Born to Write

Are We Ready?

2011-12-02T07:36:00.000-08:00

Christmas is near. Are we prepared? Not prepared as in - shopping is finished, gifts are bought and wrapped, a decorated Christmas tree stands proudly in a perfectly appointed room, and plans for a holiday feast are complete.

Prepared as in - are our hearts prepared for the birth of the Baby Jesus to once again come into this world to save us? Have we laid our hearts and minds and arms open to receive Him? Have we thrown our shortcomings and sins before Him, begging for forgiveness, fully ready to joyously welcome His Holy Spirit?

Each year we hear the Christmas story, we watch the manger tableau played out in school Christmas programs, and we sing the joyous familiar Christmas carols. Is it merely enjoyment and tradition or does it truly touch our hearts? Does it bring tears to our eyes to know that this little baby, this Christ Child, came for you and me? He entered the world, growing in the knowledge that He would shortly die for His children in order to set us free. Are we even able to comprehend the concept, the magnitude? I wonder.

So many rituals make up the season of Christmas. Families coming together, gift-giving, holiday meals – all so wonderful. We must also be certain that there is still Christ in the celebrations of Christmas. Our hearts need to be as open as our arms would be to receive a new-born baby - any new-born baby, but especially this little Child of Bethlehem.

So hear the angels singing and the bells ringing, marvel at the Star of the East, watch the shepherds make their way to the stable, see the wonder in the eyes of Mary and Joseph and know that this baby, lying so humbly in a bed of straw, came to save us, came to give us life, came to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. Be prepared with an open heart because He came for YOU and He came for ME. CHRIST is in CHRISTMAS – CHRIST is CHRISTMAS.

“ …Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.” Matthew 3:3b
“But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.’ ” Luke 2:10,11

Homecoming

2011-11-01T10:35:00.001-07:00

I recently experienced the feeling of homecoming when I visited my oldest son and his family. Seeing their faces as I stepped down from the shuttle from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, New Mexico, was so joyous, I could hardly keep it all in. Hugs and kisses and smiles, yes, and tears - but it was so, so wonderful. I recalled little nuances about my son’s facial features, his eyes, his smile that had grown dim. The same is true when I visit my loved ones in Wisconsin. New delights arise with each conversation, each shared experience. Memories are stored away until the next rejoining. Hearts overflow with love and happiness. And then the agony of saying goodbye; one last hug, one last stroke of the shoulder, one last look from the window.

We’ve all been separated from loved ones through geography or the worst kind of separation – death. We heal from these losses with the help of our Lord and time, but etched in our hearts is that loved one’s smile and personality “tics” that are unique and individual. Memories come to us unaided by conscious thought – they just appear, making us smile and yes, sometimes shed a tear. A certain walk, a turn of the head, a twinkle in the eyes brings it all back.

I think heaven must be like that. I believe we will recognize those loved ones in heaven by those characteristics that we so fondly remember as we live here below. And when we join them, what a homecoming it will be! There will be kisses, hugs, (no tears this time) – only joy, the heart-filling ecstasy of an eternal reunion with no more separations. There will be unending singing and music and lights and colors and dancing and conversations and finally, understanding of the meaning of our lives here on earth – and no more sad goodbyes. Our joy will know no containment, it will be evermore and unending. What glory with Jesus our Lord on high!

When the holy angels meet us
As we join their happy band,
We shall know the friends that greet us
In that glorious spirit-land.
We shall see the same eyes shining
On us as in days of yore.
We shall feel the dear arms twining
Fondly, round us as before.
Author unknown.

“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12

Cherish the Moment

2011-08-21T17:52:00.000-07:00

“We are a people of jugglers. We juggle family, work, friends, commitments, responsibilities, relationships. We don’t take the time to ‘cradle’ moments, experiences or even the people we love.” I’m paraphrasing here from a brief recorded inspirational message by Sheila Walsh of Women of Faith on KLove. Struck by this sound bite, it became my most recent “aha” moment.

What a lovely visual! Cradle the whirring beats of a hummingbird’s wings as he hovers over a flower – God’s dual creation in the bird and the blossom – both fleeting – hang on to them! Cradle a child’s upturned face, lashes dark against perfect skin, little white teeth shining in an uninhibited grin. Extend that moment for a couple of heartbeats – be reluctant to let it go. Days flip by, a blink of the eye and the moment is gone. Cherish a phone call from an older child, a relative or a loved one – breathe in the sound of their voice, their laugh across the miles; picture in your mind their face and their mannerisms. Hold them all in your heart.

Cradle the time spent with a friend – a friend who may be hurting, who may be ill, someone you don’t see often enough, or someone you see every day. Whether laughing together or crying together, embrace the minutes or hours you are together. The fragility of life cannot guarantee another meeting in this lifetime. Cradle it.

Cradle your ability to think, to see, to hear, to feel. Some are not so fortunate. God created us to be marvelous beings. Think of your hands, your feet, your brain, the workings of your body – and marvel. Cradle the magical aspects of your creation, the miracle of life. Hold your beauty in your hands as you would a newborn baby.

Take moments to cradle your time spent with God – in prayer, in Bible study, in quietness. It may be the best part of your whole day – hearing the whisper of His voice, feeling His comfort, His forgiveness, His Spirit, His being.

When we juggle all the “hats” that we must wear in this life, when we don’t cradle moments and people, we find that we’ve come to the end of our lives with a muddled mind and very tired arms. And really, now what was it all for? Did we enjoy and cherish the moments that God gave us or were we too busy keeping balls in the air to even notice? Drop the balls and cradle those people, those take-it-to-my-heart pieces of life that need preserving. Time is short. Do it now.

“You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man’s life is but a breath. Man is a mere phantom as he goes to and fro. He bustles about, but only in vain. . .” Psalm 39:5-6a

"I DON'T FIT!"

2011-07-23T15:46:00.000-07:00

My sister is holding out an ugly pair of orange Crocs, size 12, which she insists are mine. She tells me to put them on. I keep telling her that I wear a 7 ½, and that the shoes are not mine. They will not fit. She insists they will. It’s quite a battle of wills. Then I wake up, shaking off the silly dream.

We are sometimes expected to fit into a preconceived mold which may not be us at all. It could be at school, at work, at home, socially, or professionally. Young girls’ images especially, are challenged constantly through TV, movies, and magazines that scream, “You can’t be too thin, too blond or too rich!” Our youth is striving for unattainable image goals and suffering greatly for it.

There’s a Christian song out called “More Beautiful You.” A verse goes like this:
“You were made to fill a purpose that only you could do
So there could never be a more beautiful you.”

God made each one of us individually – no molds. It took me years to learn to be myself, not what someone else expected me to be. God was good to me – he gave me intelligence, a love of learning, compassion – and red hair. OK, so I didn’t get the gorgeous face, but I’m happy. God gave each of us talents and traits that belong only to us. He lovingly created us – and just like snowflakes – not one of us is completely alike. We were made in His image. How can that be at all imperfect?

It’s OK to be ourselves. It’s important that we be ourselves. Many times we learn more from the characteristics we don’t have than from the ones we do. We turn to God for help in our deficiencies, asking Him for guidance and knowledge and insight and discernment. He blesses us with these things as we need them.

Young people will learn that image isn’t everything. The love of Jesus Christ shining from within is what people will remember. The people we are drawn to are those who reflect an inward light, caring for fellow men, comfortable in the skin that God gave them. We WERE each made to fill a purpose, each one of us. Prayer and a daily relationship with our Lord will reveal that purpose.

In God’s sight, we are all beautiful. We are all perfect. We are God’s children. We are meant to be who we are. Determine your purpose and do all you can to fulfill it, asking God’s guidance and strength, praising His holy name.

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts….and be thankful.” Colossians 3:15

Every Breath We Take

2011-05-31T09:59:00.000-07:00

Life is fragile. I am so aware of that following the most recent life-threatening medical emergency with my sister, Cookie. She’s come through many serious illnesses and complications of her blood disease, but the last one could have been her last – and very nearly was.

I’m asking you to do something for Cookie. Place a hand on your chest. Hold your hand under your nose to feel your breath. Take your pulse. Your heartbeat, your every breath, your blood flowing through your veins – all gifts from God. Do we think about that very often? I do every time my sister is sick, but not often at other times. No one needs to be obsessive about this, but think about it. Each breath we draw, each beat of our heart, God ordains. We don’t know when these life-giving cycles will end. But shouldn’t we thank Him for them as we live our lives? I think we should.

Our bodies are temples for our souls. Things go wrong from time-to-time. We ache, we bleed, and we suffer – all part of life. But our bodies are marvelous things, really. God created us so perfectly. Yes, in different sizes, shapes, colors, forms. But wonderfully! Sometimes we just wear out and wear down as in Cookie’s case. And yet I marvel at how she smiles, she laughs, she looks to the future with hope, thanking God for the things that DO work!

Life is amazing – not to be taken lightly. Waking up each day is a gift (I know – that’s why they call it the “present”!) I saw my doctor today and felt my blood beating as the assistant took my pressure. And I thanked God. We sometimes take time to “smell the roses,” marvel at a hummingbird, become overwhelmed looking into the face of a child. Take time today to marvel at your Maker’s creation – YOU! Because He loves us so, He made us in His image. And it is perfection. Our time on earth is limited. Enjoy the beat of your heart when you’re pumping that Stairmaster, take pause at your breath on a mirror. You are experiencing life itself – so very precious. Take time to thank and praise your Maker – our Lord God Almighty – for life, for breath, for living.

“The Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” Genesis 2:7

Lift Up Your Heads!

2011-04-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

My California poppies are a brilliant profusion of yellow-orange blossoms – so beautiful! I’ve been noticing as they lift their heads to the day-long sunshine and bow their heads at the darkening evening. Need I say more? Such a simple analogy as to what we, as Christians, do, or should be doing.

Each day is such a gift from God – a new beginning, a new chance to live life doing His will. As my poppies do and as Christians, we lift up our heads to praise God as the sun rises; bow our heads in prayer in the evening. But are we looking upwards to our heavenly Father all the day long – the day that He gives us? Or do we lag somewhere past noon; drag our heads downward by grumbling about our work loads, our finances, our aches and pains?

