of my story and every scar of my heart. It is sung to my children and it is etched in my journal. It is signed in my letters and it is conveyed in my hugs. There is not a moment I am far from my Savior even when my heart is discouraged. So dear little heart keep beating, keep believing. It what makes you true.     

Forgiveness Does

    I used to sing a nursery song to the pre-school class I co-led, “Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” I would kneel down to the level of the children. With a smile, I softened my voice to teach them the verse from Colossians 3:13 I had put to song. Little voices sang and called out the phrase as their little bodies burst with energy. To say “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” are important social lessons for little children to learn, so we sang this song a lot.

    Little did I know how the catchy melody would float into my life on more occasions than I desired. When I found myself angry or hurt the simple song came in like a gentle breeze reminding me of the Lord. The one who continually sings this song over me, His song of redemption.

     As I picture the preschool class, I have to admit I have acted like the little girl on the end with the red plaid dress and patent leather shoes, with a pouty lip. She is still mad at the little boy two carpet squares down from her, for breaking her clay pot. She had spent the whole art time forming it for her mother, and he broke it. Forgiveness sometimes feels like giving in or letting someone get away with doing wrong. I have spent times with arms crossed refusing to sing, refusing to let go of the bitterness.

     I seem to be both near and far sighted in my spiritual walk. I can’t seem to identify the blessings the Lord has given me in my most up-close and personal life, And I squint to see how he could be using the big picture to bring his song of joy into my heart. I often stand at the edge of decision, do I walk with the Lord with hands open and heart surrendered or do I strap on my hand-made suit of armor and come against the hardness of life in my own strength. The decision determines if the little pre-school song accompanies my steps or not.

     In truth, I have walked in forgiveness and I have walked in hardness of heart, both are hard. But the first choice brings something beautiful from the ashes as I choose to die to another part of myself. To surrender is to allow the brokenness of life to crumble to the ground so God can take his potter’s hand and repair me with something eternal, heavenly, other-worldly. How else can I forgive the one who hates me, speaks ugly things about me, and reviles me? It is a heavenly mystery wrapped up in the ultimate reconciler, Jesus Christ. So today I choose to sing: “Forgive as the Lord Forgave you, Colossians 3:13.”

    Yes, I will sing it like a child running free in the wind at Recess time. When the burden is laid down the freedom starts to roll in. If forgiveness was a one-time event the bell would never sound. But in this world forgiveness is a practice more than a moment. There might be a lot of little boys two carpet squares down that offend, frustrate, and anger us. I could name a few right now, but instead, I will hum the simple tune, and ponder this: if it wasn’t for His love where would I be? 

The 60 Second Stare Down

    

      I sat in the front row as the pretty author shared about her latest study on mentoring other women. Trying to follow along on the outline she gave us I felt torn between the blanks I needed to fill in and what the real life speaker had to say. She was older than me probably by a decade, but it was hard to believe she had struggled as her story portrayed. I was again reminded that outward appearances don’t reveal the true story.

     To help us remember her lecture and the importance of connecting with other women she called us to partner up for an exercise. Sitting in the front the two ladies next to me partnered up, but I was partner-less, which was ok with me as I was feeling vulnerable in the big room without a friend. Because of my position the speaker called out over the microphone, “who will partner up with this young lady in the front row?”

     I smiled but felt embarrassed as a lady in the 10^th row volunteered to be my partner. As the leader observed the entire room partnering up she said, “Ok now that everyone is paired let me tell you what we are going to do. For the next 60 seconds, I want you to stare into the eyes of the woman next to you.” A mixture of sighs and laughter erupted as she hushed us, “Now get ready,” she said looking at her watch, “Go.”

      So I looked into Lena's eyes. She had a round face with a fun loving smile and average looking eyes. She didn’t wear eye makeup or seem to be particular about grooming her eyebrows, but she seemed comfortable with herself. I felt embarrassed that I had to look so long into her eyes, but she calmly looked back into mine. Finally, the minute passed, and a sigh went out across the room as all the ladies felt relieved that the exercise was over.

