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Impact That is Not Forgotten

“In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 5:16 ESV

I don’t remember the exact details or even the words she said to me, but an older classmate in my small high school bullied me. She may have commented on my weight or called me a geek; I just knew she didn’t like me. I can still picture her feathered 80s hair, frosted jeans, and the denim jacket she wore. She often would sneer at me from across the hall, and this look warned me to avoid being in her space. When she gathered with her friends to smoke outside of the school, I walked around the building to another entrance. After she graduated, I forgot about her. But all that irrational fear came back when I saw her fourteen years later when I was at the beach with my family. I saw her across the crowd with that same feathered hair style from high school. Instantly, fear rose up in me, and I felt myself start to panic. I couldn’t believe that years later, I was still having this visceral reaction to a person whose name I couldn’t even recall. But I couldn’t deny it, the reaction was there. Just like in the past, I looked for ways to extradite myself and my family from being in her presence.

In reflecting back on this incident, I highly doubt she would have remembered me. Even if she had, she may not have even known that I was afraid of her. But it is amazing how negative experiences can imprint memories that are not forgotten by us or our nervous systems. On the flipside, I think it is more important to remember and thank those who have fostered positive experiences in our lives. Even more importantly, I think all of us should strive to make a positive impact on those around us.

This summer, within six weeks of each other, two men from the same family passed away.  Michael Wasmundt and Alex Bruce Dicker were brothers-in-law, loved Jesus, and deeply loved the same woman, Judy, who was Michael’s sister and Bruce’s wife. But their commonalities ended there. Michael suffered with some health issues, and because of these challenges, his world centered on the church his father pastored. For many years, he faithfully played worship music in his church, and on the side, played classical pieces of music as well. He told what we today would call “dad jokes,” often eliciting a chuckle or even sometimes a groan. Being more introverted, Michael expressed himself both in music and poetry. He lived a quiet life and died with his sister, Judy by his side.

Bruce, on the other hand, was larger than life. On the extrovert scale, Bruce tipped the scale moving me and other extroverts more to the center. He lived big, being a child evangelist with his wife Judy for many years. He was a natural entertainer, part of the illusionist and magician circles, owning his own business where he performed for corporate parties. His jokes and pranks were legendary. He later worked for the State Department in various countries. He loved to travel and developed friendships across the world. He played music also, once picking up my son’s guitar and playing some riffs from a classic rock song. He was fun to be around, and no one could ever say they had a dull moment with Bruce. He died from a blood clot almost six weeks after his brother-in-law while still working in Europe and waiting to retire at the end of the month.

Both men are featured in my upcoming memoir, Reclaimed & Restored, where I write about how they impacted my life. Michael, in his quiet way, felt led to pray for me every day after I attended his church as a Sunday school student. He kept me on his prayer list, even when I stopped coming to Sunday School. It wasn’t just a simple prayer, but one with intensity, asking God to protect me and help me feel the love of God. Michael had no way of knowing the sexual trauma I was experiencing during the time he prayed. I believe that those consistent and faithful prayers brought me into a relationship with the Lord after I reported the abuse. I am forever grateful to this man and his prayer life.

Bruce also had some spiritual insight into my life as a new Christian. By all accounts, I was doing well, succeeding in college and still living out my faith. But I was a new Christian and although I loved Jesus, I didn’t really know Jesus. If I made time to read my Bible, I read it superficially and didn’t take time to study it. Bruce saw that my foundation was weak and orchestrated a Taco Bell meeting with a friend of his. There, both men talked with me about my beliefs and asked me to support them with the Bible. I was flabbergasted, because I couldn’t give one scripture to support what I believed. I left Taco Bell, feeling unsure of my faith. Bruce left Taco Bell, unsure if he had done the right thing. But he did! I went home that day, and spent some time in prayer, recommitting myself to God and determined to invest more time in building my relationship with God.

Both men, in their own unique ways given their personalities, made a lasting impact on my life. One’s prayers led me to faith; the other’s thoughtful intervention helped me become rooted in my faith. They did it because they saw a need and acted upon what they saw. They purposed to make an impact on a young girl’s life that changed her story. Since moving to Pennsylvania, I have seen both intermittently. My last phone call with Michael was two years ago, while he was recuperating in a nursing home. I thanked him for his impact on my life. My last visit with Bruce was almost three years ago, when we laughed as usual listening to Bruce’s stories.

