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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!

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Moldy Divisions

“Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.” Psalm 33:22 ESV

Black mold leached across the inside of the wooden lid of my floral painted glass tumbler. I scrubbed and scrubbed but was unable even with brushes to eradicate the mold underneath the rubber seal. There was nothing to do but throw the lid away. I was devastated; my thoughtful daughter, Maggie, had purchased this tumbler for my birthday. One of the best gift givers I know, she picked out something that was both cheerful and sustainable with a glass straw. For a solid month, I used the glass regularly. But one night, after an exciting book club meeting on Zoom, I left the glass, with water in it, on my desk, and forgot about it for about a week. And over the course of that week, mold developed and ruined the lid.

For the past few years, I have struggled with finding where my faith intersects with my political views. For years, I believed that my party held high moral ground when it came to supporting candidates. We took a strong stance when one president had an inappropriate relationship with an intern, and even moved to impeach him (I struggle with using the words “inappropriate relationship” when power dynamics are involved). But then came 2016 and the Hollywood Access tapes, and all the same issues that plagued former President Bill Clinton seemed to be ignored when dealing with Donald Trump. I heard again and again, vote for the one who supports causes Christians believe in, it doesn’t matter what his character has been. I watched while fellow Christians who voted for Donald Trump, and as he gained office and passed legislation, they seemed to put him on the same pedestal as Jesus.

Four years later, when protestors stormed the Capitol, these same Christians justified his actions. As more allegations have come against him, including credible sexual assault, Christians have chosen to align themselves even closer to former President Trump. They ignore all the hate speech, white supremacy connections, and belittling comments he makes. Instead, they focus on his candidates for the Supreme Court, some of his policies, and create memes where angels and Jesus are watching over his candidacy.

I have found some Christian community that doesn’t support Trump. Russell Moore, David and Nancy French, Tim Alberta and others take a strong and EDUCATED stance against Trump because of their faith. They articulate their views on various podcasts, op-eds in different newspapers, and have even written some books that explain how we as Evangelicals have gotten to the Trump era. They don’t profess that as Christians we have to be perfect. But they do believe that as Christians, we need to be ethical in who we support in politics.

By now, we have all heard of the assassination attempt on former President Donald Trump. As much as I oppose Donald Trump and have major concerns if he is elected, I am thankful that the assassination was not a success. Russell Moore stated on the social medial platform X that “Political violence is evil to the core and is an attack on everything this nation represents. Attempted murder is an attack on the image of God.” David French commented on Threads, “In moments like this, it’s imperative to condemn political violence, full stop. Don’t what-about. Don’t measure which side is worse. Just say it’s wrong, loudly and clearly.” They are the middle of the road voices that believe in God, rule of law, and decency.

Unfortunately, on both sides of the political spectrum, there are extremely loud voices that don’t hold themselves to these same standards. Instead, conspiracy theories are running amok in social media, wild assumptions about the hand of God and where the bullet should have gone are also being articulated, and more memes are shared about the wings of angels guarding certain individuals.

The mold on my lid spread because it had the perfect environment. Our air conditioning was on the fritz for the past few weeks. Therefore, the hotter temperatures in that room were causing the water to condense on the inside of the lid. It probably only took a few days before the mold developed, and within that few days my lid was ruined.

A week after the assassination attempt, President Biden has chosen not to seek reelection. With this new election drama, just like the mold, hyperbole is spreading from extremists on both sides. They each claim that democracy is at stake and accuse the other side of being fascist or socialist.

A few Sundays ago, my husband spoke boldly when leading prayer in our church. He asked the church at large to truly follow Jesus, instead of making certain hot button issues our religion or a certain politician our messiah. When I reflect on Terry’s focused prayer, I pause to consider what my personal rhetoric endorses.

As a Christian, I have asked myself some hard questions in the last few years. I continue to wrestle with these questions amid a divided nation, assassination attempts, and suspended campaigns. Do I follow Jesus, or do I follow a political party? Do I recognize the Bible as truth, including its consistent advocacy for the marginalized groups, or do I continue to vote in a way that further marginalize these groups? Finally, do I educate myself on these issues, instead of just accepting the views from certain perspectives, whether right or left?

