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.

   

Pink or Blue?

   

    I could hear the pitter patter of the rain hitting the window sill as I opened my eyes. The day had finally come. Yes, I had been carrying this baby for five months but I hadn’t really considered what it would be like to find out if it is a boy or girl.

    My older children were all still asleep because they didn’t have school. My two daughters were sprawled out in Elaina’s room obviously worn out from a late night of giggles and secrets. In the next room, my teenage son couldn’t be stirred from his dreams to play out in the icy driveway with his Father. All three of them have passed the point of the childish wonder of an ice storm. It is on such a gloomy morning we would find out who the new little addition to our family would be.

   Long gone were the toddler toys, baby swing, and high chair. All the child safety locks had been thrown out years ago. But turning the corner of the kitchen to the hallway I knew that life had brought on a new season, a curve in the road this family with two “tweens” and a “teen” had thought we were on.

    From day one my vote for Girl or Boy wavered when my son broke something while launching a ball, or my daughters threw a fit about a clothing catastrophe. But as I made my morning shake I felt a giddy wonder fill my mind.  Family=chaos, but it also brings laughter and connection, and what would a new baby bring?

    I always joked that I would have one more boy and name him “Paulie.” But the rest of the family moaned at the idea. “Mom, we are fine just the five of us,” they said in chorus.

    But low and behold today I would find out if I would get a “Paulie.” As the months had gone by I had felt a word rising up in me every time I thought of this child, “Hope.” Could that word indicate it was a girl? I didn't know. I couldn’t remember how I knew I was having girls 11 years ago. I stood baffled by the possibility.

Brad knocked on the bathroom door, “Dianne it’s time to go, we don’t want to be late.” Putting down the blush brush I called back, “just a minute.”

    It is amazing to think how life can change in just a minute. Brad had been happily going along in life as a youth Pastor enjoying lifting weights and spending time with his growing kids on the morning I bought the pregnancy test from Walmart for $3.99. Before we went to lunch on our day off I decided to check. I had been feeling strange and acting stranger lately, what was wrong with me? In less than a minute I called from the bathroom, “Brad, come here.”

    As we looked at the two pink lines we knew our lives were taking an unexpected turn, but instead of crying we laughed. “Why not?” we said looking at each other unable to process the news the test had revealed. Four months later I tried to snap my coat over my swollen stomach. It had been my favorite coat but the zipper had broken a few weeks ago. I knew today that as soon as I sat down in the van the snaps would pop open. Carefully he escorted me to the waiting vehicle.

    Again I wondered if I would find out if I was having a “Paulie” or a “Hope.” I thought of all the things that make my son and daughters different. My mind started to make comparisons as my husband carefully pulled out into traffic and made his way to the doctor’s office. There were promising qualities in both boys and girls. Picturing my son I thought: Boys are rambunctious and energetic while girls are thoughtful and careful to please. Thinking of my daughter Lydia I thought: Boys are trying to be helpful while girls are trying to be pretty and clean. Thinking of the way my daughters Elaina and Lydia laugh together I thought: Boys are loud, and sometimes girls are louder. The comparisons went on: Boys like trucks and girls like dolls. Boys think blue, girls think pink. Boys like to throw things, girls like to dance... The ignition turned off as Brad looked at me with an excited smile, “We’re here.”

    In my contemplation, I hadn’t shared a word of my thoughts, but I could tell from his eyes he too was trying to guess which it would be. Oh my, such pressure. Thankfully we don’t really get to choose. The decision has already been made for us. Knit together in my womb a child has been forming behind closed doors. A destiny has been developing mostly unknown to us. But on the careful walk through the icy parking lot into the building, we braced ourselves for the ultrasound.

     Lying on my back with the help of warm jelly on my tummy the technician looked at the hazy shapes forming on the screen. The unseen world was suddenly appearing in shadowy images she decoded as feet, and legs, arms, and torso. I looked intently at the grainy image trying to spot what I thought was the head only to find out it is actually the bottom, sorry little one. I smiled at Brad as we heard the heart beating while she studied its chambers.

Finally, she asked, “do you want to know if it is a boy or girl?”

“Yes,” we said together.

    As Brad held my hand she narrowed in on the legs of the child. As much as I tried to pretend I could tell what I was looking at I felt as if I was looking at an inkblot drawing. As the baby shifted from folded legs she announced, “It’s a…

    Blue or Pink? Little adorable baby dresses or bow ties and suspenders? Noisy cars or fancy dolls? Bouncing balls or dancing shoes? As Brad looked at me, the strong man suddenly softened by the prospect of parenthood. We looked closer at the shadowy image as she narrowed in and typed the word as she spoke.

