Sunday, January 10, 2021


The threshold was within reach. My parachuting excursion all those years ago still holds a treasured spot in my memory. I can feel my heart beating louder than the whoosh of the wind through the open door. The cracked white paint on the helmet of the brave soul in front of me reminded me this could be dangerous. Most vivid, though, had to be the countdown.


I stood into a squat and shuffled to the open door. Standing tall, I was silently freaking out. My instructor’s eyes were kind. “You’ve got this, Lisa” he said. He glanced out at the open sky and started to count.




Hours of training and suddenly I had amnesia. What was I supposed to know? How to land. How to throw the reserve chute. How to steer the chute itself. Why I was there.




In an attempt to calm down, I concentrated on my breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. It’ll be okay, I said to myself. Almost time…


And then the heavy-handed pat on my shoulder pushed me out the door. I fell into the most glorious five seconds of freefalling before my chute deployed. I finally exhaled, and descended three thousand feet.


The instructor knew I would’ve gotten stuck on Two. But with a little boost out the door just before I was ready, I could then move forward.


As it is with my faith.


So many times I find myself stuck at Two.


I want to trust God for His plans in the world, despite the ongoing pandemic and unfathomable events at the Capitol and in the White House.


I want to believe God for His provision as I reset my finances after my divorce and reentry into the workplace.


I want to know I’m fulfilling my purpose in this world, where I am free to be the source of light God designed me to be, and allow myself to simply be me.


My faith boosters push me forward. Prayer. Waiting. Journaling. More prayer.



Friday, September 15, 2017

Suffering and Joy

The combination of suffering and joy in this world intrigues me. Is it about experiencing one and not the other? Is it about avoiding one and striving toward the other? Or is it about figuring out how to survive—or perhaps, thrive—when suffering and joy coexist? Riding the tangent line between the two is exhausting.

I wonder about all these feelings and what to do with them. I can choose to feel nothing in a bubble of emptiness, or feel overwhelmed by everything. But if I place this suffering on a spectrum instead, where it is simply one of the emotions from the abundant well of my heart, it can be contained into a manageable space, which affects me only as long as I allow it.

Suffering and joy are birthed from the same source—my heart. Wouldn’t I rather feel something, even if it IS suffering, than nothing at all? Only then can I have the capacity to feel joy, too.

In this painting, I imagine a full moon hidden behind the dark clouds, its pure white circle framed by the rich blackness of the sky. Its beauty is in the contrast. Black—the suffering, and white—the joy, seem opposite, the two sides of a fence. But they are only the endpoints of an infinite spectrum of colors. Those colors represent the infinite perspectives of love.

When the ends—the black and the white—turn and reach toward each other instead of away from each other, they intertwine, united, blending all their energy, ideas, and broken pieces into a braid which strengthens the colors and protects them.

Instead of opposition, perhaps the contrast of black and white is the only way to reveal themselves in all their fullness. The brilliance is in the contrast, not the separation.

When black and white; suffering and joy, merge, united, the promises encased in the pink and purple and blue and green blossoms emerge into new life.

From the black and white, united, the colors are born again.


Thursday, August 17, 2017


In my prayer journal I wrote: "I want to experience your presence, God, in OBVIOUS ways today." I had been feeling a little disconnected; unanchored in my core. Prayer felt ritualistic and shallow these last few months.

Time to dig deeper.

I still remember our family trips to the Wildwood, New Jersey beach when I was a kid. The only way my eight-year-old legs would survive the endless trek to the shoreline was the anticipation of finding those little sand clams. The moment I got to the water, I’d drop to my knees and start to dig. With the very first scoop, those tiny shells appeared. I’d giggle as they hesitated for a second or two, then twitched their way back down. A thin film of salt water would soon flow over them, fully hiding them, and I’d repeat the scooping. They never stopped digging deeper. Doing this in my prayer life helps me find safety, too.

Back to my journaling. I asked God to be with my daughter as she attended her senior prom that evening. Before long, her high school graduation would mark the final chapter in my soon-to-be empty nest. I wonder: Did I do this parenting thing well? What is my role now?

That same day, as I was driving home, I couldn’t help but notice a scarlet red hot air balloon, as big as the clouds where it floated, nearby. There were yellow words written on the back side of the balloon but I couldn’t see all of them. The balloon chase was on. Heading to the next corner, I could clearly see the basket of passengers, waving enthusiastically. My eyes widened as it hovered too close to the power lines above the trees. I exhaled as it finally floated upward with the breeze. It was then I could see the full message on the balloon.
Brilliant gold letters, bold in their capitalization, on the scarlet background of the balloon, speaking to my soul:
            “DO ALL TO THE GLORY OF GOD.”