    The knowing smile on the speaker’s face told us she knew exactly how we felt. She pointed out how rare it is to really look into the eyes of another woman. After asking a few women how they felt about it, she called us to another exercise. “Ok ladies, with the same partner you will look into each other’s eyes again, but this time ask God to reveal to you something about them, on your marks, get set, go!”

     Looking into Lena’s eyes for the second time, I prayed. God what do you want me to see. As I looked deeply into her eyes I thought she looked carefree and happy in her own skin. She returned my gaze as she too searched. I felt strange and vulnerable, but I felt better thinking about who this woman really was. When the time was over we both were shocked how the time went a lot faster on the second exercise. As the speaker encouraged each of us to share what we felt God had revealed Lena went first.

“As I looked into your eyes, this might sound weird but I just thought you are sad. Is that true?”

     Taken aback I couldn’t speak. Normally an honest person, I quickly muttered, “That’s interesting, I thought I saw in your eyes that you are happy and carefree.” I said this with a smile, but I refused to look her in the eyes. As the speaker started into the rest her message I felt relieved to skirt the issue. Was I really sad? I was so shocked by her honest observation I felt numb. Soon she returned to her seat, and I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t be transparent though she was a stranger. Ironically, I had spent the whole day as a stranger in this conference hall.  There wasn’t a single person who knew the real story of Dianne Singleton.

     The rest of the day I began to feel sad because I realized that her observation did ring true. I had grieved the loss of some dear friends that had just moved away, and my life was going through a huge transition both at home and in my career. I felt insecure, abandoned, and particularly alone.

    Though I couldn’t let Lena, the stranger I had just met over two minutes of intense eye contact, know that she was right, I am thankful that I did get down to the real issue. On the long drive home in my minivan, I prayed. “God, I am sad. She was right, and I don’t know how to get through this. I am disappointed at where I am and I don’t know how to break through the barriers I feel all around me. Please help me.”

    I waited in the silence. I almost decided to give up when I heard Him, God. He reminded me of the kind lady I had met in the hotel the night before. She was a praying mom and had felt led to pray for me and my children. He pointed out how her kindness was a reflection of his love. The next day I had bumped into her again, and she greeted me heartily. He again reminded me, that her love was a reflection of His love. In the midst of the undercurrent sorrow that Lena saw, He was there.

    I don’t have a formula yet on how to walk out of sadness and get back to living life carefree. The heart doesn’t like to be rushed. So when the days seem gray with storm clouds I am reminded that God sends rainbows. Through Lena he spoke to my weariness with a “hello, I can see you.” In the middle of grieving, we don’t want to be seen, but God wants us to know that He sees past the perfectly painted smile or the mechanical response of “I’m fine.” In reality, I’m not "fine" I am finite and broken is as broken does.

So I guess, Abba Father, Daddy God could I just sit here with You and cry a bit. I am not sure if it will help, but I sure need to anyway.   

  

  

Shutting Off The Video Game

   

      I always loved the video game Tetris. The colorful shapes and the energetic music coaxed me to play. I wasn't a die-hard gamer, but I spent countless summer days trying to master it anyway. There was something so alluring about the idea that with five more minutes I could score higher and advance farther. If I just had five more minutes. Well, that five minutes turned into ten, twenty, until I finally realized I wasted more time than I had planned to, and I didn't have anything to show for it.

     My thoughts can be compared to a game of Tetris. I want them all to line up and give me peace. I could then move on to bigger and better things in life, but sometimes they pile up in the wrong way. In the pile up I tend to believe I can't get past this moment, and I begin to shut down. As I try to move the negative thought another pile up occurs and pretty soon the game is over.

    How many friendships have I walked away from through the years, because I thought for sure we couldn’t work out our differences? With my own mouth, I convinced myself that I wasn’t worth the reconciliation. So many times I have walked alone, sat alone, ate alone because I believed I didn’t really have anything to offer. But I guess I don’t want to waste time anymore in the seat of negativity focusing on the pile-up. As Joyce Meyer says, “Quit that stinkin’ thinkin’!”

