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.
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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.