“It’s a boy.”

He laughed and I said, “Oh.”

    It’s a boy. My future would be filled with trucks and bouncing balls. I guess I thought it was another girl. I understand girls. In that moment I felt myself saying, “Hang on Dianne, you are in for a ride.” Thankfully as I sat dazed the ultrasound reports came back positive that our baby boy appeared to be healthy.

    Taking a moment to process I squeezed Brad’s hand. The adventure continues, and it is time to crack open the “Bringing up boys” book that I haven’t read yet.  That is the special gift of parenthood. You are not given the opportunity to choose if you will have a girl or boy, or what your child will like or dislike. What they will look like or how talented they will be. No, such descisions are held in the Creator God’s hands. In that moment I decided I will learn how to train up another little boy, I will learn what I have needed to learn and will become better.

   Such thoughts are common to the parent. We want the best for our kids, but I am humbled by the experience. I know that with all my great intentions I still can’t squeeze out enough of what a little human being needs. I have to spend time with the Creator God who designed and fashioned these little blessings in my womb.

   Having a household full of three older children entering into the teen years has taught me that family=chaos, but it also gives room for the greatest picture of grace and forgiveness that I have ever beheld. So, even though I feel challenged to bring another son into the world when I have majored in pink, frill, and pearls I know I must embark on a new adventure.  Surrendered I join Brad, the proud daddy of another son to be delivered in early June with a hearty “Why Not!”    

   

    

Take the New Year like a slice of Pie

  

   The old man wraps at the door it is time to rise. His black dusty shoes shuffle on the linoleum as the morning light breaks through the ruffled blue and white plaid curtains over the metal sink. His voice clears the golden silence of slumber before the rooster crows.

   I stir from the sweet dreams of summer light kissing my skin as I stand with flowing sundress dancing on a hilltop. In contrast, the air is cold in the shadowed bedroom. The heater has been turned down to save money. "Wear two pairs of socks to bed," the Old man’s voice rings in my ears. His correcting tone is always directing my every move. Unhappily I break from the comfortable warmth of my dreams to answer his bidding.

   One foot on the cold wooden floor, then two. "I’m up" I call out, "and yes I didn’t over sleep." Mentally going through the to-do-list: two loads of laundry to fold, lunch to make and throw in a crockpot, and study time to attend to before everyone else wakes up. "Yes, Yes, I hear your throat clearing. I can smell the Listerine on your breath," Self-reproach hangs in the air as I admit I should have done more. But the year is finished, I cannot go back.

    From the kitchen, I can hear the scrape of the wooden chair pulling away from the table. As I turn the knob to investigate I enter expecting to see the Old Man’s scowl, but instead I find my child quietly feasting on the last piece of lemon meringue pie.

    Old Man “Should” evaporated like the “Wicked Witch of the West” in a puddle of water as the mischievous grin spread wide upon my son's rosy cheeks.

“Mama I left the marshmallow part for you. I know it is your favorite.” He said sliding the plate toward me.

    I sit down next to him as he watches me take the fork in my hand. He licks his lips with anticipation as I bring the white foamy topping to my mouth. With little giggles he studies my satisfaction as I steal a bite of the heavenly pie.

“You are right, that is my favorite part,” I say as I stretch my free hand out to tousle his golden colored hair. Letting out a sigh I realize I feel full. Not with pie but with love as I stare into the small face that looks somehow like me and his Father mixed together.

   Life is more than to-do lists, and self-improvement goals. It is all the little moments that could fill the pages of a sketch book if we cared to take the time. It is the hopes of the dawn spreading light through the cracks of drawn curtains announcing a new day, a new year, a new chance for happiness. It is the rosy face of a child on the first morning of the year enjoying the last slice of pie.   

    I tend to let the Old Man rule me with all that I think I should be instead of allowing the wonder of the small things to inspire me.  In the foamy sweetness of meringue, I finally remembered. As my hand touched the soft fine locks of my child's hair I could see clearly again. 

With a smile, I  realize I have accepted the invitation to simply enjoy. 

King Of My Heart

Let the king of my heart be the fire inside my veins

The echo of my days,

Oh, He is my song…

    As I listened the song filled my kitchen this morning as the day was awakening before me I felt a stirring deep within. The picture of fire has often come into my mind when I think of the reason that I live. Not a blaze but a passion kindled within. I have always been a fighter. Not with fists but with ambition.

