Not Quite Grown

     

           I have a daughter who thinks she's grown, but she's not quite. A few months ago the State of Iowa gave her a driver's license. To her this is a badge of Freedom. She is head strong when I talk to her.

"Mom I know," she will say, "I took driver's Ed."  

     I have lived a long time now. I have had to renew my driver's license many times and some how the picture comes out more disappointing every time.  I have one question, why can't we smile in the photo? I mean really? I am concerned about the depressing mugshots we all are required to carry in our wallets and purses.  

     Seriously though, do I have the attitude that I have arrived. I took the class on life and there is nothing else to learn? I seriously hope I don't slip into that attitude, but I know sometimes I do. 

     I remember the confidence I had going into becoming a parent. I had a clear road map of what it would be like after reading What to Expect When Your Expecting.  But on the way home from the hospital all that confidence seemed to fly out the window as I sat in the back seat next to my tiny son. He wasn't a Premie, he was an average size at birth; 8 Lbs, 3 ounces. He looked like a little pink ball in the huge car seat, and I couldn't get his head to lay back comfortably. 

     Where were the directions? I remember thinking. But over time ... It's hard not to feel like You've got this.

      In a home of children in the teenage stage I realize I am back to a place of question. How do I raise these brilliant kids in a dark world? In the age of social media and cell phones I find myself wishing I could smash it all with a hammer and go back to a simpler time. When friends had to call you on their land line to go to a mall you had to get out of your car to shop in.

    The truth is we can't go back to the 90's. We are in a new time and I am getting more unsure of myself everyday as the world gets increasingly darker, so where do I turn in all the chaos?

    I am learning to catch myself when I act as if I know it all. I am starting to stop myself and look up. I am starting to pray to the Lord instead of lean on my own understanding. Could prayer be as simple as the Lord's Prayer Jesus laid out to his disciples in Matthew 6:9-13.

Our Father which art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy Name

     When I pray this, I essentially admit that God is on a different level than I am. I invite his wisdom that is greater than my own to change my perspective. 

Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven

    What if life is not summed up in all I can see with my physical eyes. Perhaps on the road to life I can't see the full picture. There are blind spots. When I acknowledge God's perspective, when I see His kingdom is greater than my own then I can make room for his Voice to navigate my life.

 Give us this day our daily bread. 

      I need to know that I am not alone. I need help with raising children, and over time I can stop asking for help and just try to deal with the demands parenting brings on my own. Unfortunately, experience has taught me that my own way of dealing isn't the best way. I need a bigger perspective. When I acknowledge that I need God, I open my heart to a possibility of gaining a wisdom bigger than myself.

And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil 

for Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever

 AMEN

     Praying this phrase reminds me that I may have a driver's license for life but I see that God is the one in control. I want to live in such a way that I reflect his hope, joy, and healing to the broken world around me. And as I raise this almost grown girl, I want to look to a wisdom that is higher than my own. 

     Sometimes I may think that I am grown, but I'm not quite. I'm still in a process and that is okay. I am gaining hope as I turn to God in prayer. Life is uncertain these days, but I am reminded again this morning that God is good, and so today I give him permission to Take the Wheel.      

      

Little Red Curls

                                

      I have a friend who has a daughter with carrot red curls. This baby's fine curls stop you in your tracks. The perfect ringlets make it hard not to reach out your hand to touch them.

I asked my friend one day, "How did you get her curls to look like that?"

   I have worn my natural curls without apology all my life. In the 90's when perms were all the rage it was easy, but when the 2000's hit with the flat iron taking hairstyle's main stage I declined the pressure to conform and live a straight hair life. But taking care of curls is not as easy as it may appear, as I look at this little sun-kissed face under the halo of auburn curls what I saw, more than anything, was her mother's love and care for her.

   It takes a lot of work just to allow this little one's hair to curl in all its glory. It reminds me how hard it is to raise our children and cultivate their uniqueness. The challenge to look beyond the struggles and moods is daunting. To piece together a plan for the child to shine in all her glory can even seem impossible.

     I realize now that I misunderstood the Christian life when I thought my kids would blindly follow in my footsteps if I just pointed them to Christ. Unfortunately, I forgot the first story of the Heavenly Father and his kids, Adam and Eve. I never thought raising them to know God would be a spiritual battle every single day. 

    Sometimes I wish I could go back to the Preschool years and repair what I missed when I had three children back to back. Later on, I wish I was more present when they came running home from school to show me their projects and their achievements. I wish I celebrated the small things more often. In those years I was chasing my own ambition and trying to balance a thousand plates like some Chinese acrobat from Taipei.

    No I didn't make it without dropping some major plates...

    And today I am feeling low. After spending hours last night in conversation with one of my almost grown, I couldn't help but feel the sting of my short comings.

"I'm Sorry," I heard myself saying.

     Now I'm sounding like my Father.  When I was a teenager after an argument I would slam my bedroom door. Without fail in a few minutes I would hear a knock and his voice gentler now, Dianne I'm sorry...

      I remember thinking if he didn't lose his cool he wouldn't have to apologize. 

     Now I realize how much love it took to make peace with an unreasonable teenage girl. Now I know that tough conversations with our kids are risky but worth it in the long run. I finally see how his muffled apology through my slammed bedroom door groomed my heart to find a man that cared about my thoughts and not just my appearance.

    As I looked at my own troubled child my heart hurt with I didn't mean to let you down!
 
       I don't like saying "I'm doing the best that I can" but I can't help feeling like I am raising these children in the dark sometimes. I hate the moments when I realize as much as I wanted to walk in wisdom I fell short. That is when faith comes in.

     My Sons and daughters will you trust me to try my hardest? Will you still love me when I mess up royally? Will you still forgive me on the 78th time for the same annoying habit? Will you continue to love me if I smother you? Even when I know I shouldn't. I am trying to let the sticks build up in the nest so these young almost adults will find their wings... but it is wrecking me.

     Parents, am I alone here? I look at my Facebook feed I see more of my peers turning gray in their season of raising teenagers. I see wrinkles gathering in the corners of their eyes and the furrows in their brow. I understand and I forgive my own face for reflecting the sleepless nights, the stress and heaviness this season has brought.

    Today I don't feel like I have even a kernel of wisdom to share.

    Even when I want to give up there is hope. Sure in this present moment there are some major road blocks, but somehow I still believe. That somehow is the Holy Spirit who lives in me. At first appearance I look like a meek little lamb, but on the inside there is something fierce like a lioness.

It is true, I am a Jesus Freak. I have been known to sing it out loud without apology, but somehow in my own home I can get really quiet. Some how in an effort to listen, to lead gently I can slip into a lambs skin...

         but just in case I forget who I am,

         who God says I am, who God says my offspring are 

         I am pausing right now to let out my roar.

     I love how my friend takes time to care for the little details in her daughter's life. She gently cares for her natural curls so they will bounce and shine. I am thankful that God has given the mother's heart the ability to look into all the details. It is our way, and when the times get tough I am also thankful for the firm foundation I come back to again and again. The rock that is higher than I.

    If you are discouraged today gather up your faith. Tend it carefully for it is secret to our strength as women. It is our strength in times of long suffering and on the road of parenting those times will come upon us all. So tend your heart, allow God to encourage you from the inside out.  

We've got this.
   

From Sorrow to Praise

                                                                         

I saw you tonight on the track. The pink sky cast a golden haze across the black surface as my shoes hit again and again. I saw your blue eyes there between the night sky and my revere, intense like the ocean waves. You were intense, I remember, with a smile as I finish the first mile.

 You were my friend first because our youngest daughters were in the same Sunday school class. Your little girl was white blond with the same brilliantly blue eyes. My little Lydia had my brown eyes. They shared an affinity for Princesses. I learned that you had a passion for the Word of God and raising the four children God had given you. You loved a good bargain and had a green thumb. But more than anything you cared deeply and put your whole heart into everything you put your hand to.

 I marveled at the story of how you found out you were expecting your youngest. You laughed as you told me how you couldn't believe you were going to have another baby at the age of 40. I remember thinking I would not even dream of doing that. Time passed. Our little girls had birthday parties and started school. Our lives became busier with my work and the sport schedule of your kids. Each one of them so important to you.

