“And Peter got out of the boat,

and walked on the water and came toward Jesus.

But seeing the wind, he became afraid,

and beginning to sink, he cried out, saying,

Lord, save me!”

Matthew 14:29,30

Peter was this really gutsy guy. Brave, bold, the first one to try anything. And those very qualities he was so proud of sometimes got him into trouble.

There was one time when he was really scared. Of course, he wouldn’t have admitted it for the world. A ferocious storm had come up and the boat he was in was “tormented by the waves, for the wind was contrary.” Can’t you see those twelve macho fishermen huddled in the bottom of the boat?  Looking up, they spotted what they were sure was a ghost coming to get them. Everyone, including Peter, started crying.

Contrary winds will do that to you.

As soon as He saw what was going on, Jesus, who was walking along on those crazy waves, spoke to them, saying,

Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid.

Then Peter did the strangest thing.  He challenged Jesus to order him to walk on water.“Lord, if it is You, command me to come to You on the water.”

And He did. With just a simple word, Come.

So Peter clambered out of that boat right into those contrary wind driven waves.

So bold. So brave. So stupid.

He’d gotten himself into a real predicament now and he knew it.  Here he was, in the middle a massive storm, battered by the wind, and the boat with the rest of his compadres drifting way behind him.

“He became afraid.”

Stark raving terror.

Have you been there? On those waves, surrounded by out-of-control panic, sinking fast?

I’ll bet you did exactly what Peter did. I’ll bet you prayed.

“Lord, save me!”

Big, invincible, self-sufficient, got-it-all-together, me.  Short and sweet.

Help!

And He did. Jesus just stretched out His big beautiful hand and took hold of poor Peter before he had so much as a chance to get water up his nostrils. He gave the guy a good talking to right there out on the water. “Oh you of little faith, why do you doubt?” Then He lifted a now considerably humbled fisherman into the boat and the wind stopped.

Wow. That’s a story.

Do you have a story like that of your own? Has Jesus ever reached out His big, beautiful, powerful hand to you and rescued you right then and there from something really bad? Like sinking deep into something contrary and terrifying that was all your own fault?

Will you write it down?  Send it in? Let us all know how really great God is?

‘Cuz sometimes we just need to remember how big He is when those winds take us for a ride.

From my heart,

Diane

“If you abide in Me

and My words abide in you,

ask whatever you wish

and it will be done for you.”

John 15:7 NASB

Whatever you wish.

I like that. A lot.

If that isn’t a reason to pray, I don’t know what is. Whatever I wish…

Well I wish for lots and lots of things. Health, wealth, and happiness to start with. A better body, a beautiful house in the country, a new oven, a vacation in Switzerland, and all my family happy and healthy and wealthy too.

I do the whole wishing thing really well.

But hold on, wait a minute. What is that I learned in Hermeneutics?  Something about not building doctrines on flimsy phrases and out-of-context verses?

Oh darn.

Does that mean I may not be able to wish my will on God?

Spanning out to the verses before and after, I see words about abiding and bearing fruit and glorifying God and keeping His commandments.

Uh oh, where did wishing go?

When I read this seemingly cross-stitchable verse again, I see what it really says.

And I get hung up on the if.

If…

You abide in Me,

There are, it would seem, conditions for all my wishing and wanting and getting what I want.

I’m beginning to think this might not be so easy after all.

What, for example, is this thing called abiding?

I looked it up.

To remain or dwell. To be united with him, one with him in heart, mind and will. Steadfast.[1]

It means to remain in His perfect will at all cost.[2]

That’s intense!

At all cost?

With all my heart, mind, will?

Sounds a little like when Jesus prayed, “…not as I will, but Thou wilt” (Mt 26:39) or “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done…” (Mt 6:10)

What about my wish?

I go back to my less and less favorite verse and find another if…

if My words abide in you…

He wants His words to abide in me, to penetrate my will and my intellect.

To change the way I think, the way I feel, the way I wish.

Then, He says, go ahead and ask.

Anything.

Anything that comes to mind while you are united in Him, yielded to Him at all cost; so fully absorbed in Him that your heart and mind and will are all mixed up in His.

That’s the way to wish.

And when we do that, my dear wishing sisters, He promises that,

It will be done for you.

From a heart full of wishing,

Diane

---

[1] The Complete WordStudy Dictionary, New Testament, Spiros Zodhiates, Th.D.

[2] The Open Bible, pg. 1032 notes

“Call to Me

and I will answer you…”

Jeremiah 33:3

I absolutely do believe that God answers prayer.

No doubt whatsoever in my mind. It’s all over Scripture, from the very beginning to the very last verse. Every story, every promise, every prophesy, and every teaching enforces the incredible, glorious truth that God answers prayer.

Problem is, He doesn’t always say Yes.

Just like when my grandson asks me for a handful of M&M’s. Sometimes I say, yes. In fact, I usually say yes (don’t tell his mom).

But sometimes I say, not now, later, after you eat your dinner.

And sometimes I say no.

No you can’t have M&M’s because they’ll make you hyper and crazy and grouchy and you’ll hit your brother and then where will we be?

And then there are those other times when I say no, because I have something much better in mind. Let’s hop in the car and go to Cold Stone and get us a big bowl of ice cream all smothered in M&M’s.

Which of those do you suppose Jude prefers?

And that’s the way it is with God too.

Sometimes He says yes,

Sometimes later,

Sometimes NO, and

Sometimes He’s got something better in mind.

But always, always, always, He answers prayer.

From my heart,

Diane

Has that ever happened to you? Has God not given you something you were absolutely certain you needed right now… only to find out that He had something far better on the horizon? Do old boyfriends come to mind? Or that house you bid on and lost but then you “happened” to find something beyond what you’d hoped?

Will you tell us about it? We need your stories to strengthen our faith!

Also, don't forget about the night in prayer tomorrow night!

Just a few days ago I read this post on boundaries. After wiping the tears of laughter off my face, I had to start all over again with those tears of deep conviction. How often I forget! As soon I was done reading it, I sent it to my daughter, Elizabeth (my partner in this whole writing endeavor), and now I’m sending it to you (my partners in this whole learning/loving/growing endeavor).

May you laugh and cry and remember…

From my heart,

Diane

Somewhere across the world a little girl beckons me.

Amma, she calls, I want you.

I see it in her picture, that yearning for the love she’s never had. The way she twists her hands as if to stop herself from reaching for that longing.

Afraid to hope, unsure of what she doesn’t know.

And I see it in the shyness of her eyes and that soft little smile. Calling me, wishing for all the love I can hardly wait to give.

As if... she knows.

As if... the Father has whispered secret stories of life to be.

As if... she’s not sure that all she hopes is true but maybe it is.

And maybe there really is a family full of love coming soon to bring her home.

In just a few weeks my son and daughter will fly across the world to meet this one they’ve prayed for, hoped for, wished for.

And this little girl who longs for love will be embraced by a family.

She’ll sit on her father’s lap and laugh into those startling blue eyes, run brown hands along the milky white of her mother’s skin.

She’ll see pictures of the boys who will be her brothers. Those little guys who will grow up to watch over her and protect her and tease her

and sometimes drive her crazy.

And she’ll hear about me... her Amma. And Pops and her cousin Duke and a baby girl coming soon and all the aunts and uncles and other cousins and a whole church full of more love than she’ll ever possibly be able to hold in her heart.

From nothing to so much.

Because this abandoned girl is going to be adopted into a family. Our family.

And she’ll step into a new life with a new name and a future of love that lasts forever... no matter what.

Slowly but surely her hands will untwist. Her smile will reach her eyes.

Over the months and years she’ll fill out and grow up and

be a woman well loved.

And all that love will come spilling beauty for all the world to see.

And maybe I already know this story. Because isn’t it mine?

Was I not that orphan girl aching for more?

Afraid to hope.

Wishing for something but not sure what. Bruised and abandoned and barely surviving in a world gone bad.

Wasn’t that me not so long ago?

And now I have a family who loves me.

Those ones I call my brothers and more sisters than I can count.

With all their embracive caring and helping and making sure I’m good and well and known and seen.

Those ones who love me no matter what.

And I have a new name too. And a future filled with all that hope of forever.

And most of all I have a Father.

One who sets me on His lap and listens.

Who tells me I am His. Who whispers what He wants for me to do and be.

Because He has plans for me.  Because He knows me. Because He loves me.

Long ago, even before He made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in His eyes.

