The silly reason I was ready to erupt

Today, I’m happy. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, everything is going my way. Oh, and my deck is sealed.

Just a few weeks ago, you’d have thought my world had turned upside down. Cracks appeared in my carefully composed facade; I became Krakatoa, ready to erupt. Woe to anyone in my vicinity!

Why this Hyde to my usual Jekyll? I hadn’t argued with my husband. I hadn’t suffered an unexpected betrayal or insensitive slight or serious setback. No, I’m embarrassed to admit, I’d simply become furious with the company contracted to power wash and seal our deck.

How tapping into their power has transformed me

At the sound of his first word, my throat tightened, and my eyes smarted with tears. I hadn’t heard my Norwegian grandfather speak since he’d passed away 30 years ago at age 89.

Yet Grandpa Johnson’s voice—and the bittersweet memories it evoked—flooded my life recently during a visit to my parents. As we sat together in their sunroom, Dad revealed he’d “interviewed” his father before his death to preserve precious family stories. “Would you like to hear our conversation?” my father asked tentatively. “Sure, Dad,” I replied. So he dug out the old audiotape, plopped it into a tape recorder, then pressed “play.”

Reminders that the tough job of mothering is worthwhile

I tuck precious memorabilia into a pretty box on my living room coffee table. Cheery notes that carried me through tough times or commemorated milestone moments nest in this hideaway. My treasures also include several anniversary cards from my husband, Rich, and years’ worth of Mother’s Day and birthday cards signed with my girls’ childish scrawl.

Added to this stash are recent cards from my now-adult daughters. I’ve saved these cards in particular for their inside handwritten notes: You're the greatest mom ever. You've always been there for me. I love you soooo much. And, I'm so glad you're my mom.

Christlikeness in the face of betrayal

Just before Easter, Democratic political pundit and Clinton activist James Carville called New Mexico governor Bill Richardson a “Judas” for unexpectedly endorsing Barack Obama instead of long-time political ally Hillary Clinton. Capitalizing on this infamous name during Passion Week, “Ragin’ Cajun” Carville colorfully implied Richardson's political realignment was a breach of trust tantamount to the disciple’s betrayal of selling out Jesus for 30 silver coins.

After hearing Carville’s comment, I pondered Judas’s shameful act, still the ultimate in treachery 2,000 years later. Scripture doesn’t reveal much about Judas, son of Simon Iscariot. Judas was the treasurer for Jesus’ ragtag band of followers, traveling and ministering with him, walking along the dusty roads that connected seaside to village, marketplace to mountaintop, desert to olive grove, local synagogue to impressive temple. As 1 of the appointed 12, Judas saw Jesus teach with authority, heal the diseased, exorcise demons, raise the dead, forgive the adulterous, celebrate with sinners, walk on water, calm a terrifying storm, even feed a starving multitude.

Handling those no-longer-but-not-yet transitions of life

Last week, after a long season of substantial snow and frigid temperatures, the weather suddenly seemed more inviting. So when sunshine beckoned, I decided to walk my dog, Boomer. Dressed in precautionary layers—looking every inch the Michelin Man—I trudged, Boomer in tow, through my neighborhood, while the sun deceptively promised the warmth I discovered it didn’t deliver.

The brisk air and my frisky dog’s behavior invigorated me. But I couldn’t help feeling a bit down over the dearth of spring scents and colors. We were in what I call the “ugly season,” that limbo of in-between, when it’s no longer winter, but not yet spring. Everywhere, mud waited to thaw. Debris—brown oak leaves, splintered twigs, Styrofoam cups, plastic bottles, flyaway newsprint—scattered in the chill wind, cluttering fence line and street curb and landscape. Despite Easter’s approach, many houses still wore a weary wardrobe of holiday trimmings: scraggly Christmas wreaths bedecking door fronts; sorry light strands festooning eaves and gutters.

Why I'm venture capital for the kingdom

Twelve hundred miles away from me, in Florida, my in-laws struggle with the burdens of aging and ill health. As much as my husband and I long to live closer to them, because of our jobs, we can’t. And although we wish to visit them more often, except in times of emergency (and there have been a few), we travel south only a few times a year—when our budget allows.

My in-laws live alone and refuse to consider assisted living. My husband and I wish we could offer hands-on help, but, sadly, we’re not available for their ongoing challenges of doctor appointments, grocery trips, and car repairs, not to mention hurricane warnings!

