Resting Like Winter

   

    I saw the birds flying in a V making their way back north in the middle of February. This has been the warmest Winter I can remember and yet I am not celebrating. I didn’t realize how much I liked the snowy days of January until all I received were rainy days. Winter as my daughter's science notes stated last night: is a time of rest for plants and animals. Normally I don’t see a fly until late April and yet I saw one buzzing in the window last week.

    Living in the Midwest usually affords a good taste of all four seasons. I don’t think I realized how special this opportunity was to have bugs actually die or go into hibernation until mid-spring. I don’t know about you but by September I am ready to see the little creatures disappear for a while. With the children constantly leaving the door open flies are a problem. Gnats seem to repruduce on the apple cores I find discarded under beds and in the crack of the couch. Gross! I know but this is the life with children.

    I saw a Robin roosting in a tree as I went on a walk this morning. Yes, Spring is on its way and with it the return of color. I love the sage greens and the light pastel colors that begin to decorate the gray world Winter in the Midwest leaves behind. It is like a new hope is born each April.

     I have often wondered if the birds have the right idea of migrating to the south in the winter. Thinking of the Florida beaches with their white sand and warm breezes I have been tempted to follow them. Still, there is a principle that Winter offers us that Florida does not understand, it is to give “rest” to the land.

    When the snow comes pouring down there is nothing more delightful than a cup of hot cocoa or tea, a warm fire, and a great book. When the wind is howling outside families gather to play board games together because all other events in their usual busy schedules are canceled due to weather. On such days the grocery stores are jammed with people buying extra things for the storm. Children press their faces against the window praying for enough snow to play in, sled in, and snow angel in.

But alas this year we just got rain.

     It is important to rest even if there isn’t a snow cancellation to give you permission. Rest was important to God in the week of creation. He set aside the seventh day to rest from his work as an example for us. Ironically I have spent many years under the bondage of the idea that a minister’s work is never done so I rarely rest. I am not happy about this habit, but it is hard to allow for rest in my life.

    From Creator God’s example, I believe rest must be something we plan to do. It cannot be something that we merely hope for because for many of us we will never get to a place of rest. I am starting to learn: to find rest I must first trust. I must trust the Lord to cover the demands of life I am resting from for a short time. Like the birds flying back north after the cold winter the Lord will guide me back to the things I need to do most. For a season can I trust him to allow me to rest?

  So if I finally cut out time to rest, what does that look like? I have often been frustrated at friends and family that have looked me in the eye with concern to suggest that I should "take it easy." In my lack of experience with rest, I couldn't even imagine what that meant. 

   Rest is not vegging out to a good TV program, though I have labeled such activities "rest" many times. It is not doing yard work or folding socks. It is sitting down and breathing in the breath of God. It is clearing your schedule to hear from the One who created you. It is taking the time to remember what makes you tick, by drawing closer to the One who designed the ticker, 

    To find rest is to draw near to God. And in those rare moments of getting a glimpse of who we really are through the eyes of the One who has intentionally made us for greatness lies the deepest sense of living this life can afford.   

Time for the New Chapter

    The writer had spent exactly 5 months and 23 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes on the first chapter. It took ten re-writes and a bottle of Tylenol just to get through the first 300 words. But on a cold drizzling morning in early February with a hot cup of coffee and his desk light illuminating the small room he called “the den” he stared at the blank screen. The cursor was blinking at the top left corner as if to say: come on, get going…what happens next?

    It was time for the next chapter but the procrastinating writer didn’t know where to begin. He had spent so much time on chapter one that the blank screen seemed intimidating. I know this feeling well. I can still remember the nervous excitement I had on my first day of Junior High. I had spent days planning my first-day outfit, my first-day make-up, and my first-day “walk.” Hey, if Phil Collins could write a song about it I figured how you walk into the first day of your next chapter must matter.

    I still laugh when I think of our first full day of our marriage. After the wedding, friends, gifts, and lovely dress wear. We were driving to Indiana when Brad’s souped up Cutless broke down on the side of the highway. Trying not to panic and show my new husband the most stressed out form of his new bride I prayed silently as he examined the car. This was back in the 90’s when we didn’t have the luxury of a cell phone. We ultimately decided to walk to a country house out in the middle of nowhere.

    Approaching what appeared to be a communal living house I said, “Hey I think someone lives there.” We spotted at least 5 tents erected and heard the psychedelic sounds of “The Doors” playing in the heavily forest covered property. “I don’t think so.” He said.

    We finally found a house a mile down the highway perched on a large hill. Nervously I hoped we wouldn’t meet a vicious farm dog. With each step, my heart quickened because I didn’t know what lied just beyond our view. Fortunately, an older man answered Brad’s knock and agreed to let use his phone to call AAA roadside service.

    Out of the kindness of his heart, he allowed this young newlywed couple to ride in the back of his pick-up truck the mile and one-half to Brad’s stalled prized hot rod that showed prophetic signs of its reliability.  The sun was hot in the sky on that mid-May day.  

    Oh and I remember that precious midnight gathering of undergarments and a baby outfit into the duffle bag as we rushed off to the hospital after I discovered my water broke. Passing the freshly painted baby’s room we nervously loaded the car as a family of two for the last time. In a rush, my young husband backed out onto the road approaching yet another new chapter of in our lives.

    From then till now many new chapters have been written, but I don’t think that I have quite become comfortable with the cursor blinking at the top of the page. To be honest, the new chapter always seems alluring, mysterious, and attractive in the middle of the previous chapter, but when the last sentenced is typed it is time for the new chapter, period.

    How do we prepare for the new chapter? Hmmm…there is probably a whole shelf of self-help books to aid us in navigating through the new, but to be honest when I really need advice I don’t seem to be attracted to the books with all the answers. Or I read the books that are supposed to help me put the pieces together and I am still in want.

   When the clock strikes four in the morning and tired eyes pop open because anxiety has been making the last two hours a toss and turn I find myself calling out. “God, will you lead me?” I don’t know what I am doing, I don’t know which way to go.”

Back to the writer…

    After washing the dishes he returned to the flashing cursor at the top of the page. And he sat, he tapped his pen on the side of the desk. He stretched out his arms. He decided to answer a text, but each time he returned his concentration to the screen the Chapter was waiting.

     In the frustration of the writing block, he almost shut down his beat up Laptop and gave up for the day. He almost declared this story was over and he might as well have a Chapter one burning, when he paused...He remembered…all the chapters he had lived. All the battles he had won and some he had not, and somewhere deep inside he decided to believe.

    In faith he began to write. With grace toward himself he allowed his pen to speak. Without editing or punishing he allowed his fingers to begin to paint a new picture, a new vision, a new idea for the characters he had created from the ashes of his memories.

    Here is the point: Where you have been lays a foundation for where you will go. We can change, we can improve, but ultimately we will have to step into new chapters not knowing if it will all work out or not. I am thankful that I have faith to lean into at such times. I have a testimony of how God has made a way in the new chapters for me when I couldn’t seem to figure out what I should do.

     Today if you find yourself at the top of a new blank page and anxiety is threatening to steal your breath stop for a moment. Rest for a moment. Remember the road you have already traveled and allow God to enlighten your perspective. He is found in the waiting, pausing, and pondering. Perhaps that is how the next chapter will begin…

I found God in the stillness of before dawn when sleep escapes and light still slumbers… 

    

  

Get Back Up Again

      As a little girl of the eighties in a house full of boys one movie was reenacted more than any other. Only one movie theme song was hummed, chanted, and air-guitared to intensify a brother wrestling match or a backyard race. One character was quoted by GI Joes and echoed by Lego figures so repeatedly that no one needed to sight the source. If you don’t know who I am referring to let me give you some hints.

