Many Pots, Not A Few

     I arrived a few minutes late. In my hand, I held a notebook and pen. The Library was alive with activity even though it was six o’clock at night. I found the room, on the second floor, where we were to meet for the first Spilling group. I didn’t really know what a “Spilling” was, something to do with writing. I decided to join the group to support my writer friend, Nichole.

    As we gathered together, the six of us, I nervously eyed the chocolate she had placed on the little table in the center of the glass windowed room. At 6:15 Nichole started the meeting officially.

“Ladies, she said dramatically, “tonight we are going to spill, this means we will write for 20 minutes without stopping to correct, criticize, or edit. We will let our words spill on the page, and when the time is done, we will put down our pens without apologies.”

    A nervous hush settled over the group as we introduced ourselves. We were diverse in age and occupation, skill and association, but for this small dash of time, we were united with our pens and in purpose. We were going to allow our hearts to speak.

     I sat there dumbly, not understanding the magic of the present opportunity or how it would inspire me to discover a deep well, ever flowing from inside. Looking at my dear friend, I smiled in support, after all, I was here to support her. I would “spill” so that she could feel supported and able to explore writing more boldly, and confidently. What a good friend I was.

    The timer was set, so the pens began scrawling and a memory started to arise under pressure, under collaboration from the vestiges of my mind. I began sharing a story of “the fuzzy blue robe”
http://diannesings.blogspot.com/2016/09/fuzzy-blue-robe.html .

Though the memory was 36 years old it came up close. So close I could reach out and touch it. I also discovered the baby me, looking shyly into my eyes and whispering her thoughts.

     The timer went off, we took a deep breath and took turns around the circle sharing what we wrote. When it became my turn I started reading with a trembling voice as I shared each word. As I finished the other women were crying too, for the little girl I once had been. After sharing I felt energized and stronger, I felt vibrant and brave. I started out feeling creatively barren, but as I began to spill fresh words, like a spring of water, I felt restored.

    In that moment I was reminded of an old story I had heard and read many times. Somehow it connected me to the wonder the spilling created inside.

    There was an old man who lived in Israel. He lived his days in faithfulness to the One true God. Carefully he set out to follow his God in every way he could, but one day the Lord took him home unexpectedly. His widow was hard working no one would debate, but still, the taxes exceeded the living of a humble prophet. Soon the debt collectors were threatening to take her two sons as slaves to cover her husband’s debts. In desperation, she made her way to the most influential prophet of the company, Elisha.

    He saw her coming on the dusty road and turned to meet her. Desperation etched in the lines of her face she spoke, “Prophet Elisha, may I bid you a moment to hear my woe? She asked heart wrenched.

With full attention on her pleading face, he replied, “What can I do for you?”

    Overtaken by the sorrow she dropped to her knees, as tears wet the dust beneath.

“My husband was a prophet and lived a life faithful to the one true God, but now he is dead and the debt collectors would also take my two sons from me to be slaves so that I would be bereaved not only a husband but also my two sons, his legacy, and mine.”

    Silent for a moment the old prophet absorbed the weight of her burden. Slowly he spoke, “What do you have dear woman?”

     Looking down at the threadbare fabric, now tear stained and soiled she shook her head, “I only have this jar of oil she said.” Lifting her hand she revealed a jar of oil her husband used for the purpose of anointing. She had brought it as a gift in his memory, but as she offered it to Elisha he put up his hand to stop her.

“No, dear woman keep this oil, and go ask your neighbors and ask your friends for empty jars. Gather many Pots, not a few. You intended to give a little gift, but God plans to give you in abundance.”

    So the little woman stood on her feet, wiping her tears with her free hand, she thanked the Holy man and started back on the road toward her small village. On her return, her two sons met her eagerly.

“Go to the neighbor's houses and ask for empty pots,” She told them.

“How many Mother?”

“As many as will be given and bring then to me quickly, don’t delay.”

     The two boys ran from one house to another to gather empty pots. With arms full in danger of toppling, the boys unloaded jars to their eager mother as they turned to find even more. She began to take the oil and pour it into the empty jars. In amazement, she watched as the first jar was filled, but more oil was still found in her husband's little jar of anointing oil. Pot after pot was filled to the brim with oil until she called for another pot, but her sons did not have anymore. Looking around, the floor was covered in oil filled Jars. With tears in their eyes, they could not fully grasp the miracle before them.