Navy and yellow flags accessorized the full perimeter of the balloon, waving a royal salute to the neighborhoods below. More people streamed out of their homes, pointing to the sky. Phone cameras were out, capturing the view, a beautiful orb of promise and hope and life. 

Digging deeper helps me to be grounded in my reality but not tethered to it, like the hot air balloon. The glowing flame of the balloon gives it the fuel to fly. This spirit sparks in me, giving my soul its flight. My own tethering strings to God in prayer and the Bible guide my direction to safety.

I never saw where the balloon landed, but my soul, for a moment, found its grounding.


Monday, June 19, 2017


The sky is the soft blue of a robin’s egg, the clouds a cottony white, shadowed in muted gray. There’s a breeze, but the clouds are strangely still, as if snapped on a background photograph above the sandy beach scene. The grass in the sand dunes sways ever so slightly, with the darker green bushes dancing a smooth waltz in tune to the ocean breeze. The salt air cleanses my lungs, allowing my breath to slow to its own natural rhythm.

Clarity. I seek clarity on these girls’ weekends at the beach, and this time we are given a gift of the perfectly bright summer day, blending in perfect unison with our energizing meal of friendship. Our shared stories are the yeast, working all through the dough to make it rise. Faith is often lost in the complexities of our life’s experiences, and our foursome’s experiences span more than 240 years in total. That’s plenty of time for muddied emotions spanning from fear to loss to pain to joy, blended into this concoction of clarity which can only be seen through the common lens of faith. The brown mud of our minds shift into life-giving earth, the hidden seeds of promise and hope and purpose finding a new crevice through which to grow.

There’s an unusual sense of completion in our team of four, pulling all aspects of laughter and love into the present moment, reminding us of the view at the other side of this life through this shared lens of faith, glorious and beautiful.

Ahhh, clarity.

Thursday, May 18, 2017


Our writers’ group prompt this week was: Describe an object that describes you.

I am a pen.

Sometimes thinner, sometimes clunky, I am a pen. I occasionally leak or even run out of ink. I am always in need of spilling out words, whether to create a well-tuned perspective on paper, or simply a bunch of jumbled letters onto the page like Scrabble tiles, waiting to be sorted and then placed into words. Sometimes I remember to try for the triple word score, requiring extra patience while exchanging words with someone else. Concentrating, planning and listening help provide those extra bonus points.

Sometimes I just don’t work. I click my brain cells, waiting for the point to appear, but it stays inside my shell. These are times I need to unscrew myself in the middle and pull out the ink refill. I’ll shake the refill a bit with a new perspective, or a new place to write, or a new start to my story, and I’ll get going again. At other times, I invest in a whole new pack of refills by spending time in meditation.

I smile to remember the four-color pens of my youth.

 My life seems fragmented like this. The blue pen is for inspirational writing and articles about peace or prayer or unity. The black pen is a true writing color, when I’m moving ahead in the groove of a piece. The red pen of self-criticism tends to show up from time to time, but when I write in green, I enter a whole new world where I really don’t try to fit in.

Green is my favorite.

This is the color I’d choose at my writers’ group when I am allowed to be off-color with my tribe of like-minded creatives.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Three Days


            The envelope looked official, but it could’ve just as easily been junk mail. The orange words across the top, authoritative in their capitalization, intrigued me enough to read further. “JURY SUMMONS,” it said.
Holy smokes, this is real, I thought.
I was called for Federal Jury Duty the other week. It’s a three-days-or-one-trial gig, paying $40 per day. Well, at least it’s something, but seriously, only $5 an hour to be a good citizen? It was my obligation to serve, though.
I checked the family wall calendar hanging on the inside of my pantry closet. First, I rescheduled my dentist appointment, which of course I didn’t mind. But the next day I was scheduled to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in a while—changing those plans hurt a little bit. To top it off, I’d have to mentally prepare for rush hour driving to Philadelphia, a task I managed to avoid for more than a decade. Sure, I love going to the city, but I’d lose another couple hours a day in the commute. Not fun. Maybe I can get an audiobook from the library. My mind continued to spin like the teacup ride at the summer carnivals.
The summons paperwork included detailed instructions; first, I was to look for an email the day before jury service to get an update on my status. If I didn’t receive an email, I was to call the 800 number after 5 p.m. the night before to get my final instructions for reporting.
It was 4:20 on Tuesday afternoon when my email inbox pinged.
You do not have to report for jury service tomorrow, Wednesday, February 15,” it read, “but you are required to call the 800 number on Wednesday evening after 5 p.m. to receive your instructions for reporting on Thursday, February 16.”
Wow, they’re serious about this three-day thing.