 Then one day you came to see me. There were storms brewing in your eyes. The Oncologist had found cancer again. This time it had spread to other areas, the report wasn't good. I sat with you for a few hours as you told me about an alternate treatment you were trying. I listened unsure of what to say. I silently hoped that the new treatment would do what reports had said it had done for others. I wanted to believe as I prayed for God to heal you. Then we hugged, it was like saying Amen.

 Months flew by before I saw you again. Your oldest boy was in his Senior year. You were frustrated because you wanted him to do his very best. I don't think those blue eyes could see how amazing your kids were turning out. But I sat and listened and prayed. When I found out I was pregnant at 39, I thought of you instantly. By that time you had been struggling with the diagnosis for over two years. Your hair was cut short which made you even more beautiful. I whispered the news to you first at a luncheon held at the church. As others were talking about the most recent NFL game I was whispering my surprise to you. I will never forget how your eyes lit up and your face burst into a huge grin. I hugged your thinning frame as we shared that moment. You remembered your own story as I shared mine under whispering tones surrounded by people.

 Later that year I visited you at home. Hospice had come in to care for you. Even on your bad days you would gather your strength to talk and laugh and recount that crazy year you were expecting your little Olivia, now 10 years old. We laughed and prayed and sang and shared scripture. Even in the pain your blue eyes glistened with hope for the future. You had hoped to live to see her graduate from high school. Although you hated cancer you loved life and believed all the way to the end that Jesus would raise you up off the bed of sickness.

 The day before I went into the hospital to have the baby I came to visit you one last time. Your family greeted us as so many others had gathered. Pictures of your pretty smile flashed on the television screen. I could hear the quiet melody of Amazing Grace playing over head as family and friends gathered to comfort your husband and your four kids. I stopped to look at you resting in the casket. As I looked at the shell that remained of the strong vibrant woman I knew I thought cancer never won, you had rung every drop of life out of your days.

 Your handsome oldest son now in college stood tall as I whispered, “Michelle, he made it.You did so good.” As I spoke to your older daughter who had the same intense blue eyes I cheered for you again. Tears welled up for your third, my son's friend, as he looked lost standing in line with his siblings and grieving father. My heart hurt most for your little Olivia. The one you didn't expect to have, your surprise. It didn't seem right that she would have to grow up without this amazing woman to mother her.

 "Good bye," I whispered to you. I really whispered to an empty casket because the Michelle I knew was free from her body of sickness. The Michelle I knew was dancing on streets of gold and sitting at the feet of the ultimate bible teacher. The Michelle I knew was no longer fighting cancer. The Michelle I knew was finally free. The next day as I was in labor I couldn't stop thinking about you. I kept asking the Lord, Why? I never saw you waiver in your faith that God could do the impossible for you. You sang a song of healing all the way to your final breath.

 The hospital room was dark, the hour was 3:00 PM, when I started to praise. I didn't feel like praising God. He had just taken my dear friend home before I felt she was needed. The contractions were intense and the Pitocin given every half hour didn't seem to be working toward my induction, but in the midst of my pain and suffering I began to praise with this simple phrase, God you are good. Your blue eyes were glimmering in my mind's eye as I praised the God of heaven and earth again. God you are good. I gave the Lord all the sorrow for you and for me, I surrendered it there.

 God you are good.

 The nurse came into the room as I asked for an epidural. But before she could give me one my son was born. I named him Judah, which means Praise. Every time I look into his eyes I think of that first day, the day of his birth. The day my grief turned to praise.

 As I run the length of the track I hear your faith in the quiet breeze of this summer night. I remember you, Michelle, tonight through labored breaths and the burn of muscles moving toward the finish. I will never know why you were taken too soon, but I have learned from you. I am raising my little Judah surprise with joy for today, for this moment.

As I think of you I remember life is short, it is unpredictable. But I refuse to give into the fear of what tomorrow holds. My work out is over and I am drenched in the summer's humidity and again I am grateful for my old friend, the one with the beautiful blue eyes. And as the last of the sun sets behind the trees I whisper, Michelle, I will see you again.

Graduation Day

                                                                                         

   

      I remember when I became a parent I was confident. I was confident I was ready. I was 24 years-old. On maternity leave from a preschool teaching position, I was sure I had it all under wraps. The nursery in our little home was painted baby blue with little stars on the ceiling. Tiny clothes were folded with care and put into the refurbished dresser I painted to match the theme Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. 

         Then in the middle of the night on a Sunday morning my water broke. No more prepping for this baby boy, he was coming. I remember the excitement that I felt as we drove to the hospital before the labor became intense.  I didn't appreciate the nursing students that were invited into the room as I roared through the contractions. In the arms of the doctor his angry cry filled the room as he peed on the doctors shoes, a detail Isaiah would boast about later. 

I loved him instantly.  

          I hoped he would always be strong like he was in his first moments in this world. It must have felt bewildering to be pushed into bright light and cold air and loud voices. But when they gave him to me I cried. His tiny fist clutched instantly around my finger, he was mine.

          Four years later I held his hand as we entered the narrow hall toward his Preschool classroom. I had to let go to hang up his tiny backpack on the hook by his name printed neatly above his cubby. The teacher waited for us with a warm smile. I smiled down at him knowing tears threatened to appear. For a moment he struggled. Beyond his teacher the room was full of wonderful things and other children coloring, playing with plastic kitchen food, and handling puppets. He took in one more hug before he slowly joined the rest of the kids. I remember leaving that day sadly wondering where four years had gone.  

         Our home has never been quiet. After Isaiah, Elaina and Lydia came quickly. Isaiah was a good student. He knew his ABC's before the first day of preschool, in fact he could already read. We knew he was bright but also shy. We hoped he would fit in.

        How did the years fall like leaves on an autumn day? How did my my little brown haired boy grow up so quickly? I have a hard time writing about this present moment. Again he is standing at the door. Life is standing before my boy welcoming him to leave the nest I have worked hard to create these past eighteen years. As he puts on his graduation gown I smile bravely. He made it to this important milestone and I know from this point on I have to let go so that he can find his wings to fly.

       Any parent  reading this right now knows that this process though crucially important is also very difficult. I look up at his face and his slender frame towering above me at 6 Feet tall. His hugs are a precious gift though a little awkward now. I cherish the, Mom I love you I hear from his deepening voice.

        There is a pain in my heart. As the sense of the past 18 years surges through my memory bank. I sit in the stands in the high school gym. The air filled with the smell of hairspray, perfume, and hand sanitizer. As the families spread out keeping social distance we silently watch our sons and daughters file into the room to take their seats. Because of the pandemic of COVID 19 I didn't have to face this moment quite as early as normal. I am thankful for the last few months. I am thankful for the long conversations into the night.

         As a parent I am not as confident as I thought I would be. I realize that faith has played a huge part in raising this son. How I have hoped to get it right, and I pray for grace to cover the areas I got wrong. 

        As the Principle announces my first born's name I watch as he walks across the platform. The diploma is placed in his hand. For a moment I think back to the anticipation I felt on the night before his birth. Standing in his nursery. I remember how confident I had been before this adventure was born. 

      Now I hold my hands out to God and I release this boy. I pray, Lord watch over this precious son you have given me. I know he will now have to start his own journey in this world. And though tears are pressing I am confident that he will find his way. 

          
       
          

Happy Birthday to Me

                                                                             

    

 It is early. The alarm went off but my eyes didn't want to open. Then I remembered, today is my birthday. I am getting up early to enjoy the whole day. The sun is shining through the drawn curtains as the moving shadow of the near by wind turbine reminds me that I live on a farm. 

      I never thought I would live on a farm. I never thought I would marry a Pastor. I never thought I would be able to do all the things I have done or traveled outside the country to South America, Africa, and India. I never thought I would have four children. In fact, I never thought through what my adult years would look like, but here I am, turning 43 years old today.

     I don't like that number. Ever since I turned Forty I hear the whispers of "over the hill." These words come from inside more than outside, although my teenagers definitely feed this insecurity. As I look in the mirror I see the lines that life has forced into appearance. But I also see the wisdom that has grown through living and learning.