“My sons, come quickly, we must sell the oil in the market today.”

After selling every pot of oil, they were able to pay off all the debts and live off the rest. The Lord used the very last blessing she had to bring a break through that over flowed.   

     Little did I know that as the spilling continued, the oil would continue to flow. Words that had been pent up behind a writer’s block would find the cracks in the wall and break through. Little did I know that as Nichole spent the time organizing this opportunity to spill, she was setting us free to share the thoughts, views, and feelings of the heart.

     She was taking the oil in her jar and pouring into our empty vessels, such inspiration didn’t run out or run dry but seemed to only increase. Opening up a flood of creativity. As we came together and experienced community we started to believe we were not creatively barren anymore, but we had something creative with in. It just took one brave woman with a little pot of oil to ask us to bring our pots so that she could pour out her inspiration over us.

     A year has passed, I am now writing every day. Inspiration continues to flow and I am grateful for my friend Nichole, seeing more in me than a supportive friend. But beyond that, God knows the gifts he has planted in us and he will bring others to come and draw them out. He invites us to be willing to pour out those gifts into many pots, not a few.

Monster Tag

     It was turning out to be a humid summer already. We were swimming at the Sandpits across the highway almost every day. I enjoyed playing outside all afternoon coming in only for meals. Our house was the last one on the street. Along the side of it, there was a Never-never land of bushes we climbed through and hid in.

     Every night we played Hide n’ seek or Monster Tag with Dad. He could have been a comedian we thought, as he lurched around screeching like Godzilla. We hid, giggling as he drew close to out hiding spot. A few times he scared the next door neighbor Velma who innocently went out to check her flowers. Little did she know her neighbor was part “creature from the Black Lagoon.” Letting out a scream, she went to pieces as dad immediately apologized. Trying to explain how she had stepped into a game of Monster tag, it was, of course, all show for the kids, David 12, Mark 9. Dianne 7, and Jon 5. Later he would laugh about the incident, but he felt bad as he watched her muttering to herself as she walked away shaking her head in bewilderment. We felt so lucky, who gets a dad that can truly scare the neighbors with his King Kong roar.

  

     Home Base was always on the front steps. I usually hid in the bushes, my strategy was to listen for Dad’s first roar. If it was far away, I would dart around the side of the house to the cinder block steps. But sometimes he anticipated my regularity and would pop around that corner, tagging me as the Swamp monster. After the Monster had picked me up and tickled me, giggles would spill and childish yelps would be let out, I resigned to being caught.

    Sitting on the stairs “caught” was different than running to the steps to be called “safe.” When three of us had gathered on the steps we all waited listening to the Dad monster and wondering if Mark or David (the fastest) could make it to the base without getting caught. In these last moments, we would see amazing track and field lunging, jumping, and hurdling to get to the base before Dad could tag one of them.

    Breathing hard and happiest in life I sat on that step together with my brothers as we retold the adventures we had just experienced while playing with my Dad. He was silly and special and we all adored him.

    All stumbling in through the back door we could smell the warm meal mom had waiting for us. She loved to make chili. The famished crew came in ready to eat, after the good exercise we all had. With bowls in our hands, we all marched down the steps to the Family room to watch, “Knight Rider.”

    As the introduction music played we put down our bowls to dance around the room with our air guitars until the music ended. Then we sat mesmerized by David Hasselhoff, a high tech modern crime fighter with awesome hair. We loved his side kick KITT the artificially intelligent, invincible black car with the pulsating red light on the front end. Settling into the threadbare furniture we were fixated.

     I smiled as I won the seat next to dad on the couch. Looking up at him, he was handsome I thought. I shared his dark hair and eyes. His dark mustache pronounced his cleft chin and great smile. My favorite feature was that smile directed toward me, filled with his love.

    Exactly at 8:00PM Mom would call us up to bed, as the credits rolled for the show. In my room, I tried to steal a few moments with my Barbies, to continue the saga from earlier that day. Peaches and Cream Barbie was taking Ken to the Bahamas on a surprise get away for their first Anniversary.