  

    I have quit a lot of things in my life, but could I really quit thinking and speaking negative things over myself? I wasn’t sure, I was used to pile-ups in these areas. Some thoughts are so deeply embedded in my identity I am not even sure how they got there. Like the colorful blocks falling into place in the game of Tetris, this way of life seemed to fit me. It seemed to be natural to me.

    In bible college, I became keenly aware of the negative outlook I had of myself. When I felt negative around others I quickly censored myself. Ugly thoughts or depressed feelings weren’t allowed, after all, I was studying to be a minister. Too bad suppression doesn’t really get rid of the problem, it just masks it. After I got married I nearly had a nervous breakdown before our first anniversary because I couldn’t figure out what I should do with the fears, and pressures I felt as a married person.

     Luckily I found a counselor that listened to me ramble on. I didn’t even know why I sat in the chair across from her desk. Shouldn’t I just be able to think happy thoughts and get over this? The problem was not the feelings it was everything behind the feelings that shook me up.

      I graduated from college, relieved to move on. Certainly a new place, a new assignment would make things different. But wherever I went, she followed, that ugly dark part of me. When we moved to Iowa I thought that having children would take the gloomy thoughts away, but I just found more anger stirring, as I not only tried to take care of me but now the needs of little children.

     We moved again, and I thought surely the old me will have to stay in Waterloo. I couldn’t possibly let people see her now. I am a mom, and a minister I need to look the part. For a time I maintained appearances, but as my list of expectations for myself grew larger than my ability to succeed I had to face her again. Soon the words began to tumble out like blocks falling to be ordered to the entrancing music of the game.

Worthless

          Not enough

      Pathetic

                                   Ugly

Stupid

     But one day I yelled, "enough is enough! I don’t have to speak this way over myself anymore. I need a new vocabulary. I need a new definition for who I am."

I finally realized hiding behind what I think I should be is not freedom. The pressures of pretense and the real challenges of life had collided. The pile up had reached my ceiling. It was time to find the real Dianne, I knew she had to still exist somewhere in there. Through a series of hard moments, the fake exterior started to crumble into true confessions.

I am a struggling mom, I don’t have all the answers and I don’t like reading parenting books

(Yikes I said it!)

I only make three meals well: tacos, chili, and meatloaf (sometimes). 

I love to read the bible in the morning, but I am not a morning person, so please don’t talk to me until 10AM.

I can’t play sports, watch sports, or even understand sports.

I struggle with shyness and I wish I could be more outgoing.

     Such confessions are really trivial, I know, in the scheme of life.  But these little beginnings are cracking open a new world of honest living before God and man. Hiding is my way of control, but owning up is my surrender. It is time to shut off the video game and get on with living this amazing life God has intended for me. 

The Lego Masterbuilder

  

     Pressed in tight, that is how I have been feeling. It brings me back to the Saturday morning game of Legos I played as a child. We didn’t have instructions just a big box filled with legos in every shape and size. The loud roar of colored pieces crashing onto the carpet in my older brother’s room always sent tremors of creativity to each of us as we focused in on the pieces we wanted to use for our creations. Spotting the coveted long rectangular green base piece sticking out of the mountain of legos, I snatched it before Mark or John had spotted it. I would need it to build my fort. With red and yellow, white, and blue blocks I began construction.

     The walls were built in so tightly there was only room left for a lego figure to stand upright inside the middle. Carefully I covered the top with the long gray thin pieces I had gathered. With delight, I shook the little figure inside to hear it click back and forth. Meanwhile, I looked to see what Mark was designing. He was making a space vehicle out of gray pieces, and Jon was making a lego launcher. I put down my fort, forgetting about the cramped space I left for the lego guy. I wanted to help Mark find more gray pieces. Sadly, the imprisoned lego man in the multicolored fort was pushed to the side of the lego mountain as it’s designer became busy with another project.