His unchanging plan has always been to adopt us into His own family by bringing us to Himself through Jesus Christ.

And this gave Him great pleasure.

Ephesians 1:4,5

Someday soon a little girl is coming home to write her story here. And her story will show us ours.

I can hardly wait.

From my heart,

Amma

How abundant are the good things

that you have stored up for those who fear you,

that you bestow in the sight of all,

on those who take refuge in you.

Psalm 31:19

(NIV)

How great is the goodness 
you have stored up

for those who fear you.

You lavish it on

those who come to you for protection,

blessing them before the watching world.

Psalm 31:19

(NLT)

How great is Thy goodness

Which Thou hast hidden away

For them who revere Thee…

Psalm 31:19

(Rotherham, as quoted by Amy Carmichael)

I read these words from God’s Word this morning with the day still dark,

before I’d made my list of what to do and how to hurry to get it done.

I was already stressed. Worried. Cramming my mind full of to-do’s. But these words changed my morning… and if I’d let them, would change every one of my mornings.

And so I share my heart with you…

HIDDEN THINGS

STORED UP…LAVISHED ON…HIDDEN AWAY…ABUNDANTLY BESTOWED…

Can this be the key to happiness?

Living on the look out for all these gifts God says He’s wrapped up for us?

Just us who are intentionally trying

to take refuge in Him,

to fear and revere Him,

to run to Him and no one else for protection

from all the hurts and pains and bumps and bruises of life in this world?

Might this not be that missing piece?

That way to what we want?

The way to wake up full of joy?

Dare I hope?

That life is more then lists undone?

That worries cannot rule my world?

That my mistakes and other’s too are not what life is all about?

Dare I believe?

That God has given gifts to me—

just for me

because He loves me?

Dare I search?

For clues to trails

which lead to all He has for me?

Wake up each day with this in mind,

this quest to find His good things stored for me?

Dare I try?

To see those gifts hidden here,

stored up there,

tucked in moments everywhere?

Because if it’s true that changes everything!

From my heart,

Diane

What are some of those good things He’s shown you recently? Any surprises? Would you let us in on your joy? Maybe even post a picture?

What if God were to call on women to gather together to pray for their family, their friends, the people in their lives and community? What if God were to call an army of women to engage in intense, purposeful prayer?

What if hundreds of women answered that call and came together all at once to pray in one massive all-at-the-same-time gathering?

What if every daughter, son, husband, friend, neighbor and work associate of every one of those hundreds of women got saturated in prayer?

What if we prayed all night?

What would happen?

Several years ago a group of ordinary women set out to find out what would happen if we had enough faith and determination to venture out of our comfortable beds and pray all night for the people in our own circles of influence.

We were excited, a little nervous, and filled with the hope that God would show Himself to us in tangible, powerful ways that we could understand.

And He did!

Since that first Night in Prayer, seven years ago, the number of women who come, pajama clad with pillows and goodies and hearts full of faith, has snowballed.

Women want to come! They bring burdens too great to bear alone: people they love who need Jesus, messy relationships they cannot fix, co-workers who are cold to the Gospel, teenagers taking terrible risks, and a great burden to see hearts rescued by the Redeemer.

We have seen those impossible prayers answered.  Really! We have seen our own minds and attitudes and thinking changed dramatically. We have seen healings of bodies and perhaps even more miraculous, healings of relationships.

More than anything, we have experienced Jesus in a way we never understood possible.

This year would you join us?

We are inviting women from all around the state, the country, and the world to spend the night of February 24^th- 25^th in prayer.

Rather than all try to cram into one building and do things exactly the way we do, we are asking you to consider gathering women in your church or ministry to pray at the same time as we do. We’ll link together via video at some point in the night to cheer each other on and be amazed at God’s movement.

And if you’re a part of Solid Rock, we’ll be gathering both on the Westside and Downtown this year. I’ll be leading on the Westside and Tammy and her team will guide you Downtown. If you plan on being a part of the Sunset campus church, join us on the Westside in especially set aside groups.

Together we will sing:

I love the LORD because He hears and answers

My prayers.

Because He bends down and listens,

I will pray as long as I have breath!

Psalm 116:1,2

(NLT)

Will you join us?

Filled with His hope,

Diane

P.S. If you are part of another church and want to organize your own Night in Prayer, contact Jodi (Jodi@ajesuschurch.org) and she’ll send you whatever might help.

Early this morning I woke up to all that delightful snow melted away.

Rain.

Again.

And my soul felt as heavy as the skies outside, dripping with too much dreariness. I wasn’t depressed, not even sad. Just not happy.

And since it’s normal for me to wake up happy and full of energy and zest for the day I was kind of concerned.

What’s wrong with me?

The Lord had been speaking to me recently about how serious I am all the time.  After over a year of mind-boggling drama in my extended family, I’ve lost some of that hope-filled part of me that keeps me seeing every glass filled more than half full.

And so this morning I asked God how. How do I lighten up?

Ignoring the problems that persist doesn’t work; every phone call and visit brings it all back.

And I’m not really much inclined to what most people consider fun. I’m a pretty boring kind of person. I racked my brain for something fun I could do to help me lighten up a little, but couldn’t come up with anything.

Well, at least anything that wouldn’t cost money...

My idea of fun can’t be done in an afternoon. I love to hike high in the Sierras, lounge by a lake, take off on a road trip with Phil in his mini— top down of course!

Not much chance of any of those things today.

So what God whispered to my listening this morning surprised me:

Sing.

Sing? Really? Me?

But I’m deaf. I sound terrible. Toneless.

You want me to sing?

Mmh-hmm.

Well I waited until my son, Matt, left the house to get us both a treat of really good coffee from Peets. Even lightened up enough to order myself a cappuccino. Nonfat of course.

As soon as he left I started to sing. As quietly as I could and still call it singing, I tried.

It’s hard for me to remember songs since I really don’t hear them very well, but one old hymn kept coming to my mind and so I sang it over and over again.

Great is Thy faithfulness

New every morning…

Dah dee dee dah, dah dah dum dee dee dee….

Great is Thy faithfulness Lord unto me.

Strength for today

And bright hope for tomorrow

Thine own great Presence

To cheer and to guide…

My breath caught.

I’d forgotten… again. He is my strength for today. He is my bright hope for tomorrow.

Not my solutions to what everyone ought to do to straighten out the mess they’ve made.

Not the elusive dream of having every cupboard clean and organized, a pristine garage, and all my photos neatly ordered on discs.

It’s Him!

His Presence.

He is the One who cheers me despite real life stuff going on all around me.

He is my guide.

I am not a victim of other’s choices.

I’m following Jesus.

By now I was singing louder.  At least I think I was. Without my cochlear devices on, I can’t hear a thing… including me. (and that, dear friends, can be a good thing at times!)

There I was, folding laundry, belting out His faithfulness and believing every word.

I felt as light as those doves that feed every morning on our back deck.

Dancing a little now, I sashayed out into the hallway… and ran smack into Matthew.

Opps.

If you’ve ever sat next to me in church you’ll know that when I “sing” during worship I keep my voice very, very soft. Oh yes, I’ve seen those stares. I have a good idea of exactly how a deaf girl singing must sound.

But Matthew swooped me into his arms and said, “Mom, that’s beautiful! I’ve been out here listening. So beautiful, it’s made me cry.”

And sure enough, tears had gathered in my almost twenty-year-old son’s eyes.

And of course, tears started spilling from mine. Happy tears of pain conquered and hope tinkling bells of sweet sounds that I hear.

I can sing. I will sing. Loud and free and with a little dancing thrown in! Because It’s not about me…

Great is His faithfulness… new every morning… Lord, unto me.

Will you sing with me… no matter how you sound?

From a heart that’s feeling lighter with every note,

Diane

Today is the two-year anniversary of an earthquake that rocked the entire world. The devastation was unfathomable and yet in the midst of what Satan clearly meant for evil, there are many beautiful stories of what God used and continues to use for good.

Pastor Elizabeth Guelis has one of those stories.

(Anne and Pastor Elizabeth)

When Ann Menke and I met Pastor Elizabeth, the first thing I noticed about her was her beautiful, infectious, joy-filled smile that lit up her face and eyes like the Haitian sunrise. In her face, you could see the glory of God.

The second thing I noticed was her right leg. It was prosthetic.

Elizabeth’s smile grew even larger when I asked about her leg. Hers, you see, is a story like no other. Instead of bitterness about her loss, the prosthetic leg is a testimony to her of God’s love and grace.