    From the family line up I never felt content with being third behind my older brothers. At school, I was never satisfied with being average. Without question, I pushed myself to overcome the obstacles I faced with all my strength. I laugh as I remember challenging my oldest brother to race me repeatedly always hoping if I could just win I could somehow move from little sister to somewhere more like an equal.

    Sometimes in the ambition, in the fight, in the focus one can lose hope. In Ninth grade as I began to hang around a group of kids that slunk together at the corner of the school away from the gaze of watchful teachers, I began experimenting with cigarettes and marijuana. As I hung with them my ambitious attitude began to change to something more laid back.

    They would say I was finally relaxing, but I knew I was losing myself in the smoky air of the amber colored van we gathered in. It was in my sophomore year that I first heard the Lord pierce through the dazed and confused thoughts as he began to melt the icy covering around my heart with His fire.

    It was in the surrounding of a cast dressed as Israelites for an Easter play that I whispered to Him, “God if you will change me I will serve you with all my heart.” Tears threatened to reveal to the Galileans, Roman guards, and Disciples that I was actually a “sinner” coming to peace with God. On the blue worn carpet, I stared at the floor willing the tears back as the actor playing Jesus prayed.

In all my wandering I was really desiring the community I felt in that gym surrounded by orange painted faces bowed in worship to the unseen God. Though unseen I could feel his fire inside my veins…

     After that encounter, I started to reach out to the friendly people at the church. I spent lighthearted and peaceful Sunday afternoons with other Christian students and their parents. Embarrassed and defeated I went home to the “war zone” I would call it, an atmosphere tense with problems, anger, and isolation.

     The only thing I knew to escape the depression always pressing in on me was to hide away. In my room, I cracked open the brown covered bible I had received at the end of Fifth grade from Grace Brethren Church. On the front, my name was spelled in gold foil cursive letters, but the true gold was found inside.  

    For the first time in countless attempts, I got passed Genesis and Exodus. Somehow in the ancient writing, I started to connect to a bigger story than I had ever known. Somehow I started to believe that I was to play a part in the story. As I read I could feel His fire in my veins as I heard Moses cry out, “Please Lord I have never been eloquent… I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.” God replied, “Who has made man’s mouth? Or who makes him mute or deaf, or seeing or blind? Is it not I, the Lord? (Exodus 4:10.)

    In the quiet of those hours alone in my room, I began to see Him, hear Him, and know that He had a plan for my life. Again I started to pursue God with my ambitious nature. I would sing for Him, I would talk about Him, I would go to Bible College to represent Him. I would try with all my might because he was like a fire inside my veins…

     It was much later that I realized that true victory is not found in the pile of things I have done for Him. Unfortunately, there was not enough recognition to feed my insecurities. No true victory was found in that secret place of drawing near to the Ancient One. When I finally stopped working and sat in His presence sometimes with the bible open, sometimes with a song playing, but many times with nothing but a longing… I felt His fire afresh in my veins.

    As I look back over the years, living a committed life as a Jesus follower I cannot say that it has been perfect, or without messes, but it has been blessed. I can’t look back without seeing the faces of teenagers getting set free, I can’t look back without seeing the deep friendships I have encountered as we shared our very hearts. In all the messes, sacrifices, and sorrows I can’t help but hear Him echoed in my days.

In conclusion, I would say it has been worth it all. And He indeed answered the cry of a teenage girl in a little Church gym as she prayed, “God if you change me I will serve you with all my heart.” This is the fire in my veins and I pray that it will be the echo of my days, Oh Lord You are my Song.     

Speaking out of Gray

   What do you do when someone tells you, you are too old to do what you love? I never thought I would get here, but I have arrived at this spot anyway. About three years ago I decided that I wanted to be true to myself in a small way so I grew out my roots. As the sparkling gray started to appear so did my insecurity. Will people still accept me as a worship leader if I have gray hair?

    For you nonchurch goers such a question might sound ridiculous, but in the circles, I walk in such a question was a legitimate concern. You might say, I thought God was about love and acceptance certainly his people would be too. I fearfully decided to test out my hair choice to see.

    Thankfully I found that many women gathered around me to encourage this journey of allowing my true colors to shine through. If you haven’t noticed hair color is a big industry in America. I am surprised that the sky has become the limit for the color you decide to go with. As time has progressed I have grown to embrace my hair and my uniqueness, but it hasn’t been without a fight.