Lifting our heads up, can we make another’s day brighter by a helpful act of kindness, a simple smile, or caring concern? Can we witness our faith and help to turn another’s face upward in worship and salvation? How about erasing those frown lines between the eyebrows, making a conscious effort to replace them with laugh lines around the mouth instead? So much more attractive!

Many wonders of nature lift their heads to the sky above. Have you never noticed? Notice now. Trees, grass, flowers, even weeds! Birds trill their songs with their throats stretched, heads up. Lizards raise their heads as they sun themselves. Aren’t we “perkier” when the sun shines as opposed to a gloomy, cloudy day? How have we missed this lesson demonstrated daily before our very eyes? Maybe that’s why God placed our heads on top of our bodies – so we could lift them up to Him! He plans our days, He plans our lives. How can we not look upward to discern what that plan is for us daily and throughout our lives?

When evening comes, we rightfully bow our heads in prayer, giving thanks to our Father – for daily bread, for health, for children, for forgiveness, for a life to come with Him in heaven. We ask His guidance for the coming day when we can once again lift up our heads in praise to our heavenly Father. My poppies are so wise. They not only give me immeasurable pleasure by their beauty. Observing their raised heads throughout the day, their bowed heads at eventide, my Savior speaks a lesson to me. Will you also learn from my poppies?

“Lift up your heads, you mighty gates!
Behold the King of glory waits,
The King of kings is drawing near
The Savior of the world is here.
He brings salvation down to earth
Greet him with shouts of holy mirth
Our highest praise we bring,
Our God, Creator, King.”

Who Are We?

2011-03-22T19:10:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was moved to tears as I drove home from work. KLove played one of my favorite songs, sung by MercyMe, “Emmanuel, God with Us.” Although the words to the whole song are magnificent, two lines especially touched my heart:

“Who are we, that You would be mindful of us?
What do You see, that's worth looking our way?”

With Easter fast approaching, these words must hit you in your heart of hearts as it did me. Who are we that Christ would be mindful of us? What does he see, that’s worth looking our way? It is incomprehensible to think his love for us is so great that he would accept Judas’ kiss; that he would walk, without protest, alongside the soldiers out of the Garden of Gethsemane. Who are we that He would suffer this indignity for us?

When accused by the chief priests and the elders, Jesus gave no answer, no reply, not to a single charge. What did he see, looking our way, that was worth no defense of himself, assuring his certain death? When he was stripped, a crown of thorns placed on his head, beaten again and again, what did he see? He was mindful of us; he was looking our way.

As he hung on the cross, suffering so horribly, what did he see? He saw your face; he saw mine. He saw his children’s sinful nature, but he also saw his children’s hearts. Jesus’ Father’s will was for his death, so that you and I, as his children, might forever live. That’s what he saw. Simple, yet unimaginable.

And on Easter Sunday, emerging from a borrowed tomb, Jesus claimed power over death, giving His disciples and all believers the gift of the Holy Spirit. Who are we that he would do that? We are his beloved children whom He died for. What does he see as he looks our way? He sees his beloved children – he sees you and he sees me.

“How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!" 1 John 3:1a

I'm Published - Again!

2011-03-19T14:21:00.000-07:00

The Lutheran Digest has just accepted my article, "Take it to the Cross" for publication! I'm so excited! Read it here and share it with someone. I write to touch people. Blessings!

Be Prepared

2011-03-19T14:03:00.000-07:00

One spring, when I worked at Western Wisconsin Technical Institute in La Crosse, WI, I decided to start walking to and from work, about 12 blocks, to regain my girlish figure. I am a “prepared” person – I could live for a month in the desert on the contents of my purse alone.

So for this 12-block hike (La Crosse city blocks are not a mile long as they are in Phoenix), I packed up my Nike survival bag: two towels to wipe away sweat or soak up blood if I got hit by a car; an extra pair of shoes (in case I lost one in the car-hitting-me accident); a paperback novel in case of a massive traffic jam with me being trapped on the opposite side of the street from my work; a curling iron should my hair go straight, a mirror by which to see my hair going straight, shorts and tennis shoes to wear on my home-bound way. With this 20-lb. bag was on one shoulder and my 10-lb. purse on the other, 12 short blocks felt like a 26-mile marathon!
Needless to say, the next day, I lightened the load considerably, carrying a lighter purse and a much lighter survival bag.

Don’t we often do that to ourselves? Anticipate trouble? Carry around much more baggage than we need to? A friend told me, “Worrying is like making a down payment on a debt that may never come due.” I like that! God says in Matthew 6:27b, “…..who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?” In fact, we may take years OFF of our lives by our incessant worrying. We can never anticipate where life will take us. Only God has that road map before Him.

And, oh, the baggage we carry on our shoulders! “Oh, what needless pains we bear!” We carry the past into the present and project it on into the future at times. There is guilt, shame, regret, heartache, resentment, blame – none of it an honorable armor to wear or to share. We can “dump” the restricting burdens on Jesus and lighten our burdens by clothing ourselves in the Holy Spirit. Let’s get on with today, looking forward to tomorrow with gladness, lighter and more free.

The only survival bag needed in our walk through life is faith in God, communion with Him in prayer, and the openness of our heart to His Spirit. He will “prepare” us for any trial of fire we walk through. He will lift away the baggage we sometimes insist on carrying from the past, taking the load onto His own shoulders. He died on the cross to give us eternal life in heaven with Him. He wipes away all sin and because He loves us, He cares nothing about our pasts. The slate is wiped clean with His blood. Got it? OK now, shoulders back, smile on face - truly “let go and let God.” And only “prepare” with joy for life everlasting with Him.

“What a friend we have in Jesus,
all our sins and griefs to bear,
what a privilege to carry
everything to God in prayer.”
Song: What a Friend We Have in Jesus

Image is NOT Everything

2011-01-31T18:15:00.000-08:00

I owned a vehicle once named Herbie. He was a little, faded, orange excuse-for-a-car with a ripped black vinyl top. I don’t even know if the manufacturer would admit to creating him. Rust holes here and there gave him character, I thought at the time. I had to kick the door each time I wanted to enter the driver’s side. His trunk would fly open at the most inopportune times, like rush hour. His battered dash was concealed a bit with my 8-yr.old daughter’s stickers – quite festive actually. She used to pat him affectionately when the heater wouldn’t quite cut the bone-numbing cold of a Wisconsin winter. But I loved him.

It wasn’t his exterior that mattered. He was reliable (most of the time) and conscientious (for a car) and did the best his over-100,000-mile engine could do. I look a little like Herbie did. The roads I’ve traveled are etched on my face. There is some pain there but lots of joy, too. Life happens and in later years, life is often times evident on our exteriors.

But God loves us anyway. He sees the creature he created. He sees our inner workings, our heart and our soul. He pats us affectionately when we create our own scars. Maybe there’s even a little kick on our doors sometimes when we neglect to let him in. He sees the child he created in the womb, full of sin, yes. But that’s why he died – to clean us up, to give us that “new car smell” again, washed whiter than snow in his eyes.

So often we judge people by their exteriors. How very wrong that is! I’ve done it myself and I’m ashamed. Who can see into a heart but our Lord and Maker? Who knows the roads another person has traversed but God? Who knows the cause of every little dent and rip but Jesus? He knows every tear that has fallen. He sees and applauds our life progress. He orchestrates our joy.

I have some dents in my fenders and some rips in my jeans, as a contemporary Christian song states. So did Herbie. But he kept goin’ on. And his flaws became invisible because I knew his heart. God loves us inside and out. And he looks beyond our Etch-A-Sketch faces and sees only the beauty of his creation – in each and every one of us.

“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him, male and female he created them . . . God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.” Genesis 1:27, 31

GOIN' HOME

2010-10-26T12:24:00.000-07:00

There’s a Contemporary Christian song out now by Daughtry, called “Home.” One of the lines is, “I’m going to the place where love and feeling good don’t ever cost a thing.” I like that line. You see, I went “home” to Wisconsin in September to see family and friends – “where love doesn’t ever cost a thing.” Life is simple there, uncomplicated, relaxed, and uncluttered. My roots are there. I left when I was 38 years old and Arizona is now my home of choice. But my “home” will always be in Wisconsin because my history is there. I was molded there by parents who loved me. I was married there. I had children there - watched them grow. My Christian life began there. Love comes easily there, without cost. I am loved for who I am – not what I have acquired or what I look like. It is always instant acceptability – I am welcomed with open arms.

Isn’t that how Jesus loves us? He instantly accepts us with all our flaws, all our weaknesses, and all our sins. His love never costs a thing. We can be who we are, as He made us. He loves the person we are – AS IS. We may have pasts that haunt us; we may have hurts that have never healed. We may have lost loved ones and have struggled to survive without them, inconsolable. We may rise up in anger at times and rail against circumstances, shaking our fists at the heavens, crying, “Why me, Lord? Why?” We may be so lost at times that no one can reach us. But there is the Lord, holding out His hands, willing to meet us wherever we are. There’s another song I love called, “God Ran.” I believe He runs after us as we deviate from His chosen path for us. He runs to us as we stray. He runs to be by our side when we weep, to comfort us as we mourn. He runs to us with His spirit as we pray. He runs to us, delighting in our laughter. His love for us is simple, uncomplicated, all encompassing and all accepting. He opens His arms and enfolds us, saying, “Welcome home.” Thank you, Father.

“…And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ.” Ephesians 3:17b-18

MY DANCE, MY DANCE TO COME

2010-08-24T14:43:00.000-07:00

I have strange dreams. Sometimes I’m cognizant of them, other times not. This dream is so fresh and vivid – I remember every detail. I dreamed I was in a large hall with lots of people sitting around. It reminded me of our pot luck dinners in the basement of my home church in Wisconsin. Slowly, this spry-looking older man turned to me. It was my Grandpa Sime, whom I had sung hymns to in the hours before he died. My dear, wonderful, witty, slightly raunchy, child-loving, tobacco-chewing Grandpa Sime, but younger, healthier - glowing, in fact.

I threw myself into his arms, sobbing my joy into his now smooth, non-leathery neck. He just held me – for a long time. Then, almost imperceptibly, he began to move with me in his arms. I realized we were dancing, slowly, elegantly, beautifully. All else faded away. It was just Grandpa and me. I heard no music, but we were completely on beat. My tears died in the magic of the moment. Now, Grandpa was not known as a dancer, except for juggling children on his knee in “horsey rides,” and swinging us around in his arms while he sang a little Norwegian ditty. But this same Grandpa guided me as smoothly as Baryshnikov might have. Slowly the dream faded away, but recalling it the next morning brought me again to tears, and, with it, euphoria after experiencing such a magical moment. I had danced with my Grandpa.