    I don't speed down the country highway by my house anymore, because though it is scenic I still got pulled over going 80 in a 55. When the officer asked me why I was going so fast I stammered out an explanation.  But to be honest, it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon so I floored it. 

Oops!

   I am presently in the season of teenagers. A time when I am learning to choose my words carefully. A season spent on my knees interceding for my three almost grown. 

   So what do we do when time keeps going and life is demanding?

   For some reason when I ask this question I think of my grandmother, on my Father's side, Grandma Tullis. In her golden years we would sit in her front room together. Sometimes our conversation centered around her purplish-blue Morning Glories. Sometimes she would talk about the poems she wrote after her early morning walks. Her favorite topic to discuss by far though, in her own words, The Lord. 

    When I think of her I feel proud that she bought a piano in her Fifties so she could learn how to play hymns. I remember gathering in the living room as a family to hear her play. Afterward my cousin and I would sit on the piano bench together to tinker around on the ivory keys. Her piano is now in my basement, it is one of my treasures. I still run my finger across the metal sticker on the lid that says Jesus is Lord thinking of grandma.

     

      I vividly remember the pew the whole Tullis family sat on at the Baptist church every Sunday.  It was hard to sit quietly in my Sunday best. But as she looked down the pew at all of us, I knew she was proud to have us there. She came to know Jesus as her Savior later in life, and she was never entirely free of the rough edges, and neither am I. But she loved her God and as we sat talking together her love for Jesus spilled out.

    Some how as I get older I see her in the mirror. I see the optimistic attitude to keep trying new things. To keep noticing the little things. One of her favorites was to spot cardinals on her early morning walks. Thinking of her reminds me of the happy ring of her laughter, when my dad told a funny story.  I see her warm smile encouraging me, "Dianne you pray so beautifully. "

    When I was 20 I could never picture being 43. That would be out in the future, somewhere after marriage and children, but I have arrived.  

    

    And in this moment I realize the most important thing I have learned, I learned from Arlene Tullis, Love the Lord. So I have, and oh the adventures I have been on. As a twenty year-old I looked at life fearfully wondering if I could actually live life bravely. But through my faith in Jesus Christ I have been amazed at the courage He has given me.

    So today as I face another milestone I am excited to embrace 43. I know that God is with me and life with Him is an exciting pursuit. 

    

   Friends I know it is hard not to battle fear at this time in our country, but there is Hope. My grandmother found her Faith in her Fifties, and she passed it down to the next generation. It is my prayer that I too am passing it down to my children. 

 Thank you Grandma Tullis for your faith, it has meant the world to me. 

    

  So when time keeps going and life is demanding I encourage myself and I encourage you, don't give up. Dig deep to find Faith and don't ever stop trying and looking for the little wonders in life.

Happy Birthday to me.   

The Messy Cupboard

   

On the Edge of the Ocean

    

      It felt good to sink my feet into the wet sand. My freshly painted toe nails stood out against my tanning feet as the clear salt water rushed over them. The roar of the ocean was only disturbed by the seagulls call over head and the giggling laughter of my two year-old as he ran along the edge of the water. The sun over head warmed our mid-western skin.

    Behind us two teenage girls sunned themselves on lawn chairs we had rented. Their phones were in the air as they posed for selfies. I watched them for a moment behind sunglasses and underneath a baseball cap. I didn't want to burn my face. The water was warm at my feet so I took another few steps. It surged around my ankles before rushing back into the ocean.

    Judah fell and salt water splashed into his mouth. He spit and sputtered before wiping his face on my cover-up. In a moment he was back to running, jumping, and exploring. I stood looking out upon the vast waters. Little white dots lined the horizon, I knew they were boats but I couldn't make out what type they were. I was hoping to see a dolphin, but the waters were quiet this mid morning on Treasure Island beach.

    I smiled thinking of our time as a family. We had loaded the plane in Iowa relatively quickly. We had found our rental van without a hitch. We drove from Orlando Florida down to the coast through a rain storm but now the clouds were gone. The beach vacation was in full swing.

    I have given up the notion that we will gather around the table to play a board game. We have never been able to play more than one round of Monopoly without a major upset. My favorite game Boggle doesn't even interest anyone. We have never been into playing cards, but the ocean I was sure would bring us together. We are from Iowa, a state that only boasts of fresh water lakes as crystal clear as a glass of muddy water.

    I looked up the coast to see Brad walking, thinking, maybe praying. Family takes a lot of prayer. Who knew that six individuals would have a hard time seeing eye to eye. We are in the midst of the teenage years when Parents are stupid morons that don't know anything about anything. I encourage myself that I grew out of this stage and they will too...

Please Lord, hear my prayer. 

    At the edge of the welcoming waters I linger not sure I want to get wet. My hair will be a disaster and what if there is a jellyfish. Before I can take another step a red bikini splashes past me. The younger daughter calls out, "Mom get in, its perfect!"

    She wants to be with me? My heart grows warm with joy. This is a rare treat these days. So I run in, Cover-up discarded on the beach as sunglasses and hat are cast aside. The waters drench every inch of me. My hair unbound flows freely under the waves. The tingle of salt covers me from head to toe and I emerge next to my happy faced girl. We chatter as the waves carry us. The puffy white clouds smile down on us in blue and white.

    This is what I had hoped for.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1Corinthians 13:4-7

Jesus Take the wheel

    I wiggled and pulled to get the dress to fit. But as I looked at myself in the mirror I was proud and scared. The black and white floral dress with the halter top that tied behind my neck finally fit. I hoped the postpartum tummy I tried to slim with four months of rigorous exercise was camouflaged by the ruffles.

"Perfect," I said trying to convince myself that I was ready.

     A few months earlier I had auditioned for the Cedar Valley's American Idol, a fundraiser a local charity was putting on. I had been nervous. I was 28 years-old and self conscious about my age, was I too old? I hadn't sung solo for a few years and I had just had my third child, besides I didn't know any normal songs. I had been singing strictly for the worship team at our small church in Elk Run Heights, Iowa.

    I decided to work on Jesus Take the Wheel, by Carrie Underwood. For two months I sang to my reflection in the purple sun room at every nap time and in the evenings when I had all three little ones in bed. It was in the mirror as I failed to hit the highest note, for the tenth time, that I heard it again. You're not good enough. Whether it was the devil or my inner critic or a combination of them both I will never know. But this Postpartum mommy had something to prove to herself.

     It had been five years since I graduated from college. My only source of income was a handful of voice lessons I reluctantly gave. I was full of doubt in those days. I questioned if I was worthy of teaching anyone how to sing. I wondered if I had been wrong about my own voice. At church I sang back up and I struggled to read music. The old self doubt rumbled through my soul whispering, Is that all you got? None the less, when I heard about the contest I signed up to audition.

      The auditions were held at the same Holiday Inn we had our wedding reception at some 8 years before. I couldn't breathe or think as I waited in the lobby with other hopefuls.

      "Dianne Singleton," a young lady in black jeans and too much eyeliner called out.

     I followed her to a conference room, there three judges sat in padded chairs with note books open and the video camera rolling. Taking a deep breath I introduced myself and the song I would be singing.  His Eye is on the Sparrow reverberated off the walls. This was the one song I was confident I wouldn't mess up even under pressure.

     A few days later I was notified that I was accepted as one of the 10 finalists.  Over the next month I met with a voice coach. I hadn't met with a coach for years and I felt vulnerable. I could understand why my voice students were so shy for the first few sessions, I felt their pain. But she was kind as she encouraged me not to hold back.

   Its hard to sing out, to be seen, when you don't like the girl you see in the mirror. So I practiced more, and I talked back to the accuser in my head. "Dianne you can do this!"

    Finally the night came, I had my song rehearsed and I was ready to go. I remember waiting back stage with the rest of the competitors. One singer dressed in a white suit performed while playing piano. He was so smooth he even worked in some dance steps.  Another contestant had a strong bluesy voice that would have reviled Aretha Franklin. Intimidated butterflies filled my stomach as I questioned why I was doing this at all. There was really only one older gal dressed in blue jeans with big hair, who sang country that I knew that I could beat.

    But then my name was called. I stood behind the curtain in the darkness with the microphone. I could see the country singer just finishing her number cascaded in the pink and purple lights. I could hear the roar of the audience after her last note. As I waited, I felt the surge of raw nerves and the cool sensation of perspiration.