Impact, as defined, states that the action of one object comes forcibly into contact with another. The word force here is interesting. Something or someone propels an action to connect one object with another object. We all know how ice can cause a car to slip and forcibly hit another car, causing damage. But can the application of force ever be good, making a positive impact?

Late last winter, Terry and I made Tartine Bakery’s famous morning buns. Chad Robertson and Elizabeth Prueitt developed this laminated dough recipe that is hailed by other bakers and pastry chefs as one of the best in the world. This dough took three days to make, involving multiple steps and techniques. Terry spent a lot of time and used a lot of muscles rolling out chilled dough and a frozen butter block together, folding it into an envelope and re-rolling it. This technique produced the layers of buttery, flakey croissant texture that crackled after the morning buns were done. His exertion with the rolling pin impacted the dough for good. He was only successful by patiently waiting for the dough to be ready and working quickly.  If at any point, he let the dough get to room temperature, the butter would melt into the dough, losing the beautiful layers we were looking for.

My book is full of people who made an impact on my life. These impacts were not casual encounters, but intentional moments where individuals set aside their lives to impact a young person. I look back and think of all the people who stepped into my life at critical moments, and I am forever grateful. They sacrificed, they exerted positive pressure when needed, and they helped shape me into the person I am today. Some were teachers, others were school counselors, and one was a sixteen-year-old girl who brought a teddy bear to me in the hospital. Each of them is a part of my story.

Michael and Bruce will never be able to read what I wrote about them. But I did manage to find time to express my gratitude while they were still alive. Reclaimed & Restored is a memoir of my life recovering from sexual trauma. I hope it inspires other survivors to see a path towards healing and wholeness. This is the big level of impact I hope my book makes. But on a more subtle level, I hope my book inspires all those who are expressing kindness, insight, and prayers towards people who seem to be struggling, to continue their efforts. This impact can make a lasting positive impression on someone’s life.

Finally, if you are someone who prays, keep Judy Dicker in your thoughts and prayers. Losing anyone you love is hard, but losing two of the people you are the closest to in so short a time is unimaginable.

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Pickleball and Crunch Cone

“And the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in its streets.” Zechariah 8:5

My husband loves spreadsheets, nerds out over tornadoes and wall clouds, and can tell you the chord progression of a song without having played it. With all his attention to detail, you might be surprised to know this doesn’t carry over into games of strategy. Before we were married, we played 42, a dominoes game, with a group of friends. Played with a partner, it requires strategy without audible cues. After switching partners across the evening, one of our friends pointed out that Terry was the common factor in losing the game. This observation, while meant to be funny, embarrassed my husband.

Terry being the losing combination changed a few Saturdays ago. We finally got to play pickleball and it was a blast. My husband was grinning from ear to ear and said, “This is the most fun I’ve had all summer!” With a group of friends and their children, we tailgated brunch and played pickleball for two hours. After playing a few games, we found the common factor in winning: Terry!  He caught on to the game quickly and played with finesse. His best partner was twelve-year-old Alex, who is a natural at any sport.

The combination of kids and summer exudes adventure and utter delight. They slurp snow cones with no worries as the blue raspberry syrup runs down their chins and stains their fingers and clothes. In the evenings, fireflies enchant them to dance amongst these miniature stars. They giggle as they run through sprinklers, not bothering to wipe the water from their faces. They curl up in a hammock, lost in a library book, forgetting to eat lunch. Dandelions become magical fairy dust when they blow the seeds across the yard. Games like kick-the-can, ghost-in-the-graveyard, and ball tag become adventures as children from all over the neighborhood join in. Then they fall asleep, after a long day of doing everything and nothing at the same time.

As adults, we lose that sense of wonder and utter delight we felt throughout childhood summers. We complain about the oppressive heat, the weeds in our yards, and our never-ending to-do lists. We worry about eating too many calories and the fact that we haven’t read a book for fun in years. We go to bed exhausted, having accomplished a lot, but really doing nothing that sparks any joy in our lives.