Why my walk-in’s become a sacred place

My master bedroom has a walk-in closet. By today’s standards (based on the closets in model homes or on HGTV’s Househunters), my meager walk-in hardly qualifies as spacious storage space. It’s rather tight, tiny, and—I hate to admit—at times a tad funky-smelling. But despite the chaos of stinky sneakers, dirty laundry, tangled hangers, and assorted jumbled shoeboxes, my closet has become a sacred place.

That’s because, as a child, I was captivated by Jesus’ words on prayer: “When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you” (Matthew 6:5-6).

What could be so appealing about a middle-aged, slightly frumpy and frazzled church volunteer in mom jeans?

As I walked to the parking lot after a meeting at church a few weeks ago, a fellow volunteer turned to me and said, “I’ve seen your picture on the TCW website and in the magazine.”

Awkward pause.

Not sure where my friend was headed with her comment, I quickly laughed, “Well, you know, the wonders of Photoshop.”

Then my heart sank with the sudden realization: She’s probably thinking, Boy, in real life, Jane doesn’t look anything like her photo!

I often disarmingly disguise my own fiery tongue.

Many years ago, I participated in a large, sophisticated neighborhood babysitting co-op. We had officers, regular meetings, even occasional socials. Everyone was pleasant—everyone got along.

Then one day, our co-op changed. Someone hinted that a few members were misusing it—dropping off their feverish, green-snotted kids when they shouldn’t have, taking advantage of others’ availability without repaying in kind. Suddenly, factions formed. Innuendoes spread. Knots of neighbors gossiped in hushed tones while standing on driveways or sitting on decks. A once-friendly network found itself deeply, emotionally divided. Women who once were chums no longer stopped by and chatted or drove by and waved.

How I’m learning to leap over my fear

I just couldn’t get that pesky dog to jump into the backseat of my Jetta.

Boomer, my 80-pound black Lab puppy, is unabashedly the light of my middle-aged, empty-nester life. And as a proud “mama,” I hate to admit he has some quirks. But he does. For instance, when it came to jumping into my car, I just couldn’t convince this strong, obstinate creature he was physically able to do it.

Boomer’s lack of doggy courage began bothering me. My husband, Rich, and I would see other pet owners at the dog park open their car doors only to have their furry ones—even tiny breeds—launch themselves in, eager for the ride home. Not so with Boomer. To solve our transportation dilemma, we always took our Trail Blazer instead of our other car. Then Rich would lift him in and out of the back. When my husband traveled out of town, I certainly couldn’t manage that heavy lifting on my own. Still, Boomer refused to leap into my little silver vehicle, leaving me stuck with an energetic dog that needed exercise—for his sanity and mine.

My daughter and son-in-law could have been the ones opening the door to a stranger loaded with hate—and a handgun.

The phone rang about 3 P.M. yesterday. I toyed with ignoring it; I was on a holiday roll, sipping coffee from my Christmas mug, addressing cards, and listening to carols, too happily ensconced to deal with a telemarketer. But I set down my red pen anyway and grabbed the phone before the call transferred to voicemail.

“Hi, it’s Mom. Did you hear about the YWAM shooting? Two staff members—a guy and a girl—were killed!” my mother breathlessly relayed.

In that instant, my heart did a flip-flop. Fear clenched my chest.

Now was the chance to catch up—without an eye on the clock.

It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it: cruise on a Carnival Fun Ship for five days and four nights. For work.

Can you “feel my pain”?

So a week before Thanksgiving, I embarked on the 2007 Girl’s Get-A-Way Cruise (www.premierchristiancruises.com) and set sail with 1,500 other Christian women to the port of Cozumel, Mexico. Riding in a shuttle to the dock, I chatted excitedly with a few other “desperate housewives,” especially two eager moms hankering for a taste of freedom from diapering and feeding little ones, and a mother/teen daughter duo who wanted to shop till they dropped at the port. They all seemed ready to get away from it all.

When I secretly question, What about her, Lord? I'm inappropriately nosy.

“Mom, that’s not fair! Yesterday you gave Emily more money for the book fair than you just gave me!”

I remember this scene as though it just happened: In a mad dash to get my elementary school-aged daughters prepared for school one morning, I quickly surveyed their backpacks and homework folders and school lunches to make sure all was at ready. Check! Then I remembered it was Sarah’s day to attend her school’s annual book fair. So I scrounged around in my purse, dug out my wallet, and handed her several bills for making purchases. But somehow, Sarah, my eldest, knew how much I’d given Emily the previous day for her grade’s visit to the book fair—several dollars more than I’d handed Sarah.

Too often I take glimpses of God’s grandeur for granted.

It started with a startlingly large black spot.