     It is in that moment that something in me becomes brave. It might be that I was the third child of four and I rarely got the center of attention. But somehow under the spot light I grow stronger. I whispered to my soul, "Come on Dianne, you've done the practice now sing it with all your heart."

      The music track started and I walked out. The lights hid the faces from me as I began to sing. My right knee was shaking but I tried to keep my mouth from quivering. "Jesus Take the wheel..." I sang and got through all the high parts. I moved carefully locked up with fear. I tried to open my heart as I sang and drowned out the ugly accuser as even under the hot lights he tried to whisper, Unworthy.

    In the struggle of nerves I felt the kindness of God helping me out of my fear. Jesus take the wheel cause I can't make it on my own. The lyric became my prayer as I looked out into the shadowy auditorium. "God I give you my voice and may it be used to heal, to help, and to bring hope." Emotion burned from my heart up through my throat and glistened in my eyes as I finished the song. The crowd clapped and cheered, but it was the applause of heaven that made me feel like I had won.

    I didn't win the contest, the Country singer beat all of us. I felt frustrated that I had wasted my time, but God has a way of getting his message to us. The following Sunday I was at church when a friend came up to me. She waited as I shook several peoples hands before telling me her little story.

"Dianne, I was shopping in the Cedar Falls HyVee grocery store, a few days ago. I am not sure why I was even there. Anyway, I was walking down the baking aisle when I heard two ladies talking.

One said,  "I can't believe she didn't win."

The others said, "I know, when I heard her sing Jesus Take the Wheel I felt moved, like there was some kind of power coming off the stage."

The other chimed in, "I had goosebumps."

      I looked at my friend. She was excited to share what she over heard, but what she didn't know is that I had prayed, Lord, please move through my voice to people's hearts. I don't care if I win. And what I didn't realize is that I forgot that little prayer, but God did not and in his kindness decided to remind me about my true victory.

    It turned out that I did care if I won, but when my friend told me the grocery store story I felt pleased. God had answered my prayer. He had taken the wheel.

     That contest had helped me to take my voice seriously again. I learned that God wasn't finished with me yet. That little over heard story encouraged me when the ugly doubts tried to steal my triumph. To this day, I hold onto that lesson every time I open my mouth to sing.
.
Jesus, please take the Wheel.

What is a Mother?

     She sat on my waterbed for the third run through of my lines. I stood in front of the glass mirror closet doors to rehearse The Insanity of Mary Girard. I was about to get to my favorite part when I missed a line.

   "Mom what is the line again?" I asked irritated. She fumbled through the script to find the precise line. It took her too long, I was already wallowing in self-doubt. My sixteen year old body fell to the floor. "I'm never going to get this. The Speech contest is tomorrow morning."

"Dianne, you can do this. Don't get upset, just try it again."

    I would gather my strength and try it one more time. I would nail it. She would hug me and leave me to my boy band posters. I would forget about the time she had just spent with me. I wouldn't realize how that time would push dinner off a half hour and potentially put my three brothers and my dad on edge. No, instead I would look in the mirror dreaming of a new way of fixing my hair as I touched up my finger polish.

    Moms do so much for us. I realize that now that I am one. This morning I will preach a sermon to the moms in Montezuma, Iowa on a mechanical lift as cars gather at the local high school parking lot. This is church in quarantine. It is windy and cold today. But I got up early to bake cinnamon rolls for the kids. In my mind I am carrying a dozen tasks as think of all the details it will take for us to get out the door successfully this morning. I know that my list is too grand and I can't possibly get it all done but I hope for a wonderful morning with my kids.

    Time flies. The years with babies seem at the time to go slowly but if you blink too quickly you'll miss it. I remember the day we dropped Isaiah off at Kindergarten. I wanted to be strong. I didn't cry when I walked him to the little hook with a happy sign above it with his name printed clearly. When he met his teacher that morning and turned to me for one more hug I could feel a tear letting lose so I hurried out. How does that day now seem like yesterday as we prepare for his graduation?

    In recent years as my three olders have become teenagers I have thought of my mom a million times. Sometimes I nod to myself, and say,"I get it now. Other times I call her crying, "Mom raising these kids is so hard, will you please pray for me?

     Lately as I look in the mirror I see her face. I am the same age my mom was as she sat on the Waterbed helping me with lines. I realize now how much that time was a act of love. In my adult years I have been in many plays, I have sung many songs for many people, I have written songs and blogs, and traveled to foreign countries to share the love of God. But deep down I know that my courage comes from the love of a great mother.

    This morning as I woke up I thought about this day. I thought about my children still asleep in their beds. I could feel the hope for them like the fragrant sweet smells coming from the oven as the cinnamon rolls turn golden. I have a hope that they will reach their dreams like I have. That they will embrace their faith and be able to see further than their wildest dream like I have. I dream that today they won't argue or pick at each other.

    The reality is I may not see all these things happen with my own eyes. Just as my mother doesn't even know about the countless times a day I think of her. I thank God for her.

    She had no formal training as a mom, do any of us? She just did her best and leaned out to her Savior as much as she could.

    Her hair is white now. Sorry mom that might have been my doing. I haven't got to see her since this quarantine thing started, but the ones you love are always in the heart. Today I needed to pause and write my thoughts.

    Thank you Mom for your tireless love for me and those wild Tullis boys. You played basketball and quoted Shakespeare. You made delicious meals and mended our cuts and bruises. You prayed with me and wiped my tears. Now I am doing the same for the next generation.

     I love your beautiful face and your sweet prayers. I love the way you have always loved me.

For all Moms, today is a national holiday to acknowledge all that you do. The list is too long and the sacrifices too great to list. I pray that today you feel loved and cherished because you deserve it.

Thank you. 

Crying over Goldfish and Pink Lemonade

    "Don't you even care about me?" she cried.

      I was trying to pull the asparagus from the Instant Pot as the timer on the oven indicated the bacon was done. Brad was just outside the kitchen glass door grilling the chicken. She was ravaging through the drawer right underneath the instant pot.

     I roared, "Get out of the way!" I was trying to put yet another dinner together that everyone would eat. She huffed and puffed a little louder, "Why don't we have any balloons. Do you want me to fail?"

    In that moment I didn't care. I had one focus, it was to get another meal on the table. Instead of sweet motherly care I had a wild look of determination in my eye. I flipped the grilled cheese sandwiches on the electric skillet as I tried to say in a calmer voice, "Can we please look for a possible random balloon after I get done preparing dinner?"

    Undeterred she continued to shuffle through the drawer as the asparagus started getting soft and limp in the hot water. She grumbled about how unfair life was not having parents that were organized enough to locate a balloon on demand for her project. This project I had just learned about five minutes ago.

Life is unfair.

     It is unfair for her. It is unfair for me. It is unfair for our sweet little two year-old that has to hear the run around our fights cause almost every night at meal time.

Expectations are dashed daily in this family life.

     At the dinner table Judah drank his "pink" lemonade. Swishing it around in his mouth he spit it back out in his cup. His eyes began to light up at the discovery of a new game. As he repeated the drink, swish, spit routine his sisters complained. He was being so disgusting they thought. As a lesson, the Balloon Complainer dropped a goldfish cracker in his lemonade. She smirked, feeling as if she was dealing out justice. Brad spoke up, "don't do that, you are teaching him to play with his food."

     Sure enough he instantly added two goldfish to his glass of back-washed pink lemonade. Another argument was breaking out spontaneously when Judah's little hand dropped a little fish shaped cracker into the pitcher of pink powdered drink. Fishing it out quickly, I instinctively threw it, hitting the Balloon rights activist/ brother disciplinarian in the face. She looked at me in stunned silence, everyone stopped talking, as the goldfish bounced off her forehead landing on her plate.

"Mom! how could you?"

    How could I? From my point of view this Little Darling had become a pain in my back side and I had no grace, no mercy, and for a moment no maturity in dealing with her.

   After another verbally shower of words I put on my walking shoes. The other sister followed suit. Brad and Judah got dressed to go too. We were almost out the door when the Goldfish assaulted daughter poked her head through the door to the garage.