This has been a journey for me, and in my community, I often feel alone with some of my views. I struggle with the urge to persuade others to take this journey with me. I try to hide my expressions as I cringe when Christians share a belief that I find contrary to my faith. I know my reactions, both verbal and nonverbal, should reflect Christ.

Where does this leave me in this upcoming election? First, local elections are far more important than I have ever believed. I am going to take the time to educate myself on who is running for school boards, council positions, and state offices. I think these positions can have a more direct impact than I initially believed on some of the causes I support. I also recently heard on a few podcasts a theme of hope, no matter who wins this election. This hope is not in a particular party, platform, or agenda. My hope needs to rest in Christ. Therefore, the outcome of the November election is not going to determine my joy or my peace. I am going to place my hope in the only place that sustains—in the arms of a just and gracious God, the only place I can find peace.

Terry was right to challenge me to follow Jesus; only He can save and lead!!

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Rip Van Winkle and My New Job

“I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

Once again, I submitted my resume for a part-time position with a non-profit where I would be coordinating volunteers and connecting with the community. It was also for a cause I believed in: helping the unhoused in various ways. I knew it was a long shot, but I was hoping the part-time nature would limit the prospective applicant field, increasing my chances. To my surprise, I had a phone interview which led to an in-person interview. I grew excited and really hoped I would receive an offer. So, I waited, and on my way to Rhode Island I was offered and accepted the position. For the first time in 27 years, I was entering the work force on a professional level.

My husband and I made the decision for me to stay home with our children and later home educate them as well. My life was busy, creating lesson plans, writing some of my own curriculum, and researching the best methods to give my children a solid education. To make ends meet in our budget, I occasionally took on part-time jobs, including working as a direct seller for Pampered Chef, cleaning an office building, and working at Target. But most of my supplementary income came in the form of childcare, and in those 27 years, I have taken care of over sixty children, fifteen of which were long term stints. But lesson plans, church volunteering, and working retail 15 years ago don’t fill a resume with eye-catching work experience or marketable skills.

My first week of work, I packed my lunch, wore professional clothing, and left my house early in the morning. I was excited and nervous, but confident that I could do the job. But my confidence quickly dissipated when I started filling out forms and having conversations about drives, CRMs, mastering Outlook, and creating an email signature. For the first time, I felt exactly what I looked look like to the world: Rip Van Winkle (aka domestic servant and home educator) wakes up after having slept away the last twenty-seven years.

I don’t want to minimize the work I did at home. For many years, I successfully budgeted, meal planned, and prepared three meals a day for a family of four, including a few extras on a consistent basis. I was the master scheduler: organizing family events, managing activities, and doctor appointments, while making sure that all of us had clean underwear on a regular basis. Additionally, I taught my children how to read, write, and do arithmetic. I exposed them to art and music, explored nature and science, and made history come alive for them. I successfully prepared them for college, and both are still lifelong learners. I was busy leading a full life and still found time to be a Sunday School teacher, VBS coordinator, Bible Quizzing coach, and lead a girl’s group.

But all decisions have costs, and although my decision to stay home was best for our family, it led to a thin resume. When I last worked professionally, email was just starting to become a form of communication. I had a basic program I used for logging my activities, but it didn’t connect with the rest of my staff, and we only used one drive. My foray into the professional world made me feel unprepared and unqualified.

I have felt this way before: as I entered college, after I got married, bringing my first child home, picking a phonics program for my children, starting a blog, and writing my book. With each of these challenges, I felt inadequate and unsure. Those feelings are not bad, they position you to take the necessary steps in the right direction. I researched, asked a lot of questions, pivoted when I took a wrong step, and continued to work towards my goal. I wanted to be successful in college, marriage, parenting, home educating, and writing, and that meant taking risks. Just like in the past, I couldn’t let my Rip Van Winkle persona stop me from attempting to do my best in this new position.

It’s been a huge adjustment these last few weeks. I still feel like I am immersing myself in new skills: creating events for my Outlook calendar, formatting Excel databases to fit my needs, and creating procedures for me to do my work more effectively. My husband quietly smirks as I ask him about Excel spreadsheets, which I used to refer to as “my nemesis” (Terry is an Excel groupie and looks for coffee mugs or T-shirts to display his undying love). But at the same time, I feel like I am getting into a groove. I have had some insightful conversations with volunteers about what motivates them to sacrifice their time for our organization.