     Each of my brothers from one time or another had a gray hooded sweater shirt that they wore as they jogged around the house or neighborhood. If we happened to go to a government building with a lot of cement steps my brothers had to jog to the top arms pumping and finish with a victory dance at the top of the landing. When one of their GI Joe figures was losing the battle without fail you could guarantee the plastic fellow would yell out, “Adrian…Adrian.” And the top song for many years in our home was “Eye of the Tiger,” beating out both El Shaddai (Amy Grant) and Father Abraham (children’s bible song from antiquity).

     Yes we loved the movie, Rocky. Though I felt squeamish in the fight scenes I still watched the movies with the boys. I cheered for Rocky, but the best scene of each of the movies was when he got hit so hard that he saw visions of his childhood or his precious Adrian while hitting the ground in slow motion. Blood and sweat flew in the air as we all sprang from our seats to encourage him. 

"Get up! Rocky, you aren’t through yet. Stand up!"

    In life I find myself feeling like I did in that tense fight scene when I listen to the stories of many of my friends, family, and fellow believers who are fighting serious battles all around me. I pray for the fighting spirit to come alive in these loved ones and friends that they would not lose heart in the heat of the battle. I find myself chanting, “It isn’t over yet, get back up again.”

    I am reminded daily that life is full of battles, surprise blows, and cheap shots but I feel that deep within us lies the "Rocky" spirit. Rocky was from the other side of the tracks. He was smaller than he should be and it took him determination and training to actualize his dream, but in the storyline, we learn quickly no dream comes without a price. He had enemies, and there was the strain on the love of his life. He had to make a choice just as we do today to fight for the dream.

    In Ephesians 6:11, Paul exhorts us to put on the full armor of God so that we can take our stand against the devil's schemes. I think to get up from the mat we have to first determine in our minds who the real enemy is. If we think that a person is against us or worse yet the whole world is against us we might as well stay down for the count because we have already given up the battle.

    I have to remind myself over and over that I don’t wrestle against flesh and blood but against rulers, against authorities, against powers of this dark world and against spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms (Ephesians 10:12). That means that God is on my side always and that people may stand in the way but there is a way around them. There is a blow to the enemy that he can’t stand up against. There is a technique that is difficult to learn but will take down the enemy for the count.

It is…

         Forgiveness.

    Forgiveness has never been a natural defense move in my skill set. I have been more of a master at keeping records of wrong. Recently as I have decided to write this blog I realize I have a vast memory and hurts are the deepest groves in my recollection. Fortunately there was a day when I decided I had to yield this ancient weapon even if I hated to do it.

    I remember I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom. Something like Gloria Estefan was playing on my new CD player when I realized I couldn’t go on. I had a routine, like I am sure many emotional teenagers do, of trying to unwind after school. My favorite way to do this was to feel sorry for myself. I am not sure why this was my go to habit. Could it be the sad songs I loved to listen to on the radio? I don’t know, but on this particular day I sat by my mirror studying my young face with a frown.

    I didn’t like what I saw and the temptation was to blame others for all the reasons why. As I looked at myself the Lord spoke to me, “Dianne you need to forgive as I forgave you.” 

    What? I thought. Trying again to work up the “life’s not fair” emotions. But something supernatural happened for the first time in my life, I felt the hand of the Lord on my back. The many angry and hostile words I imagined saying to my offenders lost their lure. I had to turn off the radio in this strange moment, because I could tell something was changing deep down in my heart. I was beholding the Lord Jesus the ultimate fighter for forgiveness.

    For a moment I saw his wounded body on the cross as his own people mocked him. I saw the Roman guards who knew nothing of this “King of Jews” standing aloof and hardened as his blood flowed down for them.

“Father forgive them for they know not what they do…”

   Suddenly I was catapulted back to my bedroom. I sat looking at this sixteen year-old girl with brown curly hair and a complicated complexion. “I forgive, I forgive, I forgive,” I said out loud.

    The months to follow are still a shock to me today. I made a list of everyone I was upset at and made a vow to talk to each one of them and apologize for my own rude behavior. I made phone calls, and met with teachers and x-friends. With each awkward confession I felt this new weapon growing in my spiritual arsenal.

    I declared over my life a new way, a life of love. Slowly the change in my attitude became apparent to others. I wish I could say that I never fell into self-pity again, but that wouldn’t be true and I wouldn’t have much material to write about. No, I must remind myself daily who the real enemy is.

   Jesus fought the enemy of our souls that day on the cross with forgiveness. And though he gave his life on the cross the miracle came on the third day when he rose again from the grave. The devil had thrown the final punch and was doing his victory dance as heaven counted 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9…

    At the first beam of the light at dawn on the third day there was a rattle in the borrowed tomb. Angels came to witness the “King of Jews” arise from the tomb no longer defeated. Right before the referee could declare 10- he broke through death, hell, and the grave. Shining like the sun he made a way for us. At that moment He won our freedom to live in this new way of forgiveness regardless of the circumstances we will face.

    So today if you are down for the count I am standing at the side lines shouting “Get up Champ!” The battle is not over yet. Don’t give up. Get that old “Eye of the Tiger” theme song in your heart and put on the gray hoody and start fighting your real enemy.  I declare over you, “Be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power.” (Ephesians 6:10)  Remember the devil started the fight with the Son of God before he turned his sights on you. Though the fight might be fierce God has given you the power to give the Knock-out punch!

"Father, Forgive them for they know not what they do…" Luke 23:34

Dear Friend,

Get back up again.

    

There is Room at The Well

   

     Most preschoolers learn a little rhyme about a girl and boy named Jack and Jill. They are on a mission to climb a hill to fetch a pail of water from the Well. That sounds easy enough especially for the little energetic children reciting this story. But like most memorable stories, something goes wrong at the top of the hill with the pail full of water.

    Did the water splash on the grass to create a slick spot that caused Jack to slip? Did he step in a rabbit hole that caused the fall? Why did Jill come tumbling after? The poor couple had been so close to accomplishing their goal when it all went wrong.

    There is another well I learned about through flannel graph stories. As the Bible story began my Sunday school teacher in a corduroy plum colored skirt and lavender pearl buttoned silk blouse smiled at us. Her brown nyloned legs crossed at the ankle as she sat in her big blue teacher’s chair next to the easel holding the flannel graph board. With brown feathered hair that framed her pastel painted face, she held the unnamed Samaritan woman in her hand.

    The paper figure in a white and cranberry stripe dress held a tall jar on her shoulder but her brown curly hair was left uncovered because she was a “bad” woman. I watched spellbound as the teacher placed the slender figure on the blue flannel graph board.

    Next our proper teacher placed a Well next to the woman. I had already learned that in the “bible days” there was always a Well. In fact this paper well, was worn on the edges from its repeated use. We had learned a few weeks before that Abraham had to move away from his nephew Lot, because their servants were fighting over the same well. Then the week before, Isaac had to dig three wells before the Philistines would allow him to settle in the land.

    Now Jesus was coming to the Well. The same well this Samaritan woman was standing by with her sun dried clay jar. She was a lone figure at the common biblical location. I could relate to the need for water. I felt thirsty and I was quietly hoping for a snack of saltine crackers and a Dixie cup of water as we sat in the little chairs around the bean shaped almond finished kindergarten table.

    Next to me, Art Detmer, my distant cousin was playing with his brown clip-on tie. He saw me looking at him and quickly stuck his tongue out at me. I wondered again why we had to be related. Fortunately, our devoted teacher’s voice captured my attention again.

“And the Samaritan woman was alone because she was a sinful woman. Sin separates us from the life we really want…but Jesus spoke to her.”

“May I have a drink of water?” he said.

Next, the teacher with powder pink fingernails placed a vibrant sun above the Well.

