Beauty for Ashes

September 11th is a sad day in our national memory. A day filled with ashes.

It is also a day of great celebration in our family. A day filled with Beauty.

Happy Birthday, Elena Rochelle.

Things I Don't Want to Take for Granted

1. The words "all clear" from Serenity's cancer doctor. (again)

2. Public hugs from middle school grandsons.

3. A job I enjoy.

4. A job, at all.

5. Lunch with my parents.

6. The magical internet that lets me know what my children had for breakfast seconds after it pops up in their toaster.

7. Silence.

8. Safety.

9. Salvation. (not in that order)

10. Someone to share it all.

Another Happy Day

I'd like to think I've learned not to take life for granted. But, here it is, only three years after Serenity Beth was diagnosed with rare, aggressive cancer, and already I've dismissed the brass band instead of marching it down the street on her birthday.

Seriously, we should be throwing a magnificent party today because Serenity Bohon is 33!!!!!!. I remember celebrating her 30th birthday - after the surgery, the radiation, the horror, and then the glorious birth of little Jake. The celebration was so rapturous that I even told the waitress at Ruby Tuesday's, "It's her birthday. And she almost died. We're a little emotional."

Yet, here we are on a rainy Monday barely paying any attention at all to the event. Fortunately, Serenity is having a great time on vacation with her little clan. But, I'm going to work as usual...

No, that isn't true. I'm going to work with a deep, delicious, tear-jerking sense of gratitude and joy. It isn't the kind of thing that requires a brass band, because I carry the tune of it in my heart every day. It is Gratitude for life, for love, and for the rare privilege of being the mother of such a person.

Happy Birthday, Serenity Beth.

The Real Hero

Forty years ago, a man walked on the moon. It was truly incredible. Families everywhere gathered around their television sets to watch one giant step for mankind. And our dad missed the whole show.

We lived on a farm where television reception was spotty. We could usually watch one of three channels, but to do so meant going outside and twisting the iron pipe connected to the antena anchored on our roof. That night, the antena refused to stay stay put. It kept twisting back just a notch every time our dad let go of the pipe. Then the fuzzy, gray picture evaporated into pure, white snow.

So, while the rest of our family sat in awe watching pictures from the moon, our dad stood outside holding the antena.

When I go back to that evening in my mind, the memory of the moon walk is pretty much as fuzzy as the original picture. But the memory of my dad making it happen? Captured in HD.

Revising Life

I rewrote Chapter 24 of my work-in-progress last night because it was too sad. Actually, the story was probably fine, but life is feeling a little too sad right now. One of our good friends is critically ill. Another is fighting breast cancer. Two others are investigating suspicious spots. (Did I mention I hate cancer?) And a couple of relationship issues feel kind of wobbly, too. I simply could not leave my heroine sick in bed during one of the most important evenings of her year. I could not bear for her to miss it.

So, I got her up out of bed and helped her press through the pain. I'm pretty sure she will be glad when she wakes up tomorrow in Chapter 25.

If you follow my blog, you probably know rewriting the bad parts of life is one of my coping techniques. I agree with Felicity that trials are important and even helpful for our growth in God. But, even so, I sometimes wish I could edit just a little.

Since I can't revise, I'll face and embrace whatever God brings for me or my friends the best I possibly can. But don't expect me to leave my fictional friends in despair!!

Green and Full of Sap

We're having an unusually green July around here. Usually the lawns without sprinkler systems are already turning brown and crunchy this time of year. Instead, they are thick and green. Foliage is lush beside the country roads and everything looks more like spring than mid-summer. It's because of the rain, of course. Lots and lots and lots of rain. Too much rain, actually, for the farmers trying to plant crops. But that is another story.

Today's story is about being green. Not the composting-your-garbage and recycling-your-milk-cartons kind of green. Rather, it is the green of healthy plants, sucking nutrients from the soil and spreading out leaves, branches, and fruit to shelter and feed the world.The kind of green that reminds me of Psalm 92:

The righteous will flourish like a palm tree,

they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon;

planted in the house of the LORD,

they will flourish in the courts of our God.