I was restraining 80 pounds of enthusiastic puppy from bounding through an open door when I saw it: a dark, sinister object floating in my left eye. I blinked, stood up, and rubbed my eye in the hope I’d oust an errant eyelash invading my vision. But rising and sinking, twirling and spinning hypnotically in its sea of ocular fluid, the amoeba-like invader remained.

Gather your family and friends around the table with these delicious dishes.

Several years ago, my book club gathered for brunch. While there, I ate the most delicious chicken casserole I'd tasted in a long time. I just had to get our hostess’s recipe. She happily shared this easy-to-make dish with me, and it's become a favorite of my family and friends.

Since then, I've also made this Poppy Seed Chicken Casserole more times than I can count for church friends who need the comfort of a caringly prepared meal.

I'm never shy about asking for recipes—that's how I've obtained some of my most treasured ones. And I'm never reticent to share them in turn. So I asked the other members of the TCW staff to share their favorite dishes as well. I hope you'll enjoy these recipes as much as we have—and you'll share the dishes with those you love.

Suddenly, my molehill grew into a mountain.

It was a glorious autumn getaway. My husband and I, along with our mischievous black Lab puppy, Boomer, escaped last weekend to Wisconsin, where we took long, leisurely hikes among a kaleidoscope of colorful leaves, bit into crisp Cortland apples from our favorite roadside orchard, and ate a hearty dinner at the kitschy Paul Bunyan’s Cook Shanty. Unfortunately, our weekend didn’t end so gloriously.

I can’t blame the usual suspects for spoiling my vacation afterglow. Boomer didn’t chew up another pair of my shoes (although he tried). Rich and I didn’t argue over something silly. In fact, we had a great time recuperating from the happy hoopla of our eldest daughter’s wedding the weekend before. We returned home deliciously tired, mellow, and content.

Then I made my mistake—checking e-mail before collapsing into bed. Who knew what important messages I might have missed during the two whole days I was gone?

I have to admit it: I enjoy watching television.

One of my daughters got me hooked on watching the Bravo network’s Project Runway, featuring style guru Tim Gunn (who now has his own show on Bravo) and supermodel Heidi Klum. But my favorite program is The Learning Channel’s What Not to Wear, hosted by sassy Stacy London and Clinton Kelly. Any given Friday night my husband and I aren’t busy, I love hunkering down to watch this duo surprise an unsuspecting woman in dire need of style savvy.

Stacy and Clinton quickly dispatch her ratty tees, baggy jeans, and—horror of horrors!—theme sweaters to the garbage can, then arm her with a credit card worth $5,000 and their shopping guidelines. She gets two days in Manhattan to shop till she drops (or breaks down in frustration and the fashionistas come to her emotional rescue). Then she’s off to the hairstylist and makeup artist for a makeover to complete the look. Voilà! She’s transformed. I love watching that process of exterior metamorphosis.

I told myself I was essentially unlikable and helplessly flawed.

Maybe it was the time I walked into the kindergarten playhouse, excited about joining the tea party with the other five-year-old girls, and I was abruptly, unexpectedly shoved out and not allowed back in.

Maybe it was the time I was the only kid on my street not invited to a neighbor girl’s birthday gala … and I found out.

Or maybe it was the time my best friend, Becky, decided she was tired of me and chose Gwen as her new BFF—and the two of them sauntered down the street in front of my house so I’d get the message. To this day, I still remember peering out that window, sobbing.

I remembered with startling clarity how I hated (and still do!) my thighs.

About a year ago, I plumbed the depths of an old cedar chest to retrieve my wedding gown. Shaking the wrinkles from its ivory skirt, I playfully asked my 20something daughter if she’d like to try it on (wishing she’d exclaim, “Mom, it’s still so beautiful! Can I wear it when I get married?”—to no avail). Being a good sport, Emily agreed to this game of dress-up imposed on her by her mother.

Before long, the game started to resemble a scene from Gone with the Wind. But instead of Southern belle Scarlett O’Hara sucking in her breath so her waist could be laced up by whale-bone stays, my slender daughter had to suck in her breath in order to be laced in by fabric and zipper. Stunned, I realized my Emily—who I’d often worried was too preoccupied with staying skinny while she was in high school—was struggling to fit into this aging confection of tulle and satin!

Eying me with fresh awareness, Emily blurted out, “Mom, I can’t believe you fit into this!”

I have just about every kitchen tool and decorative accent a girl could use.

Funky red dinnerware. Fashionable Crate & Barrel furniture. Sparkling stainless steel flatware.