 What has surprised me the most is all the support I have been given by women who have been professionals all their adult lives. They offered technical support, a safe place to share my insecurities, and, most of all, encouragement. I have heard consistently from these women that they believe that I will succeed and that the position sounds perfect for me.

 For so many years, there seemed to be a divide between women who stayed at home and women who worked. Both sides felt like their side was being slighted, and competition ensued for whose job was the hardest. Today, it seems like we have turned a corner, and instead of working hard to validate our choices, more women are cheering each other on in their choices. And for someone who needed some extra reinforcement when insecurities flared, it was refreshing that so many successful, professional women were there to cheer me on!

By the way, for the first time in my life, I am going to get business cards…I am so excited!!!

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Weight Based on Grace

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

I loved social studies throughout elementary school and junior high school. I read Laura Ingalls Wilder as a child, wishing I lived in a log cabin in the Wisconsin forest. I relished maps, carefully labeling the states and their capitals. I enjoyed creating the Wisconsin State project in fourth grade, learning about fur traders, German immigrants, and French missionaries. I even kept my 1984 election scrapbook until a few years ago, when I argued with Mr.Bemis that Mondale may still pull off the election. I dreamed of becoming a congressional aide or lobbyist, living in a brownstone in the heart of Washington DC.

Throughout those years, earning good grades in social studies came easy. I was so passionate about the subject; I soaked up the information like a sponge. I didn’t have to study as hard as I did in math or science, until Bob. St. Pierre’s World History class my sophomore year. I absolutely loved his class; he made ancient and medieval history come alive. My mind was filled with the treasures of the Library of Alexandria, the Code of Charlemagne, and the impact Robespierre had on the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. Despite my love for his class, I had a rude awakening when my first test grade was a C-. With the audacity only a teenager can have, I asked him if there was some sort of mistake. He kindly told me he could tell that I hadn’t studied the material. He encouraged me to work harder next time and was sure my grades would improve. He held my lackluster grade in one hand and the possibility of a better future grade in the other hand. And he was right, with a little studying, soon I was earning higher grades.

A high school classmate of mine was featured on a podcast recently regarding her sobriety journey. After a season of hard things, Melissa admitted to her doctor that she had a problem with drinking. When the test results came back indicating that her liver was not functioning optimally, she was borderline diabetic, and had high cholesterol, Melissa knew she needed to make some drastic changes to live her best life. Within nine months of eliminating alcohol, choosing healthier foods and exercise, Melissa saw the results of her hard work. All her numbers shifted to normal, healthy levels and, more importantly, she felt better. She is sharing her journey both on Instagram and a new podcast as The Sober New Yorker. What struck me the most, despite her relationship with alcohol, Melissa, without hesitation and with total confidence, declared she was a great mom. She had no doubt that she had raised healthy, confident children.

In the last few years, I have realized how my childhood trauma informed some of my parenting. I took normal feedback from my children too personally, letting it paralyze me, instead of filtering it and making changes where needed. Additionally, my own desire to have a great family often came at the price of my children’s ability to safely express their emotions or challenges they were facing. I have asked them for forgiveness, but often the weight of these mistakes has clouded my conclusions about my parenting. It’s as if I put my evaluation of me being a mother on a scale, and more often I have tipped it towards the negative side, leaning towards the place of not being a great mom.

My husband made some of the same mistakes I made, and yet if you asked me about his parenting, I would not hesitate to tell you that he was a great dad. He worked a full-time job and was in school during most of their formative years. Yet, he chose to sacrifice his sleep so he could spend quality time with his children. He played with them, sang silly songs, and used different voices when reading The Trumpet of the Swan and The Hobbit. Once, he took them rock hunting and carried a backpack of treasured rocks for a half mile back to our car. He was affectionate and made Christmas magical for them. He used his artistic talents to help me carry out their birthday party extravaganzas. And he faithfully tucked them in at night and prayed over them.