Until the earth shook Haiti two years ago, Elizabeth told me that she and most Haitians didn’t know what an earthquake was. Hurricanes had threatened their country for many years so the buildings were often built with concrete to withstand the terrible winds. The concrete worked well to protect people from the hurricanes, but it was devastating when the earthquake hit.

On that Tuesday afternoon in January, Elizabeth had an appointment to meet an American friend at the woman’s two-story home. The women sat down in the corner of the concrete house to pray, but they hadn’t even begun to talk when the walls began to tremble. Dust filled the house and in an instant, it became so dark that Elizabeth couldn’t see.

Elizabeth tried to get outside, but she’d never visited this woman’s home before. In the darkness, and the dust, she didn’t know which way to go, and she couldn’t see or hear her friend. When she finally made it to the front gate, it was locked. She was trapped inside the compound.

Then the unthinkable happened. A wall collapsed over Elizabeth, pinning her legs. With the lower part of her body under the concrete, the upper half of her body facing the street, she drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.

When Haitians finally broke down the concrete wall around her, her legs were badly cut. Help had not yet arrived in the country so someone put her legs into bleach and then wrapped plastic around them, leaving her to die. Her legs smelled terrible, she told me. I can’t imagine…

Three days later, Americans set up tent hospitals in the streets. She was the first one to be operated on at one of these hospitals. As the people in her church prayed, the Americans amputated her leg.

“I passed out when the American doctor began cutting my leg. I thought I was in heaven because I saw angels all around me.” Her husband had died seven years ago, and when the doctors told her family she was dead, her three children mourned for her.

But Pastor Elizabeth wasn’t dead. When she woke, there were people crying all around her. She was weak and dizzy, her leg gone, but she was alive. “God would not let me die,” she explained.

For nine months, Elizabeth was in the hospital. God had told several members of her church that she would live, and they continued to pray for her every day. “I made a promise to God in the hospital. If He would let me live, I would serve Him the rest of my life.”

When she got out of the hospital, Elizabeth went to Bible school. She was glowing when she pulled out a picture from her Bible to show Ann and I. It was a photo of her on her graduation day. June 25, 2011. Elizabeth Guelis is now Pastor Elizabeth.  She shares the Word of God with the people in her country and dreams of one day spreading His Word around the world.

“A lot of people criticize me,” she said. “They say I don’t deserve to be a minister since I never finished my high school education. Ministry is difficult, but God is with me.”

People criticize her because of her ministry, but there is also a stigma in having a prosthetic leg in Haiti. The handicapped are often treated with disrespect in this country, and some have questioned why God would allow her to lose a leg.

Elizabeth’s children are now 23, 18, and 12, and before our time together ended, she asked that the “lady mamas of Solid Rock” pray for her and her family. I promised her that I would share her story and requests with all of you and that we would pray with her that:

• God would give her strength to continue her church when people criticize her and tell her she can’t do it.
• She would hold the Word of God close and continue to do His work.
• God would give her the power and opportunity to share her testimony with thousands of people around the world.

The last day of our conference, Pastor Elizabeth found me in the crowd. She showed me her graduation picture again, pointing out the prosthetic leg with a sense of triumph. It is her testimony to what God has done and continues to do in her life. Then she held out the picture to me, signaling for me to take it.

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my hands and head. This picture meant so much to her, and I knew it was probably the only one she had. I couldn’t possibly take it from her.

But she held it out again, insisting that I keep it. It was her gift to me.

With humility and tears, I took her picture. And I continue to cry today when I think about her gift.

I wanted to give something to her in return, but I didn’t know what could even come close to equaling what she’d given me. Then I remembered that I had brought a picture with me to show the Haitian women. It was a photo of me, my husband, and my daughter when Karly was a baby. It seemed like nothing compared to Elizabeth’s gift—I can make another copy of it at any time—but it was all I had at that moment. I rushed to get it, and she gave me a precious hug in return. We’re sisters, you see, for now and eternity.

On that October afternoon, Elizabeth gave me her picture and her friendship. She reminded me of God’s love for His children, that even through terrible adversity and hardship He sees and loves each one of us. Not once did she complain to me about what had happened. Instead of being angry at God, she poured out her love for Him.

(Diane, Pastor Elizabeth, and Zebby

As we remember what happened in Haiti two years ago, I pray we will also remember the stories of God’s goodness in the midst of tragedy, of the beauty He made and continues to make from the ashes. And I hope that we as a church can pray for women like Pastor Elizabeth who’ve devoted their life to spreading God’s love and grace in Haiti.

Blessed beyond words,

Melanie Dobson

I got up this morning all uptight. The sink is full of dishes and the dishwasher needs emptying. Our Christmas tree is sagging and when in the world will I have time to take it down? The kitchen floor is sticky and there’s dog hair everywhere and laundry piled up and I haven’t exercised in who knows how long.

Of course I’m tense... this day holds too much too do already.

Yet downstairs in the guest room my daughter sleeps. Curled up next to her husband is the girl I hardly ever get to see. Today I’ll bask in that smile and feel that sparkle and hear those words.

For just a few more hours she’ll be here with me in my home, a part of my life.

So why am I worried about laundry?

And up the stairs are two little grandboys, sleeping away. In just a moment or two they’ll wake up so excited to be at Amma and Pop’s house. Fresh with joy and full of affection, they’ll jostle for room on my lap. Jude will tell me all about his plans for the day while Moses interjects his ideas.

Legos will be built, tummies will growl for good grandma food, a book will get pulled out of the pile that must be read right now.

And after a while my son-on-break-from-college will roll out of bed all bleary eyed from staying up late. He’ll tell me what that pile of Bibles on the table is all about and what they talked about so late into the night and how they’re changing this world of theirs.

And I’m obsessed with dog hair?

I don’t know how I get it so wrong still. Or why I worry about things that don’t matter. And sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever learn…

That people are more important than all I have to do.

That moments like these can’t be brought back.

That memories are made in the midst of messes. And that no one remembers the messes anyway.

That all those messes are worth the memories of these moments.

And that all I really have to do today is relish the people I love.

From the heart of a woman who’s learning…

Diane

Several weeks ago twenty women from Solid Rock flew to Haiti to put on a conference for women in leadership in Haitian churches.

Most of the women were pastor’s wives, while another handful were themselves serving as pastors in congregations. Each and every one of these women impressed us with their stalwart faith and enviable strength.

Over the course of several days, these women shared their stories with us and agreed to allow us to share their stories with all of you.  Melanie Dobson, a writer who went with us, has collected and condensed these stories so we can post them here every few weeks.

It is our hope that you will be as encouraged as we were— and that the faith and faithfulness of the Haitian women will inspire you as it inspired us.

From my heart,

Diane

Sister Jeanne Modesda: emmanuel

by: Melanie Dobson

Sister Jeanne Modesda was standing on the rooftop of her home the night her world collapsed. Workers were building a third story for their growing family. Thirteen of her children—seven of them adopted—and her husband were in the rooms below.

Sister Jeanne is a mother, a pastor’s wife, a ministry leader, and a businesswoman in Carrefour. In Haiti, most churches don’t have enough money to pay a pastor’s salary so his wife provides income for their family while he cares for the congregation. Before the earthquake, Sister Jeanne owned a successful shop on the first level of her home where she and her older children sold furniture, appliances, electronics, and mattresses.

When Sister Jeanne wasn’t working, she and her oldest daughter, Aelbellona, traveled into the Haitian mountains and talked to unmarried women about God, encouraging them to marry the man they lived with. Many of these couples didn’t marry because they couldn’t afford a wedding so Sister Jeanne and Aelbellona helped choose a wedding date. Then they would return with a wedding dress, clothes for the groom, a wedding ring, a piano player, and a preacher to perform the ceremony.

Sister Jeanne also ministered to the women in her church. Every Tuesday afternoon the women met for prayer, but the prayer meeting on January 12th was different. One of the women stood up and told Sister Jeanne and the other women about a dream she’d had. In her dream, the people of Haiti were running. Screaming. There was chaos all around her, but in the midst of it, the woman heard a voice say: “Don’t be afraid. I will give you what you need to fly.” And so the woman flew, every member of their congregation flying behind her.

Now on her rooftop, less than an hour after the prayer meeting, Sister Jeanne’s house began to shake. It stopped for a moment and then it shook again. As she stood on the rooftop, she knew her house was going to fall down. In those seconds, she begged God to save her children.