   Recently I found myself in a conversation about modern worship. I soon felt the sting that I was being talked to like I was too old to lead worship. As I sat patiently listening to a story of a man who was passionate and experienced in worship but found it hard to find a job because he was 40+ and had a full head of prematurely gray hair. As this story was shared the narrator looked at me certain that I could relate. The story's conclusion: worship ministry is for the young, those without gray hair.

   Inside I felt fire stirring in my belly as I found myself shut into a little box labeled "used up goods." I don’t know about you, but I don’t want someone telling me that because of the appearance of my hair or the age I have become I have been disqualified for the passion of my life. For God or for man, I think when someone truly works out of the gifting they were created to do, their work is timeless.

   I am not saying I think my work is timeless, but I sure would like the opportunity to make it so. As a creative, I find it hard to follow rules, color in the lines and look like everyone else, but I think this nature came from the One who designed me in my mother’s womb. God enjoys making people unique. He likes designing people to be a part of his story, a radical story of love where He invites people to come just as they are. Young, old, male, female, of every race, and intellect. I am longing for a place where I belong just as I am, don't you?

   It is for Him, Jesus, that I would risk being honest about who I really am. In that honesty, I must admit that I need the peace of God to walk into a world that doesn’t like misfits unless they are 25-year-old rock stars. But as the recent conversation rolls around in my head I feel my foot coming down. No, I disagree. I can still sing and so I will. Regardless of other people's opinions, I know I have a "destiny" to fulfill and so do you.

    If you are feeling like your back is up against the wall don't give up. It's not over yet. No one can take your dream without your permission and there is always an exception to every rule. Let's be the exception. My hair might have a smoky hue, but the fire ain't out just yet. No, I am determined to sing songs of deliverance until the saints go marching in.

A Song of Joy

“Take courage my heart, stay steadfast my soul, He’s in the waiting….”

    The singer sings in a low melodic tune drawing my attention away from the busy schedule if just for a moment. Why do I need to know that taking courage in my heart and soul is important? I can’t put it into words but I feel peace flood my heart like a mighty wave as I allow such words to be sung over me.

     Have you ever found yourself crying tears like an ocean that didn’t seem to have an end as disappointment came like a tide crashing in?  Looking in the mirror at the face that looked more like a peeled grapefruit than a composed little Christian I frowned. Lately, heartbreak has felt like it is running like a current just under the surface. Its rippling motion could be seen in the eyes and perceived in the thin smile if one would look a bit closer.

    Such moments are never wanted but happen anyway when life takes a series of turns that one least expects. All of a sudden all the foundations I have built my life upon seem to come into question. My viewpoint momentarily is blinded by the present moment.

The singer's voice gently encourages me out of despair, “Take courage my heart, and stay steadfast my soul…”

     She lived down the street from me for 3 years before I met her. Strangely enough, I could have known her my whole life as our paths almost crossed in our small community. I wouldn’t have even learned of her existence if not for a couple I met one day. On a mid-summer afternoon, I unloaded my two children to run free for a little while in the park near my parent’s home. As I strapped my toddling daughter in the bucket swing I met them. They were pushing their granddaughter next to us.

For a few minutes, we exchanged small talk until I mentioned that I lived in Washburn, a little town on the outskirts of the city. They looked at each other sadly.

“Our beloved piano teacher lives there but sadly she can’t teach piano lessons anymore. She has pancreatic cancer, we miss her.” The wife said sadly.

“That is too bad,” I said with compassion, “I wonder what street and there are only four.”

They looked at each other for a moment as the husband spoke up this time,” I think it was third street…on the corner in a pink house.”

Instantly I knew what house they were talking about, “What is her name?”

“Joy…Joy Wagner,” the wife said as her granddaughter started to fuss. They quickly left after that leaving us alone at the swings. Soon my three-year-old son grew tired of playing with his Tonka truck in the sand and asked for a snack. Elaina, the baby grew tired of the swing and wanted to get down. I knew it was time for us to go too.

    About a week later as I sipped tea with a grade school friend I mentioned the unfortunate news about the neighbor I didn’t know.

“Joy Wagner,” she said in surprise, “She was my piano teacher too, I didn’t know she lived out here. That is so sad, she was the sweetest.” My friend said regretfully.

    After she left I decided to go on a stroll with Isaiah and Elaina. I decided to turn to the right instead of the left so I could walk by the mysterious pink house with the beloved Joy Wagner in residence. As we neared her house I didn’t see a car in the driveway. I wondered if she was in the hospital. Quietly I prayed for her.