As I eyed my eldest daughter’s bridal registry online recently, I jokingly quipped to Rich, my husband, “Hey, we’ve been married 30 years. I still use the crockpot we got as a wedding present. Maybe it’s time we register for new stuff!”

I’m not the only woman to react this way. Last weekend, as my daughter opened gift after gift of cookware, dishes, and linens during her bridal shower, my cousin turned to me and laughingly said, “I think it’s time I had a shower—a midlife crisis shower!”

Unless I initiated our get-togethers, they never happened. Ever.

A girlfriend recently shot me an e-mail about a mutual friend with whom she's tried to stay in touch. "I'm getting tired of always having to initiate contact with her," she groused. "If I don't call or write, I never hear from her. It feels so one-sided. I'd like to be on the receiving end sometimes."

Fed up, my friend told me she'd decided to stop trying so hard to massage this unrequited friendship back to health—and let it die a proper death.

I related to her pain and frustration because I'd been dealing with that same issue.

How my friend and I celebrate the joys of life.

When you look at my friend Sue and me, you’d never think either of us is a feather-boa-wearing kind of gal. Feather boas suggest “Diamond Lil” actress Mae West batting her eyelashes and coyly purring, “Come up and see me some time, big boy!” No, Sue and I are two middle-aged, married soccer moms. Flamboyant we are not. But when my birthday arrives—or Sue’s—things do get interesting.

Despite all of God�s nudges, I never issued that invitation.

I’ll always wonder if I could’ve prevented a suicide: If only I’d responded to God’s nudge, could things have ended differently?

A stay-at-home mom of young daughters at the time, I was cozily ensconced in my neighborhood network of mom-friends with whom I met regularly for coffee or backyard chitchat. So I wasn’t on the lookout for more friends in my life; it already was filled to overflowing.

Our home faced the side yard of a house where Dan, the man my husband and I referred to as Speedo Guy, lived. We didn’t really know Dan; we’d only chatted briefly a few times while he was out mowing his grass (dressed in—you guessed it—a skimpy Speedo). I’d never met his wife.

Why Dan Rather got me "hotter than a Times Square Rolex."

Last week I almost drove off the road.

It wasn’t because of a tire blowout, or the distraction of a cell-phone call, or juggling the steering wheel with my extra-large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

No, it was because something I heard on the car radio riled me up. A report stated that former CBS news anchor Dan Rather (who retired last year with something of a cloud over his journalistic reputation) had unloaded on Katie Couric, the first solo female anchor to break the glass ceiling of the big boys’ broadcast club. Rather had opined on MSNBC that CBS’s ratings were sinking basically because hiring Katie signaled an effort to “bring the Today Show ethos to the Evening News, and to dumb it down, tart it up in hopes of attracting a younger audience.”

Excuse me?

Welcome to our first TCW Editors' Blog post! Each week I hope you'll enjoy reading what's on the hearts and minds of the women behind Today's Christian Woman magazine: Camerin Courtney, our managing editor; Elizabeth Diffin, our editorial coordinator; and me, Jane Struck, the editor. As we reveal behind-the-scenes life lessons and reactions to current cultural and world events, we hope you'll chime in with your thoughts, experiences, and opinions. The more we converse with each other, the more we'll build that wonderful connection between us, Christian women who desire to grow in loving God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind (Luke 10:25-28) and in engaging our world for Christ.

While the other magazine editors and I blog about our steps (and missteps!) in this walk of faith each Monday, our second blog, Walk With Me, will contain fresh posts every Thursday. Hosted by articulate authors Nancy Kennedy, Patty Kirk, Carla Barnhill, and Holly Robaina, Walk With Me promises to be a great source of encouragement in our faith journey together, and to provide you with thought-provoking insights to ponder. We hope this blog begins an invaluable dialog between you and these women as well.

Jane Johnson Struck, Editor at Large
When Jane isn't busy walking her black Lab puppy, Boomer, riding "two-up" cross-country with her husband on their motorcycle, e-mailing her two grown daughters, traveling to visit friends and family, or making meals for people at her church, she serves as Editor at Large of Today's Christian Woman magazine. Jane's involvement with all things editorial spans at least 25 years. She's been part of TCW’s staff for 20 years, and served as the magazine’s Editor for the last eight years before retiring in March. Before her time at Today's Christian Woman, she was Editor of Christian Bookseller magazine (today Christian Retailing), Assistant Editor of Christian Life magazine (the current Charisma), Merchandising Manager of the now-defunct Betty Crocker magazine, Sphere, and an active freelancer. With all that editing, it's no wonder she needs to wear funky reading glasses!