“In the heat of the day Jesus came to the Well, and so did the Samaritan woman because she knew no one else would be there at that time due to the heat. She came alone because she didn’t have any friends.”

I leaned in as if I could see the perspiration on their foreheads. Jesus pursued this lonely woman at the Well, but why? I wondered.

     Looking at my patient teacher I spoke, “Was Jesus thirsty, because I am.”

The teacher with lovely feathered hair smiled at me but continued the lesson.  She took the Samaritan woman down and replaced her with a second image of the woman’s profile with arms out imploringly toward the Well.

“You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan why would you talk to me, let alone ask for a drink of water? The woman asked.

    She replaced the tall composed Jesus with a leaning forward Jesus standing on the other side of the Well with one arm extended toward the woman and the other toward the water.

“If you knew who asked you for this water you would ask for living water that never runs dry. You would drink it and never thirst again.”

Did I see the Samaritan woman inch closer?

Our well-dressed teacher paused. She fidgeted with her string of pearls while finding her place again in the bible lesson she was reading to us.

I continued to wonder:

Could Jesus really satisfy her thirst?

What kind of water filled this flannel graph well?

Finding her place, the lavender silk arm placed a paper jar at Jesus’ feet.

“This is the Well of our Father Jacob, but it is said that when the Holy one comes He will lead us into all truth.” The Samaritan woman said.

Jesus replied, “I am He, do you believe?”

From that moment my little hands felt sweaty as I thought I saw the one dimensional Samaritan jump up and down.

“Yes, I do believe.”

Under the hot sun, this woman found the refreshment her soul needed. In my little 5-year-old heart I too whispered, “I believe.”

    Like Jack and Jill I fetched my pail of living water that day, but as the years of my young life unfolded I found myself tumbling down the hill spilling the living water on the ground and injuring my soul in the process. But I am thankful that by God’s grace He helped me back up again.

     My faith had many one-dimensional moments of narrowed focus. I went to church (period). Then I lived my life how I wanted. Still the living water drew me back to the well again and again.

This living water still draws me back to the well in the heat of the day when I wish to see no one. Jesus is there willing to talk, willing to listen, and willing to revive. I have learned by such great love that there is room at the well for me and for you. All it takes to be refreshed is the simple act of believing.

“Come see the One who has told me everything I have ever done. Could this be the Christ?” The Samaritan Woman (John 4:29)

Historically Speaking

   

    I have always liked to study history. I enjoy reading documentaries about famous people that have gone before. I even like to hear the eulogies at funerals because it gives me a keener picture of the life one has lived in the world I have inherited from them.

     It was the first warm spring day we had experienced in the new season. We walked on the boardwalk passing a little yard where a sheep and two ewe lambs were sitting in the long green grass beside the 19^th Century home. Across the way, the drug store stood to beckon from a different time and a different age. People in period clothing crossed the dirt road as a wagon passed by with a little boy in suspenders buttoned to brown pants over a white button-up shirt and clad in a blue hat. He waved from his perch in the back of the wagon between two bags of grain.  As we neared the corner we saw the local doctor’s home, the bank, and the mercantile. Like the old plunky sound of an antique upright piano, the air was filled with the sound of the ancient.

     My children looked around the historical farm community in wonder. Once Upon a time, there lived a group of people gathered in a community to live in harmony and support of one another. As we crossed the street to step into the drug store the clerk greeted us at the door. Walking in on to the wooden floor our feet scuffed across the dimly lit room. Bolts of fabric lined one wall, pharmaceuticals lined the opposite wall and barrels of necessities were gathered in the middle.

    I tried to think of the last time I had baked fresh bread. What did a loaf taste like at this time in history before gluten allergies were a worry? I walked by a washboard used to clean clothing by hand. The clerk explained how most families only had two changes of clothes. “Everyday” clothes and “Sunday” best. I thought of the many times my hands grew raw after scrubbing baby messes out of little outfits, and wondered at the job the women of my ancestry must have had to perform daily.

     Life it seems is like the fluff of a seeding dandelion in spring. It is light and hard to hold on to. Once one feels they have a hold of it the wind blows scattering all our plans to the wind. Did the ancients feel the uncertainty I feel as I hold little hands and wonder if my parenting will bring about responsibly grown children?

    As I looked through the many old things that once were new I wondered at the frailty of life. Like sands through the hourglass, time is constantly slipping away, but I rarely notice. It is only in old photos I realize how much my children have grown, how my own face has changed.

    On the other side of this lingering anxiety, I felt hope with this thought: This is all I have, this moment. So I wish to live it fully alive. I wish to live it with a heart fully engaged. When my time has come and gone, I hope that something will be left behind more valuable than a pair of lightly used shoes or a fancy purse. I hope that the love I have planted endures.

    The question is…have I planted love? Or have I been too busy chasing my own way to stop and look at the community around me? This community of family, friends, neighbors, and people I have yet to meet that surround me. I hope to live fully awake, fully aware, and fully awestruck at the blessing of life.

    Placing a nickel in each of my children’s hands I give them permission to purchase a lemon drop. With excited smiles they each hand the clerk their money in exchange for the sweet confection. After the purchase, we leave the quiet space of the little store to again embrace the warm breeze of the spring day. It is time to go live, love, and enjoy the simplicity of this day.  

  

Heaven Touching Earth

I still believe even when life is tough and the skies are gray. Even when the things I trust in become shaken and the ones closest to me are discouraged. When I am tired and I can't see the breakthrough I believe is coming. I still believe...

I was listening to a song today that began to stir a fire in my bones. The stirring started somewhere near the center of my being and moved out to my extremities. "Lord, can you revive me again? In a raspy voice, the singer evoked my heart.

"Our Father, all of Heaven knows your name 

Sing louder, let this place erupt with praise. 

Can you hear it the sound of heaven touching earth…?"

   In the beginning, the Spirit hovered over the waters with mighty wings of mercy. The essence of love swept over the unformed child, the apple of the Father’s eye. When the voice of creation spoke and the darkness transformed into pure resplendent light He was there. When the seas were formed and the land took shape when the green beauty of plant life sprung up like little hands clapping at the magnitude of their Creator He was there.  When the eye of the Father formed all the creatures of earth and sea He felt the absence of his own reflection and so he knelt down in the dirt to form man.

    With one mighty breath the first son of man awoke. This reflection of God formed a little lower than the angels arose. On shaky legs, Adam beheld his new playground. Not as some type of ape-man but as the very reflection of his Abba Father he looked around. Intelligent and strong he met the creatures walking on earth and swimming in the sea. He walked among the fruited trees yet even in all the beauty and wonder his heart felt lonely.

    The Lord knew Adam’s desire to be known. Even in the newness of creation man could not find his equal in all the vibrant majesty of his organic home. In the sweetest sleep, Adam lay so that God could perform the first surgery. Removing one of two ribs designed to protect the man’s lungs, his breath supply, the Creator gently covered the vacancy with flesh.  

   In a moment Adam was healed by the touch of the Great Physician. As he lay in slumber on lush carpets of grass and nectar scented flowers his wife was being formed from rib and dust, light and the breath of God.

“He makes beautiful things from the dust.”

He awoke to see a beautiful she creature lying next to him. “Adam,” the Voice of many Waters spoke, “Behold your wife.”

   With tears, he arose to study the woman over curves and smooth skin. As he stirred she too awoke. Taking her hand they ran through the garden of God to celebrate their new life together. All around them the animals uttered and the birds sang in the wonder of man and woman, husband and wife, Father and Mother and keepers of the earth.  As the man and woman walked in the garden they praised the only Father they had ever known.