I believe I will feel the same way, only exemplified, when I meet my Lord Jesus in heaven. I believe I will sob with joy at seeing his face. He will take me in his arms and gently hold me -my tears will be wiped away. And then we will move, in a heavenly, stately dance. There will be music this time; there will be saints around us, including Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and Dad and other loved ones who have gone before. My tears will dry and the euphoria will be greater and for all eternity. I will have danced with Jesus.

“Then maidens will dance and be glad, young men and old as well. I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.” Jeremiah 31:13

TAKE IT TO THE CROSS

2010-07-17T17:02:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a giant lesson in humility the past four weeks. I witnessed several miracles which changed my perspective. Some of you may know about the little hummingbird who built a tiny nest on a very small cross wind chime hanging on my patio. I have bigger wind chimes hanging there, but she chose the cross. Fascinating to watch, she would bring little bits of things, poke them in place with her beak and then tamp them down with her feet. When the nest was built, about 3 feet from my French doors leading to the patio, she would sit in the nest. I talked to her all the time and she became so tame, she didn’t flinch or move when I opened or closed the patio doors.

She sat there many days and nights, barely moving. Two days ago, two tiny little beaks peeked out of the nest. The Mama now sits on the edge of the nest and tends to her babies. Too little to chirp or fly yet, their little raw pink necks stretch out for her.

Witnessing this, I felt God in the process and I was humbled. Why do I worry so about external things? Why do I fuss and fume and search for answers? God is IN everything! (Proverbs 3:5-6) This little bird selected a tiny cross on which to build her nest. She trusted me, a great big human seated not far from her, to not destroy her nest or cause her harm as she laid her precious little eggs. The lesson here is…take it to the cross! There is no reason to fear life if our foundation is the cross. God is big and we are small, but He will protect our “nests,” our beings, our life if we have even the trust of this tiny little hummingbird, the faith of a mustard seed. (Matthew 17:20)

I have wept watching this little bird trust me enough to build a nest before my very eyes, so close to me, to sit there day after day, unafraid and patient, and then to feed those miniscule little upturned beaks. I know that if God cares for birds such as these, He cares for me so much more. (Philippians 4:19)

In the quiet of my patio, talking gently to this little bird, I am overcome with the love that God has for me, for you, for this little new family of birds, through the cross that He died on to save us. I feel privileged to have witnessed this miracle.

“Look at the birds of the air….and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?” Matthew 6:2

ALL I NEED

2010-07-17T14:38:00.000-07:00

We didn’t have much when I was growing up. Dad sold some corn at rock-bottom prices one December so we could have a meager Christmas. Mom stretched the food dollar as far as she could, supplementing her limited budget with garden-fresh produce in the summer and canned meats, fruits, and veggies in the winter. Chocolate chip cookies and one-scoop banana splits were rare luxuries. But I never felt deprived. We had enough.

I don’t have much now, either. I haven’t won the lottery. I am not (yet) a world-famous published author of renown. I haven’t saved the world from hunger as I planned to do when I was a teenager. I don’t know that I’ve made a difference in the grand scheme of things. But I have enough.

You know how sometimes you think you just need something new to perk you up? You buy something, but it doesn’t satisfy for long. It’s just another thing. At times like these, what we really may be longing for is closeness with someone, a view of fluffy white clouds startlingly lined with vibrant pink, contact with a long-lost friend, or quiet moments with our God. These give us the “filling-up” of our souls that we are really seeking.

It’s oft-times surprising how little we need and yet we always seem to be accumulating “stuff.” I have food, I have water, I have shelter, I have transportation. Most importantly, I have friends, I have family, I have freedom, I have my Lord Jesus Christ. What more do I really need?

God promised that he would always supply our needs. He says, “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” That promise is limitless. WHATEVER we need, we have only to ask our heavenly Father. In 1 John 3:21 we read, “Dear friends . . . we have confidence before God and receive from him ANYTHING we ask….”

How often have you heard someone say, “God will provide.” Do we take it literally? We need to. God WILL provide all that we need. And his greatest promise to us is to supply everlasting life with him. In 1 John 2:25, we read, “And this is what he promised us – even eternal life.” In Christ, I want for nothing.

“ . . . Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.” Matthew 6:8b

Father's Day

2010-05-21T08:47:00.001-07:00

FATHER’S DAY

Sometimes I wish I were a little girl again,
I’d climb upon your knee,
Show you my hurt and have you kiss it away.
With your strong arms to hold me,
Your fortress of love to protect me,
Nothing could ever harm me again.
But I am not a little girl,
And you are asleep in Jesus.
But I feel your presence
Near to me when I hurt.
Your fortress of love combined
With God’s care for me is awesome.
I thank God for giving me you –
To mold me and guide me when I was small.
I thank Him, that by His grace,
You knew Him before you died.
And I thank Him that all pain for you has ceased,
And you live with Him for all eternity.
Father’s Day for me is a mixture of pain and joy,
Pain because I miss you
And joy because you dwell with God.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad,
I’ll meet you later on.

How Did He Do That?

2010-04-20T16:30:00.000-07:00

Spring is a time of renewal -- green spouts, flowering plants, and pleasant days. Following Easter, the ultimate renewal of Jesus Christ our Savior who was raised from the dead, my thoughts have turned to; “How did He do that?” Raised on a farm, I have a deep connection to growing things. About a week ago, a friend of mine helped me plant some herbs in my flowerbed-edged patio. I also planted some flower seeds and plants, loving the smell of overturned dirt and the sight of fragile, tender seedlings. All the while, I’m thinking, “How did He create the amazing variety of fruits, vegetables, plants, grass, flowers, trees, birds, snowflakes, people?”

I peeled an onion tonight and marveled at the layers upon layers of translucent skin. I saw my flower seeds peeking through the ground today. I planted dried up, brownish balls of nothing – now new, tender, green shoots that will blossom into riotous colors all summer. How did He do that?

My computer screensaver, to my delight, automatically pages through stored pictures of my children, siblings, and grandchildren. They all have two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth and yet they were created separately, individually. No one looks alike. If I took a piece of paper and drew a face, placed two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth, I can assure you they would all look basically the same. Not so with God. How does He do that?

He does all of this majestically, powerfully, uniquely – because he is God. The radish is not at all like the broccoli; dill doesn’t resemble basil; pumpkins look nothing like limes; cucumbers can’t be mistaken for onions. A rose looks nothing like a petunia. And I don’t look at all like Raquel Welch. (Bummer!) Think about it! He is the Creator. He made this beautiful, awe-inspiring world for us. He then gave us the ultimate gift -- He sacrificed His Son for us and raised Him from the dead, defeating death forever. Look around you today. Notice our world. If this world has beauty, try to imagine what His heaven is like. Then we might say, “How did He do this?” We’ll someday see His face -- and we’ll know.

“For by him all things were created, things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible….all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. ” Colossians 1:16, 17

Divorce - Destruction or Rebirth?

2010-04-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

In 1993, two and one-third million couples married and one and one-third million couples divorced. Whether a divorce is bitter or amiable, the effects are long-lasting. Children suffer greatly. The emotions of all family members ricochet from one extreme to the other. Friends of the couple puzzle over where their loyalties lie. Self-esteem disappears and financial hardship can ensue. For me, my broken marriage took me on a journey from devastation to rebirth.

Initially, divorce indicates failure of one or both parties. Failure at anything is seldom pleasant, especially the failure to honor a commitment to another human being. Whether a union has lasted one year or twenty years, self-blame is common. When my twenty-two-year marriage ended, I blamed myself. I endlessly analyzed our years together, but came up with few answers and no assurance that, if I had been smarter or prettier or tried harder, the marriage would have survived.

Following my self-recrimination stage, depression came calling. The inclination to get up each morning, to eat, to speak deserted me. I wanted only to curl up in bed, with my head beneath a pillow and my body swaddled in blankets. Small talk with the rest of the human race exhausted me. Breathing became difficult and not always desirable -- it seemed easier not to breathe, to just expire quietly. Life went on everywhere else except in the protective cocoon where I lived.

In the midst of a divorce, children often are asked, verbally or non-verbally, to choose one parent over the other, to blame one parent over the other. In my case, I was the rejected parent. As a result, I experienced a hell like no other on earth. In a perfect world, time heals all wounds, but it doesn't always happen. Fifteen years after my divorce, I am still the "bad guy." And so the heartbreak continues. Our divorce also had long-lasting effects on our children. Two of them are divorced and one vows never to marry.

After our divorce, former friends either backed out of the picture completely or sided with one or the other of us. He got most of our friends; I got a few. This caused bewilderment and a feeling of isolation in me. Wasn't I the same person I was when I was married? Was I now less likable, less worthy of their friendship? Who gets custody of friends? Nothing is predictable when a marriage ends.

Then came the unanswerable questions. Am I still a daughter-in-law? How does that work? Do I telephone my former in-laws, remain in contact, or sever all ties? What are the rules? Is there a divorce etiquette book out there somewhere?

My self-esteem and self-confidence disappeared. I believed that no one would ever want me again. The success of my married years disappeared from my consciousness; I was only aware of the failures. Shame and self-doubt colored my personal life and my professional life. I had to make myself smile, to look people in the eye, to take part in conversations. I was surprised and distrustful when people spoke to me, when people seemed to like me. Money was scarce; I struggled to survive. I took menial jobs when I could get no others. My self-worth plummeted and thoughts of giving up flooded my mind. Gradually, though, my situation improved and my true self emerged from the rubble. To once again stand straight and proud took time, persistence, strength I never knew I had, and years of objective professional help.

Now I find there ARE advantages to being single: no disagreements over television channels; no interminable hours of Sunday afternoon and Monday night football; no wet towels, dirty socks, underwear, and other articles of clothing carelessly strew about and forgotten. No one demands an accounting of my finances or questions me regarding what time I will be home. No one demands dinner at 6:00pm on the dot. No one tells me I look fat in an outfit or laughs at my new hair style.