     In times of pressure, I wonder in my most desperate moments, if this is what God is doing to me. It seems as if he was spending a lot of time with me. Choosing special blocks to make my life more blessed, and then all of a sudden things take a turn. I start to feel vulnerable and insecure. Is He finished with me now? Did He take me this far just to abandon me for something or someone else? At such moments of discouragement, I might even start to look around and compare my life to others I see.

“But God it’s not fair that you came through for her,  but I am still standing here in this tiny place feeling smothered by the pressures of life. Certainly, I heard you right? Or did I?”

    All the goodness I thought was within me, in the depths of my soul like a reservoir, has been pressed. Pressed to seeping and now I feel in danger of it springing a full leak and draining completely. Where is the joy? If it is something you can conjure up I am failing. I have 50 reasons why I got here and 30 reasons why it’s not fair. But in the moment of truth, I don’t need reasons I need an answer, Jesus!

    I don’t merely conclude it, I shout out the name, “Jesus!” Not so much out of confidence, but out of pain. I am disappointed that when I am pressed I can’t just bounce back. I have often thought that Christian living should be like a plastic lego figure that keeps it shape no matter where it is placed. It maintains it ‘s painted smile no matter the outcome. It continues to serve it’s purpose unmarred, unsullied. But in real life we face complexity. When the pressure is on our physical bodies respond in tears or headaches. When the storms rage people desert us or we are tempted to run. When the pressure is mounting foul words or ugly thoughts can blind us. All such responses shame the Christian ideal I learned in Sunday school: Read your bible, pray every day and you’ll grow, grow, grow.  

    In such moments I have to take the time to define my purpose again. I am here with walls closing in to serve Jesus. I have joy in the midst of the pressure and uncertainty because I have Jesus. In an atmosphere that is beyond my interpretation, I cling to Jesus. I have surrendered my life to Jesus therefore, I will trust that he has my best interest at heart. I won’t give up, I will lean in. Such a conclusion doesn’t come without tears, emotional struggle and anguish of soul.

    I have concluded that my mouth might fail me. My heart might fail me. But if I lean into God He will never fail. I serve him but the storm makes my focus blurry. So I will lean in closer to the cross. I will bend my knee further toward my Savior. I will remember it is the Church on earth that reflects the living God and I will fight to love her. To not turn from her or give up on her in frustration or disillusionment. Oh Lord, may my love be shown through surrender.  

    Unlike the little girl forgetting her creation, God the Father does not forget His own. He is working in each of our lives even in the hard times. Unfortunately, we are not made of plastic, but of flesh and blood. Trials hurt us, but hope rises as I remember that Jesus came to earth to take all such pain upon his own shoulders to pay the price of sin and death for me. He is Emmanuel, God with us in every hardship, in every storm. When my life feels broken into a million lego pieces scattered on life's floor I can still trust that my Heavenly creator will put me back together again. On that day, when I stand made whole in His gentle hand I will again declare, He is good.

The Day Two Became One

    

    That day still shines vibrantly in my mind. It was a sunny warm May morning. I plugged in the hot rollers as a normal routine, but today I felt nervous. My hair had to look perfect. I took out the new Mary Kay makeup I bought for the occasion. At noon I would be driving toVorland’s photography with my dress for pictures. May 16^th, 1998 the day of our wedding.

    I was certain I knew Brad better than most girls knew their man. After all, we had been dating for what seemed like years, but actually only amounted to one year and 2 months. My parents were quietly happy for me, and a little nervous as they drove me to the photo shoot. We decided on having professional pictures before the wedding , and my mom’s strange earthy friend would take them for the ceremony. This was not my first choice, but moving up the wedding date from August to May made plans hastier.

    I had no idea that people might think moving up the wedding date was scandalous. It seemed like a brilliant idea to us rather than spend a whole summer apart. After all, we were meant for each other.

