The engagement ring

You never know what you might find in a car’s glove compartment. Forty-eight years ago today, a Monday, James took the day off from his summer grocery-store job in Chetek, a small town in northwestern Wisconsin, and drove to the Twin Cities—about 90 miles distant—to see me for a few hours after I finished my day’s work at a large insurance company in downtown Minneapolis. After picking me up at work, we drove to Como Park in nearby St. Paul, where James parked his 1960 Chevrolet Impala convertible adjacent to Lake Como. About that time, I reached into the glove compartment for something—I don’t remember what—not knowing that James had purchased an engagement ring that day and was storing it in the glove compartment, with plans to give it to me a week later. And that’s why today is the 48th anniversary of our engagement, because you never know what you might find in a car’s glove compartment. This photo of James and me with two of our granddaughters—Sarah and Elsa—was taken about four years ago at almost the exact spot by Lake Como where we got engaged.

Remembering Dad

I was born on my dad’s birthday. He died at the beginning of my senior year in high school. I was 17 years old. Although my time with him was short, he was a tremendous influence on the woman I am today. Here are a few memories I will always cherish:

Dad and me, 1955

1) We were visiting my aunt in Waukegan, Illinois, and Dad paid for me to ride on a mechanical horse stationed outside a department store.

2) Loved his humor! I was sick in bed with a fever one Easter morning, and he walked around the room collecting items to place on top of me—including a pail. Said he was going to “break” my fever.

3) He would let me sit by him on the couch and comb his hair every which way.

4) Great memories of him playing his mandolin as the family gathered around the piano for a gospel sing session.

5) Appreciated his patience and mercy when I took my nephew and two of my nieces on a ride to a neighboring town shortly after getting my driver’s license. In coming off blacktop onto a dirt road, the car spun around and ended up in the ditch. We had company when we arrived home, and I was going to tell Dad later. He beat me to it. Noticing the dirt on the fender, he observed to my older sister, “Hmm. That car has been somewhere!” Another time, when backing out of the garage, I took off part of the door. I don’t recall him scolding me for either incident.

6) Dad took me to the café in our little town and bought me a chocolate malt, the first I had ever had in a restaurant. It was the day before Mother’s Day, and they had beautiful flowering plants for sale. Dad purchased one for us to give to Mom. Great memory!

7) Will never forget the times he would look at me with those piercing eyes and say, “You get in there and help your mother!”

8) I cherish the many hours I spent with my Dad during the years he was unable to work because of his health, discussing politics and everyday life experiences. Our discussions helped form my social graces, common sense, conservative principles, and Christian faith.

9) Dad’s example of standing for what he believed was right has given me strength to do the same in difficult circumstances. For example, when I worked for a not-for-profit organization in New York and there was what I considered an unjustified attempt by employees to unionize, I and one other person were the only ones who chose not to participate in the coup. As a result, I was ostracized and treated unfairly by colleagues. In talking with my mom about the situation, she told me that my dad, at one of his jobs, had been the only employee to do the same. Knowing that Dad endured similar abuse and resisted pressure to conform gave me strength to stand for what I believed was right. If Dad could do it, so could I!

10) During the last year of his life, I remember listening to my dad read Mr Jones, Meet the Master, a book written by Peter Marshall, edited by his wife, Catherine. Dad recorded the entire book on a tape recorder that my brother gave him. The sermons and prayers of Marshall had a great impact on Dad spiritually. I could tell by the emotion in his voice as he read. Not long afterward, Dad went to heaven. His last words to my mom were, “Remember this, I’m having my wish.” He knew it was time to go, and he knew where he was going.

Thanks, Dad, for your love and the great legacy you left your children and grandchildren!

Postscript: My brother David tells me that, a month before Dad died, David took him on a ride. During that drive, Dad made this statement, "Almost everything I ever worried about never happened,"

This is the day!

Every Saturday morning, my husband and I go to McDonald’s Urgent Care in San Tan Valley for a Sausage McMuffin with Egg. So good! To reduce calories, I eat mine with just one piece of bread.