This is a problem we face throughout our lives. We weigh something as either good or bad. And in some cases, some things are truly bad. My childhood was awful, and to heal, I needed to acknowledge the weight of that. If you have been raised by abusive parents, that is bad, and there is no good in it. But more often, there are a lot of us who are doing our best to be good parents, and we need to properly evaluate our parenting skills. We will make mistakes; we will not respond to our children perfectly calmly and be attuned to their emotions one hundred percent of the time. But if we are striving to be intentional, working on our own responses, and making our children a priority, we are doing a great job. We were never meant to be perfect, because we are human. And in our imperfections, we allow God to fill in the places in our children’s lives where we come up short.

This negative judgment creeps into all areas of my life: how I evaluate my finances, how I look at my body, and how I determine success in both my work and ministry. It’s so easy to look at things and see where I have perceived failure: I don’t own my home and I weigh more than I did two years ago. And it would be easy to take my life as a whole, put it on the scale of success, and weigh it as unsuccessful.

A few weeks ago, I had conversations with two women whom I had helped with childcare for a season. One mother was in the process of becoming a single mother and working hard to provide for her family. The other woman, along with her husband, chose to foster and later adopt two children who desperately needed a forever home. Yes, I was compensated for my time, but no one does childcare to become wealthy. Both women thanked me for the impact I have had on their families.  And the weight of that gratitude tips my scale towards success in the eyes of God.

I have a lot of exciting things happening in my life. I was just featured on a podcast, Woman Redeemed, my book is about to be published in October, and I have started a new position with a local non-profit organization. I have two incredible adult children who are married to spouses I adore, and three little grandchildren who call me Mimi. I have an amazing group of friends and I am about to celebrate 28 years of marriage to my favorite human. And I have an abiding relationship with God. My life is full and complete. So why do I continue to weigh things?

My scale has been sitting in my closet for the last year. I am still working on creating a healthy relationship with food, and weighing myself daily or even weekly became an obsession and a roller coaster ride of highs and lows. Maybe it’s time to throw out the scale completely. Not just the physical scale that gives me a number, but maybe I need to throw out the mental scale that I use to decide if I am good or bad. Maybe it’s time to show myself the same grace that God shows me and just continue to abide in Him!

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Woman of Worth

“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.” Psalm 139:14

Dear Charlotte,

You arrived two weeks ago, forever changing the lives of those around you. With chubby cheeks, looking a bit like your big brother Joel, you have already enchanted us. We can’t wait to see your personality unfold, your interests develop, and your heart grow towards God.

I offer this letter as a prayer for you, sweet baby Charlotte. Not raised as Christians, both your Nana and I came to our faith as teenagers and young adults. Already shaped by our environments, we embodied inaccurate and wounding messages about our worth. We have submitted to the Holy Spirit, allowing God to change us, but this is a process. Unfortunately, some of those messages stuck hard, shaping us as wives, mothers, and friends. They influenced how we viewed ourselves in relation to God. And through the Holy Spirit, we are still dismantling those messages.

This world has a lot to say about how a young girl should measure her worth. Some measure her worth by her appearance: how she looks and what she wears. Some measure her worth by what she accomplishes: what her grades are like or what talents she develops. Still others measure her worth by their opinions, motivating a young woman to seek the approval of others. But God doesn’t measure your worth through your appearance, accomplishments, or approval of others. These are cheap imitations that lead to an unhealthy self-image, competition, and unfulfillment!

Charlotte Anne was born on June 4, 2024. Image captured by her mother, Rachel.

Charlotte, you are precious in the sight of the Lord, because God created you in His image. You reflect the image of God, and this reflection will be as distinctive as your very fingerprints. David, in Psalms 139: 13, records that God knitted you together while still in your mother’s womb. This majestic being took the time to craft you together. In the next verse, David goes on to say that wonderful are the works of God.

Someday, you will go to see a valuable piece of art in a museum. They carefully display these pieces in rooms under supervision, temperature control, and limited lighting. Irreplaceable, they preserve these artworks for future generations to enjoy their beauty. Any necessary preservation work is done carefully with state-of-the-art materials to keep the essence of the original artist’s creation.

Charlotte, just like those art pieces, you are valuable to God. Your parents are responsible for raising you in a safe environment where you can display the glory of God in your life. They will also share with you the gospel and how God’s light will lead you to comfort, peace, and joy. I pray this environment, in harmony with the gospel, will help you develop into a godly woman who is confident, compassionate, and seeks collaboration. I pray you will be confident, knowing who you are in God. I pray you will be compassionate, knowing that God is more interested in what kind of person you are than in what you do. I pray you will collaborate with the body of Christ, knowing that as you work with others, you are working together for the kingdom.