     In the dressing room at the photography studio, I started to feel jittery. Brad was about to see me in my Wedding gown. Would I be breathtaking in his sight? I hoped so, I dreamed so since I was just a little thing dressing up my Barbie and Ken dolls.

My mom helped me put the veil on, as we looked in the mirror, she said, “Dianne you look perfect.”

    I met Brad out in the foyer. His dark tanned skin made his white suit coat with tails almost glow. He looked handsome and shy as he looked at me. I felt shy too, would we really tie the knot today? It had seemed like a far off dream for so long.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly and I believed him.

     We posed for pictures and tried to look relaxed, but we both felt the enormity of what we were about to do. The night before at the rehearsal seemed like a game compared to this. We posed for one more shot. Standing in the sunlight with trees gently rustling in the soft spring wind. I decided to put my lips together for this smile, something I rarely do. He leaned in and with a similar smile almost as if to say, she’s mine forever. With my hair down in loose curls, and his shoulder length hair just touching his collar, we stood holding the bouquet. Flash!

    We both wore white that day because we had somehow remained pure. Getting engaged had been a struggle for us, even in bible college. One night we were at a park near the school. We had parked the car to talk. That was always the plan anyway. But just as we started to really get into kissing, Pop! Pop! Pop! Something hit the car window. Brad got out to inspect his hotrod. Angrily he discovered someone had shot his car with a paintball gun. To the delight of some menace, the mood was ruined.

    Before the wedding, we met at the church at 3:00PM for pictures with the family. Our grandparents were there looking their best. How could we know that both of our grandfathers would be gone before we hit our five year anniversary? We were just anticipating starting our lives together.  Certainly, it would end in living happily ever after.

    At 5:30 the Wedding March began to play. After three bridesmaids and three groomsmen took their places and my little niece and nephew threw petals down the aisle, it was my turn. From the back of the church, I could hear the minister say, “All Arise.” The stirring of guests standing to their feet filled the air briefly before I took my first step. My arm looped through my father’s. He was so tall and proud to walk me down the aisle.

    In that moment, I was glad that we made it through the moody teen years. I was deeply moved that we  were able to have the wedding in this little Assembly of God  Church because my parents had rededicated their lives to the Lord. There was even a bounce in my dad’s step as he walked with me. All eyes focused on me as I looked beyond them to the dashing young man waiting for me.

    I gave my red rose bouquet to my maid of honor so I could take his hands in mine. Looking into his eyes I tried to hold it together, but the way he looked at me was so powerful. As we vowed to stay true through good and bad times I couldn’t imagine that bad times could ever exist as my hands rested in his. The unity candle song started to play so we lit the candle together and signed the marriage license. Returning to our previous position we both surged with excitement as we anticipated the next moment.

“It is my honor to pronounce Bradley Kent and Dianne Michelle Singleton as man and wife. Brad, you may kiss your bride," the minister declared to the applause and cheers of our guests. 

    Kiss me he did, even though I don’t like public displays of affection, just this once I let him have his way. The platform we stood on was about 3 feet off the ground. After we had our kiss of declaration we shot off the front of the stage and ran right down the aisle and out the door. Neither one of us really knew why, it just felt right to take our life together by storm.

    It has been eighteen years. At times those eighteen years seemed to crawl by. At other moments it seems as if in a blink of an eye his hair got thinner and mine turned gray.  He has seen me at my worst trying to be my very best. He has seen me to my best when I finally believed he loved me at my very worst. Together we have fought to keep our hearts on fire for God’s people and the work of the ministry. When no one else stood with us, we stood together hand in hand and eyes on Jesus.

    We haven’t enjoyed the finer things in life, and we don’t really mind. Love started in a little bible college court yard between classes. It grew over reheated chicken noodle soup in dorm lobbies. It fanned into flame after long walks and talks about the hope of Jesus in a broken world. It’s embers still glitter and glow as we debate grace and truth over bowls of cereal on Monday mornings after our children have finally gone to school. And his hand still comforts when the going gets tough, and I would really like to turn from my convictions and high tail it in the opposite direction.