They will still bear fruit in old age,

they will stay fresh and green,

proclaiming, "The LORD is upright;

he is my Rock, and there is no wickedness in him."

Now that I have passed the age of fifty, I'm greatly reassured by this passage. I've kind of expected life to get brown and wiry from here on out. I've worried a little that my best days are behind me and I'll never have a real writing career or impact another generation for God.

This scripture tells me otherwise. Like the unseasonably green July of 2009, I can stay green and full of sap even into old age. All I need is a little rain.

Twenty-thousand of Our Closest Friends

We're throwing a party in our neighborhood this weekend. Local officials estimate 20,000 people could show up over the entire two-day event. That is a pretty big deal since only about 200 of us actually live here.

Our community is famous for being strange. Fifteen years ago, our town was a cornfield. Then a local boy who had made good with his insurance company decided to use his fortune to help people get a fresh start in life. It started as a small project on his northeast Missouri farm and has now grown into a real town with a church, school, and several businesses.

The neighbors have been a little nervous about this town rising from the fields. Especially when we started importing foreigners to work here and opening up recovery centers for men, women, and children. We had the audacity to believe Jesus is the Answer to the world's problems, and we even wrote it on our milk trucks.

They've been warming up to us these past few years, though, and we hope this Fourth of July picnic will help break down a few more walls. We're giving away free food and free fun including a rodeo and a huge air show. And we'll have lots of entertainment and games. And we'll find time to tell a few stories of lives that have been changed and families that have been restored through the mercy of God. And, maybe, when the weekend is over a few of the 20,000 will decide we're really not so bad after all.

The One Who Was Missing

Charity and her family at the beach this summer.

It was a crazy time to have a baby. Wendell was in his second year of medical school, and we were living on student loans that had already exceeded ten years of his previous salary. We had also exceeded the highly recommended 2.5 children by a rambunctious point five. These were the days before Jon & Kate. Large families were not considered chic. Just irresponsible.

I knew all those things. Yet the longing would not go away. Finally, I went upstairs to pray one day, determined to clear my head and focus my heart and basically get over it. I don't remember where the other children were or how I secured my fifteen minutes of silence. But I remember exactly what happened next.

A thought as clear as a spoken word shot through my mind. You are not merely longing for another baby. You are homesick for one of your children who isn't here yet.

And that was it. I am pretty certain the thought originated in Heaven, and my soul exploded with the news. Homesick for one of your children. That is exactly how I felt. The same way I would feel if Felicity, Serenity, or Joseph were far away in another country instead of tucked safely in our own home.

One of the really great things about my husband is that he trusts me when I tell him I've heard something from God. Even something that goes against all conventional wisdom (and would later get us denied a lease from at least three different landlords because we were over the limit of children allowed.)

So, on June 18, 1982, Charity Lynn was born. And it was true. Our family was immediately complete. I believe Wendell and I cooperated with God that year. And I believe we gave a great gift to the world.

Thank you cards may be sent to this blog address.

Standing Ovation

When our granddaughter, Claire Felicity White, was born, we stood around her little bed like this. The first night we crowded twenty-some people into the cubicle and willed our less-than-two-pound-baby to be strong. After her twin sister, Ellery Blythe, slipped through a portal to Glory, we stood around Claire and sang songs. We recited scripture and told her all the things she could be when she grew strong.

Last night we stood around Claire like this, after she strutted across the stage to receive her diploma at Kindergarten graduation. She sang songs, recited scripture, and made us cry when she read her essay about the doctor she wants to be when she grows up.

Standing Ovation, Please

Say it Loud

I've always been a strong beleiver in saying things out loud to put them in perspective. This can be dangerous, of course. My husband has been known to take shelter occassionally because he fears losing a limb in the mine-field of my emotions. The thoughts swirling in my head at any given moment can lanch me to giddy heights or plunge me into dark despair. And sometimes the dark despair ones get a foothold if I'm not careful. That hasn't happened much in the last several years, but this weekend, they got me.

Nothing terrible happened. I just let myself get a little too tired and a little too busy and a lot too negative about little details like my writing career or lack thereof. Isn't that awful? I have the greatest life in the world. Even the things I was sad about are a zillion times better than most people's circumstances.

