I have started the last two Sundays by driving thirty miles through the country to take my mother-in-law to services at what used to be her home church. At ninety, she doesn’t have much control over her own life anymore. She makes her home in the spare rooms of her children. Florida in the winter, Missouri in the summer. And she has to plan all her activities (such as the hairdresser or the doctor and even her daily walks) around our schedules. She is sweet and gracious about this fact. Even about the irritation of not having full control of the thermostat. Although we try to compromise, she still freezes at our house. She wraps up in a blanket with a book, or a puzzle, or another afghan to crochet and smiles about it all.

The church we visited is in a town where she and I lived as next door neighbors for more than a decade. We shared a yard, a mailbox, a driveway, and a daily rhythm of life. Even then we didn’t go to the same church. My father-in-law used to say he raised all four of his children to be good Methodists, but not a one of them took. Though none of us sat in their pew as adults, we all live their faith. That is why it was easy for me to miss my own worship service and sit beside her singing the hymns of a heritage we share.

Her friends were overjoyed to see her and showered her with hugs and kisses. As we drove up the road for the second week she said, “I’m not expecting the same greeting I got last time. I’ll just be old-hat today.”

But, she was wrong. The church building itself seemed to smile when she walked in the door.

At the end of the service, we joined hands to sing a prayer. It was a struggle for her to stand and practically impossible for her to cross an aisle to complete the circle. She would have been content just to stand there and be a part. But a spunky teenager from the next row stepped up, stretched her arms wide, and grabbed my mother-in-law’s wrinkled hand. As we sang, I prayed that some of my mother-in-laws faithfulness would rub off on this girl. That she would stand someday, ninety years old, in a sanctuary where she, too, had prayed, sung, and served for a lifetime.

Lord, let it be.

Future Home of Calvary Medical Center

I wish I could explain what this picture of dirt means to me. If I were a Photoshop wizard, I’d have drawn in a sign that says, “Future Home of Calvary Medical Center.” Then I’d put twinkling lights and shiny tinsel all around the edges, because it feels a lot like Christmas to me.

When we first moved to this community, my husband set up his medical offices in four rooms of a small motel. Two years later, I became his receptionist and office manager. This has been a dream since our first date 36 years ago, so we were quite willing to start small on this adventure.

Our waiting room is a hallway, and our filing cabinet is in the bathroom. The practice has grown a lot in the last few years (praise God) and now six of us share a small office space. The distraction of everybody doing their jobs in such confined space makes me a bit crazy some days. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to bang my head on that filing cabinet someday. But, we have tried to be patient. There isn’t much money to be made in country medicine, and new buildings are expensive.

Last week, though, the site was staked out and the dirt was turned! Every day, this bare field changes just a little more. I drive by twice a day to see what progress has been made. Within a couple of months, we plan to move into a modular unit on the site while our new building goes up. Our waiting room will have a view of the lake, and our filing cabinet will have a room of its own!!!

My friend, Tina, stopped by the other day and said, “What is that I see up the road? Is that dirt being moved?! Is that a clinic going up?”

“Why, yes it is,” I said.

Tine grabbed my hand, “Let’s just go up there and dance on the dirt,” she said. “Come on, I’ll dance with you.”

We didn’t go that day. (Partly because I needed to keep working so we can pay for the building and partly because I’m not sure the community could take the sight of two middle-aged women dancing in the field on a Tuesday morning.)

My joy increased twenty-fold, though. It is one thing to be proud of your dirt. It’s another thing entirely to have a friend willing to dance with you on it.

Thanks, Tina.

This past weekend felt something like a fairy tale. The house we rented was rather castle-like with its tall windows, spacious views, and curving staircase. Conversations around the table, songs around the piano, and laughter around the pool all seemed to indicate we are living happily-ever-after.

We certainly look the part of a family unscathed by troubles. But, that would not be true. The only reason our life resembles a fairy tale is because we’ve fought some dragons. And we won. That’s what we were celebrating this weekend. Victory over illness, addiction, cancer, grief, strife, and fear. So many battles in just the last five years alone. So many hours of darkness pierced by glorious light. So many prayers and so many tears.

We ended our vacation in the room pictured here (with Dan at the piano) and we sang “Look What the Lord Has Done,” and “Oh, How He Loves Us,” and “Amazing Grace.” We talked and wept and prayed and laughed pretty much all at the same time. And we prayed for some of the battles yet to come – babies to be birthed and surgeries to undergo – knowing the victories come only by God’s grace and always by His help. And, that is a really happily-ever-after kind of ending.