Which made me wonder about placing three days of my life on hold, like an unbalanced warrior pose. In hindsight, three days doesn’t sound like much, but it’s enough, as with the Easter story.
Day one. Jesus hung on the cross, said “It is finished” and then died. Jury service had only begun for the disciples, their grief overshadowing any perspectives beyond the first day, the first moment. I imagine they were buried under the depths of their emotions, afraid for their own lives, with no real assignments except to wait. And pray. And wait some more. In this type of waiting, coated with the pain of the unknown, time slows. The disciples must have felt unsure and unstable, a table with one of its legs needing a few napkins shoved underneath to keep it steady. They must have questioned everything: their faith, their futures, their hopes.
On Wednesday, I received another email just after 4 p.m. No service required for Thursday but I was again required to call on Thursday night for Friday’s instructions. I was finally reaching the summit of my duty to serve, the top of the mountain with the descent in sight.
But I’ve always wondered about the disciples during that day in between, what I call Day Two, the day after Jesus died and before the Easter resurrection. For me, this in-between season of waiting includes a multitude of questions. I’m wondering about health issues for my family and friends; the future for my college-age children and my own purpose in life. My soul cries out “Are you there, God?” I ask, “What about all this suffering? What’s my purpose?”
It’s as if nothing but fog appears, and I drive more slowly. I read the bible, listen to sermons, sit quietly to pray. Many days it feels as if my fog lights aren’t working. Sometimes I try using high beams instead, but they only make the fog appear whiter.
In the waiting, however, the molasses movement of time is starting to reveal a gift. These seemingly extended moments give me bonus time to connect with God more deeply in my soul.
Finally, on the third day, I received the email: Your jury service has ended. I breathed a sigh of relief. Fog or not, God’s presence becomes clearer in the waiting.

Monday, March 20, 2017


Need a story of hope? I share my challenges with weight loss and being loved in this essay. 

How do you persevere through the tough seasons?

Friday, February 10, 2017


Every Christmas morning for the past 18 years, my children waited at the top of the stairs until Joe and I gave the thumbs-up to come down and see what Santa brought.

Of course, we made the kids wait a few minutes longer than necessary. Their excitement bumped up a few levels and I took an extra few moments to reflect.

Thank you, God, for these children. Thank you, God, for the provision to give them Christmas presents. Thank you, God, for the gift of your son, Jesus. Help me, God, to remember and teach my children the value of your gift, which is greater than anything under the green Christmas tree this morning.

Next came the thumbs-up, and with a squeal, they’d butt-slide as fast as they could, their eyes growing wider with each step. Then they’d stand and stare for a few seconds, all smiley and sparkly-eyed, their minds buzzing as they took it all in.

One year, we came up with a plan to open the gifts in our stockings first. One at a time, we’d each get a package, open it, and share. Then we’d open our other gifts, one at a time. I liked the slower pace of gift-opening, extending the moments far into the morning.

This past Christmas, my munchkins were 18 and 20 years old, and still they waited at the top of the stairs. Perhaps they wanted some things to remain the same, even in the middle of change. Alex is away at college and Jenna will be starting college within the year, their descent down the stairs extending out the front door into their new lives. Unknown adventures in their futures hold more excitement than wondering if Santa showed up.

Maybe it was my imagination, but Alex and Jenna lingered a teeny bit longer at the top of the stairs this year.

Perhaps they were confident Santa wouldn’t disappoint, and they were enjoying their time together, just the two of them. My momma-heart swells with joy to see the friendship these two adults of mine have formed. I wondered, though, if maybe they didn’t want to stop being at the top of the stairs.

I’m not sure when we won’t have our top-of-the-stairs tradition any more. Maybe it’ll stop when there are boyfriends or girlfriends in the mix, or maybe when they can’t come home for Christmas because they live so far away, or perhaps, just perhaps, it’ll be because they’ll be standing at the bottom of the stairs so their own children can wait at the top, anticipating the thumbs-up sign.

Friday, December 30, 2016

Letting Go for the New Year

Crises, big and small, good and not-so-good, seem to be pouring in at a faster pace than usual these past couple weeks. Can you relate?