    Yes, the day still shines vibrantly in my mind when I said “Yes” to love for a life time and friendship through the thick and thin. The day I sprinted down the aisle with my partner in life to take on the world. When I gave away my maiden name to take on his name as my own, the day two became one.

New In Town

      Have you ever been the new person at school? As you walk down the halls everyone seems to be connected to some invisible fabric you don’t possess. Or maybe you have just arrived, new in town. In the morning as the town seems to wake up, happy strangers walk by waving at one another. Happy children run past racing toward a yard just beyond. Unnoticed you stand almost invisible as the friendly animated scene plays out in front of you. 

   Have you ever went on a walk in the late afternoon with no one to walk home to or anything special to do. Suddenly you felt enveloped by the smell of hot meat barbecuing on a charcoal grill, and the cheerful sound of friends laughing together. The squeal of children and the happy bark of the family pet seemed to beckon you to join the party.  But reality hits and you remember, I am an outsider. Taking a step out on your own can be lonely.

     How do we get here to the new? To take a step in that direction we have to say good-bye to the known. In the dream stage before any risk has actually taken place new looks slender and romantic, even exotic. Life would be so much more exciting if I just had the opportunity to… But when you finally gather the courage to take the leap, sign the papers, accept the new job there is the gray period, the new man’s land. Don’t get me wrong, new is exciting just like you dreamed. It is also unknown so adjustments are required.

     When I dream it is all fluffy puffy clouds, but when I actualize the vision I discover I need to put my shoes on. To walk this ground, it is uneven and jagged at points. Despite the struggle, when I actually decided to step out, it is rewarding.

     Some people are good at navigating new land, they are called nomads. For the rest of us, we spend a lot of energy to gain the courage to move forward to the next assignment and then we try to settle down. Plant trees, build a house we plan to never leave, and try to avoid being uprooted again with all our might. Human nature doesn’t really like change that much, but God the creator does.

Notice the seasons of the year. In the Midwest, the seasons are dramatically different. Midwesterners scurry around to prepare for the next coming season with both joy and dread.

 “I love summer, except for the mosquitoes.”

“Fall is beautiful with the leaves changing color, but then I have to rake them all up.”

“Winter is beautiful, until Christmas but after that, I just wish it could be Spring again.”

Spring is here finally, but I hate all the dreary rainy days.”

     Bunch of complainers you might think, and you would be right. Change is exciting but also demanding. We have to stretch to accommodate the change. I guess as I sit here writing I am thinking about the fear of change that sometimes overwhelms me. I would like to remain comfortable right here in my comfy chair with all the things that make me feel safe, but God has a greater plan. A destiny for you and me to live a life of adventure.

“For I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

     As I went on a walk today with my daughter I enjoyed the cool breeze of autumn and the busy chatter of a ten-year-old girl as we listened to the songs on shuffle booming out from my phone. Suddenly a musical phrase filled the air, “Lord I will go where you send me…” It captured the adventure in my heart in that brief moment, and I replied to the jingle, “Yes, Lord I want to go where you send me.” My daughter stopped talking and stared at me inquisitively.

“Lydia, that song is a missionary’s heart to be ready to go when the Lord calls, I want to be ready.”  

   

     In truth, I have grown very fond of my simple predictable life. But in that instant, I was reminded that I was made for more. Made for more than sitting down every night to watch my favorite show, or to spend my evenings curled up with a book. There is a whole world out there that is waiting to be explored. The road may be lonely but it might also just turn out to be wonderful. If you haven't fulfilled every dream in your heart, maybe there is something more out there waiting for you to discover. 

As we walked through the crunch of fallen leaves, I felt that stirring. Like glittery dust off angel wings or the airy whisper of the Lord reminding me He knows more than I do. He dreams bigger than I do. Unlike me, He's not afraid of change or being new in town. 

"Steady my heart to trust, just steady my heart to trust."   