Conversely, there is no one to share in my personal successes or failures, my joy or my pain. No one wipes the tears from my cheeks, promising to make it all better. no one tells me he is proud of me; no one is there to love me no matter what anyone else thinks of me. There are no strong arms to encircle me, no broad shoulders to cry on, no hairy chest to rest my head upon in the deep, dark, scary night.

Divorce changed my life and not entirely for the better. The loss of my children and my friends, of my big rambling farmhouse, of my security, and of my self-esteem very nearly destroyed me, but these losses also birthed a stronger, more empathetic human being -- me. Today, I truly value my hard-earned independence and self-esteem. I am proud of my emergence from the suffocating cocoon of self-doubt. Life's experiences and lessons can be sobering, but, miraculously, my ability to laugh, love and trust lives on.

And the elimination of football from my life brings me great joy!

Our Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

2009-11-01T06:40:00.000-08:00

Have you ever tried to decorate a scraggly "Charlie Brown" Christmas tree? I usually end up with one, the full, lush green ones already taken before I get around to buying ours.

It's really quite a challenge. If one can start with a stalk, three brownish branches haphazardly sticking from it, and somehow make it into something the Christmas Eve guests won't snicker at, one has accomplished an artistic feat of considerable merit.

After the "what an ugly tree" phase, I begin to feel compassion and I promise it a magnificent and regal send off to the "tree-house" in the sky.

First, it must go into the tree stand. It is always too thick. It must be cut off. The dull-bladed saw teeth catch in the trunk every other pass through. Why is nothing easy? I inevitably cut off too much. What began as a tallish hideous tree is now a short repulsive one. One either settles for that or goes out and buys a new tree.

Then it's never straight. It usually has a 45-degree crook in its middle. My very favorite part in all this is crawling under the tree (the needles from three branches can put out an eye just as effectively as twenty), unscrewing the screws of the tree stand, adjusting the trunk of the tree. You ask the kids if it's straight yet.

One says, "Yeah, it's pretty good."
One says, "Huh-uh."
Another says, "What an ugly tree!"

By this time, Scrooge has stiff competition. Bah humbug!

By now, the tree has fallen over twice and is secured to the window by wire, baling twine, a belt, or whatever happens to be handy.

Tree fairly straight. Now to distribute six strings of lights, five boxes of balls, Santas, snowmen, and bells on three scrawny branches, along with one star that won't fit over the three stupid prong-branches projecting out of the top of the tree.

"How come those lights are hanging in mid-air, Mom?"
"Because there are no more branches to hang them on."
"But it looks stupid, Mom!"
"Go to your room!"

Ever try to wire on extra branches in the bare spots? Fun, huh? Looking good, lights distributed; then, perfectly synchronized, the false branches all come loose, fall off completely, or point downward.

"Is the tree sad, Mom?"
"No, why?"
"'Cause its arms are drooping."
"It's just tired."
"Why is it tired, it just got here."
"Go to your room!"

One string of light won't work, bulbs tested and replaced, some tinsel here and there to disguise wide-open spaces.

"What's my giant snowman doing on the tree, Mom? He'll break it down."
(I hope it does!) "It's to cover up that hole where the branch fell off. Isn't he cute there?"
"Looks dumb, Mom."
"Go to your room!"

I've done the best I can; I'm weary, wondering why I perpetuate this hassle year after year. It's now twilight and tentatively I plug in the lights.

The kids have tiptoed down from their rooms. They gasp in delight as they peek around the doorway.

"It's beautiful, Mom! I can't even see the holes!"
"My snowman looks nice there."
"It's the prettiest tree we've ever had!"

Was that a wink from the center light of the star or just a defective bulb?

Oh, Tannenbaum, how lovely are your branches!

bj
12/18/1980

Part-time Mother

2009-09-29T20:33:00.000-07:00

There’s so little time to be her mother,
Twice a month doesn’t count for much.
I try to pack as much love
As I can into those times,
Try to include discipline, listening, teaching,
Understanding, encouragement,
Fulfilling her needs enough to last
Until the next time she is with me.

She looks up at me, questioning,
Always questioning, trying to decipher
What is happening –
And my sometimes evasive answers,
My childish confusion as to how to answer her
Do not satisfy either one of us,
Because I’m as bewildered at times as she.

How can I give her courage
When I’m scared all the time?
Stability when my life has no pattern?
Assurance when I’m so unsure?

There’s so little time to be her mother,
I hope it’s enough – it’s got to be enough
So she won’t forget I’m still her mother
And I love her so very much.

Don’t forget me, little one.

1984

Flying - Falling

2009-09-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

It’s difficult to fly with a broken wing –
Almost impossible, in fact.
As one tries to rise above the clouds,
The effort becomes too great.
The world seems tilted, unbalanced, teetering.
Perhaps it really is flat with a falling-off point,
I feel I am there.

I haven’t felt so weighted down in a long while,
Or so jumbled in my head,
Staring into space occupies my time,
A volcanic well of tension and anxiety reacts sharply
To a telephone’s ring, a child’s chatter,
Even a broken fingernail.

I plod from hour to hour
Longing only for the day to end
So I can say I made it through another day.
People pass in and out of my world –
I pay them no mind.

It’s lonely isolating oneself from human contact,
But perhaps necessary when waiting for a wound to heal.
I wonder if you are isolated too,
If a crippled limb prevents you from flying.

I wish we could fly together, just us two,
I would love you to heaven and back.
I would leave you no time for regret.
I would lift you to heights you’ve never known before,
If only you would let me.

Broken wings mend –
Perhaps I’ll fly again, perhaps I won’t –
I cannot say just now.

I’ll have to learn to walk again
Before I try to fly.

I have no motivation for doing either ---
Without you.

Father's Day

2009-09-29T20:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I were a little girl again,
I’d climb upon your knee,
Show you my hurt and have you kiss it away.
With your strong arms to hold me,
Your fortress of love to protect me,
Nothing could ever harm me again.
But I am not a little girl,
And you are asleep in Jesus.
But I feel your presence
Near to me when I hurt.
Your fortress of love combined
With God’s care for me is awesome.
I thank God for giving me you –
To mold me and guide me when I was small.
I thank Him, that by His grace,
You knew Him before you died.
And I thank Him that all pain for you has ceased,
And you live with Him for all eternity.
Father’s Day for me is a mixture of pain and joy,
Pain because I miss you
And joy because you dwell with God.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad,
I’ll meet you later on.

Finis

2009-09-26T07:15:00.000-07:00

Two long years of hurt,
of loneliness, some discovery,
uncertainty, some tenacity,
Waiting to hear the words
that will set me free --
free at last.

Finally I hear them,
hear them in every part of my being,
ripping through me.
Not with exultation as I had expected
but with aching, twisting pain.

I wasn't prepared for the pain,
the sadness, the mourning,
As if something vital and important
has died a long, slow
yet sudden death.

I feel the lump in my throat,
tears slipping from my eyes
As I hear, "You are no longer man and wife --
divorce is hereby granted,
you are both free to go."

Free to go? Go where?
Go alone? He has my children.
How did that come to be?
I've been alone for two long years
but this alone is so -- final.

I loved him once,
part of me does yet,
maybe always will,
But not enough to live on.

That part of my life is over,
blown away like chaff in a field.
What's ahead?

The long, slow process of rebuilding --
this time on the solid foundation
of me -- because I still AM.
I do have me and I have others
who respect that ME
as he never did or could.

I know I can do it,
I'm prepared to do it,
I just wasn't prepared for the sadness,
the sense of a deep, real loss.

Did I win or did he?
Neither. Neither.
There was no victor in this war.
Rather, I lost the most --
I lost my children.

I do have me -- whole, strong, healthy,
I can go on.
I just wasn't prepared for the sadness.
-9/23/82

Time

2009-09-26T07:08:00.001-07:00

We think of time as endless
Of years and years ahead
We think we'll go forever
Our book of life unread.

In youth, we played with life,
We dared it to be real,
We laughed and did whate'er we pleased,
Took life as no big deal.

Then maturity comes along,
We still think life owes us,
"God? I'll think of Him someday,
Have to run to catch a bus!"

There is so much we'd like to do,
But think, "Not now, no time,"
A kindness that we might have shown,
An easing of a mind.

We think, "When I get older,
I'll have more time to spend."
But time cannot be bought and saved,
It soon comes to an end.

And then the clock stops ticking,
And we're afraid to die,
We cry to God, so sorry then,
That we have passed Him by.

We ask Him to forgive us,
For all our many crimes,
His eyes are sad, He's crying now,
"I'm sorry, there's no time."
- 1980

First Things First

2009-09-26T07:03:00.000-07:00

If i were prettier
Would you love me?
If I were smarter
Would you love me then?
If I were thinner
Would you want me?
If I were braver
Would you admire me?
If I were famous
Would you adore me?
If I were young
Would you desire me?

I would be all these things
If you first ---- just ----
---loved me.
-1984

Disintegration

2009-09-26T06:53:00.000-07:00

I feel as though I'm crumbling
into a lot of little pieces.
I haven't felt this way
for a long time.

My past is shattering around me,
My present, not much better.
My future, not so bright.

The brightest light in my world
is boarding a plane tomorrow
and with this daughter goes my being -
I can't BE without her.

She's with me always in my heart
but each time she goes away from me,
A new hole is ripped inside.

I feel so trembly, so weak,
so unsure,
Like I'm going to tumble
and crash upon the ground.
It doesn't feel good.

I've picked up pieces before
and made a stronger me.
I just wonder how many times
I have to do so
Before the Crazy Glue that I use
to patch myself with each time
doesn't become brittle
But finally takes hold
until I mend for good
And become an honest-to-goodness
whole, healthy person.

Don't believe the advertising --
Crazy Glue does not hold a ton,
It doesn't even hold a heart together
for very long.

12/30/87

Even As She Sleeps

2009-09-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

Eyes closed
Long dusky lashes
Against soft, pink cheeks
Mouth slightly open
A little arm flung above her head
Blonde-brown hair splayed upon the pillow.
I brush my lips across her baby-smooth face
My breath catches in my throat
At the beauty of her innocence, her youth
Yet awed by the premature wisdom shining from within --
Even as she sleeps.

I gaze down at her and wonder
If she dreams as her eyelids flutter
Does she feel confusion, hurt or pain
Or is it possible she is secure
Knowing she is loved beyond all doubt --
Even as she sleeps.