But I'm never rational at a time like this. So, my wise and exceptionally brave husband waited until things got quiet in the house and then said, "Okay. Come over here and tell me what you are thinking."

We sat on the sofa and I tried to put words around the emotions, which is never easy when one is actually in the pit of despair. He listened. And asked questions. And didn't tell me I was being silly. And then he prayed.

This morning I woke up to dark clouds and rain outside the window. But I felt sunshine in my soul again. Somehow, speaking all my fears out loud broke their power. (plus the prayer thing). I don't pretend to understand everything about spiritual warfare. But I know the enemy of my soul is real, and I know he works in darkness. And, I know my Redeemer lives, and He operates in Light. When I say things out loud, His light makes the darkness flee.

Thanks, Hub.

Comfort Zones

We have doubled our office staff this summer. That means four people instead of two sharing my front office space in the clinic. It is wonderful in so many ways. For one thing, we can accomplish a lot more with two more people on the nursing staff - - provided we can climb over one another to reach the patients.

We are operating in temporary quarters, so our traffic flow has never been ideal. Adding two more desks complicated things just a tad. The change has been hard for all four of us. No one has a comfy nest anymore, and none of us really know how to make it all work. And we are all making compromises like not going to the bathroom until we absolutely must so we don't interrupt the person beside us who has to scoot in her chair and squish under her desk a little to let me pass.

So, we decided to innovate. We moved, sorted, compressed, consolidated and came up with a whole new floor plan. And the most amazing thing happened for me. My desk is in a much better position to receive patients when they walk in the door. By moving out of the comfort zone I've occupied for nearly four years, I found myself closer to the people and better able to serve.

I think that is pretty much the way it always goes with comfort zones. Once we leave them, we find a new and better world. (Plus, I'm right beside the bathroom now.)

Still Climbing Mountains

Thirty-five years ago today, on a Tuesday evening at 6:30pm, Wendell A. Nickerson walked down the aisle in a dashing, white tux and agreed to take me as his -- for better or worse until death do us part. My sister, Martha, was thirteen at the time. She was so shy she could barely speak to a stranger, yet she stood in front of more than 300 people and belted out, "Climb Every Mountain."

If we had known how steep some of those mountains would be, I'm pretty sure we'd have run screaming out the door instead of smiling for the camera and saying, "I do."

And we would have missed some of the most breathtaking moments in life.

The climb has not always been easy. Nor pleasant. But the view from the top has always been worth those moments of terror when we were pretty sure the rope was going to break and we would plumet to our deaths, crushed on the rocks below.

Instead, we tightened our grip on God, one another, and our faithful family and friends, and we kept climbing. We were determined to reach the top of every summit, as the song says, until we found our dream.

We are still dreaming together, and the whole thing has been a grand adventure so far. So, today, I raise a toast of iced tea to my hubby and say, "Thanks for being brave and strong and for never giving up even when it was hard. And thanks for not sending me back to my mother even when I was a pill."

Love,

me

Is it Working?

I bought new make-up last week. It's specifically formulated for old-lady skin. That isn't what it says, of course. The label refers to it as "ageless" and Ellen acts all spunky when she advertises it on t.v. But you can't get past the point: this make-up is designed to work with wrinkles!

Skin, of course, is only one of the things that changes dramatically once we become grandmothers. I think there should be a film strip for that somewhere. The kind they screen in a darkened room after all the boys have been sent to the gym. 

In this particular cycle of life, we get little warning. And the amount of creams, potions, and extracts needed to prevent our bodies from shriveling up like an Egyptian mummy is mind-boggling. So, I bought new make-up. And hand lotion. And an extra bottle of moisturizer. And a lighted, magnified, make-up mirror.

I spent an extra half-hour putting it all on, watching to see if it really did "glide above the wrinkles" instead of sinking in as promised. I can't really tell, because my eyes aren't that good even with the magnified mirror. But, I don't think any of it will make much difference. Nobody is going to be fooled into thinking I'm ageless. I am obviously seasoned. And, fortunately for me, the man I married still likes me that way.