She's Got Legs

   

      It was my brother Jonathan's 8th Birthday party. Becuase he was born in late January his birthdays were always snow covered. On this year my parents tried something new. They rented out the local high school pool for a two-hour party. All the extended family was invited to come swim with us. I remember clearly that my Grandma Tullis came out in her bathing suit and pantyhose. When the lifeguard saw her, she kindly pulled her aside to tell her stockings were not permitted.

My Grandmother was upset, "Have you seen my legs?"she asked the sixteen-year-old lifeguard.

"Ma'am I am sorry, rules are rules," she said firmly.

    So my grandmother marched back to the locker room, got dressed and refused to swim. How could anyone be so unfeeling toward her? She muttered and vented throughout the party. As a ten-year-old I had no idea what my Grandma Tullis could be so embarrassed about, that is until later when I realized I had inherited her legs.

    If someone was to ask me what I liked about myself, I think I would pause awkwardly and say, my voice. It is strange to face such a pointed question. It feels vain to say I actually like something about myself. If someone was to ask the opposite question, now that’s when I would crack my knuckles and get down to business.

     Do you feel the same way? If I asked you what don’t you like about yourself, what would you list off before taking in a breath? Well for starters, I would say I hate my legs. For the last five summers, I have watched my children swimming at the local pool from a lawn chair self-consciously trying to get a tan in an embarrassing swimsuit that shows all. I have often wondered if I could get one of those full body religious swimsuits, but my kids just laugh. "Mom, don't worry about your legs, just have fun." 

     Do I sound imprisoned? To be honest I have been. I don’t like my body, how about you? But recently I came across this verse, Listen, daughter, pay careful attention: Forget your people and your Father’s house. Let the king be enthralled by your beauty; honor him, for he is your Lord. Psalm 45:10-11. God is enthralled by our beauty. The Creator God designed us this way and has given us breath in our lungs to live life to the fullest.

    How do we break bad body image? No matter what issues you face, I think disliking your body is common ground for many women. Knowing we are all in a fight to show ourselves kindness should also encourage us to do the unthinkable. I challenge you to walk into the bathroom, lock the door, and take a real look at yourself in the mirror without grimacing or whispering cutting remarks.   Begin to thank God for the area that you despise about yourself.

    For me it is looking at my legs covered in purple veins. Lord, I thank you that these legs have carried me from highschool, through college, and through the birth of three children. These legs ran miles, they have danced in praise. They have walked on foreign soil to spread the gospel. They are not pretty, but they have been a blessing none the less. “So legs,” I say out loud in the bathroom, “I accept you because God gave you to me and I could’nt make it without you.” Even after saying it out loud I don’t believe myself. The temptation to hate them is so strong.  

    It is in that moment I remember the ten-year-old girl looking into her grandmother's discouraged face in confusion. I had never noticed her legs because I was always looking at her helpful hands. I had never noticed her legs because I was looking at her hazel blue eyes. Life is more important than beautiful legs, I wish I could take back the summers spent on the lawn chair while my children splashed in the pool. I can't turn back time, but I can start right now to change my opinion of the wonder strength God has given me to live.

"She's got legs and she knows how to use them."   

Oh How the Plastic Castle Crumbles

    

     The little girl quietly sets up her secret kingdom behind closed doors. Each maiden tall and fair with a plastic smile and perfect teeth. What noble prince would not swoon over any one of these elegantly dressed women? They sit and stand around the pink castle with cardboard ivy and grand cut out windows. In her kingdom, there were no clothes on the floor. There were no dirty dishes in the sinks. In her kingdom rugs didn’t get dirty and dust didn’t accumulate. She could have parties every day and each maiden looked her best.

     Naturally, the little girl thought this is how her life would turn out. Someday she would be tall and fair with a perfect smile and beautiful teeth. Someday she wouldn’t have to worry about dishes or picking up after herself because she would have a maid to do that. She would be too busy wearing beautiful dresses and going to balls. She would find a prince and live happily ever after.