Are there questions in her mind
That can't be answered?
Does she love me as she did before?
As much as I love her?
No, she never could, not half as much.
My love for her bursts through my being
I will it to enter her mind, her heart, her soul --
Even as she sleeps.

I silently beg her to understand
Why I'm not there for her every night
To tuck her in, to hear her prayers
To protect her, to assure her --
Even as she sleeps.

I snuggle in beside her, kiss her once more
Pull her warm little body next to mine
My tears fall on her hair, her cheeks, her eyes
She sighs deeply, and seeking a more comfortable position
Turns away from me --
Even as she sleeps.

I touch her hair, she moves --
Her arms go around me
And I weep for something lost
Something precious to both of us.
I age ten years in one night
Every other weekend --
Even as she sleeps.
-1984

Gifts of Love

2009-09-08T14:15:00.000-07:00

Ask a child, “What is your all-time favorite gift?” and he or she may give you a variety of responses: a Wii game program, an iPod, a cell phone or a laptop computer.

None of these acquisitions comes cheap. Sadly, our society and our children sometimes place values on possessions in direct relation to cost. Keeping up with Johnny or Joanie next door, giving a child what a parent never had, or buying a child’s affections may explain the need to shower young people with the very best that money can buy. My two favorite gifts, however, cost little or nothing; yet whenever I call them to memory, my heart warms and expands with pleasure.

When I was growing up, we had little money. My dad eked a living from the land; my mom made a home. We ate well off the farm and wore our home-sewn clothing stoically, but there were little extras.

When I was twelve, the price of corn and grain hit rock bottom. The summer netted bumper crops, sating the local feed markets and driving profits to farmers downward. Wheat bins and corn cribs bulged with more produce than cattle and hogs could consume. Since we depended on the sale of excess crops to pay the farm mortgage, land taxes and heavy utility bills, and to buy shoes, boots, and winter coats, the coming winter seemed bleak indeed. My siblings and I knew nothing of the threat to our livelihood. We only knew that Christmas might not come to our house that year.

As December 25 drew closer, I overheard my parents talking in hushed and worried tones. “What will we do? The kids need presents. I need staples for Christmas baking. What about lutefisk and lefsa for Christmas Eve supper? Christmas won’t be Christmas without any of these things.” My mother began to cry.

Dad comforted her, saying, “I’ll ask Bob Johnson down at the feed mill if he’ll buy some corn even though there’s no market for it right now.” Tears streamed down my face as I snuggled deeper into my downy quilt. I didn’t mind for me. I was old enough to do without, but my little sister and brother would be devastated.

Several days later, Dad blew through the door, propelled by an icy draught of winter wind. A sad little smile played around his mouth. Mom looked hopeful. “How much?” she asked.

“50 cents a bushel. I told him my kids need a Christmas. He finally agreed to buy 50 bushels.” He shoved a small wad of crumpled bills into Mom’s hand.

We awoke Christmas Eve morning to the cinnamon aroma of cookies baking. Norwegian lutefisk (cod soaked in lye) cooled in the refrigerator. Mom, elbow deep in flour, rolled out lefsa, a flatbread made from mashed potatoes and flour, the required companion to the fish – a meal that marked our family dinner on Christmas Eve as far back as I could remember. A small pile of gaily wrapped presents rested expectantly beneath a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. We danced around and giggled, tugging on her apron strings. How would we get through the day?

At last, evening fell and we watched the lights go out in the barn as Dad finished up the milking and evening chores. We endured our traditional Christmas Eve supper and thanked God that this one night of the year, the dishes could be washed and dried later. Dad played Santa, reading the tags and distributing our gifts – another yearly tradition. Dad’s heart was bigger than his imagination, so his gift to Mom was predictable – a chenille bathrobe. She feigned surprise and hugged him. Dad raved about the Old Spice cologne, his yearly gift from his unimaginative kids, bought with our pooled allowances.

Then it was my turn. Ripping the candy-striped wrapping from a rather large box, I pulled out a two-foot tall rag doll with a softly stuffed cloth body, painted-on green eyes with long lashes and a lush red mouth. Her yarn hair was orangish-red (like mine), braided into two pigtails and tied with fabric that matched her long, circular skirt. I recognized the cloth as coming from one of Mom’s discarded Sunday dresses. Naturally curious, I peeked under her skirt – and screamed! Another doll stared back at me! With blonde curly hair (like my sister’s), huge blue eyes, and a pink mouth, she was dressed in a coordinating blouse. When I held her up, the red-haired doll was completely obscured by the shared, reversible skirt sewed to the middle of the two connected dolls. Watching my delight as I turned the dolls over and over, my mom glowed with satisfaction and pride.

Baby brother Terry moved plastic animals in and out of the wooden barn, painstakingly cut, sanded, and nailed together by Dad’s big, rough hands, then painted a fire-engine red. Sister Cookie played with paper dolls and a cuddly, lopsided chenille-covered teddy bear – yes, made from Mom’s last year’s Christmas robe.

My second gift made me weep. Nestled inside an envelope of tissue paper lay a beautiful, white, lace-trimmed blouse. I gasped, afraid to touch it. Was this mine? Tears streaming down my face, I asked, “How could we afford this?” Mom ducked her head. “I made it from one of my petticoats. Do you like it?” I hugged her fiercely and ran to my bedroom to try it on, my two-in-one doll tucked beneath my arm. I wore the blouse everywhere until, I think, it finally fell apart. I still have the dual doll.

Slightly more affluent Christmases came to our home in later years. Store-bought toys and clothes excited us, I suppose, but I remember none of them. I fondly recall a home-made two-dolls-in-one keepsake and a delicate, ruffly blouse with puffy sleeves.

Hard times? No, not hard times – lovely times, memorable times, precious family times.

WIGGIN' OUT

2009-09-05T11:52:00.000-07:00

My husband’s and my favorite place to go for dinner in Wisconsin was a supper club on a small island in the Mississippi River. The only way to get there was on a ferry boat. One hot August night, I decked myself out in my best wear and my reddish, French-twisted human-hair wig (all the rage in the late 70s). I didn’t need to wear one – my hair has always been thick (and red), but, God forbid, I should be out of fashion! We set off with my in-laws for a nice dinner on the river.

I had rarely, up until my 30s, imbibed in alcohol. It was always Diet Pepsi for me. We ordered dinner and sat up to the bar to wait for our table. That night my husband suggested that I try a screwdriver, a cocktail with gin and orange juice. I agreed. From the first sip, I was refreshed. Tasted just like OJ and I kind of guzzled it, the night being so hot and humid. The other three in my little party were drinking beer. As the bartender replaced empty beer bottles with fresh ones, my drink was also refreshed – about 12 times!

About that time, I started to think that my husband was Tom Selleck, my mother-in-law was looking more and more like Betty White, my father-in-law, Andy Griffith, and I, of course, was Elizabeth Taylor (in a black wig). I also became very sick. I slid/tumbled off the bar stool, making my way to the bathroom. I’ve heard of hugging enamel before but I was trying to BECOME enamel, melding myself to the stool with desperate perspiration-drenched hands and arms. My head lolled inches above the water as I gave back every one of those screwdrivers that I had so enjoyed. I was empty as a Super Bowl stadium 6 hours after the big game.

Coming back into the restaurant and seeing my lobster dinner on the table sent me into paroxysms of nausea. The outside deck looked refreshing so I took my skewed wigged head out there to sit, hoping some fresh air would revive me. The deck had an open-slatted floor. Every few minutes, my body would chug up again and I would roll my lolling head over the arm of my lawn chair and release everything to the mighty Mississippi.

Needless to say, my husband ate two dinners that night. Time to leave. We got back on the ferry. My husband and in-laws sat in the covered portion of the ferry, but, still seeking relief from the perspiration that yet stood out all over my body (part humidity, part nausea-induced), I elected to sit in the back of the ferry wanting to catch the wonderful breeze coming off the water.

The ferry took off for shore. I leaned my head over the side and whoosh! I felt a lovely cooling wind on my head – not just on my face, but my head. It actually felt cold. I put my hand to my head and OMG! My wig was gone! Now, if you know anything about wigs, a woman would put her hair up on the top of her head with pins or just use the top of a pair of pantyhose as a “turban” to keep rooted hair from popping out of the wig, also making the wig quite secure. So you can imagine my horror to realize I was sitting on a ferry wearing the top of my pantyhose on my head! My husband was furious that I had lost the wig (human-hair wigs were quite expensive) and totally embarrassed by me, but what could I do? I had to, as gracefully as I could, disembark from the ferry and, with the greatest of dignity, walk to the car with a nylon stocking on my head.

Right about then, some scavenging beaver hooked onto my beautiful, French-twisted human-hair wig, drug it home, crying “look, Mom, what I found,” making it into the ritziest beaver home on the Mississippi! I feel I have done my part for nature and its critters.

Hill of Dreams

2009-08-29T20:31:00.000-07:00

Many adults fondly remember a childhood retreat, a place all their own – secret, special, soothing. I know such a place -- my hill of dreams.

Farmland in Wisconsin gently rolls from valleys to mounds to hills – some rather large, but always gentle, rounded on top. Just above our farmhouse was a hill wanna-be. Larger than a ground slope, it was safely accessible to a youngster and, from the top, served up fantastic views of the surrounding countryside. Huge flat rocks lined the perimeter; some stood precariously on end like Town House crackers in a bowl of guacamole dip. Leafy branches formed a sieve-like roof, peppering the grassy center with dots, streaks, and splashes of sunshine. And now, as an adult, I return there often, and when I do, immediately I am a child again.

I go to my hill when I feel sad or when joy bubbles in my heart. I escape there every chance I get. An introverted youngster, I enjoy my own company, preferring conversations in my head to actual oral exchanges with other people – even my family.

With my chores finished, I grab my diary, a pen, and a library book, and ascend into heaven – atop my hill. I position my small back against the tallest, flattest rock, stretching my legs before me. I sit quietly for several moments, drinking in the welcome privacy, the solitude. Birds and ants share this haven; I let them. There I reign as princess in my leafy tower room – my castle on the hill, waiting for Prince Bob to rescue me.