Cousins Camp, 1960. I'm the one on the right holding the babydoll, of course.

Tonight, I cooked supper to the background music of four children playing, chatting, and coloring in my kitchen. They were not the same four children who did that routinely twenty-some years ago. But they took me back to those days. I experienced the all-is-right-with-the-world peace which comes to a mother when her chicks are tucked in for the evening. And snapshots of previous meals around our table flitted through my mind while I scrambled eggs and made oven-toast.

I think I’m feeling especially nostalgic because next week the original four (plus sixteen) will be with us under one roof for a glorious few days. We are experimenting with a family reunion/vacation in a large rental home. It has always been my dream to have a house where all the grandkids can come for Cousins Camp. Our lovely two-bedroom is perfect for Wendell and I, but it won’t accommodate a dozen cousins.

As you can see from this picture, reunions are a long tradition in our family. I vaguely remember my great-grandmother pictured here in the center. But I clearly recall the rubber doll she gave me for my fifth birthday. (I think it was my fifth) He had blonde hair and blue rompers, and I named him Butch after my great-grandmother’s dog. And when I think of that toy and of the great-aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandparents pictured here, I remember feeling loved. A lot.

I want our grandchildren to feel their roots sinking deeply, too. To know they are prayed for and prodded, applauded and loved by generations who have gone before them. Cousins camp is a small part of that. So, I’m thinking this rented vacation home could possibly be a dream fulfilled. Or, it might be a perfect reminder of why we each have homes of our own.

I’ll let you know.

This is a shameless plug. I’ve always believed if I checked the mailbox faithfully rain or shine, one day it would reward me with wonderful things. Two of those arrived this week. First: (here’s the plug) This book compiled by James Stuart Bell with a forward by Gary Chapman and (drum roll, please) a story by Kathy Nickerson! Yep. This is my very first publication credit from a royalty publisher. BethanyHouse. (I’m the last story in the book, which I like. I’m a back-page kinda girl.)

Now, I’m not actually getting royalties, mind you. But, underneath the book you can see the second thing that came in the mail: the honorarium for writing the story. I’m pretty jazzed about this whole thing. If you look for this book on Amazon.com, you can actually go inside to the table of contents and find my name. I know this because I did it.

The tricky thing is this: The book is written for married couples about being married, and my particular story is, well, very married. Tasteful, but rather personal. So I’m not really broadcasting to the world that I wrote it. Okay, I guess I am. But you guys are a very trustworthy cross-section of the world. When I first started writing it, I used a pen name so as not to embaress anyone. Specifically my husband, who plays a starring role in the story. And our children, who probably want to think they were divinely created and sent to our doorstep on the evening breeze like little Who-babies.

Eventually, I decided to go with my real name, because I am really grateful to God for our great marriage, and I do like to talk about it. (And, as the editor pointed out, our children do know where they came from.) Unfortunately, I failed to change Wendell’s name. So, if you happen to read the story someday and wonder why I was swimming with a guy named Allen. Now you know.

It’s so my husband won’t be embarrassed.

This is Dan. He is one of our extraordinary son-in-laws and also a gifted musician who can play everything from the keytar to the piano flute. Dan leads a band called findingBethel, with his friends Darin and Jared. Last week they played a gig at the local county fair.

Now, it was approximately 110 degrees in the grandstand that day. The audience was melting slowly into little puddles but the band was still giving us their all. About half-way through, the sun slipped to an unfortunate position where it shot laser beams straight into Dan’s eyes through a gap in the the grandstand. I was worrying that Dan would either go blind or scramble the song because he could no longer see the keys when a shadow suddenly fell across his face.

This is Thomas. School principal, basketball coach, father of four, and all around good-guy. He was the shadow. I glanced behind me just in time to see him take a stance at the very top of the grandstand where the sun would beat down on his back, providing perfect shade for Dan’s eyes.

I’m not sure what took place during the rest of the set because I was so captured by this live-action shot of life in the Kingdom of God. And I thought to myself that’s how it should always be. We should each do our best to make sure the other guy has it made in the shade. Every day.

Thanks, Thomas.

Jake and his mom

Five years ago, Wendell and I sat in a tragic room with this beautiful young woman and her husband. We were joined by a  sad doctor, a silent nurse, a rare and aggressive cancer, and a positive pregnancy test. Afterward, they ushered us out a back door into the parking lot, as if the grief we were about to endure was simply too much for the public to see.