Two stories of concrete and bricks pancaked under her feet—her thirteen children and husband inside. “God save them.” She screamed as she searched for a way through the rubble. “God save them.”

The people in her neighborhood, even people who had been enemies to her family, began to mourn her loss. Everyone thought they were dead. But she kept praying even as she cried out, “Why all my children, God? I don’t understand.”

In the midst of the mourning, Sister Jeanne heard a voice in the rubble, the voice of her 21-year-old son. “Mommy. Mommy,” her son called. “We’re not dying. God don’t let that happen to us.”

There was no basement in the house for the children to fall into. The house was completely collapsed. It seemed impossible that even one of her children was alive, but then another child spoke. And another.

“God will get us out,” her son said.

God would have to help them, because there was no visible way out of the rubble. So Sister Jeanne continued to pray until she saw the oldest son in her house emerge. Her son had helped the youngest child crawl on his belly, moving brick by brick until they dug a tunnel out of the house.  More children came through a window—five of them, squeezed through by another brother.

One of her daughters had been lying on a bed. She should have died instantly but she was thrown into a hamper. Then a brick wall fell on the hamper. Miraculously, the hamper and wall protected her daughter from death.

Over the next three hours all of the children and Sister Jeanne’s husband crawled or climbed out of the rubble except the daughter trapped in the hamper. Sister Jeanne’s husband—the girl’s daddy—heard the girl’s voice from the street but she was stuck under the wall. He rushed back inside the house, and she told her daddy to get out before the earth shook again. He refused to leave her, screaming until enough men came to help him lift the wall.

Not one of the children in Sister Jeanne’s house died that day. They had bruises and broken limbs, but no permanent injuries. Even as their enemies spent hours digging out their daughter, they recognized God’s power in saving this family.

Sister Jeanne rushed to the university next to find Aelbellona. She was devastated at what she found. Her oldest daughter had died in the classroom building. With tears in her eyes, this dear sister described how she and her family dug Aelbellona’s battered body out of the rubble and carried her back to Carrefour to bury her.

The Modesda family home is now gone. Their business is gone. Their oldest daughter is with the Lord. Currently they are living with Sister Jeanne’s parents until they can rebuild their home and their lives.

“Everything in our house is gone,” Sister Jeanne said. “There wasn’t even a cup left for us to take.”

And yet Sister Jeanne remains filled with joy that can only come from Christ. “It doesn’t matter that we lost everything,” she said. “God gave thirteen of my children their lives, He gave me my life, and my husband his life. God is our provider and He will give us what we need.”

Sister Jeanne misses Aelbellona terribly, but she still travels to the mountains with her other daughters. They’ve set the dates for eight more weddings and are gathering the dresses and rings. “That’s the job God has given me,” she said.

Many people in her neighborhood decided to follow Christ after watching God rescue her family from the rubble. And just like the woman at the prayer meeting dreamed, God rescued every one of the 150 members of their congregation.

The name that God gave Sister Jeanne at the His Name in Haiti conference?

She smiled as she told us. Emmanuel. God with us.

God indeed continues to be with this beautiful woman and her family as they serve Him and share His many names with people across their country.

With joy,

Melanie Dobson

Note: This story was told to Beth Viducich, Jodi Stilp, and I by Sister Jeanne, through an amazing translator named Frankie. Any errors are my fault.

How can the women of Solid Rock pray for Sister Jeanne:

1) That she and her family would “stay in church.” That her thirteen children would follow Christ into adulthood and share His love and grace with the people of their country.

2) That God would continue to give Sister Jeanne the passion and love to spread His word.

3) For perseverance. “Being a Christian in Haiti is hard,” she said.

4) For finances to continue traveling to the mountains to spread the work and word of God.

5) That God would provide wedding supplies for the impoverished men and women in the mountains to marry.

Christmas At My House:

Sunday night the grand-boys spent the night at our house.

(Mo, Jude and Duke)

Tammy needed a few hours in which to wax her floors (they live in a recently remodeled mid-century modern home with smooth cement floors which need waxing from time to time) and I was feeling all nostalgic about cookie baking and gingerbread men and memories from long ago.

Somewhere back in the stuffed down recesses of my mind I remember promising myself never to do the glitter/silver balls/ colored frosting mess again… but that was years ago and now it seems fun again. I think.

Duke came over in the morning to join with “JuJu-Mo”, his contracted name for the cousins he thinks are the coolest guys in all the world. His mom escaped as fast as she could— home to do her own cleaning and fluffing and wiping away boy messes.

I’d already made the gingerbread men and cutout Christmas cookies from recipes I’ve used over and over again. The Cream Cheese Sugar Cookies are most certainly the best in the world… and the gingerbread cookies are okay too, though not likely to win any awards.

Before we got started, I sat the boys down in front of the tree and we read The Gingerbread Boy. It’s the story of a deliciously feisty boy who runs away from the people who’d baked him. A classic tale.

But somehow I’d forgotten about the sudden and violent ending— the part where the fox tricks the naughty boy and eats him with relish! The boys, never exposed to graphic violence or bad endings… loved it!

They laughed and laughed and seemed to understand that he was a cookie, after all, meant to be caught and eaten and swallowed whole.

They swarmed the table, exclaiming over the wonder of candies in bowls and bright colored goo and sparkly things and lots and lots of choices.

I’d already decided to have as few rules as reasonably feasible, and so told them to eat away… after all, their mamas would come to get them by the time the sugar high turned to blood sugar low.

What fun we had! Eating and licking and giggling over beaded eyes and curly beards.

Jude scorned the angels, letting all of us know in no uncertain terms that angels aren’t sissies, but mighty Warriors with swords and guns sent to protect us and get the bad guys.

A theologian like his daddy.

All three boys conspired to make a snowman for Uncle Matt.

I didn’t even attempt to try to make anything covertly spiritual about our morning. I can never seem to remember what holly leaves are supposed to symbolize anyway, or why we do a tree and stockings and mistletoe and all that fun. We just do.

And somehow just loving each other and laughing loud and feeling free to have some fun seems almost like worship to this woman surrounded by these boys.

My Father gave these gifts to me and I see Him in their smiles. And I think He’s smiling too, loving every minute of this gift He calls life.

And I hope they’re tucking all these times away. I hope someday they’ll pull them up and tell their kids about messes they made and the Amma they loved and the way she loved Jesus and so do they…

And I hope they’ll worship Him then… by playing with their boys and laughing hard and reading stories and loving every moment.

From my heart,

Diane (aka Amma)

The sugar high led to some wild wrestling matches between cousins.

Cream Cheese Sugar Cookie Recipe:

3 1/2 C flour

1t. baking pwd

¼ t. salt

¼ t. nutmeg

½ C butter

½ C shortening

8 oz. cream cheese

11/2 C sugar

1 egg

½ t. vanilla

1. Combine dry ingredients, mixing well

2. In mixing bowl, beat butter and shortening until smooth

3. Add cream cheese and sugar, beat until well blended and fluffy

4. Add egg, vanilla, beat well

5. At low speed, gradually beat in flour mixture until well mixed

6. Divide dough in half

7. Refrigerate 2 hours or more

8. Roll dough on floured surface- about ¼ inch thick. Cut into shapes

9. Bake 375 for 7 minutes.

These cookies are soft and absolutely delicious, but they must have frosting! Lots of frosting! I usually mix up some butter with powdered sugar and vanilla and a bit of cream. Add a few drops of food coloring for the kids… or keep them creamy and add silver sprinkles and white sugar for a charming presentation.

The gifts are wrapped (well, most of them anyway),

cookies are baking as we speak,

my tree has survived all my forgetting to water it,

and everyone has presents under the tree.

This week I'll be doing the fun stuff:

decorating gingerbread men with the grandkids,

writing loving notes to everyone who will share the day with me,

making up that clam chowder we've had every Christmas since the days we lived in Santa Cruz (with the recipe the guys at Stagnaros on the wharf gave me)

And telling you about it with pictures and all.

Keep checking in for our favorite recipes and crazy Comer traditions... and for a beautifully designed printable version of the Christmas Story to read to your friends and family this weekend.

Love Stories will continue next Monday with part 2 of The One.

From my heart,

Diane

BOOKS AND STORIES AND OTHER WORLDS...

One of my earliest memories is of my mom reading to me. She’d tuck me safe into that soft spot every mama has, and I’d feel the rhythm of her words blow across my cheek in singsong cadence.

