Twenty-eight years have disappeared from the day I gave birth to my only child. November is the month I pushed him out into this world and met him face to face. I was a teenager when he was born, unable to comprehend the miracle of his precious life - unwilling to have my self-centered lifestyle interrupted.

Thus I spent most of his childhood competing with him for attention, sometimes robbing him of what he deserved. But despite my ignorance and negligence, he grew up. He laughed and cried; he made good grades in school and even got into some trouble now and then. He charmed the waitresses and the ladies at church and stole his Grandma’s heart. Read the rest of this entry »

I was on my way home the other day when I noticed an arm dangling out of the trunk of the car in front of me. After a double-take, I chuckled at the mobile Halloween décor.

The flapping arm triggered flashes of “body-in-trunk” scenes I’ve seen in movies and it made me think how life has changed since my Trick-or-Treat days. I can still hear the howls and laughter puncturing the spooky Indian-Summer night air around my childhood neighborhood as all us kids went house-to-house gathering candy in our pillowcase bags.

I can still feel my hoarse throat from screaming through a haunted house at my church’s youth event. My brain holds a library of memories from Halloween jolts and goose bumps, fake ghouls, cold spaghetti brains and peeled grape eyeballs - but I always knew these were manufactured scare tactics so it was easy to shake. Read the rest of this entry »

Isolate “X” we are told. Get rid of everything on one side so that only X is left then figure out what X is. Only a select few, I have found, understand what X is or how to find it. Multitudes, on the other hand, have no clue how to find X, what it is, or care if they ever find it. I spent years in the latter crowd. Read the rest of this entry »

Peace. This is the title of an inspirational painting hanging above my writing desk. The scripture underneath this quiet word says, “You are my hiding place and my shield; I hope in Your word.” Psalm 119:114. I draw from the well of this statement made by David, anointed King of Israel, penned while hiding from his predecessor, King Saul.

Saul knew he had lost God’s favor by his disobedience and that he was being replaced. His jealousy of David drove him stark raving mad and drove David into hiding. Many of our beloved Psalms were written by David while in such circumstances.

King David’s military officers continually advised him in this showdown and often their solutions were for a swift end to his enemy’s life. Yet David knew God would decide the hour and method of Saul’s removal – not him. He saw God’s word as his very shield and hiding place.
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Less than two weeks before the somber moment pictured above was captured on film, my husband and I sat with his father in a Peoria Illinois restaurant. All was normal. He was well. We chatted, he asked us questions about our welfare, and we answered each one while he ate a huge plate of food - more than we had ever seen him eat in the two years he had been with us following the death of his dear wife of 53 years.

Less than a week later he was gone. We laid him to rest next to his wife in Glendale, Arizona the following week.

When we pulled into the cemetery on that sweltering Monday morning in May, 2007, my mind snapped a picture of the honor guard preparing to perform honorary ceremonies a short distance from the casket. They were standing near their vehicle perfecting their uniforms and reviewing their formations. Read the rest of this entry »

Graduation is indeed an accomplishment worth celebrating - a time to reflect on hard work and good times. For high school seniors, it’s like a wedding. Students order invitations, gowns, rings and flowers. They attend rehearsals and welcome relatives from far away. They pose for endless pictures, hug everyone at least once and secretly wish they could skip the formalities and go right to the reception. Most of all, they nurse a nagging tension that life is about to change forever.

When ceremony night finally arrives seniors mingle aimlessly outside the auditorium while moms fuss over caps and straighten ties. Their dads stand stiffly by in the obligatory suit. Aunts and uncles spread their coats, purses and programs across multiple seats in the auditorium attempting to flag down the rest of their entourage. All eyes are misty and hearts swollen with pride as the band breaks into Pomp and Circumstance.

After what seems like hours, names are called A to Z and Reality hands each senior a certificate. It reads, “Welcome to the rest of your life Graduate! This hereby certifies that you are fully responsible for the knowledge you’ve attained. As of this moment you are completely responsible for your actions, your choices and your debts. Now you are the parent – discipline, correct and organize yourself. Here is your own voice! Speak with thought, wisdom and passion. Give to the world what you have been given to share expecting nothing in return. There are no guarantees. Honor your parents, obey the laws of the land and fear God.”

It seems that not a ceremony is held without these somber reminders, yet rarely is there a graduate who is listening. Many see the diploma as an end in itself instead of a means to an end. For those who hold that attitude, life is an upward climb. They turn off their ears when the ceremony is over and throw away lessons learned like a cap and tassel flipped in the air – as if to say, “I got the paper, that’s all I need.” The gown comes off and they expect everything to just fall into place. They step out into society and act as if the government owes them a living. They grumble and complain about their taxes and jobs. Just moments after they leave the classroom they forget that back-talking and fighting once cost them a trip to the principle’s office.

Then, they have kids. Some sit in their children’s graduation ceremony and wish for a chance to do it over. They swallow hard as their child’s name is called and pray for something wise to say - regretting that their lifestyle has already said too much. For the few who met the challenge of their diploma, their children’s graduation is their reward.