There are always a few things on my mind: faith, family, health, finances. Add to them a few extra issues: my dad’s health is unstable right now (not good), my son is home from college for a few weeks (good), my husband caught the cold-going-around (not good), Christmas and time with family (good), my intentional approach to Advent and slowing down this year (mostly good) and now New Year’s considerations (some good, some not-so-good). A former pastor of mine used to call this situation “The pileup effect.” 

I used to think of God as being a bully with these overwhelming seasons. If things are already tough, why add to them? I finally had a lightbulb moment. Perhaps I’m listening more when I’m dealing with a couple tough things. When I’m already listening, why wouldn’t God want to give me a few more situations to exercise my “letting go” muscles?

And so when even more bonus events came rolling in last week: my credit card was fraudulently used, my freezer broke, and the insurance company started to call again about a car accident from six months ago—none of these things had an impact on my stress level. I dealt with them practically and without extra emotion. Pretty cool.

My favorite event from last week was during my drive to see my counselor. I was pondering these so-called crises to determine which I would discuss during my session. A car pulled in front of me, bearing this license plate: “SURENDER.”

Thanks, God.

Here’s a practical, witty, fabulous talk on Letting Go by Jill Sheerer Murray which I know you’ll appreciate and enjoy as much as I did today. Happy New Year! And here’s to Letting Go.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Christmas Lights

My heart always skipped a beat when Mom got the plastic tub with the holiday decorations out, especially when it was almost Christmas. There seemed to be an endless supply, and when it was Easter, or Saint Patrick’s Day, or Halloween, or Christmas, or Valentine’s Day, she’d pull out the knickknacks and wall decorations and put them around the living room and front window.

But for Christmas, Dad got involved when it came to hanging the lights. (Think the movie The Christmas Story.)  The classic bulbs had to be lined up just so, to appease Dad’s (and my) preference for order. Our black wrought-iron railing would soon be brightly lit with Christmas colors and the use of many pieces of plastic tie-wrap kept the decorations intact. Of course, there’d inevitably be a light bulb needing replacement and no spare bulbs on hand. The entire light-hanging operation would be shut down until Dad returned from the hardware store.

I remember a couple things from my German grandmother’s Christmas decorations. A statue of what I thought was supposed to be “Santa” was actually the figure of St. Nicklaus, drab and slumped over, carrying a brown bag, looking more like a homeless man than Santa Claus. And who else remembers single strands of tinsel? Grandmom draped hundreds of silvery slivers, one at a time, onto her three foot tabletop tree. It weighed the tree into kneeling submission. It was dreary yet beautiful.

On the other hand, my Italian grandmother preferred decorative bling for her holiday display. The all-white Christmas tree in her bay window with its filtered spotlight mesmerized me with its changing colors, red then blue then green then gold then red again.

This year, our family decided to put only red and white lights on our little artificial green tree. More importantly, I prefer to remember the meaning of the light. A single beam from the North Star pointing to the true light in our world in the form of baby Jesus. Hope and joy personified. How beautiful. 

How do you like to light your Christmas tree?

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Roller Coaster College

The empty roller coaster slides forward and beckons me. Holding my breath, I step in and sit down to exhale. I pull down the metal bar which determines if my ride ends in life or death. I pray it locks in properly.

This ride is familiar; only two years ago, I was involved in a college search for my son. It was an adventure, more than I anticipated. I tried to prepare myself by analyzing statistics, reviewing the majors, reading the mission statements and marketing material—anything I could get my hands on. Like the contrast of a wooden versus steel coaster; each university presentation was unique, but somehow similar. We visited at least a half-dozen schools and researched another dozen online. Matching the college details with my son’s personality, talents and goals was daunting.

With God’s help, and the help of others along the way, my son is thriving.

This time, I’m hoping my daughter’s college search will be smoother. I don’t like riding roller coasters all that much.

First, I need to pull on the safety bar to make sure it won’t budge. Am I the only one who does this? Coaster adventure-seekers love to throw their hands in the air on the ride, especially during the descent. Not me, I hold on tighter. This metal bar is all that I have when I have a million questions. Will she like the school? What kind of friends will she meet? How about safety? Will she learn a lot? And what will she be doing during her free time? I need to let the bar do its thing, and I do my thing. Research. Ask questions. And pray. School size. Student to teacher ratio. Average grades for admitted students. Population mix. Majors offered. God, help.

The real questions, the questions inside my heart and mind, won’t be handled by a metal bar, though. What I need to hold on to is God’s promises. He is always with me, and is always with her, too.

Up the hill we go. Looking at a local college. Touring an out-of-state college. Reading the college glossies. Slowly, slowly, slowly we climb. So much to see and read, and yet I know the curve to the downhill descent awaits. This is the curve where I trust our joint decision will match up with God’s plans for her.