In her arms magical worlds opened, filling my mind with delightful imaginings of dragons and damsels and Dr. Seuss. I remember smoothing my hand over the pictures as if to transport myself into the story, and my mother’s assuring words that yes, I do dare turn the page; everything works out by the end.

Without ever saying so, she taught me that stories tell truths, that the ending is worth the wait, that real life is more than what we see… and in all that unspoken teaching, my mother gave me a great gift— a love for books.

And so, this Christmas, I’ve purchased stacks and stacks of books. Bekah gets some for her Modern Library collection. John Mark’s are heady stories about real things like famous men and innovative design. My entrepreneurial son-in-law, Steve, will delve into books about how business and theology meld together. Phil’s interests lie in all those stories of World War II he grew up with; books about B-24 Bombers and Zeros and Winston Churchill line his shelves. I’m still looking for something really special for Matt. Ever since we both caught the Brian Jacques bug, it’s been difficult to find stories that compare.

And since I love books and I’ve enticed my own children to love books, now I’m campaigning for my grand kids. When Jude and Moses and Duke come to my house to play… I read them books. And when I tuck them tight into that mama-spot and place my hands over theirs on the sides of whichever books we’ve chosen, we step into those mystical worlds of magic and wonder together.

But I need some ideas. We’ve read my books too many times and we’re overdue for something new, or maybe something old… and new to us.

And so I send out an urgent plea:

What were your favorite books as a child? What did you read over and over again? What stories and pictures fill your mind still? Have you discovered something new and beautiful that you’re sure every child should read?

Would you send me your list?

Waiting for your ideas…

From my heart,

Diane

If I were to write a Christmas card this year what would I write?

Would I boast about my kids? About what John Mark is doing and little Duke is saying and by-the-way, Matthew has turned out to be an amazing man?

Would I paint a picture of perfection that everyone knows can’t be true—though that’s the way I see them all?

Would I dare admit that this family of mine is flawed?

That we don’t always agree, sometimes argue, and don’t know if and when and how to say those things we’re not sure we ought to say at all?

Or would I just pretend… again?

That life is perfect and if only everyone would be like me, they’d be happy too.

And would I write my worth in deeds I’m doing?

Rushing here and doing that and making sure my right hand knows my left is busy blowing trumpets of glory-be-to-me?

Or would I tell of deeds not done, of flaws untouched, of people mad and me the same? Would I admit that marriages died and I couldn’t help and I made a mess when I tried?

Dare I recount the struggles and the failures, and all those doubts?

Or boring days of sameness?

Or mornings I slept in and didn’t listen to what I needed so much to hear?

And maybe that’s why I can’t write Christmas cards anymore.

Because real life isn’t pretty… and the beauty I’ve found in all these ashes can’t be pictured in accomplishments and accolades.

And yet there are people I love and haven’t told enough of why.

Grown kids and husbands and wives and little ones and Mom and Dad and sisters too; friends and brothers whose lives have mingled long with mine.

Could I craft my letters just for them?

Tell them who they are to me and why I love them so and sprinkle just a bit of courage back to those who’ve shown me more than most?

Would I take the time to write it down, to point it out, to let them know I noticed too?

Dare I do just a few? Thought-filled words of loving hope of things I see about their hearts?

Might this be what Christmas cards could be about?

Dearest Daughter,

This Christmas I just wanted

to take some time to write

what I love about you…

From my heart,

Diane

Would you join me this year in writing just a few cards of encouragement to those who need to know? Those who need the courage that comes when someone sees them through the lenses of the One whose story started all this celebration?

I guarantee you that those letters won’t be tossed in the trash. They’ll be read and reread and tucked away to read again.

What greater gift to give the King than words of love to those He loves?

Would you share with all of us how it goes?

“That their hearts may be encouraged…”

Colossians 2:2

“Therefore encourage one another, and build up one another…and we urge you, brethren…encourage the fainthearted…”

I Thessalonians 5:11,14

“Encourage one another day after day…”

Hebrews 3:13

Just a few days after Christmas twenty years ago, I plopped exhausted into our big blue naugahyde recliner, appalled at the angry words that had just spilled from my lips.

What was the matter with me? Why did I keep giving into my frustrations and taking it out on my children?

I wanted everything to be perfect- my house, my kids, my marriage, myself. And nothing ever was- not me, not them, and certainly not my house.

As I cried out to God, confessing my shame to Him, He gave me the clearest, most soul wrenching vision of what would happen if I kept on that path to perfection. I felt transported to another time. I saw myself as an old, embittered, disappointed woman.

And I wrote down what I saw.

These are the words from my journal on December 28^th, 1991— from a vision that changed the way I live.

Christmas morning.

No footsteps running down the hall. No stiffeled giggles coming from the children’s rooms. No one wakes me before dawn; yet awake I lie, listening for what I will not hear.

My house will stay clean all day.

No one will spill milk or leave toothpaste smeared all over the sink. I’ll not trip over anyone’s hastily thrown shoes.

My scissors will stay where I put them.

Christmas morning… and I am all alone.

Memories keep cold company on a day such as this. Regrets weigh my heart with shame and remorse as I remember Christmases past.

Sharp words, impatient gestures. Too much shopping, too little playing. Hurrying and scurrying instead of sitting and listening. Cleaning when I should have sat and watched.

Oh how I wish I hadn’t frittered away those precious years— those priceless, irretrievable years!

Mother’s, wives, listen for a moment to a lonely old woman. Hear with your heart these words I have to share.

My life, too, was once busy like yours. Meetings to attend, phone calls to return, a never-ending pile of clothes to wash and a million errands to run.

The work seemed limitless. My energy was not.

I meant to play with my kids, to read them good books, to listen to their sorrows and share their joys. I never intended to yell at them or say those things I wish I’d never said.

I loved my children!

Life just got overwhelming at times. Pressures mounted, anger flared. I was too busy for another mess. I had better things to do than solve another argument or play a silly game.

But now those years are gone. And I am sorry, oh so sorry. If only I could do it all over again.

If only I’d said no more to others and yes more to my little ones.

If only I’d…

slowed down,

done less,

played more,

listened longer.

What a fool I was! If only I hadn’t worried about what didn’t matter: clean floors and uncluttered rooms, a perfectly put together life and every pressing need crossed off my list. If you’ll listen to my mistakes, you’ll let some things slide, let a lot of things slide— you’ll have years and years for all of that and just a few countable days with the ones you love the most.

If only I’d known then what I know now- that nothing, sbsolutely nothing, is more important than creating a home- a haven- for my family.

My regrets won’t bring the years back to be relived, but perhaps, if you’ll really listen, they’ll save yours.

And so I’ll say it again:

Listen mothers, hear with your hearts.

Slow down. Play. Laugh. Treasure the gifts of God that grace your home this Christmas.

From an old woman’s heart…

And so I pass my passion on to all of you. In the ensuing seasons I did slow down. My house was rarely really clean. I stopped sending Christmas cards and trying to match wrapping paper. I even stopped subscribing to magazines that fed my penchant for perfection. And (gasp!) I declined countless invitations to women’s bible studies so that I could stay home and play house.

My four children are all grown now, with children of their own. Somehow they survived my way-too-picky-about-things-that-don’t-matter years. In fact, they seem to hardly remember my meltdowns, instead covering all my missteps with a grace I do not deserve.

And so this Christmas I will not be alone, in fact they’ll all be here, crowding every corner of our home, making noise and messes and laughing loud- and probably arguing a time or two as well.

And I’ll be loving every minute of it!

From my heart,

Diane

souce

For some of us, the joy of the holidays is tempered by sorrow.

Someone somewhere has wounded us deeply, let us down, rejected and abused us. We’re staggering still under the shock of loss.

A relationship lost, a friend turned away, all the memories of a lifetime tainted by the shadows of bitterness.

And so we redouble our efforts. Cards and gifts and messages meant to soothe the brokenness. We try to understand, imagine what it must be like, living through all that awfulness. We justify the ugly words and hang on to any sign of hope.

But still, the silence stretches.

And after a while our hearts grow cold. My heart grows cold. Resentment sets in, a sort of callused indifference, It’s her problem, what do I care?

And then the holidays come, with pictures of families laughing, of gifts and memories, of celebrated histories and shared loves.

And it hurts all over again.

David— psalmist, father, shepherd, king— knew all about that deepest grief.