Etched with a screwdriver into the rock opposite me is a crude heart, encasing “B.S. loves B.O.”, Bonnie and Bob. Destiny speaks to me now; our names even start with the same letter of the alphabet. It is meant to be. Each time I enter this little paradise, our initials on the enduring boulder assure me that our love will remain so forever. Prince Bob won’t be riding up on a white horse. I know that – I’m not stupid. He’ll be in his father’s Chevy or Studebaker (I never could distinguish between makes of cars), and he’ll sweep me off to a farm similar to this one where I will reign eternal as his wife.

Below me, Mom works in her riotous flower garden, stooping as though preparing for a game of leapfrog. My siblings laugh and chatter somewhere beyond my consciousness. My hill becomes everything; my family and my life retreat into nothingness. I think to myself, “I shall stay here forever and be happy.” I quickly scribble in my diary my intention to never leave my hill and then I laugh aloud at my foolishness. Of course I will leave. When Prince Bob comes for me, I will be happier still.

I thumb my way through Wuthering Heights and immediately transport myself to that dark, foreboding age of the Bronte sisters, walking on the undulating moors in cold, piercing rain, my castle shimmering in the distance. I smile. There on my hill, I can do or be anything I like.

But shy, daydreaming children sometimes grow into sad, disillusioned adults. Pollyanna becomes Roseanne: reality slaps mature faces. Prince Bob was delayed. Actually, he never came at all. He became infatuated with a well-to-do “townie” with perfect teeth and hair who owned dozens of mix-and-match mohair sweaters, a genuine leather purse, and bazillions of 45 rpm records. Some time later, she lost him, too. He married someone else, etching the first deep crack in my heart. I feel it yet.

There on my hill, I was invincible. But my hill is gone, bulldozed into oblivion long ago, my rocks pulverized in the name of progress. But in my mind and memory I still go to my hill when I am sad or when I feel joy. I see it all just as it was – the initialed rock, the trees, the grass, the sun. And again I smile.

God, Here is My Child

2009-08-29T20:18:00.000-07:00

When I was little, I didn’t think it would be particularly hard to be a parent. Seemed to me that we kids did most of the work – following directions, obeying (most of the time), helping with farm and household chores. I had no clue.

It’s especially hard to be a parent when one of your kids is going through tough times, and even harder when the kid is not a kid anymore. There are boundaries as to what you can advise, how much you can question, if you should question at all.

And then there’s always guilt – what did I do to not prepare this child for the trials and pitfalls of life, what did I not instill in him to create the ability to make good choices, what did I not teach him that would have made life less problematic for this child?

And a parent’s heart – oh my, how it hurts a parent’s heart to see that child suffer, to see that child struggle, to watch this mature child rebel and resist authority, to have this child strike out at a parent’s caring heart with venom and hurtfulness. Parenting must be the most conflicting occupation in the universe – there is such tremendous pride and caring and warmth, juxtaposed with hurt, bewilderment and worry.

I turn this child over to God – then take him back. Turn him over to God – then take him back. It’s so difficult to turn your child over to someone else to take care of, because that child has been your life’s work since he was born. But God tells me I cannot correct this situation – only He can. So once again, I give this child of mine over to Him; I hand this child over from my arms to the Lord’s arms asking only that this man-child know God’s love for him, my love for him, and I ask God to work out the situation in His good time, in His own way.

But it’s hard. It’s very hard.

“And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.” Mark 10:16

"Move" Me, Lord!

2009-07-11T18:10:00.000-07:00

I just moved into a new place – with God’s help. Several weeks ago, I learned that the condo I had been renting for five years was being put up for sale. I inwardly (AND outwardly) groaned since it meant I would have to look for another place to live. I went into work the next day and told my co-worker, Lyn, about it. I was a little stressed, thinking of searching in the papers, the Internet, etc. for apartments to rent. That night, I told God, “I just can’t deal with this, Lord. You’ll have to take care of it for me.” And I meant it. I didn't think about it again. The next day at work, Lyn handed me a typewritten “spec” sheet on a townhouse for rent. That morning, the owner of a townhouse had called the church asking if she knew of anyone needing to rent an apartment, wanting to rent to a Christian. Lyn said “yes,” told her about me, the lady came into church with the “spec” sheet and contact information. I called her, met with her and her husband, and I had a new home.

Now, can you tell me that God isn’t interested in every facet of our lives? That he doesn’t care about the “little things”? He absolutely does. He knew my energy level was low. He knew how much I hated having to look at apartments to rent. He fitted me with Christian owners, who had prayed for the right person to rent their apartment. He found the most beautiful apartment I have ever lived in. He worked out the financial details. He worked out the moving dates. He sent friends to help me move. He did it all – because He cares, because He loves me so much!

This situation was "so God," that it was impossible to think otherwise. I am humbled by the so evident hand of God in my “moving” experience. I praise Him every time I look around me. I did nothing except turn it over to Him. In three days, He worked it out. AND in three days, he worked out our salvation! Jesus died on the cross. Three days later he rose from the dead and our scarlet sins were washed as white as snow. I did not fail to recognize the parallel here.

He may not always work so quickly to answer our prayers. I have some prayers that are 25 years old and I’m still waiting for a favorable answer. But it’s the quick answers that give us the fortitude to keep praying, to know that God loves us and hears us, to know that He’s working – in His own time.

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.” 1 John 5:14

Stay Out of My Space!

2009-06-09T17:15:00.000-07:00

As the comic strip character, Dilbert, so succinctly put it, “Welcome to my cubicle hell.”

Work cubicles help companies recoup costs of expensively leased office buildings by cramming in more employees per square foot than “Cheeseheads” at a Green Bay Packer game.

A cubicle cannot be considered an office. An office cube’s drab blue or gray walls are only eye-high, doing little to preserve the privacy of the workers or to block out the sound of a neighboring employee’s annoying habit of snuffling his nose or clearing his throat every two minutes. Cubicle engineers favor the alphabet letters, “L” and “U,” and use them most often to design the interior configuration of cubes.

Most cubicles house two “cube-mates” in an 8’ x 10’ space. Each worker has the requisite computer consisting of a CPU (desktop or tower), over-sized monitor, extended keyboard, mouse, mouse pad, and wrist pad. Some computers also sport a woofer, usually placed on the floor, and two speakers located on either side of the monitor. The cubicle is already crowded, without even considering necessary workspace or other peripherals.

Next, employees need something to sit on. So now let’s squeeze in two ergonomically designed high-backed office chairs with arms. To avoid collisions, careful chair “dances” must be choreographed and executed by both cube occupants. Some reported chair crashes have been blamed for debilitating work-related whiplash, and consequently, days of lost work and sometimes temporary or long-term disability.

Two telephones per cubicle times 24 cubes per module equal 48 phones, all with the potential of jangling at once – cacophony to say the least. It’s like the close of a trading day on Wall Street. Attempting to hear the caller, trying to placate him coherently and courteously, and simultaneously dodging a cube-mate’s chair create an Indy 500 atmosphere filled with frustration, mental fatigue, and downright fear.

After installing the space-gobbling Computer & Co., desk space amounts to usually no more than two or three feet (if that!). Leg room is negligible. Gouged and bruised knees result from designers placing the regulation slide-out pencil drawer at the center of the “leg hole,” barely about knee level. Floor space beneath the work area diminishes by the addition of an adjustable footrest (optional). Add to the computer cables, telephone wires and power strips: now the floor becomes a minefield of potentially fatal jolts of electricity should the equipment ever short-circuit.

Counter space is also reduced by in/out baskets, desk organizers containing pens, pencils, scissors, rulers, paper clips, and the indispensable Post-It and telephone message pads. A plant, artificial or real, sometimes may be squeezed in for a touch of greenery to brighten the otherwise depressing décor. Behind and above the counter, attached to the walls by adjustable vertical metal rails, are padded, cloth-covered horizontal 15” strips for displaying company memos, holiday schedules, business cards, or personal photos, making the cube “homey.” Upper wall cabinets, resembling airplane overhead compartments, hang from the same metal rails, providing lockable storage space for each worker. When opened suddenly, these cabinets can cause serious bodily injury; notebook and files fly out with the deadliness and precision of Scud missiles.

A white board is usually installed on the only cube wall left and must be shared. Great anguish and resentment can result when one cube-mate demonstrates white-board hog-like behavior. Consider drawing a vertical line down the center of the white board; this sets boundaries and helps to prevent one cube-mate from writing an unusually long sentence or equation, imposing upon the white space allotted to cube-mate #2.

The opening to the cubicle is small: employees must enter or exit one at a time. Visitors to the cube gobble up precious oxygen; therefore, hyperventilation by one or all occupants may occur. Set a time limit when visitations must end. Brown paper bags are standard issue.

Outside the cube, nameplates are attached by Velcro. This allows interchangeability of workers should pressures become too much, causing the “going postal” syndrome – immediate grounds for termination. A nameplate comes down; a new one goes up.

Welcome to Corporate America.

To Tell the Truth

2009-06-09T17:03:00.000-07:00

“No matter what you’ve done, if you tell the truth, we won’t punish you.” Our parents drilled this directive into my head from the moment I understood the English language. Telling a lie was like starving an animal or shooting Grandma. The promised retribution for lying (a willow switch hanging in the mudroom) instilled unmitigated fear in my brother, sister, and me. Therefore, when my mother unknowingly forced me to lie to protect my sister, Cookie, the act wracked me with terror and guilt, but not regret.

The middle child, (Cookie) it seems, oftentimes suffers from insecurities, a “where do I belong?” complex. She is too young to do grown-up things with an older child (me), and yet she is too big to be petted or coddled like the baby of the family (our brother). Cookie, desiring visibility in the family structure, continually “acted out” to gain favorable or negative responses. And she paid dearly for it.

At the end of a sauna-like summer day spent hauling hay from the fields to the barn on our farm in Wisconsin, tempers crackled like lightning. My mother’s favorite dime-store vase lay shattered on the hardwood kitchen floor.

“You did it, didn’t you?” screamed my mom, yanking my little sister’s spindly arm. “You’re such a klutz! I know it was you! Tell me the truth!”

“No, Mommy, I didn’t do it! I found it broke. Please don’t hit me!” Cookie’s sobs cut deep into my soul. I dearly loved my siblings, although as a budding teen, I sometimes resented the responsibility of their care.

Now, terrified of confrontations, I backed into the pantry and peeked through the crack in the door. I realized I was crying.

“You’re lying to me, I know you are! What have I told you children about lying? Tell me you broke it and I won’t spank you any more.”