"Can I go?"

    Everything within me wanted to yell, "NO!" but the mother's heart, the part of me that labored to get this precious child into the world, spoke up, "Sure, get your shoes and hurry the sun will be going down soon."

    The quieter sister mumbled something about life not being fair as I climbed into the back of the van so the Humbled sister could take the front seat.

     In a few minutes we were walking and laughing together on the nature trail. The girl's chatter sang out over the green grass and budding trees. As our feet walked along the black top trail I looked out over the rolling hills of prairie grass. The sky was pink and purple now with the orange gleam of the setting sun. We had forgotten the fight that was so heated only fifteen minutes before as the topics of boy bands and favorite Netflix series were discussed. I realized, in that brief moment,  I was blessed to have these little women in my life.

      The word count of that conversation was well over 10,000. My ears felt exhausted by the time we got back to the van, but my heart felt merry again. This quarantine has created many scuffles, but  we are learning to walk off our anger. We are learning to get over each other's faults.

     I realize as my children grow that I am always wishfully thinking I will be a fair mother. That I will be Cool, calm, and collected. That I will some how be a walking Proverb and my children will want to respect my space, value my time, and listen to me when I need a moment of peace and quiet.

    Life is not fair. And I must confess neither am I. But that is why this family practices the simple phrase "I am sorry" daily and sometimes hourly.

     She got her balloon and was able to finish her project. The world didn't crumble and we forgave each other for the goldfish catastrophe. The sun went down.  We all went to bed finishing one day, and looking forward to the next.

   

The Bargainer's Dozen

     I have a sweet tooth. I hate to admit it these days, but I wasn't always so mindful. In fact for years, sweets were a food group in my diet. Gummy Bears ranked higher than carrots and Brussels sprouts. Peeps replaced Ham on Easter morning. Chocolate Covered cherries were all I stocked my pantry with through the winter months. It wasn't until the blood sugar test they give expectant mother's at their six month appointment that I learned I had gestational diabetes with Judah and my world began to pivot.
Writing down a total number of carbohydrates for each meal started to put a halt on the skittles.

     I thought, certainly if I drink a lot of water and exercise this whole blood sugar thing will get back to normal. I had the mind set that I could conquer anything and especially health. But as I pricked my finger again and again the numbers were always higher than normal. I had to forsake all sugars and embrace the Brussels sprouts. Needless to say, I went through a sugar withdrawal, but in-saline shots started to get my attention.

     The only thing I looked forward too through that last trimester was having the baby so I could get back to my Gummy Bears. I was sick of celery with natural peanut butter. I even dreamed about eating a Snicker's bar when no one was looking. When I finally had Judah I didn't check my blood sugar for a long time. I ate what I wanted to which was a large variety of the third trimester No No's.

     When Judah was about seven months old I thought maybe I should just check my blood sugar. I skipped the post par-tum blood sugar test scheduled for three weeks after his birth. It would have required fasting and 2 1/2 hours of drinking concentrated pop and waiting. I just couldn't fit it in with preparing to move and nursing a newborn. So I held out my finger for a good poke. As I gathered the droplet of blood I waited for the number to pop up, 139 the number read. My heart sunk, the sugar problem had not gone away.

     Once again I said farewell to my sugar buddies that had been helping me through the past few months. I went back to diet and exercise. I cut out regular sugar and I cut carbs. In a few months I was losing a lot of the baby fat and moving past the sugar cravings. I checked my A1C, and it was within normal range. This sounded like good news but I was afraid of myself. You know that inner voice that tries to get you to do all the things you know you shouldn't. Well it started whispering to me again. This time it brought up my old crush, Chocolate frosted donuts with cream filling.

    It just so turned out our new home was only thirty-five minutes from one of the best donut shops I had ever experienced, Jaarsma Bakery in Pella, Iowa. They had chocolate frosted cream filled Bismarks that were like eating a baby angel:) So good!

    Again I fell off the wagon of good eating skills just to have one of these little temptations. Now I am not saying eating donuts is a sin, but they are sinfully good:) I love the way the sugar rush makes my head tingly and I have the energy of a Squirrel. I looked past the stomach ache. I forgot the way I repented after I had to lay in bed after one of my donut indulges. But at some point I put the foot down and I looked myself in the eye.

Knock it off Dianne!

     That is when Brad introduced me to KETO. The weird diet of cooking everything in bacon grease and smothering it with avocados. No donuts were allowed though it was totally acceptable to eat a whole package of bacon in one day. In those days I would yell at the old tempter when my mind would remind me of how happy I was eating a donut. How fun it was to squish a gummy bear between my teeth, especially the ones from the Albanese Candy Store.

   The diet lasted a good four months before I started taking in a treat here and there. I thought I was still practicing moderation until yesterday. A new villian hijacked my sugar heist. Oh it was a clever trap laid before me. I was just going into Dollar General for a few things. At this time of social distancing I am thankful for the moments to shop. In our little community I only have two options, the grocery store and Dollar General. I wasn't prepared for what I was about to walk into.

   As I was looking for raw apple cider vinegar, not an item they carry, my eye was drawn to the little orange sign that read 90% off Easter. Now if there is anything I love more than candy it is a sale of grand proportions. I started digging through the items. I had a small thought in the back of my mind that Covid 19 could be in the box of plastic bunnies, Easter grass and wind-up chicks. BUT THEY WERE 90% off...

    I have a brain injury when it comes to sales. I have bought many items in the past that later I laughed at. Like at Christmas I bought 42 popcorn balls because they were 10 cents each. No one in my house would eat them but I reasoned, we could have a "snow ball" fight. Or we could make a craft.

     I have a problem. I sometimes recognize this, but yesterday when I laid eyes on the huge box filled to the brim full of cartons of Chocolate covered marshmallow eggs I knew I had to stop. My head pounded with the thrill hitting the jackpot. I picked up one package of eggs, it rung up at only 30 cents. I would have been crazy not to go back to get more.

     After purchasing three more dozen I left the store. My mind raced with the excitement of my great buy. I quickly opened the first carton. I'll just eat one, I said to myself. But to be honest the thin coating of chocolate had the perfect crunch contrast to the squishy marshmallow center. I was instantly brought back to the memory of eating these very eggs as a child. Thankfully my brothers didn't like marshmallow eggs so they didn't try to rob my Easter basket.

    As I ate the second and third egg I began to get happy. The sugar rush was beautiful. By the time I drove the 5 miles from the store to my home I surprised myself by discovering I only had three marshmallow eggs left.

    Oh no! this was definitely not good for me. I knew a walk was in order. I could picture the sugar surging through my veins. But the kids were loud, the kitchen was a mess, and I didn't have a plan for dinner, so the last three eggs just disappeared. Stress made me do it!!!

       The moral of this story is: I still have a sweet tooth. And though I have moments of victory, the fiendish side of me still can win. I have a bargain addiction, and I don't think there is medicine for this. I have 3 cartons of eggs that are calling to me as I write this. I am not sure if I should burn them, plastic carton and all, or donate them to the Covid 19 crisis center for other sugar addicts. It is hard to face your weakness and drop kick the chocolate covered marshmallow eggs. But let's be clear: I need to cast them into the sea of forgetfulness.

    My sweet tooth isn't dead and when the going gets tough I secretly like to start eating. I am sorry that as you read this, you are probably getting frustrated with me. With these words I hope to rid myself of the lure of these tasty little death traps . This dilemma is my chronicle of the Bargainer's dozen. 

Getting the Recipe Wrong

         

    I'm worried. Have you ever made a recipe, you have already made enough times that you have  it stored  in your brain. It is lodged there somewhere next to tying your shoes and riding a bike. Yet somehow this time when you pull it out of the oven, it doesn't look right. How could it not look right? I know that I know that I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING...

     After calling the whole family in to look at and taste it everyone concludes the obvious, you missed something. You knew it but when others confirm it some how it just makes the mistake sting a little more. Looking back at the messy counter space, it becomes clear. The milk carton isn't out. Without milk the whole consistency is off.  And then you remember just when you were about to grab the milk from the fridge your phone started buzzing...