We then drive one mile north to Starbucks where we have hot, nonfat lattes.

After that, to shed the calories we just consumed, we head over to the San Tan Mountain Regional Park where we hike the trails.

April is the month when flowers bloom profusely in the Sonoran Desert and, this morning, although it is still March, we already saw the beginning of that display.

Hedgehog Cactus

Desert sage in bloom

Along the way, we met up with these friendly cowgirls and their horses.

"This is the day which the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it." (Psalm 118:24)

Copyright © 2015

The way you ride the trail

Before we moved to Arizona six years ago, my husband James and I were unaware of the beauty of the Sonoran Desert, but God was, and He knew we would absolutely love it here!

This morning, we rose early to hike in the San Tan Mountains, a few miles from our home. When we signed the contract to have a house built in a development on the southeast edge of suburban Phoenix and our realtor told us about San Tan Mountain Regional Park, we did not know about the park’s extensive hiking trails. It was good to be out there this morning. Because of recent rains, the desert vegetation is lush, which made today’s hike unusually beautiful. We hiked three of our favorite trails: Moonlight, Stargazer and San Tan.

One thing we quickly learned when we started hiking these trails was to watch where we were going or we were likely to stumble and fall. That is even more important for the many mountain bikers who ride the trails at fairly high speeds. They have to be constantly alert, or they may come upon an unexpected turn, hit a rock, or find themselves trying to navigate thick sand. Cyclists who don’t keep their eyes on the trail will not come to a good end.

These are happy trails but it is important to remember that, as Roy Rogers and Dale Evans reminded us, “It’s the way you ride the trail that counts.” An important life lesson, too.

Copyright © 2014

The song of Mary Ellen

Guest blog by my husband, James, on our 45th anniversary.

I’ve known her for more than 56 years, but have been married to her for only 45. When I met her, she was 6 and I was 8. That first year, in the winter of 1955-56, we went bobsledding together, she sitting in front of me on a wooden sled crafted by my future brother-in-law, David, then a sophomore in high school. It was pulled by my future brother-in-law, Lorenzo, a senior.

We ice skated together on a vacant corner lot flooded for that purpose, but it wasn’t a date. In the center of the rink, in a warming house toasty from the fire of a wood-burning stove, Mary Ellen buckled on to the bottom of her rubber boots her little-girl, red-leather-strapped, double-runnered skates while I laced up my black and reddish-brown Size 4 hockey skates, a Christmas gift from my parents. I had helped pick them out and was pleased that the hard, rounded toes had been scuffed so little by the previous owner. Mary Ellen’s skates with their double blades, set about an inch apart, were brand new. Forty-nine years later, during the winter of 2004-05, our granddaughter Elsa would attend kindergarten in a schoolroom situated directly over what was once our skating rink.

We played house at Mary Ellen’s place, and we played marbles at mine, in a corner of the living room. On a hardwood floor, marbles tend to keep rolling. I don’t remember who won. It didn’t make much difference, because we didn’t play for keeps. All the marbles went back to the owner—me—when competition was over. We—I—didn’t believe in gambling.

I almost walked Mary Ellen home once. The ladies’ missionary meeting was at our house that month. Because her mother would be attending the meeting, Mary Ellen was supposed to walk home with me after school, but when she saw me surrounded by a bunch of girls, she turned, walked to her home, and her dad brought her to our house, instead. Mary Ellen must have been seeing things, because I don’t remember being surrounded by girls, on that day or any day. 

She turned me down for what should have been our first date. I was a senior that year and Mary Ellen, a sophomore, had transferred to my high school shortly after Christmas break. In May, I asked her to go to the CYF banquet with me. (CYF stood for Christian Youth Fellowship, a student-led group that met at the school for about one hour a week, after classes let out on Friday.) Not knowing if she was permitted to date, I gave her an easy out, “I don’t know if it’s OK with your parents or not, but I was wondering if you’d go to the banquet with me,” I ventured. Flustered, she blurted, “Sorry, no, I can’t.” It was the first time I had ever asked anyone for a date.