   Of course, there is more to the story than the perfect beginning. Soon perfection unraveled with the trick of a snake and the lure of a piece of fruit. Still, there is a longing God placed in each one of us to be known and to again be invited to walk in the garden of God’s presence. Such a hope is only found through the acknowledgment of one name. The name of the one who was there in the beginning when Heaven touched Earth, when light pierced the darkness, when emptiness became full of life.

I hear my own voice join in with the singer's

"King Jesus, you’re the name we are lifting high,

Your glory shaking up the earth and skies,

 Revival we want to see your kingdom here.

We want to see your kingdom."

I still believe…

Dream Catcher

   

    What good is a dream if you don’t have someone to share it with? It is like going to the ice cream stand to indulge in a frozen treat or riding a rollercoaster that thrills your socks off all by yourself. Such adventures beckon a companion to share in the encounter.

    That makes sense I would say, but I am not sure what my dream even is. I know I had a lot of them as a kid. I wanted to be an actress, a lawyer, and a choreographer and that was all in my fifth-grade year, but lately…I have been trying to figure out what is “the dream.”

    Maybe I lost it because I have lived a little too long.  Am I too old to dream? It seems sometimes that it is unrealistic to look beyond the responsibility of family life. Maybe I have been so overwhelmed with the to-do list that I forgot to take a minute to ask: what is it that I would love to do anyway?

   Sometimes I think dreams have been over-rated. I used to dream of getting married and having a family. Now I have one and I have learned no dream comes without a price. Right now the price is…tween mood swings and being the screen police. So maybe I am discouraged.

    Whatever the excuse I can come up with it doesn’t change the fact that I need to dream, you need to dream. We were made to dream. In the dreaming we have hope that what we see today doesn’t have to be what we live tomorrow and the next day and so on.

    I love to hear stories of unlikely dream pursuers. My husband’s grandmother had always dreamed of finishing high school, so in her sixties, she got her diploma. I recently met a woman that at 91 still goes snow skiing weekly. I have a dear friend that decided to become a missionary to India in her retirement and has spent her time hugging children and helping families in India ever since. Such stories inspire me to stop making excuses and start taking the time to dream.

    We limit ourselves with all the reasons why we can’t dream without uttering a word to anyone else, but what if we started to share our dream?  What if your hope could ignite someone else’s? Who knows how your dream might just set off a chain reaction in the lives of your friends and family.

    In reality, life is complicated and at any moment we can list a lot of reasons why it is better just to drudge on, but I want to encourage us to let the little child dream from within us. That little one that believes we can be anything we put our minds to. Now that we are older we have a better grasp of what it is that really excites us. That thing that makes you and I come alive. What if that thing was tailor made for us to pursue?

Maybe I am just dreaming here, but I invite you to come along for the ride.     

The God Who Sees

   

    Finally, home from a weekend with teenagers I quickly change into fuzzy Pajamas, cozy slippers, and pop in a pink piece of bubble gum to get ready to write. Lately, each day has felt full yet I have struggled with a sense of feeling empty of words. This happens when I really have something to say, but I am afraid to let it out. Instead, I have soaked in my favorite Netflix saga, or I have tried to dig into a novel to divert my mind from the pressing questions lingering just beyond the tip of my tongue.

   Learning to allow me the freedom to speak, express, and unlock the thoughts, feelings, and story from within has been both freeing and terrifying. To find my voice is to find a missing piece to the puzzle of my own identity, but it also challenges me to keep going, discovering, and speaking what I learn along the way.

    As I sit here feeling comfortable, relaxed, and free to write I shut my eyes for a moment. The gritty cloud of the sands of time seems to blow around me as I see the topic rising from the pages of the old book. A short phrase seems to lift off the page from the ancient Canaan lands, “Beer Lahai Roi.”

    In the distance, I can see a young woman walking in the blowing sand. The sweltering heat beating down as the sun stands high in the sky. As I squint in the glare trying to make my hands a visor over my eyes I can see that the weary girl is expecting a child but seems to be without strength as she crumbles under a tree.  Thankfully near the tree, there appears to be a small well of water. As the hot wind blows the fabric covering her face I can see that she is in torment.

    As I sit in this chair six months along I have to readjust my position as a sharp pain shoots down the left side of my neck and shoulder blade. From my distant position, I can’t imagine the journey this expectant mother must have traveled. Suddenly a voice like a gust of wind speaks to her. The tree branches do not move nor the desert grasses rustle at the sound of the words.

“Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from and where are you going?”

   Looking around the troubled girl grows frightened. The voice like the wind is all around her, but everything else grows still. Her arms and legs tingled as the hair stands up like gooseflesh in the eerie presence.

“Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from where are you going?” the voice pursues.

The girl continues to look around, who could know who she was or why she was here?

“Hagar, servant of Sarai, where have you come from and where…” The voice comes a third time.

“I’m running away from my mistress Sarai,” she says both ashamed and overwhelmed at the predicament she has found herself in.

    It was Sarai’s idea for her to become Abram’s second wife. As a slave girl, she had no say in such matters. Her mistress was well advanced in years and had given up the hope of having her own child with her husband, so why not throw her servant girl at him? When Hagar found that she was pregnant she did feel proud, it felt justified until now under this tree with the voice of the Holy one, the God of the Hebrews, enveloping her. Suddenly she felt regret for the haughtiness she had portrayed in front of her mistress. She remembered the tears of jealousy she saw flickering in her mistress’ barren eyes.

   The voice speaks again, “Go back to your mistress and submit to her.” As these words fill the air around her a peace comes to rest upon her like a gentle hand. In that moment the anger and frustration ebb away as if she had been refreshed by the water from the well.

“You are now with child and you will have a son. You shall name him Ishmael, for the Lord, has heard of your misery.”

    Again a wave of peace comes over her like a second hand upon her head. For a moment she remembers the soft touch of her mother’s hand smoothing her black hair away from her little face. She had loved her own mother’s eyes dark as night, but tender. She had put such memories as far away from herself as the distance she was forced to travel from the land of her birth, Egypt. The land she hoped to reach in her flight. Such a memory filled her eyes with tears, tears that splashed at the feet of a man.

With head bowed she gazes at the beautiful feet of the One true God, the God of the Hebrews Abram had spoken of, standing in front of her.

“You are the God who see me,” she whispers brokenly. As she lifts her head slowly to behold him he suddenly disappears. 

“I have now seen the One who sees me.”

    Looking around, the oasis is quiet as the wind returns. Standing to her feet with renewed strength she walks to the well pulling at the rope to retrieve the water below. Holding the bucket in her hands she splashes the refreshing liquid on her hot skin. She quietly drinks deeply of the cool sweet water. Feeling refreshed at last she utters the words looking to the heavens, “Beer Lahai Roi” The Well of the Living One who sees me.

“Hagar! Hagar!” her named is called from the top of the nearby hill. There stands Abram’s head servant, Eliezar with a camel at hand.

“I have been searching for you, Abram my master is worried for you and the child.” He says as he approaches.

    As she stands by the well she whispers again to her soul, “You are the God who sees me.”

From my desk peering as if through the pages of Genesis I see her brave young face as she agrees to go back with Eliezer not on foot but from the mount of a camel. I see the power of an encounter with the Lord changes the weariest of hearts. I see a girl that not only returns but tries harder to honor her elderly mistress even when she sees the jealousy etched in the deep lines on her face.

   Hagar does not live a perfect life but God cares to pursue her in her despair. He is near the broken hearted. He has plans for us even when we have given up on any plans for ourselves.

   In the end, Hagar returns to the desert with her thirteen year-old son, no longer a slave but free.  The journey back to the desert is filled with heartache, but God again pursues her in her greatest need. He continues to prove that He is the God who sees.