    Do you follow my drift? Like rehashing a tried and true recipe stored away in the brain, I tend to think I am fine with relationships. If you ask me how my family is doing most of the time I am honest with my "we're doing great," reply. But something hasn't been quite right and if you come up close you might be able to sense it.

    The problem has been popping up with my men. I have lived with men my whole life but I realize I still don't understand them and they don't really understand me. In an effort to do better I was listening to a podcast about the inner workings of a man's mind.

I shook my head. I have it all wrong, and I just don't know how to get this recipe right.

    Growing up with three brothers I felt frustrated. I cleaned the kitchen while they played basketball. I cared about my grades, I was busy with plays and show choir, but accomplishments didn't get the attention basketball did. I was hurt and defensive.

    After maturing a little and falling in love I was sure the man I married was nothing like my ridiculous brothers. Certainly I would always love and respect him. I have loved him 100% but please, do you expect me to Respect the way he washes dishes but leaves all the silverware in the sink because he abandons ship before they can be cleaned.

    Shouldn't I speak up when he forgets to buy the off brand unscented baby wipes and instead forks over TWO EXTRA DOLLARS for the name brand floral scented ones? My poor baby's rear end will be redder than Rudolf's shiny nose.

    These are little things to speak up about. Certainly I am not a nag, I tell myself. This is the recipe I have been using for years...So why do I feel like we are not connecting?

    It just hit me between the eyes this morning that I got it wrong. Men and Women look at the world differently and as much as I can say: Women want to be loved and Men want to be respected if I don't know how to show respect my relationships won't get better.

    I mentioned this to my teenage daughter, who rolled her eyes and said, Men are dumb. Some how her statement catapulted me back to my own adolescents and the ugly names my brother called my Mom when he was mad. I was so ticked off at him. Other incidents with men belittling me came to mind. I still felt angry. But as I looked at this budding young woman I realized I didn't want her to grow up with the baggage I carried.

     I love my husband and my sons.

     The first ingredient I need in heaping measure is Forgiveness. In my hurt I can try to control these precious boys expecting them to think in the same detail that I do. I may expect them to tell me everything they think and feel when this is just not how they are hard wired.

    Second I need to say Thank you. When one of my guys does something for me, even if it isn't the way I would do it, I can be grateful for their act of love. I'm going to practice right now.

"Thank you honey for washing the dishes." I don't have to point out the forks and spoons he forgot to finish. Even if it takes all my will power to button my lips I can and I will.

   The reason I listened to the podcast in the first place was to try to figure out how to talk to my 18 year-old boy. You see I don't want to lose him with the wrong kind of talk. I can tell I am on thin ice already, and as I listened I took notes. I took notes because I love these men I share my home with. Speaking their language doesn't come naturally, but I vowed again to try. They are worth it.

   I am worried that I am not getting the recipe right, but I am also hopeful because this is a new day. What if I can move forward more careful with my words, expectations, and assumptions. What if I can lead my daughters to forgive too? What if we can improve this recipe we call family.

  A woman can dream.

   Thankfully I am not alone in my desire. I have faith that God cares about these men in my world even more than I do. With His help I can do anything. I am encouraged by the apostle Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 13.

  Love is Patient, Love is kind. It does not envy, It does not boast, It is not proud. It does not dishonor others, It is not self-seeking, It is not easily angered, It keeps not record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 

Love Never Fails.

   

   

Around the Oval Table

   

    It happened almost four years ago now, I said yes to attending a small writer's group, and why wouldn't I? I had started a blog (I was big time).

   It was a balmy summer evening when I pulled up to the beautiful home. The tall trees revealed the centennial age of the home and shaded its classic beauty from the setting sun. Walking up the sidewalk I almost danced up to the front porch.

  I knew Deane from my first writing class at House of Hope. The thought of her calmed my racing heart. It is largely because of her that I dare to write. She had shared her desire to step out upon the waters of writing in that previous class I treasured. As a result, she opened her home to continue that little writing space, that opportunity for dreams to fly off pencils.

   As I entered her home the warm color of wood welcomed my eyes as I followed Deane. The quiet shuffle of feet and chatter from the next room came to my ears with a curious beckoning. Around the oval table I met Brenda and got reunited with Rebecca, a fellow student from the House of Hope writing class. This was to be the beginning.

    Later that year others would join the group. Some would stay and others would go. It sounds much like any group shifting with time, but it had become much more to me. This small group of ladies helped my heart speak. At first when we had writing exercises the flow seemed easy. I can do this, I thought. But as I listened to the writings coming off everyone's pens I enjoyed their writing.  I began to love these women who allowed the group to peer into their thoughts and dreams. We shared something together there. Out of the abundance of the heart the pen speaks and sometimes it bleeds onto the page.

    A few months into the meetings I found out I was pregnant. This was a life changing event. I didn't want it to be. I hoped to be able to Adult my way through an expanding tummy and the intense mood swings. I learned quickly that the pen will not lie. I am indebted to the ladies who sat through my bucket of tears. Why am I crying again? It is humbling to realize to give yourself permission to write is to become vulnerable, to become seen as you really are.

   Later when I lost my job we sold our house. We started a new life with a tiny baby, 3 older kids, and a naughty dog, but it was here I found comfort. Surrounded by the warm color of wood, in a chair around the oval shaped table words, lyrics, and delicious desserts put me back together again.

   After the blog posts ended and my mind was numb with sleepless nights and grief these ladies made me smile as we savored a poem together. As we read each other's works. When I wondered if there was anything left of me they reminded me...the pen does not lie. And there on tear stained paper I found my voice. It was quivering, unsure, and weak but it stood up on ink and notebook paper.

    They saw it, around the oval shaped table. They said, "it is good." That's when it happened...

For a second time, I believed...I am a writer. 

The Amazing Race

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding."Proverbs 3:5.

     I remember when I memorized this verse in high school. My Youth Pastor had passed out orange cards with this verse printed on it. He had instructed us to post it somewhere to be seen everyday. I put mine on the mirror in my room. At the time I doubted I could really memorize it by heart. But 20+ years later I rarely go a day without thinking about it.

     Last night I tried to make another meal. This quarantine cooking challenge has grown harder. I knew I needed groceries but I thought I could muster up another meal from the random supplies left in the pantry and fridge. It was one of those Trust in the Lord and lean not on your own understanding moments."

    Earlier in the day I thawed a pork loin roast a friend had given us. I quickly googled how to cook one in my Instant Pot:) I found a recipe I had all the ingredients for. Feeling like I hit the jackpot, I went to work. Second, I gathered my side dishes. From the bottom drawer of the fridge I grabbed a chilled can of biscuits. Digging through the deep freeze I uncovered a forgotten bag of veggies. Perfect I thought! All I need now is a few more quick and easy recipes to put this all together.

    I paused with a look toward heaven.  "Lord, You have provided," I said with my best Morgan Freeman impression, "please don't fail me now." In faith, I prepared dinner. Lately meal time had been going well. We'd gather around the table for a few moments to laugh together and share the day. Since the quarantine, this has become my focal point. I had already made the pink lemonade from the powdered mix because, hey I am gourmet.

     When I called the family together I expected to see gratitude for the meal I scraped together. Inside I felt a sense of accomplishment and appreciation to Google for helping me with these last minute recipes. I was sure my family would match my enthusiasm.
   
    As they trickled in from all corners of the house instead of praise I was met with one two year-old trying to crawl across the table, and two daughters fighting over the same chair. Their brother, the oldest, was looking at his phone oblivious to the raucous until his father told him to put it away. With an eye roll he passed the rolls.  As the microwaved vegetable medley went around the table someone simply said "5 miles an hour is pretty fast for a human."
 
    Who would think such a phrase could alter our evening so quickly but there it was heavier than the plate of pork loin roast drenched in the apple cider dressing in the center of the table.

 "I could run 5 miles in an hour," Lydia said.

  "No you couldn't," Elaina interjected.

   "I would beat you for sure," Isaiah chimed in.
.
           And as simple as that, the table irrupted in boasting, arguing and yelling. I tried to simmer them down so we could enjoy the meal I had Googled over. All notions of peace and tranquility quickly flew out the kitchen window as their voices escalated. Judah just stared, wide eyed at his teenage siblings. Had they lost their minds, his expression seemed to question.
 