Remembering the path laid out for my son, from the professor who offered a personal consultation to advise my son, to the other parents who gave me tips and hints along the way, to the prayers, the many, many prayers, I know God was there to help guide us in this process.

Maybe I’ll throw my hands in the air on the downhill after all. Who knows, I might like it.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Stress Test

Sitting in a waiting room anticipating a nuclear stress test is stressful enough, but this? Yikes.

I knew I wanted coffee, but with the sign in place I wanted it more. Why is that? Perhaps my personal "edit" button was broken. You know, the one which helps me be a responsible adult most of the time and choose the better decisions multiple times a day. This day, I wanted to just be held, be coddled, and be given a cup of coffee. Most days, I don't take the time to think about what I want. I'm learning to slow down and recognize those inner desires. The key? The slowing down part.

When I slow down, I can sort out the rest of the messages, conflicting or not, and get to my personal truth. The truth about how I felt.

Scared. Now what do I do with it?

Part of me wanted to pull out my phone, scroll through emails or Facebook or anything to distract me from what was going on. Another part wanted to act on my idea to download the song "Radioactive" and play it loudly as I walked in for my testing. But I decided to stay, instead. Staying put gave me a chance to experience feeling scared.

I came to an interesting conclusion:
Being able to sit with myself and know I'm scared was actually less scary than trying not to be scared.

Sitting with my feeling gave me a chance to own it, know it, feel it. Fighting the feeling takes more effort, actually. Fighting the feeling would demand I figure out a way to put on some armor, perhaps a sword in the form of researching the medical information online. Or maybe a shield in the form of repeating personal positive statements like "I am healthy," "I am fine," "I will be okay." I chose to put down the weapons and discover what was left--my inner strength. This strength gives me power to embrace my feelings--even if they're the scary ones.

No one ever knows for sure if they will be okay, health-wise. We simply do our best. Sometimes it means taking the tests, sitting with the unknowns, and then drinking a cup of coffee as soon as we can.

I know I did. And I enjoyed every last drop. I even felt a little less scared by then, too.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

College Mom's Ripcord

When I walk through a door, I prefer there be a floor on the other side of the threshold.

More than thirty years ago, I stepped through a door into thin air. That time, I had a parachute strapped to my back and a reserve chute on my tummy, like a baby to whom I preferred not to give birth. I was twenty, just a little older than my son is now, more excited than scared to dive into the adventure. And I jumped.

Three weeks ago, I stepped over the same threshold as I drove away from my son's college campus for the six hour ride home. Hot tears threatened my view and I grabbed the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline, a ripcord. I continued to drive. My heart sped to the ground, frantically waiting for the whoosh of air to open a life-giving chute.

I remembered surviving this a year ago, when I dropped him off for the first time as a freshman.
I focused in on what I know. I know my son is thriving, excited, and ready to take his next steps toward adulthood. It takes every fiber of my being to trust the air and the invisibility of it all. It's the same air which saves me, though.

They say that every landing is called a crash landing. The best I can do is crash a little more gently each time. Maybe I'll have a bigger parachute next year.

Image result for istock free images parachute

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Weeding Through Changes

How is it that my miniature patch of yard containing only two hedges formed so many weeds overnight?

Image result for google images free crabgrass

Kneeling, I was armed with a hand-held rake and garden gloves. I eyed the first clump of crabgrass and figured I could take it down in one round. Grabbing tightly from the middle, I yanked. I ended up with a tiny handful of green slivers in my glove. Time for round two. I dug the garden rake just around the center of the clump and pulled, scraping bits of dirt to the top. The root's wiry white tentacles held on to the deepest recesses of the ground. After a couple more tries, the root released. Methodically, I tackled each weed in similar fashion, finally cleaning up the garden for now, at least.

Those weeds would grow again, and I knew it.

To me, those weeds represented the deepest recesses of my heart I've allowed to get locked away in an attempt to deal with changes. And now, my son is several hours away at college, and my daughter about to start senior year of high school.

As I snapped my daughter's "first day" photo, the reality snapped right back.

This was my LAST "first day" photo.

I wish my diligent recording of time could make it stand still.

Image result for google images free first day of school

This isn't about "letting go" as so many seem to advise. It's about redefining my role. I'll never stop being a mom to these two incredible humans, but these moments have forced me to stop and see things differently. My children have grown and changed, but more significantly, being a mom has changed ME. Motherhood forced me to engage my heart in ways I never knew, into the deepest chambers of life--theirs and mine. As I've used my heart in nurturing ways, I learned I could love more deeply than I ever imagined.