I pray you will be a strong woman like those depicted in the Bible. Be a Ruth, choosing to serve the one true God despite her mother-in-law’s despair, changing her lineage forever. Be an Abigail, choosing to be a gracious hostess, soothing a future king from making a fatal mistake. Be an Esther, courageously coming before a king on behalf of her people, declaring if she perished, she perished. Be a Mary, who declared definitively, “Be it unto me, according to your word” despite facing possible rejection and death from her future husband. Most importantly, be the woman God has called you to be!

Charlotte, strong women surround you, including your mama, your Nana, your Aunt Maggie, your older sister Eva, and myself. I hope that, despite our woundings, you also see the different ways God’s image is reflected in us as individual women of worth. But ultimately, I pray that we always point you back to the creator, who is the ultimate source of your worth!

       Love,  Mimi

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Grumpy Old Woman

“He shall be to you a restorer of life and nourisher of your old age.” Ruth 4:15 ESV

In our quest to be healthier, Terry and I made some sourdough morning glory muffins. Instead of refined sugar, we used honey and blackstrap molasses. Following the recipe, we filled the batter with fresh pineapple, grated carrots and zucchini, walnuts, and coconut. Next, we decided to add our own flair: orange zest. I love orange zest! It brightens pasta dishes and adds fresh notes to a salad dressing. It balances desserts and the pop of color is delightful. But in this muffin, after fermenting for the prescribed 24 hours, the zest gave the muffins a bitter aftertaste. I don’t know if the zest reacted badly to the fermentation or contrasted badly with the molasses. I do know I won’t be adding zest the next time.

I turned fifty-two a few weeks ago, and aging is happening before my eyes. My daughter showed me a picture of my husband and I from seven years ago. She remarked about how young we looked, and as much as I wanted to deny it, I could clearly see the difference. Our hair is a little grayer, and our fine lines a little more obvious. Along with the aches and pains of aging, I have read articles on aging that indicate that I should expect my olfactory senses to dull as my taste buds shrink. In the next few decades, food may taste less flavorful and require more salt. By the time I hit my late 70’s, I might like the zest in my morning muffin.

As a young child, the oldest people I knew were my great-grandmother and her sisters. I was forced to endure their presence at major holiday events and celebrations. Scrawny with permed hairdos, they wore polyester pants and patterned blouses. Their sour expressions were accentuated with bright red lipstick. Their penchant for cannibal sandwiches (ground beef tartar and raw onions) was as unpleasant as their complaints about relatives that were not in the room. They were judgmental, often remarking how misbehaved I and my siblings were. They prided themselves on being frank, sharing unwanted advice and opinions. It was one of these ladies who humiliated me by saying I was too fat to wear leg warmers. I clearly remember saying to myself I never want to be a grumpy, crotchety old lady.

The stereotype of being a grumpy old man and a crotchety old lady is illustrated in literature, movies, and TV shows. Archie Bunker embodied grumpiness with his wry remarks to his son-in-law. Ruth Zardo, the fictional poet in Louise Penny’s Three Pines series, frustrates her neighbors but shows unusual affection for her duck. Although these are stereotypes, I do see evidence of growing prickliness in people my age and older. Sometime, much to my dismay, I even see evidence of it creeping into my own life.

It starts with minor complaining: remarking that young moms should be stricter with their toddlers, passing judgment on someone’s Starbucks budget, or sarcastic comments made about the newest fashions. Soon, these comments morph into conclusions about a whole generation, assuming the motivations for their behavior and choices. They might see the younger generation as being disrespectful, distracted, and lazy. I have fallen down this slippery slope, and it’s just a matter of time before this judgmental attitude will potentially transform me into one of those dreadful old great-great aunts, sans the cannibal sandwiches!