Had she accepted, it would not have been her first date. She had met a guy at Bible camp a year or two earlier, who asked her to go to the end-of-camp banquet with him. Later, they corresponded by mail, dated some—she’s always been a little vague on that—and now, even though he lived some 40 miles away, this out-of-town carpetbagger had invited her to go with him to our banquet, and she had accepted.

Before that evening came, Mary Ellen told me the whole truth, not just that she couldn’t go to the banquet with me—I had concluded that her parents didn’t permit her to date yet—but that she had another date for the banquet. Later, after we started dating, she told me, with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that she would have much preferred going with me. Considering the seating arrangement for that evening, that was probably true, as I sat across the table from the lovely couple. My first date would come nine months later, after I finally got my courage up to ask her out again. She says she gave me all kinds of hints during those intervening months. Could have fooled me!

Mary Ellen and I were married on December 30, 1967, and God has blessed us with wonderful sons and daughters-in-law—Kevin and Debbi, and Kyle and Min Li—and five beautiful grandchildren—Jacob, Sarah, Libby and Sami (Kevin and Debbi), and Elsa (Kyle and Min Li).

Some men say of their wives that “She’s a keeper!” as though the spouse he chose was a qualifying species of fish that met the minimum requirements established by the Department of Natural Resources.

Me? I married a woman, a singer. I love gospel music, and when I married Mary Ellen, I also got an unending playlist of gospel music. Well, it’s not exactly a playlist, because she picks the songs—a few words here, a hum there, sometimes a whole verse—but I enjoy all of it. And whatever song she picks at a particular moment, that’s the song I want to hear. After all, it’s the song of Mary Ellen, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Copyright © 2012

Under His Wings

Courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I used to work in a large office building that was surrounded by an expansive parking lot. Frequently, my husband would meet me for lunch, and we would drive to the outer edge of the parking lot to enjoy our usual lunch of cheese and cold veggies. One day, we noticed a Canada goose sitting on her nest. The nest was located, not on the soft grass on the periphery of the parking lot, but on the median strip that separated two traffic lanes.

Day after day, we observed the mother goose as she patiently sat on her eggs, keeping them warm and waiting for them to hatch. Eventually, the little goslings did hatch and, despite cars going by just a few feet from the nest, their mother kept them, safe and secure, under her wings. They had no worries. Mom was protecting them from the elements and passersby.

Recently, I was praying for friends who are going through a rough time, and the thought came to me that our friends are under God’s wings. It brought to mind a story that my father-in-law, a pastor, used to tell about a woman who was abducted by a man who clearly intended to do her harm. Recalling the promise in Psalm 91:4, which reads, “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge, his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart,” the lady screamed, “Cover me with your feathers! Cover me with your feathers!” Her abductor, thinking she was crazy, immediately released her.

The woman wasn’t crazy, and, despite her inability to quote the verse perfectly in such a stressful situation, God answered her prayer.

Just as baby birds nestle under their mother’s wings, safe from outside intruders and dangerous storms, we, too, are protected by God, under his wings. So, like the woman in the story, I cry out to him for my friends: “Cover them with your feathers, Lord! Cover them with your feathers!”

Copyright © 2012

Singing I go

Last week, at a party, a friend and I discovered that we both go around humming or singing as we go through each day. We laughed as we noted that one word said by someone in conversation is all that is needed to trigger emergence of another song. Although I enjoy some secular music and most musical genre, gospel songs have been food for my soul from the time I was a young child. In addition to learning great theology, the words of the music and the emotions they evoke have helped me develop a relationship with God, led me into worship of Him and given me hope and strength in times of struggle. Often, songs help me recall life lessons I’ve learned along the way and encourage me to continue trusting God.

For example, the song “God Will Take Care of You” brings me back to when I was just 5 years old. My dad was out of work and although, as a young child, I was unaware of it, the family food supply was getting low. One day, we came home to find bags of groceries in our enclosed porch. Initially, we did not know where the provision had come from, other than from God in answer to my parents’ prayer. Later, we learned that members of the church where my future father-in-law served as pastor had donated the groceries. Other than their awareness of my father’s unemployment, they had no idea of our pressing need, but God did.