    

  

     

Spring is Coming

   

    In a flurry of magnificent color, the grass was dotted with wildflowers. The fragrance of spring filled the air gently blowing the blooms in a joyful cadence of new life, new hope, and new opportunity. The dirt path was still moist from the winter thaw. A rustling sound in a nearby bush revealed the curious eyes of a squirrel before it disappeared up a large oak tree.

    The sun gleamed with yellow beams making the green leaves glow majestically to the happy song of the robins crafting their spring nests. In the warm afternoon sun new dreams began to stir. Walking in the solitude of the wooded path this girl was not limited by the face she scrutinized in the mirror, or the opinions of her classmates for this little dash of time she was free.

    As she looked around at the natural scene of beauty she wished she could pen the feelings that came to mind. She wished she could sketch the purity of the air and the loveliness of the dotted pasture. Somehow life seemed bigger than her present eleventh grade year.

    Thinking about Algebra II filled her with anxiety. Unlike the careless whimsical beauty of the nature walk her world was structured and linear. If she didn’t take the right classes, and earn the right grades, she wouldn’t make it to college, and she wouldn’t be able to reach any of her goals.

    She had a dream to paint the world. Maybe with a brush stroke of theater or a splash of song details still seemed unclear, but with the crimson color of redemption, she was determined to paint a picture of hope. She wanted everyone to see the greatest beauty she had ever encountered, simply Jesus.

    Oh she did wish to be beautiful which her complexion presently didn’t seem to support. She wanted to be smart and eloquent, but lately her words seemed to get scrambled instead of flowing smoothly. If only she could be free like the little rabbits limberly hopping in the distance of the meadow. Why did life feel so heavy, hard, and humbling?

    She watched her friends seem to adjust to having part time jobs, driving, and getting good grades in school as if it didn’t take all their concentration? Why couldn’t it feel easy to her too? And boys…it is not that she wanted a boyfriend, but it would be nice to be noticed. 

   As the thoughts built up inside she shut her eyes tightly.  Then after a long moment, she let out a sigh. Looking up into the perfect blue sky peeking through the canopy of trees she lifted her arms in surrender.

“I am not alone,” she whispered. “I can do this because God is with me.”

    Such a statement of faith washed the anxiety away. For this moment she was able to embrace the gift of a spring day. A gift that welcomed her admiration without charging admission. In fact, the dirt path welcomed anyone young or old to explore it’s wonder, but today she had taken the time.

    Life is like that. No matter who is waking up each day beckons a new opportunity for hope. Sometimes it takes getting away from the normal, the expected, the structured to see that life holds more opportunity than we can fathom if we will just take the time.

As the teenage girl continued to walk she let go of the pressures of her life to breathe in the fresh new hope of spring.  

   

Tales of a Sleepless Night

   

    A sleepless night, I should have known would come after an energy drink and a coffee refill, but that was in the morning on a gray Saturday. The temptation to have just one more cup of warm coffee to go with the Gluten Free Banana bread as I soaked in the pleasant conversation with a friend seemed irresistible. But at 2 AM, 2:15 AM, 3:03 AM, 4:00 AM it seemed more foolish than ever.

    As I lay in bed trying to get comfortable, trying to shut off the mental list of to-do’s I thought of you. Me? You might think, and of course, it comes as a surprise I know. And though I tried to shake it, there you were. I prayed that God might help you, strengthen you, and give you hope.

    Life is so often full of curve balls, disappointments, and challenging circumstances but my prayer is that you will not give up. We have all heard sad stories of those who just gave in, but you my Dear are so special that God put you on my heart last night, or this morning, hang on.

    When we are at the point of wanting to throw in the towel, what holds us back? Certainly, there are people who care for us in the world, but in despair, it is hard to make a list of who they may be. I think if we would quiet our souls for a moment we would hear a still gentle voice. A voice that is somehow familiar yet profoundly unknown. That voice is the inflection of your destiny, it is the sound of rain and the crackle of a fire, it is the sound of a mighty wind, and clatter of thunder. It is the voice of our Creator God.

     Even when we would want to turn the other way His arms are wide open. His love is like a mountain of mercies He promises are new every morning. In the middle of the night when sleep eludes the morning seems far off, but His love is never distant.

    To make his love more clear the Creator God sent his son in our likeness. He gave this son an assignment to live on earth, to experience our pain, and to make a way for us to be free. This son is named Jesus Christ.

      There is a story found in the gospel of Mark chapter 9 about a Father who had a very troubled son. The story goes that the son was possessed by demons and would become violent and roll himself into the fire. As the last hope, his Father brought him to Jesus. As a crowd gathered to see what would happen Jesus asked the man what was wrong.

    The man explained the long history of trauma and added, “If you are able to help please have compassion and do something for him.”

Jesus look at him, “If I can? Everything is possible for him who believes”

    Brokenly the Father exclaimed, “ Lord I do believe, help me overcome my unbelief.”   

     As I write this you may be saying, I know about Jesus. Tell me something I don’t know. As I laid in bed I heard the word “Belief.”  If we just say we believe but we don’t really let it change our lives the thing we would say we know is nothing more than a beautiful green leaf that turns brown and falls to the ground when the bitter winds blow. Such thought is more “Be-leafing” than believing.

    As I thought of you I began to pray, Oh Lord help our unbelief. Sometimes we say we know something but it doesn’t really mean we believe it in a way that changes anything in our lives. So I thought if I were to switch the letters around to read “Be-life” I think this is a better way to picture a believing that turns the situation around.

The fact is fear keeps us back from truly believing that God has a plan for our lives. It holds us back from experiencing freedom through faith in Jesus Christ. But fear no longer has to have a hold on you.

As you awake this morning open up the curtains. Let the sun shine in, and welcome God into your day. Dear friend, know that during my sleepless night I was thinking and praying for you. You can do this thing! Don’t give up. Challenge yourself to believe God really is for you.

Parental Advisory Suggested

  

   It was a cold February day when Brad my strong man husband decided to volunteer in our youngest daughter, Lydia’s pre-school class. All the children were seated around their mini tables sitting on mini chairs. The two teachers and Brad the strong Dad were trying to cram their adult bodies into the mini chairs at the mini tables.

   Lydia and her friends looked up at Brad in wonder. He seemed so large. His hands could gather up ten of them at the same time. It was always the most fun when Dad’s came to volunteer. They seemed less aware of the rules and gave smiles that made each kid feel extra big.

    As the bowls were passed around for lunch, served family style, the little eyes watched the big man scoop green beans on his plate. Little girls laughed as Lydia put her little arms around her Dad’s elbow. With pride this move declared that he was her special daddy.

    Next came the bowl of peaches. Giggles filled the table as each child tried to slop the peaches in the allotted square on their plastic trays. When Brad missed his square they all laughed loudly. The quiet corrective voice of their kind but firm teacher Miss Carly reigned them all in.

    Next a little boy passed out the milks. Everyone had the choice of chocolate or white. So Brad naturally chose chocolate as any cool kid would. Before he could open it the little girl sitting beside him offered to open his milk. Because she looked so confident in her four years and because she didn’t wait for a response he let her put her fingers in his milk carton. Without a seconds thought she wiped her nose in the process. Looking up with big blue eyes she said, “It's ok I have a cold.”

   Needless to say, Brad no longer found the chocolate milk to be cool or appetizing. But the story still makes us laugh as we think about the sweet but messy ways of children.

   Someone recently asked, why do parents wish their kids would just grow up already when they are babies and then cry when they are grown because they miss the little years? It seems a crazy oxymoron, but I have found myself feeling both emotional extremes.

    It is hard to take in moments as they come without wishing away the mess. Little ones are sweet… that is until they hit you in the face with a large plastic toy. Little boys are fun until you answer their call in the middle of the night and walk over scattered Legos barefooted. Little girls are a blast until they take your high heels and feed them to the dog, or stain your favorite shirt with red lipstick they smashed as they tried to dress up like mommy.