“Dianne, get in bed!” Dad would call from the open doorway.

      So I abandoned the Barbies and scampered to bed. He peeked at me through the doorway with his “mouse” face. As I laughed, he came in to sit on my bed. He was like the jolly green giant, so tall yet so full of silly love. After making me giggle, he finally tucked me in and kissed me good night. I shut my eyes with a smile gently resting on my lips, I slipped into restful sleep. Ready for another summer day full of fun, the outdoors, and my family.   

An Ode to Jessie

     I remember when you were born. It was a crisp October day in my 15^th year. I couldn’t wait to see you, my little niece. Peering at you from behind thick glass I fell in love with the healthy little bundle in the nursery incubator. You were so tiny, so innocent, so new.

    And when you came home to us, because your mom and dad lived with us, I loved your tiny lion cub cry. You opened a new world to all of us. I would watch you sleep relieved for a break but excited to hear you wake again.

    Each day you seemed to grow more plump and more curious. With long lashes you could bat your eyes and anyone of us would run to your bidding. Soon words started to form and your feelings were made known. Just two feet tall, but you could communicate what you wanted, and throw a dramatic fit if you didn’t get it. So you grew like prairie grass in natural beauty, but you were not quiet. You were like a bubbling brook always speaking and exploring and wanting to learn.

    And then you moved out of our house. And times grew tough between your mom and dad. Our little free spirit with many things to say- grew quiet. My heart broke for you.

    As the seasons changed and you continued to grow I heard you sing a song one day. In the middle of toddler play. Your straight black hair gathered into a ponytail as you flitted around in your blue Cinderella dress with the puffy tulle.

“And a flower every day…and a flower every day…and a flower every day to you.”

    Like a little Christmas bell ringing, your song delighted me. It resounded with your desire to give love and life to everyone around you. You were a flower every day to me.

    Soon it was time for me to graduate from highschool and runaway to college. I felt sad to leave you and now your little brother Jake. You’re the only little girl I felt was mine. I had no sister. My heart was grave knowing how I would miss your words and hugs. 

    As I grew into a woman you grew into a girl. Your hair long and dark, and your eyes dark lashed and intelligent. In the time I was away at college your Dad took a new wife and you gained a new mother. Now with two moms I wasn’t sure what an aunt could do or how I would fit.

    Then it was time for my wedding, so we dressed you up in a white gown. At six years old you twirled around asking energetically, “Dianne, do you think I look pretty?”

'Oh yes," I said to cropped bangs and long ironed curls. Addressing wonder-filled eyes and a proud grin, “You look perfect Jessie,” I whispered through my white veil.

    After the wedding was over, I cried for you. Would I get to be close to my precious niece anymore? I would be officially moved away to Springfield, Missouri. Again I would miss “My flower everyday.”

    You continued to greet me with your energetic hug and your happy words on vacations. Like a bunch of violets picked from a neighbor's yard, you would fill the room with your presence- sweet and a little bit sassy and thoughtful yet rambunctious.

    Years past and we moved back to Waterloo. Again I could spend time with you, but life had taken another turn. I started having a family of my own. It was your turn to hold my babies and laugh at their toothless grins. 

    In your seventh grade year we worked on a song for the talent show. I always loved your voice and hoped that you would be able to experience the joy I did in singing. I hoped to teach you all that I knew so that you could shine brighter than I ever could. At the performance of “Blessed,” I sat nervously praying that you would blow us away. You sang with all your heart and everyone cheered. I was ecstatically proud of you.

    Not long after, we moved away again to Cedar Rapids. Unfortunately, I lost contact with you. It wasn’t my intention but it happened. Through your teen years I was away, and I only heard about what was new in your life. Sometimes I had small conversations with you at holiday meals. During the teen years conversation wasn’t as easy. The words I wanted to say and the words that came out weren’t the same. 

   Why is it, when you really love someone, the words get all dammed up inside. When I heard that you were expecting a baby I cried. I was so far away from you when I received the news. How did you feel? Were you scared? I didn’t even have your phone number anymore. The chasm was far greater than the 51 miles from Cedar Rapids to Waterloo. Did you know, dear Jessie that you were still my “Flower Every day?”