Enormous teardrops spilled from Cookie’s wide blue eyes as she looked up at my mom. My little sister shook her head, her golden ringlets bouncing from side to side. With her stubby little hands, she tried in vain to ward off each new blow that was raining down on her shoulders and backside.

Then my mother, her eyes wild, kicked my baby sister; her small body crunched and crumbled on the floor. I could stand no more.

“I did it! I broke the vase. Punish me! Please don’t hit her any more!” My voice broke into the din of screams and cries as I fearfully stepped into our shabby kitchen. Bracing myself, my chin rose as I waited for the first slap.

It never came. Instead, my mother looked scornfully down at my sister who was whimpering, lying in a fetal position on the floor. Calmly, Mother said, “Why can’t you be more like Bonnie? She told the truth and I won’t punish her. She’s earned some chocolate ice cream.” Then she walked to the icebox as though nothing had happened.

My sister’s red-rimmed eyes beseeched me from across the room: her unspoken words sliced through my bruised heart. “I told the truth and she beat me. You lied and you get to eat ice cream. But thank you for saving me.”

As I choked down my once favorite treat that now had turned to dry, flaky sawdust in my mouth, our gawky, clumsy younger brother quietly slunk into his bedroom, his chin nearly resting on his chest.

A lie is a lie is a lie.

Next in Line for Heaven

2009-03-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

My Mom passed away on March 9, 2009, in Wisconsin at the age of 84. Having lost my Dad many years ago and my step-dad 3 years ago, the bone-jarring realization that I’m next in line for heaven hit me hard. I no longer have the buffer of a parent between me and eternity.

Sobering, yes. Frightening? No. There is nothing to fear, knowing, as I said at my Mom’s memorial service, that Jesus Christ, having died on the cross for our sins, promises us eternal life with Him if we but believe. And I do believe.

Losing all three parents does, however, leave me feeling somewhat vulnerable. It’s like – oh my! I’m on my own, truly now. I really have to be a grown-up! That child-like fear comes over me and I get butterflies in my stomach. I have flashbacks of being lost at the county fair, seeking desperately the familiar faces of my parents. The terror was real. And then, there they were, holding out their hands to me, tears streaming down all of our faces. I ran to them, was enfolded in their arms. I never wanted them to let me go. And now it’s really difficult to finally let them go.

But that’s how it will be when God calls me home, in His own time. There may be a short time of fear when death calls, but it will end quickly when I see Jesus’ arms reaching out to me. I will run toward Him and He will enfold me in His arms. I will be home.

“If anyone loves me, he will obey my teaching. My Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” John 14:23

Hold Hands and Sing "Jesus Loves Me"

2009-01-07T10:56:00.000-08:00

Sage words from my beloved Grandma Sime whenever we cousins would disagree/fight with each other.

Every Sunday after church, each of Grandma and Grandpa’s ten children, their spouses and children would gather at her house (poor Grandma!) for food, companionship, and playtime for us kids. Given the amount of children (about 25 of us then - many, many more now!), disputes naturally arose in all areas of play – tag, hide and seek, ball games, climbing trees, chasing chickens, cracking open walnuts, walking across step stones in the creek, whatever.

Our frustrations, tears, or anger were taken inside and placed literally and vehemently in Grandma’s lap – our peacemaker. Inevitably, the solution she recommended (no, demanded) was that we hold each other’s hands and sing, “Jesus Loves Me.” How many times I sang that through clenched teeth, we wouldn’t be able to count. But after about three verses, it was difficult to remember what we were upset about. It worked!

Wouldn’t the world benefit from Grandma’s advice as well? What if all the leaders of the world got together (like at Grandma’s house), held hands and sang, “Jesus Loves Me.” It would certainly be accompanied by the requisite clenched teeth, I’m sure. But what if they kept singing until all anger and resentment was dissipated? Then the talks could begin in earnest, knowing that each one was loved by Jesus, that by inviting Him into all world conferences, that by asking that His will be done, that by turning disputes over to Him as a Higher Power, an all-knowing God, there would be answers, there would be solutions, there would be His saving grace for all, in all situations.

Feeling this love of Jesus, each leader would depart, share the love of Jesus with his people, one would tell another until all conflict in-country and between countries would cease. All would know that Jesus loves them. The result? World peace. Amen.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called Sons of God.” Matthew 5:9

Adventure at Daybreak

2008-12-06T19:17:00.000-08:00

It’s nearly dawn as I stealthily make my way up the center of the gravel road, my eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the heavy morning darkness. My wary heart clatters loudly in my chest as I look to the right, to the left; and then, with a start, over my shoulder as a mournful hound howls across the valley, and little creatures rustle in the grass as I tiptoe by. I turn for one last look at the dark, curtained windows behind which my sleeping family lies, and I question my motives for taking this drastic step. Stoically, I turn my back on home and comfort and continue on my way.

There, a hundred yards from me, crouches a menacing, threatening hulk and I stop in my tracks, trembling with fear. It doesn’t move, so I hasten on glancing behind me from time to time until I’m safely beyond its range. I increase my pace lightly until my heavy breathing slows me down. I consider turning back, giving up this crazy scheme, but, having made this commitment, I must follow through.

A little farther on, looming against the gray gloom, are three gigantic forms, joining forces near the fence line. I wonder if I can sneak by without inviting attack or physical injury to my being. I tense all my muscles, hoping to appear smaller, unworthy of harassment; slowly, one step at a time. The forms move slightly. I freeze. Again, they stand still. I carefully creep by and the danger for now is past. Only then do I realize I’ve been holding my breath for what seems like hours. Is it worth all this? I’m told it is.

I am on the main highway now. The lights of an oncoming car approach and I move quickly into the grass by the edge of the road. Headlights sweep over me and I fear the car will stop; a man will force me in and whisk me away, never to be seen nor heard from again. I ready my body to spring into flight, but the car passes by without incident and I am safe once more.

I quietly tread by a farmhouse, my shoes strike loose gravel and it crunches underfoot. Two dogs loudly protest the interruption of their slumber. They bark, each trying to outdo the other. I pray there are locked gates or chains between them and me. Their barking wakens the occupants of the house and lights go on in several windows. I hurry past, not relishing the idea of being reported to the police as a “peeping Tom-ette” or a possible fugitive from the law.

I stumble in a pothole in the road and nearly fall head first, wince in pain as my ankle turns. But I trek on, shoes soaked from the morning dew. Barn lights twinkle across the countryside as morning milking gets underway and I feel less alone when I see that I am not the only person on earth awake at this ungodly hour. Streaks of pink start to lighten the sky, dawn is on the verge of breaking.
The air is fresh, exhilarating, and, for the first time since stepping out into the cool, dark morning, I am pleased with my venture. The sun peeks above the eastern horizon and it is almost as if the curtain of night has been raised by the hand of God and Scene 1 of His new day is thrust forth on stage in all its glory. I feel rather privileged to view this breathtaking spectacle, a sight reserved only for the very early riser.

Suddenly, an invisible conductor lowers his baton, giving the signal for the birds to join in a sonata to this spring-like morn. I impulsively join in and they fall silent, startled by my human invasion of their feathered choir.

The world seems to be wakening by degrees; dusk-to-dawn lights blink out as the sun begins its shift, pink sky melds into dappled blue. I feel reborn and very much aware of being alive. I turn and head for home, kicking my heels like a frisky colt experiencing the joy of running free after the confines of winter.

Nearly home, I laugh aloud, the sound tinkling in the crisp air like merry bells, as I recognize the three oversized forms who had “threatened my very life” at the start of my journey as being our farm horses – Betsy, Sugar, and Dusty. They look very surprised to see me in the early morning light. The single threatening “hulk” is in reality a large, round hay bale, resting harmlessly in the field beside our drive. How unreliable sometimes is imagination!

By now, you must be wondering what drove this writer to forsake home and family, risking life and limb to journey forth in the wee morning hours and why I am returning home one hour later. Perhaps you have already guessed – I am a jogger, and they were right – the first IS the hardest!!

Road Trip!

2008-12-06T19:00:00.000-08:00

“Mom, he’s looking at me!” “Mom, she’s touching me!” “I have to go to the bathroom.” “How far is it now?” It’s summer! Time for family vacations, time for making life-long memories with the family. For me, this brings to mind memories that were trying, amusing, and poignant. We took a trip from Wisconsin to Mt. Rushmore one stiflingly hot August - very different from today’s travel. Our car had no air conditioning, no DVD player to amuse the kids, no CD/tape player to listen to music – we had a hot car and three rambunctious kids who didn’t really like to travel.

After 700 miles of fighting, ornery children, an overheated radiator somewhere in the Black Hills, and a dead car alternator, the chances of our ever taking another trip in the future with our sanity intact were quite dim. Reflecting on that trip now only evokes laughter, joy, and good memories of a family together in love. All the harrowing details have long been forgotten. Our grown-up kids now say, “Remember that road trip…..?” and everyone groans and smiles.

Life is a road trip. We coast along, calm, enjoying the scenery for a time, then comes a mountain where we “overheat” and have to stop and cool down, assess the damages and go on. And along the way we meet interesting people, have new experiences, learn lessons, and realize that God is our “Triple A” guide. He has planned our route very carefully. He knows the bumps, He knows the level stretches, He knows the stops we need to make along the way.

We may decide at times to take the “scenic route,” straying at times from the road He has envisioned for us. He gives us that free will. And that may mean trouble. “Break downs” can occur, we need “replacement parts,” we need directions to help us get back on the right highway. He always provides those directions if we are not too proud to admit we have strayed. We once again ask His for guidance, forgiveness, for strength. We give Him thanks for leading us in the path that He originally planned for us and we listen to His direction.

We emerge each day knowing we have His blessings, we know His goodness and mercy, and we may be somewhat wiser for having taken “the road less traveled.”

“He’s looking at me!” Isn’t that great? He has us in His sight at all times – on the level stretches and climbing each hill. “He’s touching me!” How humbling to know that He touches us with His love every minute of every day.

“Road trip!” Life with Christ is the greatest traveling experience any one of us can have. May we always travel close to Him.

“Every valley shall be filled in, every mountain and hill made low. The crooked roads shall become straight, the rough ways smooth. And all mankind will see God’s salvation.” Luke 3:5

Sing-A-Long For God

2008-11-12T08:16:00.000-08:00

How important to you is music? Can you imagine a life without it? From the time a little one bops his chubby hands in the air in time to a Sesame Street ditty to our favorite hymn as we grow older, music “doth soothe the savage beast,” as the saying goes.