Perhaps some of us need to step back into the classroom. “My people die from lack of knowledge” God says in His word. Wisdom cries out in the streets, “Choose my instruction instead of silver, knowledge rather than choice gold, for wisdom is more precious than rubies and nothing you desire can compare with her.” Proverbs 8:10, 11. Let’s graduate from our childish ways. Let’s change our major from ignorance to integrity and learn how to keep our children from killing each other in their schools. We can all graduate with honors if we study God’s textbook, learn our lessons and pass the tests.

Mom drifted off to sleep long before bedtime most weeknights. As a child I remember how she got up early every day, dressed up real nice and went to work. My brother and I got home before she did, and when she arrived she wasn’t up for much conversation.

One day Mom told me she could use some help at her office, something about a machine that folds letters and stuffs them into envelopes going haywire; it folded hundreds of letters the wrong way.

I was thrilled to go to work with her. She was the Office Manager at a Christian magazine and it was cool seeing her orchestrate the circulation department. The day I sat in the office with her to refold all those letters and stuff them in envelopes was the day I got the bug. Not sure if that’s the right word for it – some days I would call it the disease, but whatever it was, I got it. Now, I get up early, dress up as nice as I can and work in an office!

I’m not saying I dreamt of becoming an office professional, I didn’t. It just got into my DNA that day and now the mundane, monotonous tasks that so many loathe, I love.

I was only 12 when I sat at that desk in my Mom’s office, but I was old enough to understand that she and her staff were indispensible and could never be replaced by machines.

As a 20-year veteran in the administrative profession, I now know why Mom was so exhausted when she came home. I fully respect her efforts and endurance in a career that without question can try the very soul of the most stable personalities.

One must possess incredible patience and skill to sit behind a desk all day, magically complete their tasks and dodge bullets of gossip, condescension and backstabbing – not to mention staying clear of dueling egos. The workload alone is not for the faint-hearted. Mom is now retired from the office world and I’m still plugging away at piles of paperwork – though my office is wherever I want it to be – as long as I have my laptop and a strong Wi-Fi signal. Technology aside, the work is still the same, and still rewarding.

Sometimes I wonder how I can be so much like her in that respect and yet so different. She could cook circles around me in the kitchen and had a wonderful flair for decorating and entertaining. I’d rather be at my computer plucking away at these keys, cooking up stories, and entertaining readers. ‘To each his own,’ as they say.

I love my Mom. She is kind, thoughtful and generous. And, while I’m proud that I share her skill set professionally, I’m still working to earn the profitable wages of a life lived with a mother’s heart.

Agent Maxwell Smart began his day marching to his desk through a multitude of doors. The weekly TV show’s determined detective was portrayed as not-so-smart, but his entrance into work was spectacular.

Some doors Smart encountered were disguised. One, I recall, was a brick wall. Others were made of unlikely door material, but all opened at precisely the moment his foot reached the last space of floor in front of the obstruction that threatened his path.

Not all doors opened the same way, nonetheless, each opened.

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Their journey was long and treacherous. The four travelers were exhausted and frazzled, entering the castle with anticipation. Finally they had arrived. Here in this place was the answer they sought – so they hoped. Each one came for a different reason. One came to find a way back home. One to find courage, one to ask for a heart and the other wanted a brain.

Behind the great doors to this awesome structure waited an ominous corridor. Its ceiling seemed to be the sky itself. Arched columns marked the path down a hall that seemed to stretch as long as the miles they had traveled to get there. When at last they reached the monstrous room where their destiny awaited, fear pounced on them.

Each visitor clung to the other unsure of what was to come. Here, in this place where they thought they’d find a refuge, was an atmosphere of anxiety – the epitome of all their fears. Yet in spite of the awesome appearance of the room, the young girl who led the motley crew politely invoked the host of the castle. Her words shook as she pushed them out of her throat, each one tumbling past her trembling lips.

Silence. Again, the girl addressed their host with pleas, refusing to retreat. After all they had endured to arrive to this point, she was determined to push past her fear of never being able to return home.

Silence. A third time, and now with a hint of anger, the girl broadened her plea with explanation as to why they were there. Suddenly, a demonic face appeared in front of them floating in the air. The shock of its presence sent the gangly group tumbling to the floor. The top of its head seemed to touch the ceiling and its chin scraped the floor. From its mouth roared a thunderous response to the young girl’s request. Slowly she rose, pulling the others with her.

The demon’s face countered her request with a list of instructions on what they must do in order to receive what they sought. More fear filled their hearts as they listened. They were shocked at the thought of having to confront their enemy, but the girl agreed to appease the monster, believing they would all acquire what they desired.

Later, after the four friends met the demands of the castle’s owner, they stood once again, trembling before it and presented their requests. Their host was not satisfied. More demands and conditions spewed from its mouth.

Then, in the midst of her most terrible fear, the girl noticed her little dog was toying with something on the other side of the room. Instantly her attention left the threat of the demon. Instead she watched in curiosity as her dog began biting at a curtain swishing back and forth across the opening of a small booth to the left of her entourage.