    Little ones take patience, a trait I was sure I had in great quantities until I became a parent. On the flip side now my children are approaching the teen years at rapid speed. At this time I feel inadequate in my understanding. Yes, I was a teenager once, but it doesn’t make the mood swings or the awkward silence more bearable. We are entering into an emotionally messy time and I have suddenly gained a revelation that maybe the toddler years weren’t the hardest after all.

    So why do Parents say such things? Why do they wish for a different stage than the present with their children? Why can’t they be content?  Well…because it is messy.

    I am feel thankful as I pause to think about a Heavenly Father that is not afraid of "messy." In fact, he couldn’t bear the brokenness of the world full of lost children. Sitting on his thrown he turned to his son and asked, "would you make the way for these children to come to me?”

    As the story goes, the son came to earth making his dwelling among us. He spoke of the Father’s love but the world did not understand him. They did the worst of crimes to the only one who had the power to save them, they took his life. A life he freely gave up for them. It turns out God the Father wasn’t afraid of our mess. God the Son freely gave His life to break the curse that was on all the children of the world so we could be free.

    He broke the curse not in death but in the resurrection. His coming back to life again. Sometimes I think that I can do this parenting thing on my own, but I realize again as I write this blog that I need my Father God’s help. I often think I am helping him out by working really hard in my own strength, but I am actually like the little four- year-old girl opening the carton of milk with her dirty little fingers saying, “It's ok I have a cold.”

    God’s grace is a gift to the messy, the needy, the broken, and the parent. If you have been overwhelmed lately try God. He’s been around awhile and might just have the answer you are looking for.

May These Ashes Speak Of Love

    

    What would someone say about me at my funeral? That is what I always contemplate as I leave a farewell service. On the last day when people gather to honor the life of their beloved family member, friend, or neighbor. What they say while standing before all who represent ones’ life matters tremendously.

    As no one knows how long their life will be we all have the same challenge to live it well. No matter how many things one accumulates, in the end, it is what other people think about you that lasts beyond the dash you are given on this earth.

    I used to live by a grouchy neighbor when I was growing up. She rarely talked to anyone unless it was to complain about something she didn’t approve of. Her house was direct across from ours so she had a great view of all the Tullis’ comings and goings.

    From time to time she would march over to our house to ask for my Father. He would patiently come to the door to hear her complain about his yard, or his children, or the way he parked in front of his driveway.

     Meanwhile, she spent all of her time cultivating an exotic garden she hid away in her back yard. When she became a widow she frequented the front step more often to give my Father unwanted feedback on how he was raising his then teenagers.

    One time when I came home from college she burst from her door to tell me I was the only one of my siblings that seem to be turning out ok. As I looked at this woman I had grown to fear I could see that she was pitifully lonely even if she was cross.

    She had one son who rarely visited her and a garden. It was rumored that the inside of her house were many exotic collectibles but none of the neighbors had ever been welcomed in for a cookie or a chat. These were just rumors that no one could prove. 

    As she stood almost hovering over me with her pointed finger I stopped backing up and decided to show compassion. I asked if I could pray for her about the medical condition she had started talking about. Not waiting for a response I prayed right then and there.

     She just stood there looking at me with her jaw dropped. Later I heard that she mentioned the prayer to my Father with disdain, but I felt for the first time I could try to help her a little bit with my faith. As the years continued to pass my Father started to talk to her more about heaven on the occasions when she came to complain about something she saw him doing in the front yard.

“I am fine, thank you. I have been a good enough person and I will make to heaven on my own.” She stated with irritation when he would ask her if she had made peace with God.

And one day she died.

    There was an auction to sell her things. On the front lawn, her priceless vases went for 5 and 10 dollars. Inside strangers trampled her white fluffy carpets with dirty shoes. A few months later her home was sold to a young couple. They eagerly began to reconstruct the yard by mowing down all the exotic plants and flowers she had labored over for years. Her beloved Pine tree was cut down and in one weekend her yard looked like a wasteland.

    As I pulled up to my parent’s home on a visit I just stood facing her house in shock. In less than a year this notorious neighbor’s home was unrecognizable. She was put in the ground without a large gathering to say goodbye to their beloved. She was laid to rest mostly alone, just like the way she spent her life.

    I felt said as I looked at her house and yard. I felt sad that I didn’t have fond memories and I didn’t really know her though I spent 18 years across the street from her. The only thing she left behind was the scowl on her face. 

    I hope that I live differently. I strive to live differently, to leave a mark on the world. It is just…well, hard to sometimes get out of my own point of view. I realize that I struggle with being selfish too. After a long exhausting day, I don’t want to say hello to a neighbor I just want to collapse on the couch. It seemed easy to judge our grouchy neighbor when I was a child, but as an adult, I find that it is harder to stay open to others. It is harder to think outside of the four walls of my home and my little family.

     But as I attended another funeral service today. As I heard the departed eulogized by co-workers and family I realized that to truly live one must reach outside his or her comfort zone. Let it not be said of me on my final departure that she lived a reclusive life of scowls and lush gardens.

    It is with a humble heart that I cry out to the God who is able to help me be more than I want to be on my own. The God who promises us the help of the Holy Spirit with the following fruit: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. With a deep breath, I commit again my heart to the One who can use the broken pieces of this life to impact others around me.

     I realize that I am not good enough to make it to heaven without the forgiveness of the Savior, Jesus Christ. But I have learned that his salvation once received by faith is unfolding daily in my life. And though I have rough selfish reclusive days His gentle voice whispers in my ear, “Dianne I have created you for greater things.” He has redeemed me again and again with his love.

    It is with sadness that I think of my late neighbor who never tasted of the peace of forgiveness of her creator God. She went to the grave with folded arms determined to make it on her own…

There is an old song we used to sing in Children’s church that went like this:

Oh you can’t get to heaven (echo) Oh you can’t get to heaven

On roller skates (echo) On roller skates

Oh you can’t get to Heaven on roller skates

Cause you’ll roll right past those pearly gates

All my sins been' washed away, Oh praise the Lord.

So God simply put, help me live a life of love.

                            

     

The Game of Risk

   

   Climbing the steps of the high diving board and walking slowly to the edge. Looking over the end to rippling blue water below. Not sure if I want to jump, but seeing my friends watching knowing I can’t possibly turn back.

   Waiting backstage in high heels and matching dress trying to remember all the words to the song I was about to sing. As my heart beat pounded not only in my chest but in my ears I heard my name announced as the next act in the talent show. The surge of nerves made me want to turn back until I heard the cheers.

    Stepping out of my van to get a few groceries at Walmart my attention was suddenly shifted from the small list I held in my hand. Near the entrance, the couple stood. Hearing the irate young man leaning into the face of his girlfriend as he exploded with profanities made me feel alarmed. As she tried to walk away he reached out his hand to pull her back into his verbal onslaught. “Hey that isn’t right,” I thought. Should I speak up? Out of the corner of my eye from another row of cars, I saw her. A middle-aged woman walking with conviction toward the abusive scene.  My feet turned to follow her.

“Hey! Hey! You can’t talk to her like that!” we yelled out from different points in the parking lot as the cowardly boyfriend quickly departed leaving the young shaken woman suddenly alone.

   Fidgeting with my hands as I sat in my best friend’s room on her desk chair I watched. My “boyfriend” a senior and friend of her older brother sat down on the bed. I had continued to go out with him because everyone else thought we looked cute together and I was a mere freshman. With a shaky voice, I asked, “Do you really like me for me? Or just for my body?”

He got up and left the room. He never spoke to me again.