Whether you sing flat or sharp, off key or on, there is music in all of our souls, put there, I believe, to worship our God when common prayers might not seem enough. Many of my prayers are songs to Christ, such as “Jesus Messiah” sung under my breath around the house. “Your Grace is Enough” comes into my soul when I am stressed or worried. It’s “All Because of Jesus” that helps me thank him for my life – not only my physical life but my eternal life in him. “Amazing Grace, My Chains Are Gone” reminds me of all the earthly cares, resentments and sorrows that held me back from a carefree, forgiven life in the Lord. “Today is the Day” reminds me to give God thanks for this day that he has made – and rejoice in it!

Music lifts the mundane, monotone cadence of conversation to phrases that are lilting, light on the air, rising and floating above, touching others as they move upward towards our Maker. We worship, perhaps through music, as God meant us to worship, with a smile on our face, our hands uplifted, our hearts light and free and thankful.

Watch a little child twirl and jump and spin in delight in an attempt to dance to music heard or imagined. There is no frown on the little face; there is no pretense; there is no mask; there is no attempt to conceal glee. So should music affect us as we worship our Lord.

Music can be the most effective and beautiful method of praying and praising our God. It doesn’t have to be operatic, it doesn’t have to have great musicality, it doesn’t have to be backed up by strings and reeds and keyboards. Singing is a no-fail boast from worry, consternation, problems, depression, home-sickness. It’s a cure-all! No prescription needed.

Many of the songs our church praise band has been and is now performing at the Contemporary 10:50am service can be heard and learned on KLOVE. Turn it on some day when you’re dusting. Sing along and then you’ve got a head-start when you hear it sung in church. No excuse then for not belting it out, whether you’re on-key or not! An honor to our God even as the first song of David was to honor the Lord. Thank you, God, for music.

Speak to one another with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Ephesians 5:19-20

MY HILL OF DREAMS (written in 1992)

2007-02-09T10:03:00.000-08:00

Color Me Puzzled - written 9/15/1998

2007-01-15T11:23:00.000-08:00

In today's world of addiction to drugs, sex, money, power, cigarettes, and alcohol, I too must stand up and be counted. My name is Bonnie and I am a compulsive crossword puzzle solver.

This compulsion, I believe, was inherited. Years ago, I observed my mom sitting for hours with the squares-within-a-square in the daily paper, a cigarette in one hand, a drink and a pencil in the other. I puzzled over her puzzle-mania. The words “boring” and “having no life” came readily to mind.

I vowed never to fall into the definition void into which she had obviously descended. I was, however, like her in that I loved the English language. I read voraciously. Words and phrases fascinated me. Incorrect grammar abhorred me. Personal diaries lined my bookshelves. From the time I had youthful brain cells, I dreamed of authoring books. These factors, along with Mom, led me to believe that I was predisposed to solving crossword puzzles: the addition/compulsion was in my genes.

Without surprise then, as I grew older, I noticed that my eyes zipped uncontrollably from the daily weather forecast in the newspaper to the crossword puzzle across the way. Alarmed, I quickly zapped my peepers back to the barametric pressue foretold for this day. But alas, within a short period of time, I was doing the light stuff – word search puzzles.

Amused for awhile, I soon tired of these insipid mazes. I needed a fix that would blow my mind, not put it to sleep. So I progressed to the TV Guide crosswords. Since I bought the guide for a purpose other than solving the puzzle, I told myself it was okay. No outright purchase solely for CPS (Crossword Puzzle Solving) had taken place. Stars of defunct TV shows, famous dogs, and Lucile Ball trivia hopped me up for about a week. Then the hunger grew, gnawing at my insides.

Soon I found myself in Walmart, creeping sideways like a malfunctioning toy Slinky, toward the hard-core section of the magazine racks – the Penny Press section, a smorgasbord of available highs. I wondered if there were hidden cameras documenting suspected users. I didn’t care. I selected a Dell and a Superb. I finished a puzzle in the car before leaving the parking lot of the store. I was hooked.

I tried limiting CPS to a few minutes after dinner. But soon I was “penciling up” before work, during my lunch hour, in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. I told myself, “It’s 3:00 a.m. You have to work tomorrow (today). Put it away!” “Just one more word and then I’ll stop.” I subscribed to Collector’s Crosswords, The Best of the New York Time’s Crosswords, and Popular Crosswords. I surreptitiously purchased four brands of crossword puzzle dictionaries and read them like novels.

Today, the disease manifests itself in other ways. I listen to news broadcasts and think of appropriate synonyms. A friend mentions a needle and I immediately think of “etui” – needle case. I’m waiting for “Dies Irae” to come up in conversation. I’m aware of a note in Guido’s scale – “ela.” I know Slaughter in Cooperstown is “Enos.” Arete is a mountain crest. But what good is all this trivia? Proficiency in one category on the game show, Jeopardy?

The ravages of this compulsion also are evident; bags under my eyes, thicker glasses, shakes and headaches when I abstain. I see my future before me. A portly, redheaded crone sits in a nursing home refusing to eat, to go to the bathroom, to shower. Puzzle books, dictionaries, thesauruses surround her. Three or four #2 pencils with erasers worn down to nubs protrude from her matted hair. She screams in a shrill voice, “What’s the word for needle case?” Pitiful, isn’t it?

I plan to form a support group known as CPAA (Crossword Puzzle Addicts Anonymous). We’ll sit in a circle, join hands, and share the degrading symptoms of our disease. We’ll cry and hug and try not to ask each other the word for Henri’s squeeze (“amie”). We’ll burn our favorite CPS pencils in a cleansing rite. We’ll boycott Penny Press. We’ll smoke cigars, play poker, or pick pockets to keep our hands occupied.

In the meantime, I pray that researchers find a cure (healing, remedy, fix, succor, restoration, therapy, antidote………..) Oh, God!

What God Has Joined Together...

2007-01-13T10:53:00.000-08:00

……let no man put asunder.” What lovely words – an admonition from our Lord.

Several years ago, I flew to Wisconsin to attend the wedding of my youngest daughter, my “baby,” my Bethany Ann. The wedding was beautiful, the bride and groom glowed with love for each other, and God was present all around.

In this day of co-habitation, there seems to be a belief that “a piece of paper” won’t make the relationship more significant. God begs to differ, as do I.

This union of two people in love, committing themselves to each other in marriage is a union blessed by God, the way the Lord intended.

As I watched Bethany walk up the aisle to meet her fiancée, I saw her as a little curly-headed blonde toddler, an apprehensive 5-year-old struggling up the school bus steps for the first time. I cried for days past, and with joy for her new life ahead of her.I praised the Lord as I watched my lovely grown-up daughter tearfully say her wedding vows, gracefully walk to the altar with her almost-husband to light the unity candle, making them one but still preserving their individuality. When they, as man and wife, turned to face the congregation, their faces aglow, their hands entwined, the Lord’s presence shone down on them and He was pleased.

I whispered, “Thank you, dear Lord. Be always present in this union; bring them happiness as they put You first in their marriage. Bless them both as they go forth into this new and challenging relationship. Keep my daughter and her new husband always in Your care, in Your love, under Your protection.”

I was so blessed to be a part of this holy ceremony. And I was a proud as a mama hen could be!

“Therefore, what God has joined together, let man not separate.” Matthew 19:6

Surgery -- of a Sort!

2007-01-13T10:45:00.000-08:00

Picture this…a small room, sterile gloves in wait, antiseptic ready, surgical syringe disinfecting in a sterile glass, a bowl of ice cubes nearby (yes, I said ice cubes), cotton, toilet paper, and Pabst Blue Ribbon bar napkins in readiness should there be blood (besides pain, my greatest fear).

Yes, I’m the patient seated in a chair, knees weak, heart pounding, throat dry as the cotton balls I see before me.“Anesthesiologist” hovers over me (my mom), “surgeon” (her friend) ready to begin. Enough suspense?

The “operating room,” the women’s bathroom of the American Legion Club and I’m having my ears pierced.

After weeks of indecision, I have reluctantly given my consent. I’m assured that mine are the 46th set of ear lobes to be pierced this way in this very room and none (as yet) have developed gangrene. I am still scared.

I give the nod and with my head held firmly against my Mommy’s side (I resort back to childhood at times like these), the “piercer” is ready to proceed. Ear lobes swabbed with alcohol, ice cubes encased in a plastic sterile glove held against my left ear, supposedly preventing me from feeling any pain.

I am asked how it feels and I answer “cold.” “Numb enough to begin?” “Heavens, no, it needs to be much colder!” I say as I eye the 3-inch long surgical needle soaking in alcohol. Wish I could faint at will; then it would be over when I came around.

The ice cubes are almost entirely water by now, so I tell this nice lady who is going to hurt me to get it over with. She says, “Take a deep breath,” and I feel the needle go through my ear lobe. Didn’t hurt too much but then she leaves it impaled in my flesh! Something is dripping on my shoulder and I yell, “Mother, am I bleeding?” Calmly she tells me it is just alcohol—no blood. “But there’s a needle in my ear, it must be blood!

The “surgeon” rolls her eyes skyward and I figure I’d better shut up or she’ll walk out and leave this needle in my ear for life. I’d be too chicken to pull it out.

Out comes the needle, more ice applied, in goes the earring—almost. For some reason, it won’t come out the back. Fat ear lobes, she says. What does she want from me? I have to put my ear lobes on a diet to get these ding-busted earrings in? I ask her if I have time to take a fluid pill. She doesn’t answer. She’s too busy grunting and prodding the earring into a mysteriously closed-up needle hole. She swears this has never happened before. Ha! A likely story! And I still have another ear to go!

I’m suddenly nauseous.The numbness is wearing off and I feel pain. Who wouldn’t with a sharp object halfway through an obese ear lobe? More ice applied, push, poke, a crunch, and thank heavens, it’s through!

I’m shaking now from sheer relief.The other ear is a snap and finally I am standing (under my own power!) before the mirror admiring my newly pierced, gold-studded earlobes (the left definitely fatter than the right.)

I did it! Barring gangrene, I think the patient will pull through. Ah, the miracle of modern-day medicine—rest-room do-it-yourself style! Yup, unconventional, that’s me!