    The answer is, Yes. And if you are reading this with teenagers in your home right now, I know you have experienced this strange phenomena.

    Isaiah's voice continued to rise louder and more boastful as the girls pounced on his ever increasing pride. Unable to hold in the disappointment I felt for my lovely meal destroyed by conflict I rose from my chair. I put down my fork and looked my first born son in the eyes, "Prove it!"

    He stopped boasting about his natural track and field abilities for a moment and looked at me.

     "Prove it Isaiah! I'll race you right now," I challenged again.

    Lydia stopped her combative attack and looked at me in alarm. "Mom, you just ate the pork loin roast, you are going to get sick."

     Undeterred I locked eyes with my son. He had ruined my perfect meal and I was not going to let it slide.

    "Fine, let's do it Mom," he consented.

   I ran to put on my running gear. Now, just in case you think I am a runner, and I train for stuff like this all the time. Please let me clue you in, I DON'T. I am not a bad runner. I have actually completed a few 5 Ks but never 5 miles and never at 7:35PM after eating Pork Loin Roast that was a little on the dry side. But a mama has to do what a mama has to do to shut the mouth of her lion cub.

   In the van another fight broke out causing big mouth 1 and 2 to stay home with their baby brother. This left only three of us. We drove to the high school track with this understanding. We would run the 20 laps around the track. The first one to complete the five miles under an hour would win $50.

   I played a new song on my phone," Graves to Gardens" on repeat as Brad yelled "Go."

    Isaiah started off at a medium pace. I slowed down a little remembering I was on 1 of 20 laps. He got ahead of me, about a half a lap, but I encouraged myself with the phrase, "slow and steady wins the race."

     He ran fast and I cheered. This quarantine had been hard on him. He missed his friends. Having his 18th birthday a few days ago was monumental, but he was only allowed to assemble a few friends together in the front yard standing 6 feet apart. The recent announcement that the rest of the school year was canceled only added to the growing disappointment. For the first time in weeks he was running. Even if my legs fell off in this race it was worth it to me.

    One lap down and 19 to go I sang, "Lord there is nothing better than you." My son was moving. Hallelujah! Oh the measures we take as parents to help our kids get out of their funk. He ran the first mile without stopping. He was actually breaking a sweat.  This whole indoors edict had really shut him down, but for a moment I saw passion galloping down the track in a Ramen Noodle pant suit. The hope of earning a crisp $50 dollar bill made him work every muscle of his body together for his good. Unfortunately, as he finished the fourth lap he made the mistake of walking. He crossed the two mile mark half walking half running, before his final retreat to the van.

 I kept running.

    Completing lap 10, I danced and sang with my song on repeat "Oh Lord there is nothing better than you."

    This race was not about showing how strong I was. I was actually surprised I hadn't lost my dinner yet. It had become a battle in prayer. "Lord, give my son back what he has lost this spring. Restore to him what has been cancelled."

    As I cleared lap twelve, I remembered my own healing. I pumped my arms and moved my legs in rhythm down the track with more speed. Only two short years ago I couldn't even run one lap around the track. Having Judah had injured my hip, and for over a year it hurt to walk. As I cleared the 3 mile mark I was grateful my hip had no pain.

       From the van Brad ran to join me, but he made it clear that he would only run every other lap. His support reminded me that we are in this crazy life of raising kids together. Some nights are rowdy and we are not happy with each other at all. As I rounded the corner to my final lap he joined me one last time. We cheered as we crossed the finish line side by side.

         I completed the five miles in 52 minutes and 30 seconds. We couldn't believe it. I actually could run 5 miles per hour! Brad drove to the cash machine to put the $50 in my hands. Isaiah was quiet, humbled by the defeat.

 "Wow Mom you really did it, " he acknowledged.

        Knowing the lion had been tamed I said, "pull over at the Dairy King, Brad. Winner treats Loser," I said teasing.

     We ordered ice cream and talked about the race on the way home. The tension and boasting was gone but we were connecting. For me, that was the real victory.

      I am learning to "Trust in the Lord with all my heart and not to lean on my own understanding." In family life I have to be ready to lean into faith on a moments notice.

    Who knew that the little orange card given so many years ago would have the power to take a disruptive dinner and turn it into an amazing race.
 

A Safe Place

  

     The first time I met her the sun was shining through the double windows in the yellow room. We climbed many wooden stairs to reach this place at the top of the old restored Mansion. Outside snow was melting off the trees. It was early spring but the snow had not completely receded yet. We sat on folding chairs in a circle. My heart was beating loudly, as I sat both nervous and excited.

   She had it, that hospitable ease about her. Like a seasoned professional she quieted our nerves with her kind smile as she asked us to share the reason we signed up for the class. I looked at the small group of women sitting around me. There was a small woman with dark brown hair sitting on my left. She seemed very reluctant to make eye contact as she explained her dream of writing down her legacy for her family.

    Next to her, a woman with an infectious smile and warm coffee brown eyes introduced herself. She was a newly wed who had recently moved from Costa Rica to our little Iowan town. Her accented voice had a bright and joyful ring to it much like the sun shining into the room on that early spring day. She too wanted to share a legacy, her mother's story.

    Beside her sat a tall woman with long blond hair. She possessed an earthy kind of beauty. She listened politely and spoke intently. Explaining that she was a teacher by nature both at her church and as a home school mom, she shared her hope to expand her writing skills.

    My turn, I felt a lump in my throat. "Please Dianne hold it together for goodness sakes!" I pleaded with my nerves. Looking at Deane's reassuring smile I went for it. "I'm Dianne Singleton I am excited to be in this class because I just rediscovered writing."

    Like riding a bike the skill was still hiding within me, but only recently had I felt free enough to let it out. Sure I had been writing skits for years. I had written in my journal for over a decade. I even wrote my own songs, but I always felt limited. In a resent therapy class I finally got honest about it. The fear of being judged for my true thoughts was the source of my writer's block. Deane Watters, looked me in the eyes and gave me a thumbs up.

"We are glad you are here with us,"she said. "This is a safe place."

     I studied her oval shaped face framed by frosted cropped bangs for a moment.  Her blue eyes glittered behind her stylish red frame glasses. She had a beautiful smile that lit up her features in a warm sort of tea with scones way.

From the beginning she had our attention like a mother hen gathering in her chicks. She shared her own writing journey. My mind was challenged by her boldness to write and to surround herself with writers. She shared useful tips and lessons from books about writing. We read poems out loud, and discussed how they made us feel.  Her face lit up as she spoke of the inner writer's critic. I nodded along with the other girls. I had believed the inner critic for far too long.

    Then it was time to do a writing prompt. For fifteen minutes we had to write about a picture. I chose to think of the old photograph of my mother's parents. It was a wartime wedding photo taken in 1945. I still can remember how the words jumped from my mind dancing onto the page through my blue inked pen. There was a quiet haste in the room as we wrote about our own snapshot from life. When the timer beeped, we went around the circle to share.

      Again I felt very nervous, I wasn't even sure what I had written. It was like an electrical storm in my head. Words just shot through my mind as I tried to quickly get them out. Deane shared first. She wrote about her father, who had died when she was still young. I pictured the black and white photo of him standing in the yard next to an old car. The delicate details and vulnerable words caused the little circle to lean in a bit closer as she invited us into this tender memory.

      Around the circle we read. In each story I heard a different and distinct voice. The tall blond read about her wedding picture. I could see the wedding day. I could hear her excitement. I could almost feel the silk of her train and the sheer beauty of her face behind the lace veil.

       Then it was my turn. I looked at the almost scribbled words and began to read. I felt nervous as I spoke, surprised by the emotion I felt. In my picture I looked into the heart of my grandmother. She was so young as she leaned into her new husband. He looked so proud of her. Normally I had a hard time looking at that picture because I only saw the alcoholics they would become. I only relived the horrible stories my mother would share of childhood under the bar stool. For the first time as I looked at her young face I realized she didn't know the pain her later choices would bring. In that photo she was simply happy to be chosen by the tall handsome man with blue eyes.

     As I finished reading the women looked at me strangely.  "Dianne how did you write all that?" One of the lady's asked.