Life in the Castle

Being married to a doctor has its perks. Tonight we are sleeping in a castle. Well, a chateau, actually. On the lake in Branson, Missouri. But it looks like a castle from the outside, and it feels pretty opulent in our room. We are here so Wendell can attend seminars to catch up on the latest in medical advances and so I can write undisturbed for hours at a time. The great news is this: The extravagant room is a business expense, so the office is paying. The bad news is this: We own the office. So, technically, the whole working vacation is really coming out of our pocket either way. But we sure notice it less when it comes out of the pocket on the business side of our suitcase.

I admit I like this stuff. Fancy hotels, a reasonable excuse for room service, and the whole heady environment of hanging around people the whole of our society considers important. Or at least expensive.

This evening we strolled through the grand hallway to the conference desk. We passed a water fall, exotic birds, ornate tables, and plush chairs. Eventually, we reached the display honoring the out-going president of our state medical society. We actually know the guy. In fact, we hung out together when our children were younger. He even delivered one of our babies. And since I'm pretty easily sucked in by all the glitz, you would think this would have put me over the edge.

Instead, it brought me right back down to earth. Because there was Rex, posing in all his cowboy glory complete with hat, boots, and his favorite Missouri mule. That is when I remembered Wendell and I are just a couple of country kids out on the town. We'll go back in a few days to our two-bedroom house at the edge of the cornfield, and we will be extremely glad to be home. 

But, for now, I'm going to revel in the castle and the man who married me thirty-five years ago next week. That's my kind of fairy tale.

Never Trust the Cup Bearer

I just read one of the saddest lines in the Bible again tonight. "But the cup bearer forgot about Joseph." This is the Joseph who was thrown into a well, sold by his brothers, entrapped by a seductress, and abandoned in an Egyptian prison. Things started looking up a little, though, when he told a fellow prisoner the good news about his dream. (The baker in the other cell didn't get such a great report.) Joseph told the cupbearer, "Your dream means Pharaoh is going to spring you out of jail and promote you back to your old job in three days." Wahoooo! Great things ahead for the cup bearer. While he was dancing a little jig (or whatever) Joseph said, "By the way, when you get the promotion, please drop my name to the CEO." (Wall Street translation.)

Of course, said cup bearer forgot all about Joseph when the time actually came. The point of that story for me right now is this: People are great. We love 'em. We need 'em. We couldn't get along without them. But, only Jesus is our Savior. 

I've been guilty many times of wanting to lean on the cup bearer for my security. Sometimes he was my husband, or my mom, or my boss, or my pastor, or even one of my kids. Sometimes he was an editor or agent I met at a conference. Even though all those people are tremendously valuable to my life, they are just people. And chances are pretty good they won't be able to live up to my lofty expectations.

But Joseph's fate wasn't really in the hands of the forgetful cupbearer. Eventually God nudged Pharaoh, and he remembered Joseph. He promoted the former prisoner to the second highest post in the land.

That is good news for us, too. Despite the lousy economy, the shrinking job market, and the daily threat of annihilation by pandemic and/or terrorist attack, our true fate lies in the hands of God. We don't have to trust in the cup bearer, because the One who bore the cup of suffering will never forget us.

Chocolate Milk and M&M's

Once upon a time in my life, I directed a day care center with about forty-five preschoolers enrolled. They are all grown-ups now, living productive lives and blessing may heart every time I hear from one of them. Hearing from one is what prompted me to tell this story, for which I did ask permission.

I had just grabbed my purse that morning and was headed out the door to run errands. I knew it would take a couple of hours, and if I left immediately I could get back in time to help with lunch. I was standing up to leave when Emily appeared at the office door. Her big brown eyes were snapping, her little jaw was set, and she was poised to resist whatever she was about to encounter with everything in her four-year-old soul.

By this time in my career, I had earned the sad title of "The Spanking Lady." We tried to limit the use of such corrective behavior. A well-placed swat on the derriere was always used as a last resort, and only the Director was allowed to administer it. I could see from Emily's face where we were headed.

I don't have any idea now what the original infraction had been, but I know willful disobedience had been the root. And we had a rule about willful disobedience. What's worse, Emily's dad had a back-up rule: If Emily earned herself a trip to my office, she had to take my correction like a lady.