Although I can do nothing about my aging taste buds, I can keep from becoming a grumpy old lady. It starts with being more open to new ideas and opinions. Yes, I have more life experiences and, hopefully, a little more wisdom than a twenty-year-old, but I have not arrived. If I remain in a posture of humility, I can maintain curiosity as I invest in my relationships with younger generations. This position has helped me change my assumptions. I’ve learned that my children’s generation believe in working hard, but also value a better work/life balance than previous generations. They don’t see working excessive amounts of overtime as the pinnacle of success. They also value mutual respect and will set healthy boundaries with people when their respect is violated. My generation struggled with boundaries, often partaking in events with cantankerous family members, then leaving frustrated and diminished. Finally, many of the younger generation value authentic relationships, and they see us as being just as attached to our devices as they are.

These are some of the ladies I have served with in MOMCo!

Recently, I saw a post on Jen Hatmaker’s Instagram page about the trend of wearing crocs or tennis shoes with dressier clothes. Her thread went on with comments about how comfortable the young women were in their fashion decisions at major events like proms. They purchase fancy dresses with sequins and tulle. They embrace getting their hair done and nails manicured. But they draw the line when it comes to wearing uncomfortable heels. They wear their fancy dresses and corsages with gym shoes or with crocs and socks, and they wear it proudly. It brought back a painful memory of being in New York City with my sister Cheryl. We dressed up and had dinner at the famous 21. We then went to see the musical Wicked with the original cast, ending the night with a carriage ride in Central Park. I wore heels that night, and they were fine for the first 5 hours. But by the end of the night, my feet pinched, and my toes were crunched. At one point, I took off my shoes and walked in my tights along Broadway for a few minutes, relieved of the pain. I wish I had had as much confidence as those young women have, choosing to wear more sensible shoes in New York City.

Along with being humble, I have chosen to actively connect with some younger women. I volunteer with a group of incredible older women as mentors for MOMCo (formally MOPS). As a mentor, we connect with younger moms who are parenting infants, toddlers, and preschoolers. Our role is to listen, encourage, validate, and occasionally offer a bit of wisdom. As much as I am volunteering my time, I find myself learning from these moms about how difficult parenting is in our current world. These new moms have the same desires I did: to raise their children to love God and to be healthy and whole. They have the added difficulty of sifting through information overload on what’s the best method for raising children. If I keep their same desires in perspective, it doesn’t matter if they co-sleep and or use baby-led weaning when feeding their babies. What matters is that they need a bit of encouragement and authenticity on my part, recognizing that motherhood is hard.

Finally, the last part is probably the hardest: I need to curb my criticism. My grandbabies love fruit/vegetable pouches for snacks. I love that they are getting kale, beets, and berries, even if it’s in a puree form. But I wasn’t as open-minded about it. Prior to being a grandparent, I voiced my criticism of what I perceived as overuse of pouches. My daughter defended the mothers who used the pouches for snacks, remarking that it was convenient, and was a way to get extra fruits and vegetables into their toddlers. After thinking about what she had said, I realized how critical I had been. Although I wasn’t saying this directly to the mothers, my criticism was just as ugly as a thought as the voiced opinion about my leg warmers.

As a Christian, I am called to speak truth. But too often, we forget the second part of Paul’s admonishment. He says in Ephesians 4:15, “speaking the truth in love.” Additionally, if you read the whole chapter, he has some other qualifiers about walking in unity with other believers. He encourages us to position ourselves with “all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” (Ephesians 4:2-3 ESV). I don’t think this approach should be just with believers, but with everyone. If I speak the truth critically, without Paul’s guidelines, I am hurting those around me. But if I foster a relationship based on love, I may be able to speak truth that will help guide someone to make better decisions.

I look back on the Sander sisters, my old great-great-aunts, and wonder what brought them to that place of being crotchety. I know my great-grandmother lost her toddler son after he fell into a bucket of hot lye, later dying of pneumonia. I heard rumors that one of the great-great-aunts had a back-alley abortion that ruined her chances of ever having children. I have heard they warned others about staying away from some “touchy-feely” male family members, implying that there were potential pedophiles in their midst. Looking back, I have more compassion for them, wishing I knew their stories. But despite their stories, we all make choices regarding how we treat younger generations.

At fifty-two, I am choosing to listen to the stories of the older women in my life, for inspiration and for wisdom. I am also choosing to be actively interested in those women younger than me who inspire me. I hope others perceive me as a colorful, encouraging older woman who eats a lot of humus.