When I hear the song “Consider the Lilies,” I remember another incident from my childhood that took place a few years later. Once again, our family experienced financial difficulty when my father had to stop working, for health reasons, and food was needed for our next meal. I was riding in the car with my parents and, just as we crossed a little bridge, Dad pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car and took his fishing pole out of the trunk. As Mom prayed, Dad fished from shore. After only a few casts, a large fish struck the hook. It fought ferociously against the pull on the line, but Dad eventually landed the fish on shore. It thrashed back and forth trying to escape, but he jumped on top of it and was able to somehow get the fish into a pail. That night, we had a fish dinner, courtesy of God.

Then there is the song, “Higher Ground.” I vividly recall sitting on the floor at a women’s missionary council meeting I attended with my mother and listening as the ladies sang:

“I’m pressing on the upward way. New heights I’m gaining every day. Still praying as I onward bound, Lord, plant my feet on higher ground. Lord, lift me up and let me stand by faith on heaven’s tableland. A higher plane than I have found, Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

“My heart has no desire to stay where doubts arise and fears dismay. Tho’ some may dwell where these abound, my prayer, my aim, is higher ground. I want to live above the world, tho’ Satan’s darts at me are hurled. For faith has caught the joyful sound, the song of saints on higher ground.”

The words planted a desire in my little heart to know God better, which has remained.

From early childhood, songs have motivated me to keep the faith during times of lack, challenged me to pursue difficult tasks and make right choices, and inspired me to draw closer to God. Music is a powerful influence that can and should be used to teach children about God and bring them into personal relationship with Him. Children will never forget the lyrics, melodies and lessons they learn. It will help empower them to navigate life successfully.

Photo by Tom Curtis

Copyright © 2012

The strength of the Lord

My mother died at the age of 91. She experienced much hardship, pain and sorrow in her long life but had learned how to live above the fray. During her later years, the song "The Strength of the Lord," sung by Larnelle Harris, was one of Mom’s favorites. I believe it was because its words divulged the secret she had discovered on how to live victoriously.  

Sometimes life seems like words and music

That can’t quite become a song.
So we cry inside, and we try it again
And wonder what could be wrong.
But, when we turn to the Lord at the end of ourselves
Like we’ve done a time or two before
We find His truth is the same
As it has always been.
We never will need more.


Chorus (two times):
It’s not in trying but in trusting
It’s not in running but in resting
Not in wondering but in praying
That we find the strength of the Lord

He’s all we need
For our every need.
We never need be alone.
Still He’ll let us go if we choose to
To live life on our own.
Then the only good
That will ever be said
Of the pains we find ourselves in
They are places to gain
The wisdom to say
I’ll never leave Him again. 


Chorus (two times) 
It’s not in trying but in trusting
It’s not in running but in resting
Not in wondering but in praying
That we find the strength of the Lord

Copyright © 2012

I want childlike faith!

My husband and I are the proud grandparents of five exceptional grandchildren. One of our granddaughters, Elsa, who was born in Singapore, came into this world with two holes in her heart. During the first 16 months of her life, she was frail, had difficulty eating and cried frequently. In August 2000, she was scheduled for surgery at a hospital in Singapore to repair her heart.

Her parents requested prayer for her at their church. They also claimed the message of a song, written by Don Moen, “I Am the Lord that Healeth Thee,” for their little girl’s healing. Before surgery and during the recovery that followed, they played the song over and over for her to hear. When asked to sing it, she would close her eyes, lift her little head and arms toward heaven and begin to sway, as she sang in her toddler voice:

You are the God that healeth me.

You are the Lord, my Healer.

You sent Your word and healed my disease.

You are the Lord, my Healer.