    About nine months later, I held little Jocelyn in my arms. You were tiredly resting in the hospital bed, but resilient. I am amazed at your strength. Life has not been easy for you, but you keep going. She was a tiny little bundle, just like you were. And as she has grown she fills the room with the joyful chatter she inherited from her mother. Does she know that she shares your gift, the refreshing touch of the wild flower.

    Dear Jessie, you are beautiful like the flowers that clothe the prairie, springing up all by themselves and singing a song regardless of the chaos in the world around them. Please know whether near or far I have always loved you.  I am cheering for you now, mother of three. May you feel the liberty to be the free-spirited, inquisitive, and joyful woman you were always meant to be. Let that melody ring in your heart and flow from your lips.

"And a flower every day, and a flower every day, and a flower every day to you."

When My Voice Cracked

“Tears will fall, let them. Like the rain that waters the earth causing new things to grow, so the heart must shed it’s pain somehow.” The words came muffled through the closed door as I sat mortified on the small tile floor of the motel bathroom.

“Did you hear that note? I hate myself! I worked for months on that one note and I blew it like an idiot.” I yelled back.

     My poor voice teacher didn’t deserve the drama I was dishing out, but I couldn’t reign myself in.

I was crushed and that flurry of emotions was too much for me to bear. No matter what she tried to say I couldn’t believe her, past the hollow hurt resonating inside. Finally overcome by the shame that I had made everyone concerned about me, I swallowed my pride and opened the door and faced my teacher.

“You’re right it’s not the end of the world,” I said through tears that she hugged away with her extra absorbent Star Trek over-sized tee shirt.”

      Miraculously through allowing her to hug me, the pain eased away. Even though my voice cracked on the most important note, right now it didn't sting as much. Although I faced the crash and burn of my dream, losing the chance to earn 1^st Place, in Female Vocal Solo, at Nationals. Still, it wasn't such a heartbreak after all.

     On reflection, I realized as I waited backstage in the purple and blue shadows with the MC giving me instructions about the microphone, that I was nervous. This could have been used to my advantage if I could’ve just kept my head. I watched from the side, as the girl on stage, in red sequins and tap shoes took a bow as the song ended. Applause filled the auditorium as the dancer pranced from the stage.

“Next up is the female vocal soloist, Dianne Tullis singing “I’m so Hurt,” The MC crooned.

     I walked out confidently onto the stage in black high heels that matched my black velvet cocktail dress. The music track began and so did my voice, “I’m so hurt, to think that you would lie to me…” I was doing all the actions and voice inflections I practiced until the last note…but it came out wrong!!! My nerves had overcome me.

     I acted as if the note was exactly how I had planned, and bowed as if I was a professional. The real fourteen-year-old girl underneath false eyelashes and red painted lips felt numb. It was when I saw the worried look in my mother’s eyes, that I knew my mistake was obvious. When the message of failure reached my head I began to feel anger, and a desire to rip every hair out of my head. Finally, when we got back to the hotel, I let out the sorrow and shame.

     Thankfully the hug that followed my break down, taught me a treasured lesson. Even when I mess up on something I really love to do. When the lights are blazing down and I am dressed in my finest but I fail to hit the mark. In those horrible moments of self-criticism, love can redeem me.

      So if you have messed up lately, and I am talking, a real doozy. Please know this, even if you don’t have an amazing voice teacher who will share poetry through the closed and locked motel bathroom door as you throw a self-debasing tantrum, you are not alone.

    The God who created you in your mother’s womb. The God who knew all the days of your life before you took your first breath. The God who gave his only Son to die for your sins, this God cares for your every heart break. He says,“Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest for your souls.” Like a big hug from an experienced teacher his peace dries the tears and brings the courage back.

     After my voice cracked, I decided to try again. The following year at the competition I won the 1^st place trophy for Female Vocal Solo with, “Papa Can You Hear Me.”  But as I waited back stage in the purple and blue shadows with the MC giving me instructions about the microphone, I felt confident this time. I knew that no matter what, my teacher believed in me. She was there to encourage me, and with such confidence the notes just soared.