    Risky moments, life is cluttered with them, but what gives us the courage to follow through when we are scared? What helps us to speak up when we see an injustice? On television, in novels, or on Facebook it seems so easy to be bold, but in real life, it is rarely that simple.

    Life is full of tests, trials, and terrain we walk into with a certain amount of expectations, limits, and ideals. As a young person I wanted to be accepted more than anything, but I always heard my mother’s wise words going through my mind when I was tempted to do something stupid. Now I still want people to like me, but I also want to live truthfully and honestly enough to avoid some of the traps I fell for in the past.

    If you find yourself frustrated by arriving at the same situation over and over again. Maybe the scenery and people have changed but you find that your response is the same. Maybe it’s time to ask yourself:   What am I doing to contribute to this situation?

     Risky moments can transform into turning points of freedom when we determine why we are doing something. When I decided that I wanted to jump off the high dive because it was fun, I enjoyed it more. When I stepped on the stage to sing I realized that each time I became a little less nervous. When I took a stand against the bully at Walmart I found out that women can do a lot when we stand together to help one another. When I finally stood up to the nominal high school boyfriend I found my own boundaries and gained self-respect.

    I think another key component is leaning into the positive voices in our lives. Those who help us to step out of fear and into faith. I realize that I am limited in my natural courage, but when I hear other people’s stories of stepping out in faith it helps me to become bolder.

    When I later found Christ as my Savior that helped me to not just try to be good, or meet goals, but to explore why God had made me. What he had intended for me to do with my life. I can’t tell you a 100% of that calling because it hasn’t completely unfolded for me yet. Still, I am learning to trust him with every step.

    All I know is that as much as I want a comfortable life there is a part of me that longs for the high-dive. I have a desire to step out from backstage into the spotlight of my dreams. I want to help others no longer be victimized. I want to be disciplined to live a life with the right boundaries so that I can run unhindered after God.

    No matter how many mistakes have riddled our lives, there is hope. Right now, today. Let us not stop listening to the right voices in our lives. The ones that just want the best for us with nothing in return. Let us not stop listening to the dreams floating our heads. Perhaps it is time to unplug from media, put on our tennis shoes and get moving.

A Midwife Crisis

   

    Hot searing pain shot through my body. Could I pinpoint the pain? No, it was everywhere. I had looked forward to this moment, well sort of. Maybe a little beyond when I would hold our first child. We hoped for a son, but the ultrasound was taken too early to determine the gender.

   In labor, pain is not taken but used to help bring forth life. I made the mistake of taking a local pain killer in an IV. This suddenly stopped the forward advancement of the labor. The pain did not slow or lessen but my ability to focus or even breathe became impaired.

    As I lay in a strange pain filled dream I thought of the old bible story I learned as a small child. Eve’s hand held the partially eaten apple. In my mind I blamed her for this horrible pain, if only she hadn’t eaten the forbidden fruit.

“To the woman, He said, “I will make your childbearing pains very severe; with painful labor, you will give birth to children.” Genesis 3:16a.

    Suddenly I heard the nurses say it’s time to push. I looked around, but the room seemed to be spinning. Where was the doctor? I turned to see my young husband trying to be strong for his pale suffering wife.

“Come on Honey, you can do it,” he said while holding my hand.

Let me just pause here…

    If you have ever had to watch a birthing video, like me, you have been traumatized. There is nothing glamorous about this natural process of bringing life into the world. It is nothing short of a miracle that any woman survives such an experience. I am thankful for modern medicine and the advances that have been made.

   The doctor showed up just in time to catch our baby boy. I remember seeing the doctors dusty black dress shoes splashed by our son’s first tinkle as his new born cry filled the room. The first birth was the hardest of the three and because of the rough labor I decided to try a midwife for the next two babies.

     How did a “midwife” get her name anyway?  In Old English the word midwife comes from two words “mid”, meaning with and “wif” meaning woman. It plainly meant “with woman” who is giving birth. Such a woman would have to understand what normal delivery looked like and have the patience and kindness to help the expectant mother pass through the painful contractions to deliver her child.

    Midwives are not an English thing they are a woman thing. As I thought of Eve, she was probably the only one who didn’t have one. After being fruitful and multiplying so often she might have invented this concept.

    At a horrible time in ancient Jewish history two midwives were used in a vital way to bring forth deliverance to the captive Israelites enslaved in Egypt. The story goes that the Hebrew midwives were commanded by the Egyptian Pharaoh to kill all Hebrew baby boys that were born, but to spare the females infants. In this way he had hoped to create population control among the Jewish slaves.

    These women, Shiphrah and Puah, feared God and refused to follow the command of Pharaoh.

When confronted by the growing population of Jewish boys being born they explained that Jewish women were more vigorous than Egyptian women and gave birth before they could attend to them. As a result of their protection of the Hebrew expectant mothers and male children God blessed them with their own families.

     I appreciate this story because it is a picture of women helping other women nurture life. In the bleak picture that is painted from this bible story they risked their lives to help women who had no rights. They stood up for babies that had no rights. With the gentle way of a woman a Jewish remnant was preserved in that dark moment of history.

   The story goes on to talk about a baby that was born a few years later named Moses. He would deliver his people out of the bondage of Egypt. He was born after Pharaoh decreed all baby boys would die at the hands of the soldiers. Put in a basket he floated to the providential arms of the Pharaoh’s sister. His life was spared. 

     He would later meet and team up with his older brother who was born during the time of the two protecting midwives. His name was Aaron. He was the first of the line of priests that would arise in the Israelite nation as they made their way out of Egypt.  

    I still remember the name of the midwife who delivered my two daughters. Her name was Sandy. Under her care, I felt relaxed and confident that I could go through the delivery process again. She had a way of helping me feel prepared without freaking me out.

    As I remember her I think of the need each woman has for a female friend.  Someone that has experienced the things that she has, and also some experiences she hasn’t. Someone who will let her cry, but will also cheer her up. Someone who will believe for the best. 

    The following two deliveries were light years better than my first because of the gentle knowledgeable ways of the midwife. I also think my life has gotten easier as I have walked through life with special female friends that keep me laughing, give advice, and lend a listening ear.

   Women are life givers and as such, we need to have other women in our lives to nurture and encourage. I know at times in my own story it has been hard to nurture others because of the emotional state I found myself in. I am thankful in such times I had a friend to help me get out of the pits of despair. At other times I was the one lending a hand.

     As I look back I realize that my life has been rich with the nurture and influence of other women. Even though Eve made it hard for women in childbirth according to Genesis, I am thankful that women have been redeeming our role ever since.   

What Little Girls Really Want Their Mothers To Know

    

    When I was a little girl I remember loving my mom with every inch of my heart, with every stroke of my paint brush, with every sock that I folded. In little ways, I tried to communicate to her that she was one of a kind, priceless, and special to me.

    As I grew I didn’t understand the price my mother paid to have me. Her stomach bore the marks of childbirth. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror I saw a frown flash across her face as she examined the extra shapeliness childbearing had added to her figure. The extra pounds that Jane Fonda work-out records failed to help her remove.  

    In my little spritely way, I tried to make her smile by saying, “mom you look pretty in that dress.” But more often than not she couldn’t receive the compliment from her little girl. When I heard my father complain that she needed to exercise more or stop eating chocolate I felt a frustrated sadness for this woman I loved. This woman that worked tirelessly to cook, clean, and provide what we needed. I wished that she could see her beauty and her worth as I did. But somehow the image she saw in the mirror couldn’t reveal what could only be seen by the eyes of love.

   Every little girl wishes her mother knew that she was beautiful. No matter the shape or size, no matter the hair color or complexion. No matter the clothes or the trendiness. A mother is a life giver and in that role, she shines with beauty. 