    Another few weeks passed by when I was in the car with my mom. Having a few moments away from the kids gave us the luxury of adult conversation so I shared about the unfortunate diagnosis this neighbor had received. As I mentioned her name my mother immediately knew who I was talking about. Like the others, she also agreed that Joy was a wonderful person.

I sat perplexed that so many people knew of this neighbor who was suffering from this terminal disease. How had I not met her? I also started to believe that maybe I should take the time now to meet her and pray for healing. As I thought about it I started to feel courage. My mom turned left on 3^rd Street to drop me off when I said, “Mom lets drive by and see if anyone is home at Joy Wagner’s home if so I will stop to pray for her.”

   Passing my house, on the right, she kept driving to the pink house on the corner. Cars were parked all around the house and a camper was lounging in the grass by her driveway. As we slowed the car we looked at each other not sure what it could all mean.

“Mom let's go see if we can pray for her,”I said.

“Dianne, what if she isn’t alive anymore?” she asked wearily.

    I agreed the gathering did give me a feeling of doom, but I pushed it aside.

“We won’t know unless we try,” I said as she parked the car.

     Walking slowly toward the house I tried to think of what I would say. I didn’t even know Joy I only knew of her. My mom had attended church with her twenty years ago and only knew her from a distance back then. With each step, I felt fear try to turn me back.

     Taking a deep breath I whispered to myself, “Take courage my heart, stay steadfast my soul.” Nearing the parked camper and seeing movement in the little screen window I decided to knock at the camper door first. A cheerful woman answered our knock.

“Hello, I am Dianne Singleton. I am one of Joy’s neighbors and I wondered if she is doing ok? I am a minister and was hoping I could pray for her.”

“Well hello there, I am Joy’s cousin. My husband and are missionaries with YWAM. Joy is not doing well, she has been released from hospice so the family is gathered to say our last good-bye. But if you would like to pray for her that would be just wonderful.”

   With that, she ushered us into the pink home. It was dark inside though it was the middle of the day. Cold cuts and cheese slices were spread on a tray at the dining room table where relatives were gathered in hushed voices. The joyful missionary introduced me to Joy’s two daughters and told them of my wish to pray. With deep appreciation, they brought me to her bedside.

    The room was white with a large bed in the middle. There Joy laid like a small child propped up on pillows. Her daughter leaned down to speak into her ear.

“Mama, a neighbor lady is her to pray for you. She said she is a minister and would like to believe for your healing.”

    As she spoke the family of about twenty people gathered around the bed as the missionary handed me a small bowl of oil. For a moment I panicked. I had never prayed for a person to be healed who was struggling in the throes of death. I wasn’t even sure what to say…

Take courage my heart, stay steadfast my soul.

    Shutting my eyes I turned my head toward heaven to the One who is able to heal every disease in the here and now. With my eyes shut I saw a great light off in the distance and peace as I prayed a most daring prayer.

“Dear Lord, I thank you that you are the healer. I ask you to heal Joy’s body of all cancer, Amen.”

     After singing amazing grace I said good-bye to the warm and thankful family and left with my mother. As we crossed the street to her parked car I looked at her in amazement.

     As the days passed I wondered what had become of Joy. Slowly the cars left, all except one. On the following Saturday when Brad was home for the day from work I walked down to her house. As I stood in the driveway I felt afraid of what I would learn if I knocked on the door.

Take courage my heart, stay steadfast my soul.

     I knocked on the back door three times. I waited for what seemed an eternity when I heard a stirring inside. The sound of the deadbolt unlocking captured my attention as the door opened. Before me stood her daughter.

“Hello,” I said trying not to sound nervous, “I was wondering how Joy is doing.”

    She smiled as she recognized me. “Come in, and you will find out for yourself.”

As I stepped inside the lighting was brighter as if the window shades had been opened.

“Please come in and have a seat in the living room, would you like some coffee?”

“Yes please," I said as I sat down in the sunny living room on the tan couch.”

 When she came back with a cup of coffee Joy was walking with her.

“My mother was excited that you would come to visit and wanted to meet you, the daughter said.

    Joy sat down in the chair across from me. She smiled as I told her how I had learned about her, and why I had felt I should stop the week before. With a big smile spread across her sunken cheeks, she said, “I want to thank you for thinking of me.”

Her daughter spoke up, “Mom started to feel her strength come back after you prayed and so we sent everyone home, it is a miracle.”

    After our little talk together I said goodbye and promised to stop by again.  As the door shut behind me I walked back home with such a joy in my heart words could not express. I had been a part of a miracle in this new friend’s life. 