I get it. We carry more burdens than my four-year-old grandson who giggled insanely while jumping through his dinosaur sprinkler. We dread the blue raspberry stains on the new shirt we just bought our kids along with the snow cone sugar rush that will prevent them from sleeping at bedtime. We must prepare meals, wash laundry, and clean bathrooms. We need adequate rest to be functional at work the next day, but all too often wake up just as exhausted as we were the night before.

As an empty nester, I don’t have kids to worry about, but somehow my life still gets busy. I don’t have to pick up after children, but I have filled my life with different sorts of responsibilities, including volunteering within my church. I am also working on editing my book, writing this blog, and researching for a future book, all while working part-time. At the end of the day, I find it easier to stream a show than to dive into a book for fun.

A few weeks ago, I was in Wisconsin for the wedding of my friends’ daughter who married a young man from my church in PA. My daughter had been anticipating this trip for weeks, having not been in Wisconsin since 2020. Her whole posture was that of a child in summer: she jumped out of the car when we arrived at the lake and ran to dip her toes in the sand. On her behalf, her husband set an early alarm for a trip to Piggly Wiggly for the best donuts. She visited some of our favorite local shops and exhibited utter glee over her visits to Culver’s, in her mind the best fast-food restaurant in the nation.

Usually, I compete with Maggie to see who has the highest level of excitement. In most cases, my stronger extrovert nature and my hometown love usually put me a few points in the lead. But this year, my level of excitement was lackluster. It reminded me of the hot wet oatmeal mush I ate when my sense of taste and smell was gone from the Covid-19 virus in 2021. The oatmeal had as much flavor as I had excitement for going to Wisconsin. I was looking forward to seeing my friends and family. I was looking forward to the wedding. I was looking forward to visiting some of my favorite places. But as much as I was looking forward to all of this, I just couldn’t conjure up my normal level of excitement.

Despite my love for all things Wisconsin, my lack of excitement had to do with the timing of the trip. My sweet granddaughter, Charlotte, was born at the beginning of June, and I spent two weeks with them soaking up baby snuggles and toddler antics. I came back home to start my new job and finalize plans for VBS. Meanwhile, I caught a virus and struggled for the next month with exhaustion, coughing, and a touch of laryngitis. Next, we spent a long weekend in Rhode Island to celebrate Joel’s 4th Dino Birthday, only to leave a week and a half later for Wisconsin. The idea of taking this trip while still struggling with exhaustion seemed hard.

This chaotic schedule was mostly outside of my control. I can’t control the birth of babies to align with my plans. I also couldn’t control the virus that added to my exhaustion. The new position that I accepted was too perfect to pass up. Celebrating with Joel on his birthday and with my friends on their daughter’s wedding day was important to me. The only thing I could control was the plans I made for VBS. Although I could have been slightly more organized in my plans, overall, my organization would have been fine sans a new job and sickness. It was a brief two and half months where things collided together in a chaotic swirl, leaving me exhausted.

I shared with Terry how exhausted I was and how much I was struggling with this trip. He, too, was exhausted, but tried to encourage me to think about how seeing my friends and family would energize me. He reminded me of the sound of the lake and some of my favorite restaurants. I still wasn’t feeling the vibe he was trying to send me until the vision of a Dairy Queen twist Crunch Cone danced into my head.

For all of you who live in the mid-Atlantic region, ice cream cones in the Midwest can be either dipped in a chocolate coating or sprinkled with a delectable mixture of crumbled peanut brittle and sprinkles called a Crunch Cone. As a child, I loved it even if a pile of sprinkles fell in my lap. It was one of the only toppings I liked on ice cream. I tried to like Blizzards when they became the craze but found the cold candy against the ice cream to be unpleasant. I soon went back to ordering the Crunch Cone. One of my disappointments about moving to Pennsylvania was that none of the Dairy Queens here sold this topping. When I tried to order it across the state, and even further down south in Maryland and Virginia, I would often be met with glazed eyes as if I had ordered something in an unknown language. But at the Dairy Queen in my hometown where I used to work, they still carried my favorite topping.