I don’t know what became of the sad doctor or the silent nurse. But the beautiful young woman became our strong and confident Serenity Beth, who has recently taken New York City by storm. The pregnancy test became four-year-old-Jake, who dazzles us with his smile and read his own name on his Easter egg this year.

And the rare and aggressive cancer? As of today, it has officially been ushered out the back door, kicked down the steps and banned from appearing again. Serenity has been pronounced cancer-free.

I wish there were words for this day.

John Michael with his hometown team.

On Thursday afternoon, I asked our ten-year-old grandson, John Michael, “So, where do you think Lebron James will end up after his big announcement tonight?” (In case you are sports-challenged like me, I’ll fill you in from what I learned on Fox News. This guy is earning as much as the gross national product of a small country in exchange for slamming a basketball through the hoop. Everybody wants him on their side. And on Thursday night he bought an entire hour of prime time t.v. to announce his choice. In his defense, the add sales from the show did go to charity.)

After my question, John Michael stopped eating his ice cream and studied the ceiling a minute. Then said, “Well, I don’t know for sure what he’ll do, but I kind of hope he stays in Cleveland.”

His mother asked him why, and I waited for some strategic answer about team stats and career opportunities. Instead, John Michael said. “Well, Papa doesn’t really like it when all the best players leave their home teams when they get big. And I think that, too.”

Then he went back to his ice cream.

I don’t really care one bit where Lebron James plays basketball. But I love to the zillionth degree that John Michael agrees with his Papa. In that one second answer, I saw a boy being shaped into a man of integrity, character, loyalty, and honor by a simple conversation about basketball with his father.

Go, team.

I’ve always thought life would be better with a soundtrack. (I think I stole the idea from our daughters, but I own it now.) This morning, I came across this verse in Psalms 119:54:

Your principles have been the music of my life throughout the years of my pilgrimage. (NLT)

So true. I suddenly realized I hear a soundtrack in my head all the time. I hear snatches of song and hymns that illustrate the principle I’m experiencing at the moment. Yesterday, when my car broke down and I was stranded on the side of a sweltering road, it was “be not dismayed whate’ere betide. God will take care of you.”

And He did.

This evening, when we walked out of church into a perfectly gorgeous summer evening, it was “Oh, how He loves us so. Oh, how He loves us…” (My sister was singing that one as we strolled to the parking lot, which is really way better than just hearing it in my head.)

I’m deeply comforted by this thought of God’s principles being the music of my life. That is how I learned the most fundamental things, after all. I’m still tempted to sing the alphabet song when I’m filing charts at work. So, maybe, if I keep hearing and singing God’s truth, my soul will learn these things, too.

Maybe.

This is my office. Isn’t it beautiful and inspiring? Notice how the legs of the desk sit exactly on the edge of the rug? That is The Line. Anything beyond the rug is no longer an office. It is the dining room. On Sundays, I shove this elegant writing desk against the wall and pull out the dining table from the opposite side of the room. Approximately ten grandchildren crowd around that table and glom their dessert on the chairs.

On Sunday evenings, (after I scrub the table and chairs) I reverse the process. A few weeks ago, I decided I needed a real office. So, I hired our friend, Darin, to pack up my entire office, including the rug, and move it to an extra space at my day job. Suddenly I had a dedicated office space with no more fear of mashed potatoes being smeared on a manuscript. The plan was to slip away from my Day Job for a few hours each week to write undisturbed.

But I didn’t. I slipped away, but I was always distracted by the sounds of phones ringing and patients talking just outside my door. I kept feeling like someone might need me. And, they did. An insurance rep on line one. A problem with an account in room two.

Last week, we decided to consolidate our office space at work to make way for another exam room. So, we packed up my entire office, including the rug, and brought it all home to the corner of the dining room again. I was deeply disappointed by this evident step in the wrong direction. Until the next morning…

I was in the shower when it started. Ideas for plots, scenes, and bits of dialogue began bouncing off the walls with the soap bubbles. It was as if I could hear the characters from my novels pushing open the file drawers and calling, “We’re here! We’re waiting! Come talk to us.”

So, I did. Suddenly I found all kinds of spare minutes to write before and after work. I got lost for entire hours while the laundry tumbled or the supper baked. Something about the ambience of my home, the place where I do the things I do best for the people I love most, inspires me. Today, when I gently slid the desk against the wall to protect it from the mashed potatoes, I whispered, “Take a break, gang. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And, I will.