    Over the next three months, I visited her. Her daughters would take turns driving in from out of state to spend time with their beloved mother. She was still battling the disease and I still prayed for healing but I struggled with wondering if there was something missing in my faith. Why hadn’t she been fully delivered from this wretched disease? I didn’t have an answer but I did gain a friend.

    In early November I received a call that Joy was not doing well. After a day of fervent prayer, I heard that she had passed away…

    I sat on the couch with a dull ache in my heart how did this happen? I thought for sure she would pull through. Defeat hit me like a thousand bricks. The rest of the day was a gray blur as my hope seemed to slip away. The mystery of life and the finality of death hung like a heavy garment on my shoulders.

“Why did I even try?” I thought as angry tears finally fell.

Take courage my heart, stay steadfast my soul.

    At the funeral a few days later I heard countless testimonies of how Joy impacted lives and how she demonstrated a love for God. With a frozen heart, I listened as her daughters tearfully shared the love they had for their late mother. As the minister shared his closing words, one sentence caught my attention.

“As the family gathered in August to say goodbye to Joy a miracle happened. Joy miraculously got a second wind, and for the next few months was able to share countless moments with her daughters, a treasure they will forever cherish."

    In the minister's words, I saw my purpose. It was to merely be obedient to God and step out in faith. He used that act of obedience to help Joy. Though her healing didn’t look the way I thought and hoped it would He still answered prayer. It wasn’t in vain.

    I remember that story today as I again need to "take courage my heart and stay steadfast my soul." Life doesn’t always look the way I want it to or expect it to, but one thing I am sure of…if I just hold on I will find Him in the waiting.

When Grace Slaps You In the Face!

   

    It was a Monday night when I escaped for a little while. The grocery store was quiet as I entered through the automatic doors. Quietly the grocers stocked the shelves. This is one of my favorite times, to go grocery shopping when away from the demands of three children, walking along with a grocery list and a plan.

   I walked down the milk aisle, glad I had a light jacket on. It is always cold in this section of the store. The neon lights make the five varieties of milk look appetizing, but I walk past them to grab an Almond Milk and jug of orange juice instead.

    I have often joked that it is in the milk aisle at the grocery store that I “feel the Lord.” Although it sounds funny it has happened many times, and on this particular night, I was again encouraged. As I strolled down this aisle not quite to the egg selection yet, I thought about how blessed I am. At home, my husband had the task of homework duty. Each of my three children’s faces flashed through my mind. All the hopes I have for them lingered as I eyed the yogurts. Their age span of 6, 8, and 10 declared them officially out of the diaper stage, we were moving on.

“Thank you, God that you have been faithful!” I whispered as I spotted the eggs.

   For a brief moment, I thought of Brad’s Grandfather Singleton with bib overalls sitting in his favorite chair in the front room of his little house. A cane in one hand and a light-hearted smile uplifting his worn features. A tuft of white hair coming down almost to his brow didn’t make him look disheveled but handsome as he took a rest from his work.

“All I know is it is good to serve the Lord,” He would tell us as he sat down for a moment. Into his late eighties, he still chopped his own wood and harvested his own garden of vegetables.

“Yes Grandpa, I would agree,” I thought as I loaded two dozen eggs into my cart. 

    It had been 7 years since we had laid him to rest. Still, his gentle face lingers in moments like these as I walk the lonely grocery aisles. I also remember the first time I saw him as Brad drove me down their country road. His parents had purchased an acre of land from them when they were first married and had built a house a cornfield down from Grandpa and Grandma Singleton. Arriving at home meant driving past his grandparent's home first. Off to the right of his yard near the road, Grandpa stood in the truck patch garden. A hoe in hand he straightened to wave as Brad blew the horn. In appearance, he was a strong man even at eighty years of age.

     I knew then that I would love him. After we were married, we would stop by to say hello on every trip back to Phlox, Indiana where they lived. In that front room, we would gather to hear the few but wise words of Grandpa Singleton. He was a medic in World War II because he avidly believed in serving his country at wartime, but didn’t want to take other's lives. Miraculously he served four years without injury. In the stillness of our visits, he would recite those war days in story form. He always highlighted the funny stories that happened on the base. Grandma Singleton was always nearby to help him get the timeline straight. He looked to her lovingly and referred to her as “mother.”

    Every encounter made me wish I could have a marriage like theirs. It was a simple life they led in their little house on a wide piece of land. They spent their lives farming and attending the First Assembly Church of Elwood. They were faithful to God and kind to others. They had neither flash nor flair, but a deep beauty gleamed from them all the same. Inside my young heart, I desperately wanted to have that beauty more than things or achievement. It was the deep peace of living under the grace of God.