At times his anger spilled recklessly from his pen, “They repay me with evil for the good I do. I am sick with despair.” (Psalm 35:12)

At other times he graciously consented to yield his pain to the One who has the wherewithal to make things right. “Don’t be impatient for the LORD to act, travel steadily along His path. He will honor you…” (Psalm 37:34)

The one thing he didn’t do was pretend it didn’t hurt.

When someone hurts us deeply, we have a couple of choices: retaliate or retreat.

The retaliators get most of the bad press. They’re the insistent ones who go on the attack. Needing an explanation, they throw out a volley of accusations intended to knock some sense into the situation.

Others are more the retreating types. Loathe to expose themselves to more pain, they withdraw into the safety of silence. Indifference masks their mourning— coldness that could chill a glacier.

But for those of us who are honestly trying to be followers of Jesus, neither option is the way of the Kingdom. If we want Him fully involved in our lives, we’re going to have to make a different choice.

A difficult choice.

Because Jesus knows all about rejection and abandonment.

He knows about spitters and abusers and mean men and accusers. He knows what its like to be mocked and humiliated, underappreciated and cast aside.

And He chose a different way:

“This suffering is all part of what God has called you to.

Christ, who suffered for you, is your example.

Follow in His steps.

He never sinned, and he never deceived anyone.

He did not retaliate when he was insulted.

When He suffered, he did not threaten to get even.

He left His case in the hands of God, who always judges fairly.”

And He offers some advice to aching hearts who suffer in much the same way:

“ It is God’s will that your good lives should silence

those who make foolish accusations against you…

Show respect to everyone…

Love your Christian brothers and sisters…

Fear God…

Don’t repay evil for evil.

Don’t retaliate when people say unkind things about you…

Instead, pay them back with a blessing.”

I Peter 2,3

Pretty clear, isn’t it?

We PRAY…

Entrusting our pride and our problems and our aching hearts to God. He is neither powerless nor passive. Just as Jesus called out to His Father on the Cross, we cry out to Him in our loss. We give over our indignities to Him who judges righteously, laying all our shredded souls before the One whose love makes us whole.

We WAIT…

Because waiting is the way to trust. And trust is the way to faith. And faith pleases God.

By choosing to wait on God, we forfeit our right to retaliate, our right to act the way we feel, our right to savagely attack our attackers.

We BLESS…

It is the secret strategy of a beautiful woman, the potent weapon of a strong man, to bring a blessing where curses echo.

To smile a soft kiss of whispered love.

To give.

To help.

To reach forward.

To do it again.

And so for all of us who bear the burden of loved ones lost, let us together choose the way of the Cross.

Let us pray… entrusting our lost ones to Him.

Let us wait… for His Spirit to work and weave peace where sin has caused chaos.

And let us bless… whether we feel like it or not, leaving a waft of His beauty to soothe ravaged souls.

“That is what God wants you to do, and He will bless you for it.”

I Peter 3:9

From a heart who knows,

Diane

P.S. All this year I have watched a young woman choose this way of beauty in the aftermath of a tragedy thrust upon her by others. With wisdom she has navigated through turbulence that would have sunk most of us. She is wise. She is strong. She is beautiful.

I love you!

I will boast only in the LORD;

Let all who are discouraged take heart.

Come let us tell of the LORD’s greatness;

Let us exalt His name together.

Psalm 34:2,3

NLT

Bekah was born to us on a wild November night I can never erase from my mind. Too early and too fast, she came rushing into our world like a hurricane on the loose. Instead of pink and lovely, her skin held the colors of a storm—dark and grey.

Doctors whisked her away while a nurse stayed behind to explain: “Her lungs are filled with fluid and she hasn’t been able to take a breathe… we’re taking her to the resuscitation room and calling in a Neonatologist.”

From that moment, her fragile life was bathed in prayer.

We prayed, our family prayed, friends prayed, our church prayed… that little struggling baby was placed so firmly in the Healer’s Hands that I can’t help but believe that He had a purpose to draw from the terror of that time.

For, ever since that inauspicious beginning, I have treasured my girl.

A bundle of joy-filled possibilities, Bekah brought sparkle and laughter into our way-too-intense Comer home. She kept her neat-freak older brother messed up just enough to lighten up, begging with those big brown eyes to enter his world of army men and mud.

I insisted on bows in her ponytails, though they seemed to slip out of their own volition. I ironed wrinkles out of dresses, and wiped all those muddy streaks off her delight-filled face. Sometimes I’d hear that whispered warning from her Father not to wash away His unique flair in her life. As if He was letting me in on a secret: She’s just the way I want her.

As she struggled into womanhood, she demanded the freedom to be different than me. Then she charmed us all by creating a kind of beauty that could be stamped all her own.

There were tense times when my worry collided with her crying need to be unique, to craft her own version of femininity. Yet somehow in all those years we developed a sort of mutual “I really like the way you are” mentality towards each other.

I want to be like her— with all her openness and vivacity and quick intelligence and remarkable insight.

I study the way she breaks from man-made molds and makes her own way of loveliness.

I watch to see why she has so many friends, and I learn as she leans into other’s lives and gives all she has without restriction. She loves her not-quite-right-in-the-head neighbor, thinks the Satanists who live in her building are “really nice”, is fascinated by everyone and lets them know it.

And for reasons that I cannot quite understand, she wants to be like me.

No, no, not the conservative, let’s-not-rock-the-boat, people-might-be-looking me. But the me who’s changing and growing and emerging while holding tightly to my Father’s hand. The one who traded the silver civic for a vintage red Mercedes, ventured out of my safe shell and learned to dance, Haitian style.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every mother who holds a baby to her breast could catch just the barest glimpse of the person that child is to become?

How would it change the way we love— the way we discipline and correct and decide when to say yes and when to hold the line?

If I had known my son would emerge as a leader to his generation, would I have taken heart when he challenged my cherished-but-not-quite-biblical notions of right and wrong?

If I had known my daughter would flourish in a world of creative go-getters, would I have given her more freedom to explore the edges of my safe world?

I don’t know… and my story is full of “I wish I hads”, but I’d love to pass on to every woman a few things I do know, a few tidbits of wisdom I’ve learned along this journey of loving…

• Every child is a uniquely crafted individual made in the image of God. We know this, but find it so hard to believe. Our culture insists on sameness, on rigid boundaries that keep beauty confined. While behavior must be carefully kept in check, creativity and personality and giftedness should be fully explored and encouraged to thrive.

• Mothers who intentionally set out to discover their child’s uniqueness will be like kids at Christmas. Instead of rolling their eyes at the embarrassing antics of out-of-control children, there are mothers who are so fully present that they are molding their child’s life, polishing the jewels so they sparkle and shine. These moms are having a blast! Instead of whining and complaining and criticizing their kids, they’re delighting in those few short years in which they have a chance to make a difference.

• There will always be critics. Always! Having the wherewithal to graciously ignore them is a sign of emotional maturity in a woman. It’s not my job to defend my children or to explain away their idiosyncrasies. I never set out to raise perfect people— my hope and my prayer and my aim was always to raise men and women who love God with passion and have the heart to love people on purpose. The fact that they stumble a little in the process is just the way of humanity.

• Heap approval on your children… even when they’re no longer kids. Be generous with encouragement. Make your mom space a safe place within which your children can revel in the limelight. Coax from them the accolades and accomplishments that would sound like boasting anywhere else. There’s no such thing as bragging to mom. Tell them what you like about them. Admire them.  Respect your sons and lavish love on your daughters. Keep doing this as long as you’re alive.

• When they’re really little be really tough… so that when they get older you can be really gentle. The mistake too many moms make is that they do just the opposite. We overlook those irritating habits in the early years: temper tantrums and rudeness and bad attitudes. Then when all that ugliness grows up, we try to stomp it out of them! What if instead, we were to diligently discipline during those exhaustingly intense younger years? What if we denied out own pleasures long enough to do what needs doing in order to present our children as well behaved, self-controlled young adults? Might that not change everything?

• Remember your goal. It’s not to raise super stars, nor to insist on perfection. Your child will not be The Best at much of anything, no matter how hard you push.  He needn’t be exposed to every sport or every “opportunity”. You are not obligated to remove all obstacles in her path, nor must you absorb your life in developing every potential. As followers of Jesus, our goal is the same as His, that our children would “…love the LORD your God with all your heart,all your soul, and all your mind…” Only God can make that happen, but you’re the primary tool He has to create that kind of passion in your child’s heart.