As the demon’s voice continued to spew out orders to its puny visitors the curtain swished more vigorously and as the dog worked the curtain open, the voice seemed to get louder. Once it was completely opened, she saw the booth had an occupant. The young girl’s blood rose to her face. Her lips tightened. Her brows lowered. Her heart pounded as her mind realized this entire display was a hoax.

She called to the little round man who was yanking and pulling at levers, pushing buttons that were beginning to smoke and speaking into a microphone. When the man realized the curtain was open, he glanced over at the girl and caught her eye. Her hands were on her hips and he knew his facade had been exposed.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!”

His command boomed out of the microphone but had no effect on the visitors. Even the Scarecrow, who had no brain, could figure out that what they had feared only moments ago was nothing more than a clever trick.

What do you fear? Is it ominous, bigger than life? Can it destroy you? Yes, if you let it. We give our fear power by listening to it – by believing its lies. We allow it to become bigger than life – bigger than God. We cower and tremble before it, paying homage by awarding it our attention, but the only thing holding us within its power is our own belief that it’s real.

Therefore, pay attention to the man behind the curtain – he’s a little, insignificant powerless voice standing at the controls of some pretty scary special effects and a loud speaker, trying to trap you.

How do you overcome him? With courage, a heart, hope, and a brain.

It looked like a box of chocolates. A fancy ribbon held the contents secure but the receiver was hesitant to open the unexpected gift and gently pushed it aside. It was three days before Christmas 2007 and although I was the one who delivered the box, I was not the one who packed it.

The receiver, Lois Johnson, was the author of the book that was hidden inside the box. I called her that morning to ask if I could come over to get her signature on some paperwork related to her copyright, so she was expecting me. She wasn’t expecting me to bring a gift, thus her hesitancy to open it in front of me.

I didn’t catch on that the reason she didn’t want to open my ‘gift’ was because she didn’t have one for me, so I prodded her to open the box. Her daughter, Jackie, also goaded Lois into opening it. It was all just a fun way Jackie and I cooked up to surprise Lois with the first copy of her new book.

As much as I wanted to see Lois’ face when she first set eyes on her new book, I too couldn’t wait for that box to open. You see, I’m the co-author and this is the first printed book with my name on the cover. Naturally, you can see that I really wanted that box to open!

The author’s free copies had arrived at Jackie’s house the night before so in the morning, she called me and we created this unique way to surprise Lois. Jackie had an empty box of chocolates and said she would put one book inside, wrap it with a ribbon and leave it on the front seat of her car. She would arrive before me and I would grab it from Jackie’s car and present it to Lois as a Christmas gift before discussing paperwork. It all worked fine, after some coaxing.

Lois was indeed surprised to hold her book in her hands, but for some reason she put it right back in the box, I’m guessing because she didn’t realize that it was real. We quietly told her to look at her book and gingerly she picked it up again. She seemed confused as to why it came in a chocolate box and it took some time to convince her that it wasn’t a conspiracy. When all was clear, we autographed a copy to each other and one for Jackie, dedicated the book to God through prayer, then took care of the copyright paperwork for the Library of Congress.

My visit ended up being several hours and after Jackie left, Lois and I sat in awe of all that went in to writing her story. Four years in the making! Within those four years we had both suffered unexpected, severe medical challenges along with many other circumstances that threatened to bring the work to a halt. But we kept plugging away and there we were, holding our newborn baby.

We marveled at the cover and spine and flipped the pages, turning it around and around until tears swelled up in our eyes. Together we bowed our heads and thanked God for all he did to bring this dream to fruition and for all he planned to do in the lives of its readers through the message within its pages.

You see, the story is about her son, Gary Johnson, who drowned in the lake pictured on the cover. It was Lake Santa Fe in Germantown Hills that claimed Gary’s life. He was a star athlete at Metamora High School in 1976 and his sudden death shook the community. Lois purposed in her heart to write about her son’s life to bring hope to those who lose children to sudden death. She also felt that teens should make sure they know where they are going after they die and so she began typing her story. Thirty years later, her daughter Linda, my personal friend, recommended my writing services to make that happen.

For me, it is more than just my name on the cover. As the ‘ghostwriter’ of this incredible story, I became the mother whose son was suddenly yanked from her life. I was in the lake drowning, struggling for air. I was on the beach with those who watched a beloved friend and neighbor disappear from sight. I walked into the home of a mourning family surrounded by friends and family as their hearts broke into pieces; I was there through the long years as those pieces were put back together.

I never thought my writing career would lead me down this path, but telling Lois’ story was one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve ever had in my career. I can only imagine what the Disciples of Jesus must have felt writing their accounts of his birth, life and death.

How do you capture a life on paper? How does one reveal the essence of a human being in mere words? I see the answer in the Bible. Through dozens of ghostwriters, God captured the story of his son on paper and protected it through centuries from libel, copyright infringement and sheer annihilation. His son’s story will never go out of print - and it can never be contained in a box.