Tears would come to my eyes when I heard little Elsa sing and worship God. Most likely, she did not understand all the words, but God’s presence was evident each time she sang. God inhabits the praises of his people (Psalm 23:3), and I believe He was enthralled by the worship of this innocent child, full of faith, love and joy. He honored her worship and answered her prayers. She is now a beautiful, healthy young lady!

We must all come to him as a little child (Matthew 18:2-6). Lately, I have been wondering: “What would happen if I worshiped God like little Elsa? Would I experience His presence more? Would I have more joy? Would I see more answers to prayer?” I want childlike faith!

Copyright © 2012

You never get used to culture shock

“Wow! Isn’t that beautiful!” I exclaimed, with an overdone tone of exuberance, as we left the high-altitude, sun-scorched Mojave Desert and began our long descent toward Los Angeles, with the snow-capped peak of Mount Baldy still to our west. I was trying to speak a positive word to weary spirits that had grown increasingly negative as our journey progressed. We had been traveling through mile after mile of rolling desert, each bend in the road producing what seemed like the same monotonous scene: stark hills, with an occasional Joshua tree or cactus, and vapors rising from the hot pavement.

In front of our home in Stillwater, MN

Our family was moving from the home we had built seven years earlier in Stillwater, Minnesota, a beautiful, historic town on the banks of the St. Croix River separating Minnesota from Wisconsin, to a rental duplex unit we had never seen in Temple City, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. After sensing, together with me, that God was leading us in another direction, my husband James had resigned his position as a marketing communications supervisor at 3M in St. Paul to attend Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. It wasn’t an easy decision. Moving to the West Coast meant leaving security, family members and the Midwest, where we had always lived. In addition, our sons, Kevin and Kyle, soon to begin grades 7 and 5, would need to change schools and leave friends. My first warning of the difficult transition ahead came in a phone conversation about housing with a woman at the seminary.

“What is your address?” she queried. When I said we lived on Hidden Valley Lane in Stillwater, Minnesota, she replied, “Wow! Are you in for culture shock!”

At the time, I dismissed her comment, thinking she was just enamored by the picturesque name of our street. Now, as we got closer to our destination, I wondered if she might be right. We had enjoyed seeing Mount Rushmore, and a few other spots along the way had caught our boys’ interest, but the further west we came, the quieter they became, and I sensed the negative vibes.

“This would be easier if we didn’t have kids,” I told myself.

It did feel good, however, to be out of the desert and see some green trees, even if they were much shorter than trees back home. As we came over a ridge, the great expanse of the Los Angeles Basin lay below, filled with houses that stretched for miles like wall-to-wall carpeting. Except for an occasional palm tree poking up its bushy head, there was little to focus one’s eyes on. A depressing, brownish-colored cloud hung above the trees and extended far to the western horizon, where it ended abruptly and gave way to the sun. As we got closer to Los Angeles, the smog increased. It had a sweet, oily smell that we could taste.

“Welcome to L.A.!” I thought.

“Look at the palm trees!” I said to the boys, hoping to trigger some enthusiasm.

“The ocean is over there,” my husband contributed, as he pointed westward.

We could smell and taste the smog.

Suburban streets took us past row after row of houses that all seemed the same and pedestrians who didn’t look at all like we were used to seeing in the Upper Midwest. This was definitely not home! Finally, we arrived in Pasadena. James went into the seminary’s housing office to retrieve the key for our new residence in nearby Temple City, while the boys and I sat in the hot car, waiting in silence. Upon his return, we continued on to our destination.

A long, concrete drive led to the house, which was set back in the middle of a city block, between several other houses. There was no front lawn, only a large cement pad for parking cars. The house was a nice stucco ranch with two units. Ours, the largest, had a two-car garage, two bedrooms and a spacious kitchen that let out to a patio area, which was the size of a small room and surrounded by a block fence.

The inside of the house was in good condition, although the walls were in need of fresh paint. My husband made a quick phone call to the landlord, who agreed to supply paint, if we did the work. Since our furniture wouldn’t arrive for another two days, there was time to complete the job, but we were tired and depressed. The idea of painting five rooms was like contemplating climbing Mount Everest.