   As my mother struggled with trying to raise four kids and balance a part-time job I often saw her cast aside her dreams to make ours possible. I felt sad that she rarely attended to her hobbies, because of the demands four children constantly presented her. 

    One of my fondest memories of her was when she got a walking partner. Several times a week they would disappear down the street speed walking. She would come home energized and happy. After shedding pounds she also started to pursue a love for photography. Unfortunately, the pressures of life started to pick up again and she stopped walking with her friend, but for that short time, she seemed happy within herself.

   Every little girl wants her mother to have dreams. She wants her mother to know that she is not only beautiful but smart and capable. She wants her to keep reaching for the stars. She is proud of her not only for the meals she cooks and the clothes she folds but also for blazing a path of self- discovery.

   I am now a mother. I have found myself standing in front of the mirror struggling with the image I behold. I have frowned at the areas of my face and body that don’t look the way I want them to. I have spied my own little girls looking in the mirror at this woman they call mom. I have heard their little voices speak up, “Mom you are beautiful just the way you are…”

    I now understand how hard it is to believe the voice of a little girl. 

   In the role of a mother, it is hard to make all the ends meet. I have often felt insufficient in this role. I want to be a successful household and schedule manager, but I feel torn between work and home. But the struggle is worth the rewards of having a family.

   I find it hard to let myself dream knowing the cost it will have on my family if I step out. But I also believe dreams are worth fighting for, my mom taught me that. She might not have been able to chase after her own dreams, but she helped me chase after mine, for that gift I will be forever grateful.

   Last, of all, I think little girls want their mothers to know that they value goodness higher than money or status. When a mother is good a little girl can hope that she will also someday grow up to be good. On television, the internet, and in music blaring from radios and iPods the image of woman is often portrayed as brazen, soulish, and crude, but no little girl wants a mother like that.

   Perhaps it is time to listen to the little girls of the world pointing us to a deeper beauty than is painted on billboards. Maybe such little girls have a better grasp on what it really means to be called “woman.”  Are we ready to hear what our little girls want their mothers to know? 

Taking One for the Team

    

    My mother was a fearless competitor. I remember watching her get ready to play softball with the church league. I admired the way the tee-shirt looked on her feminine body, but I was also impressed by the determination she wore on her brow and flickered from her blue eyes.

   I remember playing on the park equipment when I heard she took one for the team right in the face. Our young family quickly gathered in the car to take mom home. Within twenty-four hours her perfect ivory complexion had turned to a light green and dark blue tender mess surrounding her left eye.

      As I tried to comfort her by surrounding her with my favorite stuffed animals and bringing her toast I thought to myself "I don’t ever want to get hit in the face by a softball." My Dad talked on and on about Mom’s badge of honor. He was evidently proud that she acted so boldly to try to get the other team out, but I just patted her hand. Would her face always look like that?

    Years later after my countless "bow outs" I sat in the stands as my young husband took his place on a different church softball team. He took the second base position seriously. As he stood in his church tee-shirt and baseball cap I knew that I should be watching, but my three little ones were getting bored. 

    Isaiah had sat for twenty minutes keeping score which made the older couples giggle at the four-year-olds knack for numbers and curiosity. Elaina a toddling two-year-old was soon running off, challenging me to catch her and bring her back to the stands. Meanwhile, baby Lydia had grown tired of the baby snacks I had packed and was starting to emit a curious smell from her diaper.

     Isaiah followed me as I gave up on watching and took the three of them to the little park a few yards away. Soon Isaiah was playing in the sand as I put Elaina in the bucket swing.

“Mama push! Mama push!” she called as I took a look at Lydia’s pants. Yes, she had finished her work I could see, now I would have to spread out a blanket to change her while making sure Elaina was content. Thankful for the bucket swing I gave her a little push.

“Weeeee!” Elaina called out.

    Internally I wondered how long this baseball game could last. Every minute felt like an hour with three little ones, but I knew I needed and wanted to be that “supportive” wife. Just as I finished changing Lydia a woman from the church called out my name as she came to my little tribe.

“Dianne, Brad has been hurt. They are taking him to the hospital. It’s his finger. It looks broken.” She said out of breath.

   Sure enough, he had shattered his pinky. The softball came down at just the right angle to ruin our summer. When he finally came home from the emergency room he had a cast covering his wrist, and a promise for surgery.

    Isaiah sat next to his daddy with his blue blanket crumpled up at his side trying to understand what happened on the softball diamond while he was playing in the sand.

“Daddy, how did you get that owie?"

Elaina tried to climb onto his lap with her favorite yellow bear under her arm. Concern was etched on her little tan face hemmed in with blond curls.

“Ouch, Ouch,” she said pointing to his cast.

    After surgery, he had to spend the summer with pins holding his finger together. I was again convinced that I never wanted to play Softball. On the morning of his surgery to remove the pins my mother offered to watch the kids so I could go with him.

    As I sat in the waiting room I opened my bible. As I read Ephesians 3:20, “Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to Him be the glory…”

   As I tried to read on I heard a woman behind me talking to someone about the impossibility of her husband’s condition. Suddenly, the Lord prompted me to go to her. Trembling I stood up and crossed the room as she said, “there is no way he can stop smoking but the doctors said if he doesn’t…”

“Excuse me,” I said feeling nervous as she stopped talking to look at me, “ I am a Christian and I couldn’t help but overhear that your husband needs prayer, can I pray over your situation right now?” I asked with trembling voice.

   Because she was a complete stranger I didn’t know how she would take my boldness or my offer, but she quickly agreed feeling overcome by the crisis. So I prayed for her and for him, and when I was finished she thanked me before I returned to my seat at a nearby table.

As I picked my bible back up a different woman named Michelle approached me.

“Excuse me, she said excitedly. “I just heard you pray for that woman and I wondered do you know God? Is he really out there?”

     Putting down my bible I turned to give my full attention to the woman who looked about my age. I offered the chair next to me for her to sit down. As she did the story came pouring out. Her husband was getting knee replacement surgery and was estimated to be out of work for two months. She too was a stay home mom and couldn’t figure out how they would make ends meet. Then she asked me again, “Do you think God is real? Could he really help us like you prayed he would for that woman?”

“Oh yes he can, Michelle, he can do more than you think or imagine he could. But have you ever asked Jesus Christ to be your Lord?” I said looking at the concerned furrow in her brow.

“No,” she said looking at her hands, “Could I?”

    The openness of her heart and the new budding faith springing up as we talked moved me. I was surprised that sharing my faith could be so natural as I lead her into prayer for Jesus Christ to be her Savior. Afterward, we prayed for her husband and exchanged numbers. I felt such a joy in my heart I felt lighter than air as the nurse called my name.

    Driving my still drugged up husband home and hearing his vows of undying affection I smiled as I knew he would need a good nap before I could tell him about my new friend Michelle. After feeding the children dinner and making sure Brad was comfortable I called the hospital to see what room Michelle’s husband would be in.

She picked up the phone. “Hi, Michelle, it's Dianne, the lady you met in the waiting room, how is your husband?”

    She had already received a good report that the surgery went better than they thought. They said he would be released the next day. In that moment I decided I would visit them before he left for home to a small town thirty minutes from Waterloo.

    The following day I came to meet them just before he was discharged. I felt the prompting of the Lord to give her the little money I had saved from my Birthday and my voice lesson earnings. With joy, I gave her the small sum praying that God would do exceedingly more than I could think or imagine for Michelle and her husband with the small contribution. Then we prayed.

It is the hushed moments in prayer that one steps from the firm foundation of the earth under foot to the light and airy presence of faith. In that atmosphere a "doctor's report", a "financial statement", a "hopeless cause" becomes transformed into something wrapped in the gold lining of hope.  

 “Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to Him be the glory…” Ephesians 3:20-21a.