     The alarm goes off, it’s Tuesday morning. There are lunches to be made, children to get dressed, and hair to be washed. From upstairs Daughter 1 is yelling at Daughter 2 for taking the hair brush. Only Son still hasn’t moved and the clock is ticking. Quickly I throw in a load of laundry. If I can just get to folding and putting it away I could cut down the accumulating pile.

“Mom I need a towel!” yells Only Son who has finally got up.

      Looking down at the pile of clean clothes, jeans, and turning to the next up pile, towels. Oops! I miss calculated the need. Climbing the stairs I pick up a cleanish looking towel off of Daughter 1’s floor. Proud that Only Son had decided to take a shower on his own, I almost smiled to myself. Meanwhile, daughter 2 comes storming out of her room complaining that she has nothing to wear. Glancing at her floor it is obvious she tried on every outfit in her drawers, and still time was ticking.

“Go downstairs and look in the clean basket,” I suggested calmly though I felt slightly annoyed. 

  

    In the kitchen, Husband was busy making lunches but realized we were out of baggies.

“Honey, what should I wrap these sandwiches in? We are out of baggies,” he asked.

At a loss for ideas, I said, “Napkins.”

Five minutes to go, when Daughter 1 states, “Mom, I can’t find any socks.”

     Sighing I tromp down the stairs to the sock basket, the land of misfit socks. Hearing Husband honking the horn and knowing the kids shouldn’t be tardy again I found two socks that could almost be a match. Running up the stairs I hand them to her, as she runs out to the van. I hear the engine hum as they pull away from the driveway, and finally, I can sit down.

     Looking around my table is covered in debris from a hectic life. I look to my floor that is also littered with the evidence of a full home.  I study the red walls in my kitchen, scuffed and splattered. In these quiet moments of truth, I see that my real story is not plastic and well-groomed. No, it is messy, cluttered, and full. I think sometimes that I grew up to be a disappointment to the little girl who dreamed so big, or maybe so small and narrowly.

    I think most women would agree that the woman they grew up to be and the one they dreamed they would be, don’t really compare. As I lean down to pick up the large pair of shoes my husband left on the kitchen floor last night before he went in to read Daughter 2 a bed time story, I smiled. I don’t always smile at this habit.  I also picked up daughter 2’s knee pads. I pictured her serious little face as she bravely served the volleyball at her game the night before. I carefully picked up a dried out bug that had been accidentally left behind when Daughter 1 turned in her insect collection. Relief filled my mind as I realized I didn’t have to eat my cereal while staring at a pinned praying mantis anymore.

    When I returned to the table I realized Only Son had forgotten his bag. Everything he needs is in that backpack. Sinking into the kitchen chair again I realized I am “that” parent. The one that can’t keep it all together. The one who has the messy house. The one who has “Wash me” written on the back van window. The one who runs into school with lunch boxes, backpacks, volleyball pads, or homework every day of her existence. The one with messy hair and a less than perfect smile. 

    Her kingdom isn’t quaint and it definitely isn’t quiet. In her vulnerability, she wonders if other mothers could rate themselves as poorly as she rates herself. It just seemed that growing up would be so much easier back on the shag carpet with Barbies posed in both hands.

     Scrambling to get dressed in official clothes for the work day, and slapping on the essential make-up “to be seen” I dash to Van 2 with backpack in arms. If I hurry I won’t be late to work. 

     In the mad rush to keep up, I sometimes lose sight of the bigger picture... I am blessed. I may never be a great housekeeper, or a great before school coordinator. Such confessions to own my faults are hard to even utter out loud. But this one thing I know, I love this family God has given me, and I forgive us. I forgive us for the perpetually messy table and the messy floor, the too many tardies, and the forgotten backpacks. If I don't forgive I can't even truly love myself. But I can smile, in hope that this is not the end of the story. Motherhood is hard, so I trust in the One who can help me to keep going, to keep growing. My life might not be fancy dresses and plastic castles, but it is still a great life. I venture to say, to all you Moms out there who can relate, so is yours.