“We have to do it,” James declared, “unless you want to live with it like this.”

Hotel in Arcadia, CA, where we awaited our furniture.

Not wanting to settle for dingy walls, we returned to our hotel and made plans to awake early the next morning and get to work, despite our discouragement. After a good night’s sleep, we picked up paint from a nearby hardware store and headed back to our new home.

On the way, we drove past men who were carrying chickens. A little further down the street, we saw where they were headed. A small crowd, gathered in a driveway, were standing in a circle, presumably in hopes of winning some money in a cockfight.

We proceeded on past the famous Santa Anita Race Track. It was exciting to see the beautiful palm trees, the sprawling green lawn and the carefully groomed dirt track where the horses raced. Despite the visual feast, my stomach was upset and I ached all over, like I had been hit by a semi.

“Must be symptoms of culture shock,” I thought.

It was hard to imagine ever feeling at home in this environment. The trip from Minnesota to California had lasted forever and, after arriving, I had told my husband that I never wanted to take that drive again. Now, I would gladly travel those long, tedious miles, if it meant we could go home.

No time to wallow in pity, however, if we were to be ready when our belongings arrived. Working through the morning, we found ways for the boys to help whenever possible. Unfortunately, kid-appropriate tasks were few and the boys hung around like sticky flies. With no friends and without their bikes to entertain them, they were, obviously, bored.

At noon, we took a break and drove around the neighborhood, searching for a place to buy lunch. Three blocks down, on the other side of a large, dry, concrete-lined channel called the Los Angeles River—it sure didn’t compare to the St. Croix—we found a Weinerschnitzel fast-food restaurant, where we bought hot dogs and sodas.

“Sodas?” Kevin questioned. “We call it pop in Minnesota.”

At Zody’s, a department store similar to Wal-Mart, we picked up some cleaning supplies and headed toward the checkout.

Surrounded by people who spoke to each other and the cashier in Spanish, it was obvious we were in a predominantly Hispanic community. In Minnesota and Wisconsin, in the early 1980s, one rarely heard people speaking a language other than English.

Mulling over what we had just seen of our new world, we went back to the duplex, finished painting and cleaning, and then returned to the hotel, exhausted. The next day, the truck arrived with our furniture, and we helped the movers unload. The boys met some neighbor kids and began showing signs of feeling more content with their surroundings. This would be our first night in our new home, and our own beds were appealing after several nights of sleeping in hotels.

It seemed like we had been asleep for only a short time when we heard, “Caw! Caw! Caw!” Startled, I catapulted out of bed into the early-morning light.

“What’s that?” I questioned.

“I don’t know,” responded my husband, as he jumped into his pants and headed to the bedroom door. The boys were running down the hall toward the back door and the source of the horrific sound. Looking over the patio wall into the sky above our neighbor’s house, we saw a large flock of green parrots landing in a eucalyptus tree.

Parrots! Maybe this place isn't so bad, after all.

“Cool! There must be at least 30 birds!” exclaimed Kyle. “It’s like living in the tropics. Maybe this place isn’t so bad, after all.”

His words were encouraging to parents who felt guilty for asking two kids to make unwelcome adjustments. It was the first indication that things would be OK and, as the days and weeks progressed, they were. We gradually adapted to our surroundings. Trips to the beach, Disney World and Knott’s Berry Farm, and drives up to Mount Wilson and Big Bear were enjoyable and, at least temporarily, distracted us from our loneliness. My husband was enjoying his classes, I liked my job and the children had friends who were of other races and from different cultures, an invaluable experience that would benefit them greatly later in life. Even so, we missed the seasons, particularly the fall leaves and the winter snow. We all wanted to go home!

Two years after moving to California, we returned to Minnesota. Back in our own environment, however, we were surprised to find that we were no longer the same people. We had seen and experienced things that our friends had not experienced and did not understand, and we longed to return to California.

That never happened but, three years later, my husband accepted a new job and we moved our family cross-country again, this time to the East Coast, to Long Island, New York. Once again, we moved to a house we had not previously seen and, once again, our sons became quieter and quieter as we neared our destination. I thought this move would be easier. We had done a major move before and knew what to expect. I was wrong.