    I missed them as I continued down the grocery lane to the paper products. I was alone and yet I felt God reminding me that I was never alone. This treasure he had stored up in my heart seemed full to overflowing as I pushed the cart down the organic aisle. Finally, I made my way to the check-out lane nearest the florist corner. As I lazily put my items on the conveyor belt I heard them.

    Looking up over my shoulder I locked eyes with a mother trying to unload her groceries as her children acted up behind her. In that moment I saw the shame in her downtrodden features. That glance communicated to her that unlike me she wasn’t feeling restful or blessed. I looked away quickly feeling the condemnation exuding from her.

“Your total is $83.98,” the cashier declared as I turned back around. Fumbling through my wallet I found my debit card to pay. Handed the receipt I pushed my cart away from the troubled little family still arguing behind me when the Lord spoke.

“Go encourage that woman, Dianne.”

I stopped by the flower arrangements hoping I was just hearing things.

“Go encourage that woman, Dianne.”

As I stared at the pot of daisies I reasoned with the Lord. “But God she is obviously having a bad day and I don’t want to make her feel worse.”

As the feeling pressed I looked up to see her leaving through the opposite doors.

“Ok I reasoned I will leave and if I see where she is parked I will go to her,”I said pushing my cart through the automatic doors nearest me.

   Outside the air was warm and damp on this early fall night. I saw her pushing her cart at the other end of the parking lot, so with a determination to be obedient I pushed my cart across the parking lot after her. The van door was open when I arrived. Just as I was about to speak I heard her swear and slap her middle-school aged child across the face. She noticed I was standing there as her hand drew back.

    There was silence for a long moment as she realized I had just witnessed her rage. Again I felt bad that I had to lock eyes with her, but I proceeded anyway not at all sure what I would say.

“Hi, I’m Dianne I’m a mom too and I just wanted to come over to encourage you to hang in there. 

Can I pray for you?”

The frazzled mother came out of the van visually embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t usually act like this. It’s just been so hard lately with my daughter…”

   I put my hand on her shoulder as I told her how God had stopped me and told me to come over to encourage her.

    In that moment her countenance changed. Hope started to break through the cloudy discouragement she felt. I began to pray for her and her children in the quiet of the dark evening in the lonely parking lot of the grocery store. In that moment the peace of God surrounded not only the mother but her three amazed children as they watched from the van.

    With tears in her eyes, the mother hugged me and thanked me for taking the time. Gone from her face and posture were the stress and torment I had seen on her features. She instead looked rested and at peace, ready to mother her children again.

    As I pushed my cart back to my van, I thanked God I could help her in her most desperate moment. I thought of all the times I wished someone had been there when I felt my patience give way to fury with my own children.  I thought about Grandpa Singleton again and how he freely loved me and made me feel like I belonged. As I unloaded my groceries in my van it became clear: God wants us to feel like we can come just as we are, He wants us to sit down close to his knee like Grandpa Singleton, so He can tell us all the stories of his faithfulness.

     

  

The Art of Life

   

    My favorite class in grade school was Art class. The art room was located on the top floor next to the fifth-grade classrooms. It was decorated with close hanger mobiles and smelled of clay and paint. Eagerly I would take my place at a table in the middle of the room ready for the teacher to give us a new assignment. Art was a challenge I felt confident I could succeed at, it was a nice reprieve from the math and grammar classes I found more of a struggle.

    In my memory, one of my favorite challenges was using tissue paper to create a 3-dimensional artwork. On such Art class days, we were given the freedom to choose from many colorful tissue paper squares to create the image we had in mind.

    I remember the thrill I experienced at looking into the boxes filled with colorful squares and the light feathery feel of the squares in my hand as I walked back to my table. Armed with an eraser free number 2 pencil and a bottle of "Elmers" glue I started my art expression by twisting the first tissue paper square around my pencil top. Dotting the picture with glue I carefully glued the tissue paper square down by pressing the flat eraser-less tip covered in tissue paper onto the paper then slowly lifting the pencil straight up leaving behind the tissue paper bud sticking straight up.

     On Valentines Day week we worked on a Heart. With passion, I worked fervently thinking of how my mother would love the 3-dimensional heart. Using pink, red, and white I twisted and glued what seemed like a thousand tissue paper squares to express my love for the woman who tirelessly served me. Art was a way to speak when words seemed hard to communicate.