It's time to dig out the weeds stuck in the recesses of my heart and clean out space for a new life of my own. Honoring my inner beauty, I want to be intentional in planting new, life-giving seeds. As I pray for my children, I can learn to open my heart wider and receive God's love, too.

It's no surprise that in order to weed effectively, I need to kneel.

Have you been weeding lately, too?

Thursday, July 21, 2016


Every year, on the Fourth of July, the relatives on my mom’s side went to Grandmom and Grandpop’s house in northeast Philadelphia. A cozy neighborhood attracting a variety of European immigrants, Lawndale had blocks of row houses and twins with single homes mixed in. My grandparents lived in a brick two-story twin, which presided like royalty on a main corner of the neighborhood. My grandfather set up his shoe repair shop in the basement and there was a separate entrance around the corner for the customers. The smell of shoe glue and the sound of hammering reminds me of the Bazooka bubble gum my cousins and I would snag from the shelf in the back of the shop. There were only fifteen of us, including my aunts and uncles and cousins, but it felt like an army as we crowded Grandmom’s living and dining rooms to indulge in our holiday feast.

Our meal was unlike what my friends back home would be eating: hamburgers, hot dogs, corn on the cob, watermelon. You know, the usual Fourth of July food. Instead, our meal incorporated unusual favorites from my grandparents’ German heritage, including succulent bratwurst, a bowl of vinegary potato salad, red cabbage, a lone dish of pickled herring, and the dreaded German lunch meats. No, I didn’t eat the lunch meats. Just looking at them scared me. I’d learn years later that one of them, called head cheese, is a meat jelly made with the flesh from the head of a calf or pig. If that wasn’t bad enough, they’d also have “blutwurst.” Translated, it means “blood meat.” And the word tongue was involved in one of those delicacies. I felt sorry for the poor cow who wouldn’t be able to talk any more. Yuck. But there would always be orange soda, so that was a good thing. It was my grandmother’s favorite. 

I remember being 11 or 12 years old before I got a taste of personal independence when I was allowed to walk to the local park with my cousins---and no adults. We’d skip the entire way down a couple blocks to the carnival held there every year. Our coins jingled in our pockets, ready to be spent on games and treats. I never won a stuffed animal there, but it was always exciting to try. We’d eventually find the ice cream truck, and take our good old time savoring the pictures of the ice cream choices before making our decision. I always picked a chocolate ├ęclair Popsicle with the candy bar inside. It was a sweet ending to a sweet afternoon.

The grand finale would be the neighborhood fireworks display. Just past dusk, we’d suddenly hear the first boom, then a whoosh, and soon pinpricks of light exploded into starry arrays of color. We’d marvel at the showers of light for what seemed like forever. “Did you see that?” we’d say, or “That one was my favorite!” Our “oohs” and “aahs” followed each one.

I always wondered why we went to Grandmom’s on the Fourth of July when there were other holidays to choose from for our annual visit. Over the years, more and more stories were shared by my mom and aunt. With each detail, I’d fall in love all over again with the love story of my grandparents’ immigration to America despite all odds. They met in Germany but Grandpop wanted to come to the states first, so he could get established with a home and a business to provide for his anticipated family. Months passed before he sent for his true love, and Grandmom followed him, leaving all she knew, including her dying father, to join him in America.

Eventually they married, but I didn’t know until I was an adult what their anniversary date was.

It was the Fourth of July, fireworks and all.

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Ordered Chaos

            I walked into the studio, greeted by the scents of paint and glue. Busy Bees is a colorful playground for the creative artist, and it makes me smile every time. They offer a variety of crafting options, and this time I tried something new: mosaic.

I chose a square piece of wood as the background for my creation and went to work picking out tiny chunks of tile to glue on to the wood into a pattern. After the tile pieces were glued on, I would be sent home with grout (the color of my choosing) to fill in the spaces between the tiles to finish the piece.

The assortment of colors and shapes overwhelmed me at first. It calmed me to start with a loose pattern. I glued little square mirrors in alternating sequence around the edges. Silver. Gold. Silver. Gold. My heartbeat slowed as I got into the rhythm of creating. Faced with a wall full of bins in every color of tile pieces, the design started to form in my mind. I cut a tiny square into two uneven triangles of green. Funny how going from a square to a triangle changed things. I was inspired to cut some more. Next, I cut off the corner of an odd blue piece of tile and it formed a pentagon. When I halved the clover-shaped pieces, they became figure eights.