   

Why I don't like "The Fiddler on the Roof"

“Tradition Tradition dai dai dai dai dai sang Tevye, “Without our traditions our lives would be as shaky as a …Fiddler on the Roof.” Tevye, the main character starts the famous play, The Fiddler on the Roof with this lively song. Like him, many households across the world hold tradition as the glue that keeps the family together. What would Thanksgiving be without the family gathered around the table eating turkey, or a Christmas without a decorated evergreen tree? 

      In the home I grew up in, I would say we were not very traditional, but as a young child, we were avid church goers. Every Sunday morning and night we were there, and also for Wednesday night services. In the church we worshiped in, I learned very early that communion was a church tradition highly upheld.

     As a little girl, I knew I was big when I could partake in Holy Communion with my parents and my two older brothers. During the hymn, “Just as I Am” the communion plate would be passed, and carefully under a watchful eye, I took the little cup of purple grape juice and the tiny square wafer of bread. Somehow this reminded us of Jesus, and it was very serious, I had gathered from the other adults and older children around me. One must not laugh or even speak, but one must quiet themselves before taking the bread and juice.

     As I grew older we went through a season of unbelief as a family. During my junior high years, we stepped away from the church, and away from communion. I didn’t think it mattered much. I was able to benefit from a stress-free Sunday, full of extra sleep and comfortable clothes. Put away and outgrown were the floral print dresses and patent leather shoes. My bible had been put on a shelf in my closet somewhere, replaced by “Seventeen” magazine. Instead of memorizing the 10 commandments, I was memorizing the top 10 ways to get a boyfriend. Life was becoming shaky like a “Fiddler on the Roof.”

     In all my freedom, I became depressed. Something was missing in my life. During these adolescent years, I hopped from one social group to another. I started developing gifts and talents like singing and acting. But even in moments of success something tugged at my heart. In the let downs, I turned inwardly spiteful. Insecurity grew as I compared myself to the other girls around me. The climate of our home was dark with arguments and rebellion. I started to long for that old tradition, Church.  

    When my mother and I decided to attend Cedar Valley Community Church, we were invited to join the Easter Production mass choir. For two months we met with the choir. But it was in the last few rehearsals that I was touched by the old tradition of communion. As a cast of two hundred people, we would gather in the gym for a meal and devotion from Jesus (the actor who played him). In full costume, he would share a story from the gospels, and I was fascinated. It was like encountering Immanuel (God with us). One night we took communion together.

     The Actor Jesus read, “For I received from the Lord what I also delivered to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, This is my body, which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me. In the same way, also he took the cup, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” I Corinthians 11:23-26.

     In that moment, the phrase, “on the night he was betrayed…” hung in the air. Jesus knowing full well what Judas would do, celebrated with His friends through bread and wine, the hope of a new covenant. A covenant that would cost Him His life. That would ask of Him His all. As I held the little cup of purple grape juice and the tiny square wafer of bread, tears began to flow. I realized for 3 years I had betrayed my Lord. I had tried to live my own way, with my own rules.

     On that night, surrounded by a great crowd of actors and actresses dressed like first century Jews and Roman guards, I recommitted my life to Jesus. “Lord,” I cried in my heart, “I am so sorry for my betrayal, but I thank you that there is still hope for me.” In that moment, a tremendous love surrounded me as I released the burden of my own way and surrendered to God’s way for my life.

     Over twenty years later, I still follow the monthly tradition of celebrating communion with my church family. Each time I remember how God reconciled me to himself. How he made a new way for me, that day I surrendered my life to him in the small carpeted gym, fully costumed as a Jewish maiden. He has helped me to lay down the bitterness that so easily creeps in through broken relationships.

“The Lord Jesus on the night he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, ‘This is my body, which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’”

     Even this morning, in a personal battle with hurt feelings I surrendered my bitterness to the Lord. I confessed, “Oh Lord, I am not able to forgive without your help, I am not able to love without your help, I am not able to move on without your help. Would you give me the gift of supernatural             I Corinthians 13 love?” 

“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, and it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth, it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres.”     I Corinthians 13:4-7

     In that moment, a tremendous peace surrounded me as I released the burden of my struggle and surrendered to God again. “I forgive as You have forgiven me,” I began to whisper as tears came down. It was a faith statement, feelings may or may not follow right away or ever. But this is a new pattern for my life. 