• Saturate your child in prayer. Prayer is the most powerful weapon in a mother’s arsenal. To leave it locked in the gun case when the enemy is prowling around, taking shots at your child’s soul is ludicrous! To think that we can worry our way through every problem is ridiculous!  James 1:5 holds God’s irrevocable promise to parents: “If any man lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives generously…” We have the wisdom of God at our fingertips! Just by asking and     waiting with faith-filled anticipation for His answer, we are promised what no book, or seminar, or parenting magazine can hope to offer— wisdom from God.

• Get over yourself. I know it sounds a little harsh, but remembering that this whole mothering thing is not about me is imperative. My children are not supposed to fulfill me. I am not supposed to need them. They are not meant to be a reflection of my worth. Instead, they are unique individuals made in the image of God and I have the honor to nurture that image in different ways for as long as I live.

Not needing my son is the greatest gift this mom can give a man who is needed by so many.

Not needing my daughter allows her to thrive and soar and develop as a woman and as a mother in her own right.

Not needing my son who is in college gives him freedom to figure out who he is and what he wants.

Not needing my daughter who lives far away allows her to fully embrace her husband’s vision for a different kind of       life— a life far from my safe suburbanite world.

They need to know and be assured that I don’t need them to make me happy. I am happy.

• Do not fear failure. When you are praying that your children will love God with all their hearts, minds, souls, and strength, and that they will follow hard after Christ, you are almost guaranteeing some missteps. I have never in my life met a passionate Jesus follower who has not been humbled into dependence by personal failure. Failure can be terrifying for a mother, but it is often the gateway into that intimate, grateful relationship that makes a man truly godly. Instead of fearing failure, we ought to lead our children to the Redeemer, whose specialty is picking us up out of that miry pit we dig ourselves into, and setting our feet on the Solid Rock. Could David ever have become a “man after God’s own heart” without the humiliation of discovery? Wasn’t it Elizabeth’s barrenness that caused her to raise a son willing to stand against the tide? Could Peter have written the words that encourage and inspire us had he not failed so miserably? For your son or daughter to follow in the footsteps of the heroes of our faith, they must meet God in their own brokenness.

That little girl who rushed into my arms with so much drama is a woman now. She is beautiful and smart and creative and overflowing with love.

She and her husband inhabit a culture alien to me. They have purposed to bring the Redeemer into that world, to present Jesus to a people who are searching for meaning and worth.

God’s plan for Bekah is different than His use of me. I get the distinct feeling that He’s having fun with her! That He delights in our differences, that He needs us to be different.

And so, with all of you, I wish my daughter a Happy Birthday.

I will celebrate this date for as long as I live. I am so grateful that God chose to shake up my world on that November day so long ago, so incredibly honored to have your life in mine.

Rebekah Ruth (Comer) Opperman, I am thrilled with the woman you are and excited to see the woman you will become.

I love you, Bekah!

Mom

I love this time of year! It’s my favorite time in the kitchen and Thanksgiving Dinner is by far my favorite meal to fix. Pouring over foodie magazines, pulling out dog-eared favorites, combining new recipes with dishes we have every year…

And knowing that we’ll have all day to enjoy each other and all weekend to enjoy the meal…

And that I get to use my grandmother’s beautiful china…

And that the guys do the clean up…

What more could I ask?

Several years ago I taught a series for moms about the spiritual training of our children (to listen, click here and listen to the hearts on fire series). In one of the teachings I used my Thanksgiving turkey recipe as an illustration of the way we “brine” or soak our children in the Word of God, which then permeates their lives.

I’m not sure how well the metaphor struck home, but I’ve sure gotten a lot of requests for the recipe! And since I’m still getting requests, my daughter, Elizabeth, urged me to post it here… I think the fact that she’s been begging me to finally write down the recipe and I’ve been putting it off might have influenced her urging!

So, dear daughter-of-mine, here it is:

Thanksgiving Turkey Recipe

My pies have left a little to be desired. The crust caves in, juice spills over, and the whole thing looks nothing like Martha Stewart's cover photo. The solution? An apple crisp. Its easy, tastes better than pie (all the crunchy sweet topping!) and everyone loves it. Elizabeth has perfected this recipe which she's bringing this year...

Maple Apple Crisp

Another must-have recipe we use year after year is this one for the best and least healthy bread you’ll ever eat. For all my attempts to go low fat, low salt, organic, chemical free… this bread throws all that out the window!

My daughter, Rebekah, called one year from L.A. to ask for this recipe. On Thanksgiving morning she put it all together and popped it in the oven before she jumped in the shower.

When she got out, she found her tiny apartment filled with smoke and heard insistent pounding on her door.

It was the fire department!

I guess all that delicious butter overflowed into her hot oven and set off alarms throughout the building… we’re still teasing her about her first foray into Thanksgiving dinner.

So here’s to Bekah and the Long Beach firemen who rescued her bread…

Best Bread Ever

May your Thanksgiving be blessed with the love and riches we’ve inherited from the Father who adopted us,

All my love,

Diane

I’m back from Haiti— safe and sound and forever changed.

I’ve scrubbed the layers of Deet off my skin, sudsed the sweat and smoke from my hair, and disinfected everything touched by the filthy fumes that engulf that ravaged land.

Before I move on and embrace my lists and goals and responsibilities for the next season, I’m longing to share with you some lessons learned in this adventure.

I’ve confessed my life-long battle with fear on these pages. I’ve opened the not-so-noble realities of my heart to you and let you in to catch a glimpse of my wobbly faith.

And you’ve responded by loving me anyway, by cheering me on, by reassuring me that my God is bigger then my fears, able to break me from the chains that have held me captive and limited my freedom.

And so many of you have been embolden to embark on your own quest to slay the dragons that stalk you.

We’re warriors together, brave-hearted weaklings who’ve been recruited by the Strong One to do the impossible.

And so I want to tell you one last story about my own battle to overcome life-limiting fear. It happened on day two of our Haiti trip, in the moments before I walked down the ramp into the plane, which would carry us from the safe and predictable into a decidedly unsafe place. Here’s what I wrote in my journal…

Do not be afraid or discouraged.

For the LORD is with you wherever you go.

Joshua 1:9

As we lined up to board the final flight to Haiti just moments ago, I first felt a welling up of exhilaration.

We’re finally going!

After months of planning and dreaming and making it happen— it is!

Sometimes dreams seem like just that— fantasies from which we’ll eventually awake… but will never come to be.

But then, just as I stepped onto the ramp that would lead to the airplane, the excitement gave way to overwhelming fear. Panic. Like I’d hit an invisible wall that impeded every step. My breath came in gasps, my knees threatened to give way.

Is this what a panic attack feels like? I wondered. We’re going to Haiti! A land so foreign surrounded by a people I neither know nor understand. Out of my safe and knowable world into… well, into a world that is at best unpredictable and at worse, dangerous.

Fear. Palatable and pulsing.

Do I have to?

Just as that sense of dread threatened to drown me, these words appeared in bold typeface, marching across my mind:

SO NOT BE AFRAID!

A choice.

My emotions are real but they don’t rule me. With my will I wrestle all those feelings into submission. Tie them up and settle them down.

I choose courage.

Strangely, my feelings follow quickly. As if that sudden surge was like a feisty toddler testing his mom to see if she really means it. Sort of a “I dare you to contradict me” bluff.

God’s words, given days before I needed them, serve as boundaries to all those unruly feelings.

And so my soul rests. Not quite at ease, but not really fearful either. A sort of peace that is held in place by that “belt of truth” Paul described in Ephesians, chapter 6.

I’ll need to tighten that belt from time to time when I sense myself slipping.

Courage, Di.

I think that like many things, practice makes perfect. I practice courage every time I dare do something I don’t want to do. Every time I poke my head out of my safe turtle shell to do the hard thing.

Like picking up the phone and making that intimidating call.

Like walking across the street to meet my new neighbor.

Like going someplace alone because I need to and ought to even though I don’t want to.

That sort of stuff.

And I get stronger each time I do it. My faith grows. A history develops. I’ve seen God come through, I’ve put my hand in His and He’s seen me through. Again and again.

Courage is not the absence of fear. It’s the choice to lasso that fear into compliance with my will. To go for it regardless of fear. To be strong when I feel weak.

And of course, the only real way for that to work in a fear-prone woman like me is to run into the Shelter of the Almighty and hide there. To rest where I’m really safe. To trust His overwhelming love for me— and to pour a little bit of that love back by being willing to be unsafe for His sake.