     I didn't know, but I will be forever grateful for the freedom Deane brought to that circle that day. I felt something like electricity through my veins. It was like the words that had been held in all my life were finally free to come out.

    As the class continued that spring, the snow melted into cherry blossoms.  Our circle grew closer as we trusted each other with the words we dared to spill. We looked forward to the new lessons we would learn with Deane. She was wise, careful to build up with her words, tender with our hearts and yet fearlessly paving the way to write honestly. In Christian circles this was not an art form readily taught, still she bravely led the way.

    Looking back four years ago to that first class on writing, I am grateful. As the five of us gathered in our little circle in the yellow room to share our hearts we cheered on each other's words. We forgot the pressures of our lives for a moment and just gathered as daughters of God, mere girls, dreaming, giggly and free. I watched as she helped us to paint the inner world of our very souls and allow God's grace to linger there.

     Deane is one of the most beautiful people I have ever known.  This petite lady who loves sharing tea and homemade cakes has invited us to write with freedom. I think her writing is free spirited like a little girl running through prairie grass picking the wild Black-Eyed Susans to carry home to her mama. Older and wiser than me her greatest desire is for women to find the peace and love of God that she has found. Her writings reflect her rich faith and hope in her Savior Jesus Christ.

    So here's to a wonderful lady, teacher, and friend who has changed my life for the better. If you are reading this today and thinking you have a dream to write. Find a group to connect with. It can make all the difference. To carry out our dreams we need other people that are willing to say,
 
"We are glad you are here with us. This is a safe place."
 

Even so

      Have you ever had an Even so... moment in your life? You know, like when you are holding on beyond reasonable bounds. I think I have done this countless times for the people I love. Love is patient and its supposed to be kind, but lately as we are all stuck in the house together everyday we can creep onto each others nerves.

   Even so... I will forgive. In family there is always a tension between boundaries and forgiveness. I know that we all need to have lines drawn so that we maintain our own identities but there are also lines that are softened by the closeness of relationship. I am not sure how many times my son has used my toothbrush merely because it was nearest when he was needing a good brushing. I am NOT talking about the two year-old.

   I also have to wear forgiveness for my girls. The darlings that used to never want to leave my side have now, in their adolescents, scoffed at the idea of having to spend time with me. Life is definitely harder with my quiver full of offspring.

   I am not complaining. Really, I played the game of life. I wanted the little pink and blue additions in the back of my little car pawn. But real life is raw and the story is telling of all my imperfection and weakness. There isn't a fault those dearest to me haven't seen.

   So what is there left to say? That is where I must pick up. The truth is, my family sees the real me. The tired puffy eyed me. The frantically cleaning to impress the house guest me. The silly grooving to the best of the 80's music me.

    The glue that sticks us all together is love, but without forgiveness everything falls apart. It is hard not to keep a record of wrong when bad moods last for several months. It is hard to trust when you find out about the lies. It is hard to want to listen when the advice you give isn't taken.

Even so...I will forgive.

    This selfless act of letting someone off the hook they rightfully deserve to be hung upon is a spiritual act. It is something we all need from each other, but it never comes easily. When I get hurt in the "feels" my brain locks that negative experience into my memory bank. It is only with real mental effort that I can move past it.

     Presently we are teaching our two year-old how to say sorry when he hurts us. Usually this is physical pain like a toy to the head or a punch to the gut as he pretends to be Bat Man. He doesn't understand yet the power of his words. Saying sorry and releasing an I forgive you have the power to change the dynamic of our quarantine home life from tension to trust every time they are used.

     When the three older kids were little I added a simple melody to this verse: "Forgive as the Lord forgave you," Colossians 3:13. When the kids were fighting I would march around the house singing it. They didn't appreciate the truth of it's wisdom in the heat of the moment, but the tune got stuck in our heads and I found us all humming it around the house.

   There are a million reasons to loose my temper. Even so... I will brush it off. Even so... I will move on. Even so... I will sing that little song again. And when I mess up and blow my top... I will take a deep breath..and I will remember all of this and I will find the strength to say I'm sorry.

    And when my lovelies blow their tops...Even so...I will forgive.

D.I.Y. Disaster

   

   This morning Judah was happily playing with what he calls his "Green Hulk" homemade slime. I was making cinnamon rolls and the dough was rising nicely. I was just thinking, today is going to be a great day. I could hear the birds singing outside in the sunny spring morning.  Judah's worried voice broke my reverie as he called out from on top of the table where he was playing.

"Mommy, Mommy!"

     And that's when I saw it. The whole glob of slime worked into the roots of his hair on the top of his head. As I looked at it I tried not to panic, but it wasn't good. Judah was fussing and patting his head. Brad came in and laughed at the ridiculous situation, and snapped a picture which I did not enjoy in the moment.

      When I think about Slime I am reminded of my favorite childhood television show on Nickelodeon, You Can't do that on Television. On the show if the characters said, "I don't know," they would get bright green gloppy slime poured on their heads. I looked forward to tuning in every school day at four PM. I would sit down with a heaping bowl of Ramen Noodles to watch in anticipation.

        Later slime reappeared in the popular kids game show hosted by Marc Summers, Double Dare. Again I watched amazed by the contestants that would volunteer to get slimed. Two teams would compete by answering trivia questions to win prizes while completing slimy challenges. My brothers and I gathered around the television to cheer.

       Slime disappeared for awhile after that. But it made a reappearance with Flarp. The little jar of slime that made rude sounds when you put your finger in it. My kids were easily entertained by this dollar store treasure. But slime had received the highest acclaim with YouTube's  D.I.Y slime making videos. All you needed was Elmer's glue, Borax, water and food coloring and you could make your very own slime.

        It didn't take long to find out that slime though inexpensive to make and a source of entertainment for hours on end, had a down side. It was notorious for ruining clothes and furniture. After the rise in its popularity came the ever louder grumble from parents world wide who had to figure out how to get the crafty gunk out of their children's clothes and off of every household item.

       I was never fond of the stuff, but now that my three older children are out of the slime making stage I thought why not try it with Judah. Am I brain dead? Didn't I already learn that Slime was a very BAD idea? I am an eternal optimist so I thought, this time will be different.

       Note to self and anyone else who is still reading...

Never say, "THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT.

This is self-delusion at its finest.

     I quickly pulled out some peanut butter and tried to tackle the slime, but the problem was bigger than the old gum in the hair situation. This was more like ten packs of chewed Bubble Gum  pounded into the scalp by repeated somersaults. The hair ball looked almost impossible to get out without clippers.

    My second attempt at eradicating Judah's hair of the nasty substance was to use White vinegar. Earlier, I had used it to dissolve the green slime from his training pants. I poured little cap fulls on the fine hair sticking out of the gunk. I put down the fine toothed comb that was only torturing the tender scalp of my beloved little guy. He was screaming and I found my own voice elevated as Brad ran for a towel to wipe off the vinegar pouring down Judah's little back.

     We quickly moved the removal operation to the master bathroom tub. I shouted instructions as I tried to wash off the melted slime from my hands in the sink next to the bath.

    Brad stripped to shorts, got in the tub with him. I was trying to pour more white vinegar on the dissolving green mass but Judah was trying to claw his way out of the tub like a puppy getting his first bath. He continued to cry and both Brad and I were also on the verge. Thankfully the quantity of gunk stuck in the hair was getting smaller as the vinegar melted the plasticity of the mixture into something like very thick glue. Then I washed his hair.

   Judah has never enjoyed getting water on his head so this experience was more than he could take. As Brad tried to cover his eyes with a wash rag I doused Judah's head with water. After the first shampoo only a little green slime held onto the roots. I poured the last of the vinegar on and rubbed the slime to cream until I could re-shampoo and wash it out completely.

    I am proud to report, we got it all! In Judah's words the lesson was clear.

"Mommy I don't like slime in my hair!"

    Judah recovered quickly after a little time in his Daddy's arms. But I still felt traumatized so I had to write this down so that my own Mama heart could heal.

    Everyday is filled with the unexpected moments of upheaval. Today my secret weapon was white vinegar. Who knows what special tool I will need tomorrow. In matters of faith, we don't know what each day will hold, but if we hold onto hope there is always a silver lining to be found even in the slimiest of situations.