    In a home of boys, I felt like I had to fight to get anything to eat and any shred of attention. But in Art, it flowed easily. I still love to paint with reds and yellows. I love the sight of the bright colored flowers at the local park as they bloom dramatically in mid summer. Color awakens my soul even when life seems dull.

    We have just entered a new year. We have just started a new season, Winter. Absent are the bright colors of tulips and autumn leaves instead the forecast speaks of fog, gray skies, and snow. As I woke up this morning I started thinking of my old love for tissue paper art and actually thought about cutting up some squares to make something. Such memories got me to thinking…Life is Art.

   It is not about what you have, but what you can make out of it. Children are fascinated by color. When my children were little opening up a can of play-do was so stimulating I had to watch carefully to see if they would try to take a bite. In the summer time if we spotted a hot air balloon they stood mesmerized. They were easily captivated by the wonder of the details of life. Somewhere along the way I stopped looking around and enjoying the little splashes of color each day has to offer.  

   No matter how dull life may appear right now I want to encourage you to get some paint out. Splash some color into the mundane. If you are feeling stuck don’t just settle for the status quo, take out some crayons and begin to draw a new dream. Some of us might not feel youthful anymore, but don’t let that stop you from creating something new.

    I sat trying to think of a New Year's resolution this morning. I had a list of very mature boring goals, but just for fun, I started adding some color to the grown-up to do list. I want to take time for tissue paper squares and hide-and-go-seek. After all, we only live once and I want my life to be a work of Art sparkling with fantastic color, depth, and imagination. 

Game Day

“Wake up Dianne,” my Dad called, “It's game day.”

    I jumped out of bed to see how cold it was outside. The fall leaves were blowing faintly in the front yard but the sun was brightly shining. I quickly pulled on my jeans and threw on my favorite sweatshirt. Is that what people wore to these things?

    In a half hour I joined my Dad in the passenger seat for the hour and a half drive to the trolley we would ride to the Football stadium. As we passed the green mile markers on the highway I listened while Dad talked excitedly about the Hawkeyes rank this year. At the green trolley, we met Uncle Rick who had invited us. He too was excited about the game day adventure. The trolley was filled with people buzzing with enthusiasm. As I looked out the window, black and gold clad fans were milling everywhere on the streets.

     Soon we were all shuffling out of the trolley and entering the roaring stadium. The smell of popcorn, hotdogs and beer filled the air. The happy cadence of the marching band mingled with the cheering of countless fans as we walked through the gray floored concession area before entering the long flight of stairs out into the open air. The day was near sixty degrees with plenty of afternoon sun to make the game comfortable.

    Looking for our seats was breathtaking as I look through the sea of fans. Below the football teams were making their grand entrances as the marching band marched to the theme song. Climbing over four people apologetically we settled into our seats. I couldn’t believe I had been chosen to spend a day with my Father and Uncle above my brothers. I looked around in complete bliss and wonder.

I spent the next moments hearing about past games and experiences and listening to the excited chatter of brothers sharing memories. Though the football players looked small from our seats the atmosphere was thick with excitement.

“Let's Go Hawkeyes!” we shouted as one hoping for a touchdown.

   Meanwhile, I chomped on the butter popcorn I drew from the little white bag it was purchased in. The corners of my mouth stung from the salt. It was a small price to pay for such a thrilling experience. I racked my brain to remember the rules of football from the gym unit we had last spring. For once I wished I had paid attention in gym class. Shrugging I decided to focus on the cheerleaders. They looked like perfect little Barbies in their skinny mini uniforms with glittery pom-poms.

After several hours and two touchdowns I started to grow weary of the loud sounds and the huge crowd, as the fans all hung their heads in depression. It appeared that we might not pull through for the win.

“Come on Hawkeyes! Let's go!”

    At the close of the game, they were still down 2 points, but the Hawkeyes had possession of the ball and had the opportunity for a field goal. The crowd hushed in unison as the kicker ran to the football. As the football sailed through the air as one, the audience, leaned forward to see if the ball would make it through the field goal. 1-2-3 seconds passed like an eternity as the football bounced on the ground clearly making the goal…Roar!!!!

    The Hawkeye fans went wild as the game ended in a victory. The pep band played happily as Tubas and flutes seemed to dance a gig together to the clash of the cymbals. The fans began to exit as the teams shook hands. Waiting for a break in the crowd my father and Uncle sat laughing as they recounted what they had just encountered. I will never forget the love I felt to be invited to sit with the good ol' boys on “Game Day.”