The vision of sprinkles and chopped peanut brittle on ice cream inspired me to move from malaise to excitement. It brought back a simple childhood delight, helping me to push through the waves of heaviness to what was important. I loved Wisconsin: the food, the memories, and most importantly, the friends and family who are dear to me. Yes, I was at the end of a chaotic season, and curling up in my bed vegging out while streaming TV shows sounded like a good idea. But that activity would not bring life to me, instead it would numb me, ultimately leaving me feeling empty.  Just like a child in summer, I sometimes need to embrace what really matters in life. For me, that meant embracing all that Wisconsin means to me.

I did not find rest in the traditional sense in Wisconsin. I spent a lot of time visiting our old haunts, staying up late, and spending time with friends and family. I laughed a lot, cried a little, and mostly soaked up as much time as I could with the people dearest to me. It was good and it was restful for my soul. I crawled into bed each night and slept soundly, doing nothing and everything at the same time.

Summer is slowly creeping to an end. The mornings are already starting to feel cooler and soon the September crickets will be playing their soulful music. A few years from now, I will have a vague recollection of how busy this summer was. Instead, I will remember seeing my beautiful granddaughter the day of her birth. I will remember waking up Eva and Joel and having breakfast with them. I will remember being in Wisconsin, laughing and creating new memories with my family and friends. I will remember Terry and Alex being the stars of the pickleball court. I may even remember going through the drive thru at Dairy Queen and ordering my Crunch Cone.

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A Good Report

“Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue, if there is anything praiseworthy, meditate on these things.” Philippians 4:8 NKJV

From mid-elementary school through high school, gym class was always a harrowing time for me. Being overweight made me an easy target in dodge ball. Relay races on the four-wheeled carts challenged my already awkward coordination skills. Chin-ups were impossible, and I was almost always in last place when it came to the mile run. But the one sport I did like, despite not being skilled at the parallel bars or balance beam, was gymnastics. And this love for gymnastics skyrocketed when I watched Mary Lou Retton, the Simone Biles of the 1980s, clinch the gold at the 1984 Olympics. Her flips on the vault and her landings on the balance beam were mesmerizing. But my all-time favorite event was watching her choreograph her tumbling, somersaults, and flips to music in the floor exercises.

In my high school gym class, we were challenged to create and perform a floor exercise as part of our grade. I may not have been able to do a cartwheel, and I certainly could not do a back flip, but I could do a mean front and back somersault, even if I wobbled a bit to the side. Despite never being able to qualify for the Olympics, or probably for any team, this opportunity thrilled me. It was a chance for me to choreograph my own movement to music and, for a moment, act like an Olympian. We had to plan our movements, pick a song, and practice. I don’t remember what song I picked, but it was probably my favorite boy band, Duran Duran, singing “Is There Something I Should Know” (don’t judge me, I had my walls covered with posters of them). Even though I don’t remember the song, I did practice often. And when my performance was done, and I threw my arms up in the air, I was proud of what I had done.

There is something about the Olympics that hooks its audience, including me. The stories of people realizing life-long dreams after many setbacks inspire me. Seeing different nations compete with one another, despite the differences and conflicts going on in the world, gives me hope that peace can be achieved. Seeing the utter joy of winners with their medals around their necks, while their nation’s anthem is being played, reminds me of my own moments of joy. Finally, the gratitude of losers, who realize just being able to compete was an elite opportunity, helps position me in a place of humility.

This year, rain drenched Paris during the highly anticipated Olympics opening ceremony. The artistic director put a lot of time and thought into portraying a unique Parisian history for the world to see. He incorporated works of literature, art, music, and landmarks to tell a story, along with recognizing the importance of the key contributions of Paris to society, including fashion, food, and history. Like Paris has always been, some of the story elements were a bit racy. The director decided to demonstrate the French belief that all are welcomed to the runway, despite your gender identification, your size, your disabilities, or your age. Overall, the story was enchanting, and the highlight of the evening was hearing Celine Dion sing “L’Hymne a l’amour” (“Hymn to Love”) after struggling with a rare debilitating illness. Her soprano voice evoked the triumphant feeling of the Olympics.