     As I take communion, I too want to be willing to partake even when I feel betrayed, abandoned, and hurt. I want to live for the New Covenant Jesus paid for with his blood. I want to proclaim every time I eat this bread and drink this cup, the Lord’s death until he comes. This is a tradition that has changed my life. With Tevye I agree, “Without our traditions, our lives would be as shaky as a …Fiddler on the Roof,”

Many Mothers

     I am a mother of two girls. Lydia is ten and Elaina is twelve-years-old. It has been a whirlwind of pink bows and sparkly shoes, baby dolls and plastic ponies, dramatic tears and tender hugs. This is the world I had always longed for of sisters, daughters, and girls.

     When I was growing up I was 3^rd in a family of four children. I was the only girl and ever longing for a sister. My sisters came in the form of friends. By association, their mothers became mentors to me. Ever bouncing from one living room to the next, with both announced and unannounced visits, I made my way into my friend’s homes and families. Thankfully, surprisingly, and providentially I found a place in their hearts.

     My Aunt Candy became one of my first surrogate mothers. She helped build my love for music and my confidence as a singer. It was with her that I got to my voice lessons in the mall. My cousin Stacey and I had back to back lessons. After we finished belting “The Rose” or “Wind Beneath My Wings”, we stopped at the Walgreens on our way out of the mall to buy “cherry” Clearly Canadian drinks.

    She introduced me to singers such as Bette Midler and Celine Dion (before she became a star). She had a dry sense of humor and wasn’t big on physical affection, but I knew that she loved me. The lady was a masterful sugar cookie baker. Not only were they perfect cut-outs to go with the theme of the occasion, but they had just the right softness to frosting ratio. I spent a thousand days at her home laughing, singing, and goofing off.  I always felt welcome. Thank you.

     As a mother, I am now getting to know my daughter’s friends. Gratitude comes in waves as I remember Judy Hurley, who wasn’t asked to love me but chose to, when the 4^th grader Dianne showed up on her doorstep. Every day after school, I stood on their cement steps asking if Aubrey could come out to play. Should she have been filled with anxiety at this fluffy curled girl who loved to dance and sing with her daughter? In fifth grade, we proudly touted our own singing group called “The Twins.” We had one hit “Boo-Bop Shoo-Bop.” At sleepovers and on the playground, we performed proudly. I think we even made “Twins” puffy paint t-shirts.

In the hard days of junior high, Judy had tough conversations with me.

“Dianne, it wasn’t right to read Aubrey’s diary. Those are her private thoughts, you have to respect her privacy, I think it is time for you to go home.”

“Dianne, she is sick she told you that already. No wonder she threw up on you, I think it is time for you to go home.”

     Girls need older women to help them discover healthy boundaries, and when a mom takes the time to speak into a young girl’s life she will never forget it. How many times was I sent home? Often. How many times have I thought to thank her? Countless.

     I think fondly back to Julie Bartekowski.  She was my friend Dana’s mom. What I still remember about her was her spirit. She was always on the move. In fact, she got my mom to speed walk with her. Dana and I would try to keep up, but their arms and legs were going so fast they literally left us in the dust. With her help, Dana started her own business when she was only in 5^th grade. On top of all this, she made amazing cookies. But what I treasure is that she was a friend to my mom.

     When she got my shy mother out on the street walking, talking, and laughing, she helped my mom start to dream again. With her matter of fact way, she helped my mom see that she could reach her goals. My concerned young heart didn’t know how to fix the brokenness inside my mom, but Julie helped. I will always be grateful for what you did for her. Unfortunately, at the time I was a bit of a stinker, and you told me so, I needed that. Thank you.

     I always admired Sue Nemmers, my friend Suzanne’s mom. She was a classy Church lady. During the junior high years when my parents had given up on the church, I would go to Grace Brethren with your family. I would see the way you taught Suzanne to do right, and I secretly hoped to be like you one day. I loved it when you laughed over something that we said or did. Your beautiful brown eyes and long lashes closing as your beautiful smile made me feel “belonging” in a time when I was so mixed up inside.

     Later when Suzanne’s younger sister was in the vocal academy with me and we would be singing at a community event or party, you were there. With a beautiful smile you watch and cheered for all of us. I often wonder if I later came back to church because of your kindness in those lost years. Thank you.