Changing the shapes gave me a sense of control. While I allowed some pieces to remain whole, I caused others to be broken. All the colorful pieces, broken and whole, show up more clearly when surrounded by the black grout of emotion’s dark depths. 

             I call it “Ordered Chaos.”

            A single clear stone belongs in the middle. I may not understand the stone fully, but I recognize its characteristics. For me, the clear stone is like a steaming cup of coffee first thing in the morning. It’s the smell of the bookstore where my writers’ group meets. Sharing hugs with my daughter and long-distance phone conversations with my son. It’s when I send the words “I love you, babes” in a text to my husband. Bible and prayer time. Sharing time with friends. Each of these represent wholeness yet are pieces of the whole of me.

            What does your center stone represent?

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Ginger Root

Why do I buy ginger and then not use it?

There’s something about an odd-shaped knob of ordinary ginger sitting in my refrigerator door which makes me feel like I might be a gourmet cook. Or maybe something about being a redhead attracts me to it. Ginger root, when grated or sliced fresh into a chicken or pork dish, is absolutely delicious. Once I get it home, though, I tend to avoid using it. It requires that I peel it, then cut a piece off, then grate it. There are simply too many steps. Often I’ll give in and pull out my powdered ginger jar instead. But it’s not the same.

This reminds me of the authentic root of my faith when I take time in the Bible and pray, as opposed to sprinkling a quick dose of an on-the-go prayer into my morning. The point of prayer is to be with God, right? It’s not about the recitation. God only knows He doesn’t need more noise in this world. The fresh, pure taste of connecting with God adds spice and joy to my life.

It’s worth the effort.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Ordinary Faith

It was almost Easter weekend, and I packed my overnight bag for the six-hour road trip to visit my son Alex at college. I counted down the days, no, the hours, until I would see him and hug the heck out of him, even if I had to reach up to do so. Blended with my excitement, though, was my apprehension about his faith. I knew Alex wasn’t attending a church regularly, but have continued praying that he would connect with God somehow out there in college land.  

Several weeks prior, it occurred to me I could ask Alex to attend church with me when I was visiting. It would be Easter weekend, after all, and my request would be reasonable. Right? I wanted to let God be in charge of Alex but felt I needed to give God, and Alex, a little help. Eventually, I sensed God telling me to relax. I wanted to attend the service, and decided to do so even if I’d be going to church without Alex. So, I asked Alex to find us a church service to attend and waited for his response.


Come on, God, I thought. I’m leaving first thing in the morning. Should I look up a service myself? I need some kind of a sign. Do you hear me, God?

I like numbers, and one way I’ve learned to notice God’s presence in the numbers. Whenever I see either of these three times on an ordinary digital clock: 1:11, 11:11, or 3:33, I think of God and His three-in-one existence, and how He really is number One above all things. Those times are a little eye-wink from God to me, reminding me of His presence.

Finally, as I checked over my bag on the night before my road trip, I received a text from Alex sending me a link to a church he found for us to attend that Sunday. Excitedly, I clicked on the link to find out more—the service location, time, and the church information.

He found a contemporary Christian service geared towards college students, held in a nearby college building. It sounded similar to the services Alex used to attend with us at home. The location was less than a mile from his dorm. It was an ordinary service and seemed perfect for our needs.

However, there was nothing ordinary about the time of the church service. I had to reread the information on the church’s website.

It was slated to start at 11:11.

Easter was extra special this year.

How about you? Can you share a time God shown up in YOUR ordinary experiences?


Friday, April 1, 2016

Mistress Cancer

Unwelcome, she takes energy away from our marital intimacy. She requires my husband’s time and attention. She penetrates through to his veins, taking over his body, inside and out. She has her own rules, statistics and the illusion of a plan. She flirts with unpredictability, her greatest strength, her source of passion. She calls on my husband any time of day or night. Sometimes, he ignores her. Sometimes, he can’t.

She is Cancer.
This mistress is a Life-changer, a Killer, and an Enemy.

It was April 1, 2011 when my husband was diagnosed. I was shocked. We thought it was something related to reflux or other gastro-whatever conditions he experienced. But tumors? They were not expected.

I went into survival mode. Learning whatever I could about what was going on. Tests, more tests, research, doctor’s appointments. Planning for treatments, impact on our family, our financials. How do you plan what you do not know?

It’s now five years later and Joe is stable under the treatment of a clinical trial. Basically, it means he is on a chemotherapy regimen which seems to be working to stabilize the cancer, which will never be gone. Never. Yes, I know miracles are possible, and yes, I’ll embrace anyone who joins me in prayer for the miracles. In the meantime, however, I live with her.