I took another look at Emily and knew things were not going to go well. Then, an unexpected thought flitted through my head. Before I could think it over, I said, "Emily, do you want to go for a ride with me?"

We stopped at the gas station first. Emily was still silent and apparently braced for the scolding to come. It was almost morning snack time, so I bought myself a Diet Coke, and I got a bottle of chocolate milk and a bag of M&M's for my little charge. She smiled.

I don't remember what we talked about on that drive twenty years ago. I only remember the pleasure of riding down the road together, sipping our drinks and sharing our M&M's. I have thought about that day many times. Especially on occasions when I think God must be looking at me, shaking His head, and saying, "I know she needs a good spanking right now, but I'm going to give her My mercy instead."

So, here is to Mercy. To chocolate milk and M&M's. To sweet Emily. And to not always getting exactly what we deserve.

And the Winner Is

Our youngest daughter was on American Idol a couple of years ago. Actually, I should say "we were on American Idol." She was the contestant who made it to the second round of auditions. I was just one of her groupies. Our little family group happened to be caught on camera while waiting in line that morning, and our faces flashed across America's television screens for almost a full two seconds when the season opened. It was heady stuff.

The experience was surreal. None of us had ever been so close to Hollywood, and it pretty much fit my expectations. The longer I sat in the family room during auditions, the more I prayed God did not have this particular path in mind for Charity's life. Even so, I was momentarily crushed when she didn't make the second cut. 

On the way to the car, Charity described her brief audition. She told us when she stepped out the door afterwards, a camera man was waiting to catch her reaction. Some contestants had fled crying; others had vowed to fly to the next city and try out again right away. The camera man was expecting similar drama from Charity when he said, "So, what are you going to do next?"

Charity thought for just a second and then said,"Umm. I think I'll go home and start a family with my husband."

And so she did. Instead of going on tour with the Idol finalists the next year, Charity started singing lullabies to her newest fan. 

I think she won the best prize.

Alternate Endings

When I was fifteen, a boy broke my heart. If this were not my first ever blog post, I would now insert a little, blue link to an entry called Death to Dating. But I'll spare you my philosophy on that for now. I mourned my loss for an appropriate length of time. Then I discovered an amazing balm. I rewrote the story. I sat down one teary afternoon with a yellow legal pad and a black Bic pen, and I turned the whole saga into my first piece of fiction, wherein the girl gets the guy and he ultimately gives her the world.

And, thus, I became a writer. Writing is dangerous business. If I spout off some craziness in my own living room, or even shout it on a city block, few people will be bothered. They will soon forget what I said, if they even heard it in the first place. If I write something I later regret, I can never take it back. Years later people can say, "Oh yeah. You are that lady who thought..." (Just fill in the blank. I'm not taking any risks today.)

So, I enter Blog World with some trepidation. I've enjoyed my identity as Occasional Commentator on several other blogs. Authorship brings a whole other realm of responsibility. I'll do my best to add something useful and positive to the cyber-conversations. If you stop by again, you will learn I'm a generally positive person. I'm a direct descendent of The Nicest Lady in the World, also known as my mother, and I generally believe in happy endings whether I write them or not.

According to Thoreau, it is vain "to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." That makes sense to me. Unfortunately, some people have lived truly terrible lives and have then sat down to write dark, despairing stories as a result. For some reason, those stories are often counted as great literature while stories about honor, purity, and right living are considered less important or even frivolous. As I enjoy my sixth decade on this lovely, little planet, I find I prefer the latter. Maybe I'm simply naive or too simplistic in my worldview. But I prefer to drink from the glass half-full.

I probably tend toward this view because my own life has gone this way. Despite the foolishness of my own heart, God has captured me. I've still had my share of heartaches along the way, but together with my husband, our children, our grandchildren, and a host of family members and friends I am caught up in what author Ernest Gentile calls The Magnificent Obsession of knowing God through His Son, Jesus Christ. And this is the true source of my tendency toward happy endings. As my husband likes to point out, "I've read the end of the Book. We win."

Here is the guy who ultimately gave me the world surrounded by several of the shining stars in our universe.