New England-type scenery normally would impress me.

Reminiscent of three years earlier, we found ourselves again standing in an empty house with our furniture in transit and no food in the cupboards. This time, as we headed out to find a place to eat, we drove through beautiful residential streets in quaint New England-type communities that normally would have impressed me, but I took little notice. The rock in the pit of my stomach made me feel like vomiting. “If only we could turn around and go back to our real home in Minnesota!” I complained. That, of course, was not possible. We would have to live with our decision and stick it out. We did, things got better and we became New Yorkers.

I eventually adapted and became a New Yorker.

Six years later, we returned to Minnesota, this time to a little cabin in the woods, where my husband wrote a book and where I assisted my brother in his business. Again, as much as we wanted to come back to our home area, we experienced culture shock. People in Minnesota’s north woods do not think or act like East Coast city folk, and living in the woods is much quieter than living in a city, so we had to re-adapt to Midwestern ways.

One lesson I have learned from our moves is that a person experiences culture shock not only when transitioning to a new culture, but also when returning to his or her home environment. Each move we made was extremely difficult. Looking back, however, I would not have wanted to miss any of them. Even though I am keenly aware of the challenges in making such moves, given the opportunity, I would do it again. My mind has been opened to new ways of viewing and doing things, and I will never be the same. More than other life experiences, these major transitions have greatly impacted my openness to change and to God's leading. In fact, just this morning, I told my husband, "If an opportunity comes along and we sense God's prompting, I'd move anywhere."

Update: At the writing of this article, I did not know that, just three months later, we would be ordering a house to be built for us in Arizona. Years earlier, shortly after moving to California, we received a letter from our pastor's wife back in Minnesota. She wrote, "Isn't this following God exciting?" I agree!

Copyright © 2007

Portion preceding the update was written as an assignment for an English class, Regent University, Virginia Beach, VA.

A lesson from Aunt Lillie

I used to work as a client relations representative for a nationwide company. Assigned to three sales representatives, I entered orders into the computer system and, from that point on, was the customer-relations contact. Since our clients were businesses, customer dissatisfaction with the product or service could cost our company thousands of dollars. Employee training was given, but was insufficient for acquiring the knowledge needed to readily excel. Time management and recall of details was a major part of the job description and, if a customer or sales rep registered a complaint, the client relations person frequently bore the blame, even if the perceived error wasn’t his or her fault.

It was a stressful work environment! Many employees, unable to make the grade, were let go after a few weeks, months or even years with the company. The shoe usually dropped on Fridays. Often, I would return from lunch to find the door lock’s security codes changed, thus requiring me to knock to gain admittance. Another colleague had fallen—gone, never to be seen again.

During my first four months on the job, I lived with constant fear and anxiety. Often, I felt stress-caused pain in nerve endings across my shoulders and down my arms. My little granddaughter lived next door, and playing with her in the evenings helped alleviate the stress, but it provided only momentary reprieve from the growing anxiety within me. One day, as I was about to leave work, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. This job was not good for my health! I packed up all my belongings and took them home, just in case I decided not to return the next day.

That night, before bed, my husband and I prayed about the situation, as we had done other nights, and I went to sleep. When I awoke, I decided to give the job one more chance. That morning, when I walked into the office, things were different. I was confident. I was at peace.

Lillie, a few years before her death in 2003

That experience reminded me of advice I heard from my husband’s aunt, Lillie. As a single woman, she had courageously traveled alone by ship, halfway around the world, to Liberia, West Africa, to serve as a missionary. Some years earlier, I was in attendance when Lillie gave an illustrated sermon, based on Hebrews 10:35, about confidence. To make her point, she threw a ball out into the audience and loudly commanded, “Do NOT throw away your confidence!” Over the years, I had, from time to time, thought of Lillie’s admonition, but had not done so during my present employment situation.