Immediately, social media was flooded with clips of various images from the ceremony as well as people expressing outrage over them. Screenshots of the runway scene were compared to Da Vinci’s Last Supper, believing it was the intent of the artist to mock Christians. People angrily called the French derogatory names and declared they would boycott the Olympics. Others said this was blasphemous and were outraged. Soon, other images were posted with people declaring that this was the sign of the Antichrist, pointing out possible Biblical references.

I intended to post a lighter blog this week. I’ll tease you a little bit, it has to do with Pickleball. I was almost done with the piece, but the angry, divisive posts about the Olympics provoked me to write another hard piece. It was reinforced when I was reminded by Pastor Mike Kemper in a message that following Sunday morning that EVERYONE is created in the image of God!

I have heard that the artistic director declared that the scene on the runway was supposed to depict a feast with Dionysus, based on another piece of artwork. They also had explanations about the artistic interpretations about the other imagery that some Christians found so offensive. Christians pushed back, declaring they had proof to the contrary. Some of their proof seems to have some validity. Various actors in the scene posted on social media that they were indeed mocking Christians. Either way, social media posts continued with vicious comments and suppositions.

I waited to hear some balanced reporting on the issue before formulating a complete opinion. I read a few articles and the response by the Catholic Church, who may have been the object of the mocking, not the American evangelical church. One such post came from a pastor I am unfamiliar with. Jacob Whitehead, on Facebook, said, “Christians that get online and spew hate towards unbelievers anger me much more than nonbelievers spewing hate towards my religion.” He went on to remind us that Jesus spent time with nonbelievers, people who were marginalized and despised by society. This Jesus asked the religious elite to cast a stone at the adulterous woman if they were without sin. The hypocrites threw their stones aside and walked away. This Jesus told parable after parable illustrating that He came to save that which was lost. Jesus went boldly to the houses of sinners, having dinner with them. The only time that Jesus expressed anger was when the religious elite acted like hypocrites.

I wonder where all the outrage is when some church leaders support sexual predators while blaming victims. I wonder where all the outrage is when children in our cities struggle with food insecurity, while some Christians leave cheap tips (or no tips!) after indulging in an expensive meal. I wonder where all the outrage is when credible research indicates that over 50% of the people in our church pews are addicted to porn while we focus all our energy on calling out how corrupt nonbeliever society is becoming.

Whitehead went on to say, “Jesus doesn’t need me to shout about sinners sinning. He wants me to shout about the hope and love they are missing out on.” I agree with Whitehead that shouting about sinners sinning is fruitless, but I don’t agree with his conclusion. I don’t think I should shout about anything. Instead, I need to quietly live my live for Jesus. This doesn’t mean I can’t be bold about sharing the gospel. It just means that living with integrity, hope, and compassion for others should result in others seeing a difference in my life, prompting questions that open the door for me to share my testimony. If I stay humble, I should have fruits in my life that exemplify the true nature of Jesus. Finally, if I am challenged, I hope my response doesn’t exercise religious hypocrisy.

I shouldn’t be surprised when Christians are mocked; Jesus himself was mocked and warned us to expect persecution. What should concern me more is when I mock others by minimizing their struggles, ignoring their feelings, and believing my interpretation of the world is the right one. I also need to be careful that I don’t align myself with those who mock others. Do I find myself in company with those that mock “childless cat ladies” or people of certain ethnic backgrounds? Or do I model Jesus’ life by being in fellowship with those who believe and act differently than me?

It’s been almost two weeks since the Olympic opening ceremony, and the fervor has died down, only to be replaced by new offenses and social media responses. With multiple ways to instantaneously respond to the latest hot button issue, it’s easy to get caught up in the drama. Paul reminds us in Philippians to focus our attention on things that are true, noble, pure, lovely, and of good report. This doesn’t mean we don’t speak out against injustice. Instead, it means we pause before responding, and then respond like true Christians. For me, that means I am not boycotting the Olympics. Instead, I rejoiced at the news when Simone Biles became the most decorated American Olympic gymnast ever!