Some of you will never understand what I’m saying. You step with confidence into every adventure, fearlessly flinging yourself into the thrill of the unknowable.

But lots of us aren’t like that, and so we march forward resolutely, one step at a time. We don’t fling, we choose.

And since God’s Book is full of heroes who had to do the same, we know that He somehow delights in coming through for people like us. He even leads us to lead.

People like Joshua, Moses, Timothy, David, Esther, Hannah… and countless others who chose to forge forward at great cost to themselves.

Here is Paul’s challenge to a people facing their fears:

“A final word: Be strong with the Lord’s mighty power.

Put on all God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all the strategies and tricks of the Devil. For we do not fight against people made of flesh and blood, but against those mighty powers of darkness

who rule this world, and against wicked spirits in the heavenly realms.

Use every piece of God’s armor to resist the enemy in the time of evil,

so that after the battle you will still be standing firm.”

Ephesians 6:10-13

Those words, scribbled with shaking hand into my journal on that last flight into Haiti, proved prophetic.

For the next seven days I never once felt afraid.

Not when I saw the bloody corpse beside our bus on the drive through Port-O-Prince. Not when I stood in front of almost 200 hundred pastor’s wives and leaders to begin my message, knowing that what I had laboriously prepared would be entirely wrong for this culture of women. Not when our bus driver played chicken with a Mac truck on the highway. Not even when a I saw a giant cockroach scurry across the bathroom in the middle of the night!

My limbs trembled a little bit when I heard Bishop call “Pastor Diane Carole Comer” to the platform to address the church- but I think that had to do more with the sweat dripping down my body and my uncertainty about what I was actually expected to do, than fear.

And I’m not naïve enough to think that the battle to overcome my sin is locked up tight.  But I can never again go back to the coward I once was.

I know His power now. I know that He is a BIG God. I know that obedience leads to life.

And I relish my widened world. There’s room to breath here. Room to learn to dance, to sing at the top of my lungs, to feel the exhilarating beat of joy.

Here in this place of obedience, God put me in the middle of the most courageous women I have ever met. Their faces lined with the grief of deep pain, these women poured their love all over us. They took us in, kissed our cheeks, laughed at my fumbling attempts to sway my hips in that graceful sway of theirs.  They wrote me songs and taught me jumping dance steps… and they showed me what a courageous women looks like.

Beautiful.

They are my sisters and I’ll be back to dance with them again…

May I just encourage each of you to face what terrifies you? Whether it is bugs or bad people, earthquakes or financial uncertainty, the risk of rejection, or the fear of failure… will you step out of the shadows into this place of light and joy?

Will you dance with the women of Haiti?

From a heart full of more love than I can contain,

Pastor Diane Carole Comer (aka, me!)

So, you want to date my daughter?

Dad endured my dating years with a lot of teasing and feigned disinterest. He wasn’t one to invade my private world and I wasn’t much for opening up my heart to all his engineer logic.

Boys were definitely not a topic of frequent discussion when Dad was around- those midnight talks were reserved for Mom’s understanding ears. Dad was just too logical for things like boy-crushes and romance. Not exactly my go-to guy when it came to dating advice.

That was an era in girl-history when we actually dated. As in going on dates.

Usually by Monday or Tuesday night a guy would call a girl on the phone (no texting!), hum and ha and make awkward conversation, and eventually get around to asking her out on a date for Friday night. And girls were pretty much obligated to say yes- unless the guy was a creep of course, in which case we made up excuses and hoped he’d turn to greener pastures.

I dated a lot- we all did. We didn’t “hang out” back then, we dated. Friends dated. We went bowling or miniature golfing or to a movie or out to dinner.

And there were rules for all this dating, unwritten rules that everyone knew. For instance, no girl with any sort of self-respect would kiss a guy on the first date. That would have labeled her as easy. A guy had to earn the right for that peck at the front door.

Another rule had to do with all this dating of friends. If you didn’t like a guy “that way”, you absolutely could not “lead him on” by going out with him more than 3 times. Three dates was the absolute limit.

Poor guys, that was a lot of out of pocket expense to figure out she wasn’t about to fall in love with him.

Of course, like all girls of every generation, we wanted more than anything for a guy to declare himself right up front and let us either fall into his open arms or tell him to take a hike.

But I never, ever discussed these things with Dad.

Of course not, that would have been embarrassing.

And my dad was particularly embarrassing. He had these requirements, you see, that none of my friends’ dads had.

When a guy came to pick me up, he had to come in and meet my dad. Not at the front step or in the entryway—nope, all the way in.

I remember many a poor guy sitting on the edge of the green plaid couch, nervously answering questions about education and jobs and what-are-you-doing-with-your-life topics most 17 year olds are pretty much clueless to answer.

Dad seemed to relish their discomfort.

With me darting him dirty looks, Dad would eventually stand up and escort us to the front door, asking what this poor sweaty guy’s plans for the evening entailed. Then he’d pause, do some engineer-like calculations in his head, and tell the by now thoroughly intimidated fellow what time he expected him to bring me home.

I was sure Dad was wrecking my chances of anyone ever falling in love with me. Word had to be getting around about the Great Inquisition from Diane’s ferocious father.

But all my whining didn’t faze Dad. He wouldn’t even argue with me— and neither would he budge.

Looking back now I see that Dad was protecting me. Naïve and vulnerable and sometimes just plain stupid, I had no idea what was going on in those guy’s minds. I was clueless about hormones and sweat glands and what boys talked about in the locker room.

But Dad wasn’t, and he wasn’t about to let his little girl be pawed in the back seat of a car.  Dad was protecting me, radiating a message that every one of those guys understood fully. DON’T MESS WITH MY DAUGHTER!

And they didn’t. They didn’t dare.

Because of Dad.

When eventually the man I would one day marry asked me out, it was a whole different scenario.

Phil wanted to meet my dad. He stepped right into our cozy family room, settled himself on that same plaid couch, and launched in to his own inquisition.

Where do you work? (G.E.) What do you do? (Nuclear engineer) Where did you go to school for that? (Oregon State) On and on the questions rolled until I was sure Phil would rather stay right there and talk to Dad all night.

Eventually we all walked to the front door, where Dad let us both know in no uncertain terms that 11 o’clock would give us plenty of time to get to know each other.

That date opened a whole new world to me.

Instead of having to carry the conversation and squirming in the silent stretches, I was carried along into the back and forth of two people with something to say. This guy knew how to talk!  For the first time ever I began to contemplate the idea of the rest of my life.

All too soon Dad’s curfew was approaching and we were still talking. We’d stopped at a restaurant for some dessert and the clock was inching towards eleven. I started getting nervous. Real nervous. This was a man I was talking to, not one of the sweet boys I spent most of my time with. How would it look if I had to call home to appeal to my daddy to stay out later?

I was sure I would die from the embarrassment of it!

Before I had a chance to figure it out, Phil glanced at his watch and asked if I ought to call home. Of course Dad said, Yes, finish your dessert, and of course we did.

And I didn’t die right on the spot, in fact, less than a year later my dad proudly walked me down the aisle and gave me to that man. And he gave me some advice that day too… but that’s another story for another day.

Dad and I never really did talk about all my angst over his rules for dating. He never explained to me why… or how he felt about it… or tried to get me to agree. We didn’t talk about stuff like that and I didn’t have any choice in the matter anyway.

Dad was dad and I was expected to do what he said. Period.

But now I think I know— Dad was protecting me.

Protecting his simple hearted daughter from dangers he was well aware of. Dangers that could have ruined my happiness, my wholeness, my future. Dangers that could have dashed every dream and left me wounded and weak.

Dad wasn’t about to let that happen on his watch.

Sometimes young women ask me if my dad and I were close… and I look at them and wonder what in the world they mean.

Close? To Dad? Close to the guard at the door? Close to the man who set curfews and left the porch light on and never told me why?

Yes. We were very close. Connected down deep.

But not in the way they mean, that idea just doesn’t jive with my picture of my dad. We never talked for hours on end, I never told him who I liked or what I hoped. We were close because Dad stood guard over me until he knew I was safe.

And then he let me go.

From my heart,

Diane

Five things dad did right:

1. He protected me
2. He was invulnerable to emotional drama
3. He didn’t try to be my best friend
4. he guarded my purity
5. He stood his ground even at the risk of my feelings towards him