After recalling Lilllie’s advice, I realized that, even though my negative work environment was still a problem, it was not my main problem. I had thrown away my confidence! Somehow, after prayer and while I slept, God helped me change my attitude and retrieve my confidence.

From then on, things went well for me on the job, that is, until a few months later, when a sales representative who had been difficult to work with reported record end-of-month sales. When my boss asked why I had not processed all those sales, which totaled thousands of dollars, I informed her that the rep had only sent me paperwork for a few sales that month. As she turned and walked away, it was clear I was in danger of losing my job. Immediately, I called my husband and asked him to pray.

Within minutes, I recalled that, just a week earlier, my boss had mentioned to me she had been talking with this same rep at a party and he had informed her that he had recently made a lot of sales. He also told her I was doing a great job. Because I had not received paperwork documenting those sales, I thought his comments were strange. Maybe the paperwork was just delayed, but complimenting me to my boss? That was out of character! The incident raised a cautionary flag in my mind and prompted me to send an e-mail to my three sales reps, listing all sales I had processed that month and urging them to send me, before the monthly deadline, paperwork for sales they wanted credited to their accounts. And I had made sure I kept the email, in case I would ever need it.

Quickly, I forwarded that week-old e-mail to my boss. While I waited for her response, I continued to follow Aunt Lillie’s advice and not throw away my confidence. When my boss finally called me into her office, it was to inform me that my email had prompted her to contact the companies to whom the rep claimed he had made sales and she had learned that most of the reported sales had not occurred. The rep's plan was to report the sales to Accounting and blame me for failure to process the supporting documentation in hopes of getting the commission and making a quick exit out of town, to New York City where his girlfriend had just secured employment. My boss sat at her desk, her face in her hands, totally distraught. Confident, I stood at her side, patting her back, telling her everything would be OK.

Several months later, I resigned my position to move to another state, and my co-workers gave me a surprise going-away party. Although the purpose of the event was to say goodbye, it was also an opportunity for staff members to celebrate the fact that a colleague was actually leaving on his or her own accord. Over the past year, all other employees who had left the company had been dismissed. I’m convinced that, if I had not regained my confidence and protected myself by keeping thorough documentation, I would have been among them.


“So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded” (Hebrews 10:35, KJV).

Copyright © 2011

It’s a raining rain

The past two weeks have been challenging and stressful. Recently, my husband’s company changed its e-mail protocol and, to be compatible, he had to purchase and install new Microsoft Office software. There was one hurdle after another, and he spent most of Thursday, Friday and Saturday of the first week overcoming them, much of that time in phone conversations with Microsoft’s technical support people.

We had planned to take the four days following Labor Day as vacation but, when he discovered on Monday—Labor Day—that the out-of-office reply function wasn’t working properly, he spent a portion of that day trying to resolve the issue. Since the previous week’s computer problems had already set him back in what he hoped to accomplish, he decided to use the rest of his vacation to catch up on the backlog.

He made progress Tuesday and Wednesday but, on Thursday morning, discovered we had lost Internet access. After spending more time on the phone with tech people, he learned that the cause of the problem was the computer’s router, so we spent part of the day driving to a nearby town to purchase a replacement. With the new router installed, Friday was a successful workday. Nice vacation!

One day this week, a song my mother used to sing to me, usually when it was raining, came to mind. It occurred to me that its lyrics have more meaning than I previously realized; that they applied, perhaps, to our present frustrations:

What’s the use of my complaining when it’s raining, raining, raining?
God has sent the rain, so let it be, he knows what is best for you and me.
It's a raining rain, it's a raining rain, hear it patter on the windowpane.
It’s a raining rain, it’s a raining rain, and it will never rain the same rain again.

The Bible tells us that God works all things together for the good of those who love and follow him (Romans 8:28). So, why should I get uptight and anxious when things don’t go my way? No need to complain. I just need to relax, sit back and let it rain, because God has everything under control.

Funny how things change. When I was a young girl and my mother sang that song to me on a rainy day, it sometimes annoyed me. This week, the song brought peace and comfort.


Copyright © 2010