    Well I am grown now, many of the questions of identity have found their way to answers. And now I open my van door to my daughter’s friends and I can only hope that I can influence them in the positive ways these women influenced me. Love is ever reaching you see. What you did for me then, is now stretching beyond that time into this moment and into the way I love the girls my daughter’s choose for me to lead.

Guitar Strings, Face Paint and a Blog

      I sat on the black leather futon couch writing my blog as I waited for Lydia to finish her guitar lesson. It was a group lesson in the eclectic little art center. In this quiet little waiting room, I felt inspired. Student Artwork hung on the walls and creativity permeated in the air. The plucking of inexperienced fingers filled the background as the patient teacher encouraged the elementary students to try again. 

     In came a young mom. She laboriously sat down across from me with a two-year-old flung sleepily on her chest. Her spritely little four-year-old daughter followed like a little fairy princess prancing around happily in the little space.

“Is it ok if we join you? The exhausted mother asked.

‘Of course,” I responded as I continued to type.

      The truth is, I miss those days in a forgetful nostalgic way. Forgetting the hardships and choosing to remember the precious stage of being needed, wanted, and adored. Children are the greatest blessing and challenge I have ever known.

     Then I noticed her little girl had a beautiful green tiara painted on her forehead and around her eyes with a lovely emerald green jewel fastened between and just above her eyes.

“Oh my, she looks so pretty, where did you go to have her face painted?” I asked charmed by the little girl’s appearance.

The young mom said humbly, “I did it.”

      As her little two-year-old boy shifted on her lap I could see he also had his face painted.  In the practice room behind us, her oldest son was practicing with a spider man design on his cheek. The other students looked at him in jealous wonder.

“So did you study art in high school or college?” I asked suddenly curious.

“I was very involved in art and choir in high school, “Her face lit up as she remembered.

“I can tell”, I went on, “your children all look adorable.”

“I am actually doing face painting for a Fair tomorrow,” she said with excitement and a tinge of anxiety, “but I don’t believe in myself.”

       I felt the sinking feeling she knew all too well. The insecurity that plagues the artist. I wanted to talk to her about how common that feeling is among artists. That we must fight past the discouragement. We must allow ourselves the grace to create. We must have the kindness toward ourselves to allow the vulnerability our expression creates within us and the willingness to create anyway. I knew fear that she faced. I knew the courage it takes to put yourself out there for other people to see and speak of your work.  Looking at this young mom with a toddler sprawled like an afghan across her, I whispered a prayer instead.

“Oh Lord, please encourage this mother artist as she steps out tomorrow to face paint.”

       At that moment her friend joined us in the little room taking the only vacant chair left. Her four-year-old daughter following on her heels and her baby infant asleep in the carrier hooked in her arm. I resumed my typing as the mothers bubbled with a conversation about their children.

      I gained a picture into a world I had forgotten. A tired and overworked world of diaper changing and potty schedules. Weeks made up of play dates, numbers, colors, and Play-doh. Stresses ranging from food jags and toddler messes, to the under current fear that I am not even a good mother at all. In this little room I was transported to my own early parenting days.

She asked me then, “How old are your children?”

I smiled as I said “10, 12, and 14.” Pausing I said, “It goes too fast.”

       Soon our children were finished with the group guitar lesson. I had finished my thoughts and pressed save before shutting down the computer. I quickly followed Lydia out to the van. Getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, I spotted the young mom lugging her two-year-old, as her seven and four-year-old energetically followed her to the SUV. In that moment the Lord touched my heart for her.

Stepping out of the van I walked to the busy mom as finished buckling her children in. “Can I pray for you?” I asked.

She stood to face me and paused for a moment, “Yes, it’s funny you should ask, I have been feeling very emotional lately.”

Reaching out for her hand I began to pray, speaking life and truth over her, as little eyes studied through closed car doors.

“Oh Lord, please encourage this mother artist as she steps out tomorrow to face paint, that you are with her. She can do this, and so much more because you have created her for great things, Oh God! Let her know today that you sent me to let her know that she is never alone.”

She thanked me, and we parted ways.  

      Sitting in my van I held Lydia’s hand, overcome with emotion I whispered, “she going to do it, she is going to have the courage to do her art!”