I want her gone. Can I forgive her? Can I let go?

She is cancer. She is simply a diagnosis.

I am Lisa, Joe’s Wife. Holding on to hope in this complicated life.





Sunday, February 14, 2016

For the Love of Ice Cream

The ice cream carton beckoned. Although shoved in the back right corner of my overstuffed freezer, its voice was crystal clear.

“Hey, baby. I’m in here. Go ahead, grab a spoon and get me out of this cold corner. It’s time for you to indulge.”

The cold, smooth vanilla creaminess with buttery undertones threw my taste buds into heavenly overdrive. Crunchy candy pieces of chocolate lingered long after the vanilla was gone. I wanted—no, needed—more. Just another spoonful. Only there was no way to end it. A spoonful turned into a carton. At least it was a pint, not a half-gallon, I thought.

Three days later, it was time to weigh in again. Three pounds up. Ugh. Dreaded ice cream. You give love a bad name.

It’s all about balance, they say.

But how do I balance a crashing wave? I’m supposed to fall over, sink under, swim for a while, maybe catch my breath later. My desire for sweets is one-directional. It’s always a “yes.” What’s to balance?

Eat just a little, they say.

But how can I section out a portion of joy, when by its very nature joy is all about abundance? Why consider even a little bit when I can’t figure out when I have had enough? Happiness is a dessert buffet, especially if it contains the Italian cookies I ate growing up, and of course any form of chocolate. Love has no bounds so why should my dessert have a limit?

Measure your food and count your calories, they say.

But how can I measure the moments I love? Seeing my son after a couple months of being away at college, or spending time watching a movie with my husband, or catching a cup of coffee with a girlfriend, or sharing an after-school hug with my daughter---these are all unmeasurable. When I weigh out my grilled chicken or measure a portion of cottage cheese, I believe I have some control over food, but, seriously, it’s only the healthy food I’m measuring. Who wants to measure the good stuff?

Love unbounded, like a giggling child running through a big wet puddle just to see how high the water will splash, is the best way to experience it. It’s not available in single-serving sizes. Love is an all-you-can-eat buffet of deliciousness.

But by continuing my discipline of day-to-day weighing, measuring and tracking, most of the time at least, I gain the freedom to understand how to love my own self without the ice cream. To love my body which can dance, run, climb stairs and hug a friend means to take care of it. And this means the ice cream must be kept to a single-serving size. Love can be a buffet. It costs no calories but lingers long after the experience.

Ice cream, you give love a bad name. But I love you anyway.

1 John 2:15-16
“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world—the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does—comes not from the Father but from the world.”
I want to enjoy my sweets in single-serving sizes, and indulge in the sweetness of God’s love with unmeasurable abundance. I’m still learning to do this, one day at a time.


Wednesday, October 7, 2015


I went to a pottery class with my husband the other day.

Okay, there are a couple things to clarify. First of all, this was a class to make the pottery, not just paint it. The primary equipment consisted of a spinning wheel, a lump of clay and our hands. It was the scene from “Ghost,” minus Patrick Swayze. Well, you get the picture.

Secondly, you read correctly, my husband joined me. We are soon-to-be empty nesters, and have been trying out more creative options for our date nights. A couple months ago, we went to one of those painting workshops together (including the wine) and this time, it was pottery-making.

I learned a few things about pottery.

Pottery starts out as a formless lump of clay. It needs water added and a special touch to shape it into something recognizable, useful, and possibly beautiful. I appreciated the metaphor of God as our Potter in a new way.

Isaiah 64:8 (NIV)
“Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hands.”

I have no defined shape except what is given me by God. On the outside, I can be curvy or slim, depending on the season of my weight loss efforts. But on the inside, I have many more components, such as a passion for meeting new people, a love of numbers, and a heart to make others feel loved.

We each received a softball-shaped lump of cool, gray clay which was dense and stiff. We had to add water so it would be more moldable, softer, smoother. Water softens things, makes them pliable, more receptive. Perhaps I could use some of this extra water for molding my perspectives to be more like God’s. Wish it were so simple.

When I reached my goal of losing 100 pounds a few years ago, I had a new shape outside but I started to harden inside under the pressure of the goal. Coupled with my husband’s health crisis at the time, I then fell back into old habits of depending on my own abilities and pulled myself out of God’s hands. Now, I’m losing the weight I gained again, but this time it’s with an even greater focus on God. Like the clay’s response to the water, life experiences can adjust my shape.

The end result of our pottery-making extravaganza? Simple beauty.