Thursday, December 25, 2014

Christmas hike

In the still of the dawn each Christmas morning, I venture to the forest to breathe in God’s blessings. I sense the spirit of the Lord upon me. It is a feeling of peace; a feeling that God is with me as I journey on this day of our Lord’s birth.

There is nothing quite like this annual hiking ritual. It is deep within nature that grace opens the door to God’s strength and glory. Though I hike a lot, this day is different. My senses are overwhelmed with Christmas hope. Jesus is born, Hallelujah!

All my life, my affinity for snow has awakened deep joy within my soul. When the flakes arrive on Christmas morn, it not only affirms my kinship with nature, it nurtures my kinship with God. I bundle up, head for a favorite spot and take in the splendor. Here are some of my favorite memories:

On this day, all nature proclaims God’s presence as I surrender myself to the beauty. God’s soothing breath gusts through the towering pines. Branches, heavy with snow, bow to their Creator.

The early morning songbirds wake up the world, triumphantly declaring that our Savior is born.  

The elusive Pileated Woodpecker thunders to a beat like no other on Earth. Its majesty echoes through the pines. I feel God intimately.

A lone deer, normally camouflaged by God’s intentional paint strokes, quietly burrows its snout through the drifts that cover and protect its precious nutrition. Its instincts are in perfect tune with the universe.

The pristine lake glistens as the snow blankets its shining surface. The art of God is awesome. I watch in wonder.

The Bald Eagle hovers over open water, eyes keenly trained on the blessed dinner below. Time stands still. So perfectly designed is God’s creation.

The snow calls me to fall to the ground and look to the heavens. I flail my arms to create a snow angel. How appropriate! I linger in its snowy frame, feeling only warmth. I am so thankful.

I shake myself off, and with gratitude swelling in my soul, I travel toward home, anticipating the day of family and fun, worship and warmth…and hope…always hope. All Earth is Hopeful.

Jules Irish is a retired writer and public relations professional and happy St. Paul Lutheran Church volunteer.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Ish-shee, sweet baby girl

The woman felt at home at the American Embassy in the capitol city of Ethiopia. It’s a familiar structure, built just like any federal building you might see in the States. One moment you're on a busy street in Addis Ababa with all of its people and noise and animals and chaos, the next you’re in Any Town, U.S.A. walking on solid concrete through heavy doors to do something official.

The official business that day was the adoption of a child, a process more than three years in the making. It was a spring day in 2013. Could you feel the joy?



At dusk, the woman and her husband—as light and buoyant as they had ever remembered feeling—returned to the hostel with their daughter (was she really . . . finally their daughter?!) and prepared for bed. The child was sweet in her new pajamas. She was tiny. Her legs, at first glance, were shockingly small. Though the new parents could tell that their daughter was tired, the child was steadfast in staying awake. She allowed her mother to pace the floor, her slight body resting heavily against the woman’s chest, but if the bed were approached, the girl would resist with an arched back and hoarse cries.

"Ish-shee, sweet girl," the mother whispered in clumsy Amharic over and over again. "It's okay ... Ish-shee."
 
Just as it had been for Mary, for her own mother, for her sisters and aunties and any new parent before her, the moment was long awaited. She existed to feel this beating heart against her chest.

And yet—as is so often the case in this rebellious, incredible world we inhabit—the moment felt significant, but was also slightly baffling. Nothing was turning out exactly the way she had expected. The power had gone out again throughout the city. The room was dark and there was crying. The child was already 15 months old. The two had only just met.

“It’s going to be okay,” promised the mother from the Midwest, whispering softly to her Habesha baby.

This mother believed the words she uttered in the darkness. Probably because she believed in GOD and in LOVE and in a world that needs to be electrified by JOY in order to be restored.

She kept rocking her child back and forth on the cold tile floor saying “Ish-shee, sweet baby girl. Ish-shee.”

Comfort, comfort my people, says our God.

Ish-shee, He promises.



Leslie Klipsch is a freelance writer and editor. She lives in Davenport with her husband and three children.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Illuminated

A month had gone by. The last word I gave my parents was a promise to make my way to Los Angeles where a ticket home would be waiting. I gave them my word like pennies in the cup of a beggar — here, take this, it means nothing to me and everything to you. And soon after I hung up the phone it wasn’t hard to disappear across the Tijuana border again, back to my literal hole in the wall, where the days and nights are a personal loss against the gains of drugs and alcohol. I was eighteen years old.

Keeping time with trouble and heartache I wandered with strangers through a dark life. And I stayed lost for a long while.

Though one day, there came a calm morning. Deep in Mexican hills within a little attic space, I sat. The dawn shone through broken windows and illuminated the floating dust in the air. Outside it was as quiet as I’d ever heard. No children or cars. No vendors or Spanish cat calling. The busy streets yielded their noise to make way for the noise of troubled minds.

I’ve succeeded in running away, I thought. Now what? Old mattress springs creaked under me as I shifted to look out my window at a beautiful, clear morning. I saw the blue sky through red eyes. Underweight and beaten, my legs were heavy from walking streets that would never bear my history.

I‘d run away from my family and myself, but were they gone? I cried. My hands shook. And for the first time in a long time I heard a new question: is it possible to disappear? For here I was thousands of miles away from my family, worlds away from myself — an eternity away from God — and yet I was sharing this morning with them still.

At this, I packed everything I owned and put it on my shoulders to leave the poor walls of a stranger’s attic. I walked alone through the streets and headed for the border. My tired legs carried me to a new life.

I was lost, but now I am found.

On a payphone by San Diego train tracks, I stood in the sun and dialed a number I’d known since I was four years old. It rang. I heard a weak hello from the middle of the Midwest.

“Dad?” I asked.

And my father’s voice came to me, a tortured sound and my name, “Holly? Oh my God, my God! His voice cracked, “You’re alive, oh my God.”

The man didn’t sound like my father. I’d never heard my father call out to God. Not ever. But now over the phone in his tenor, I heard every muscle of a man’s heart release blood into empty chambers waiting for my return. And I rested my head into the palm of my hand listening to my father come to understand that his daughter wasn’t dead.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Dad—I’m still here.”

But how do we come back from darkness? When we are small and alone in the vastness of our existence, when we abandon ourselves, who calls us home to salvation? Who knows us? There are times when we make an alter of doubt, but faith is nothing if not patient. It will preside over you anyway, waiting for your return. It shares every dark night, it shares every bright morning.

Friends, God grasps you like the sun on an aimless particle of dust because even in the absence of anyone who can know you, you will be uncovered and unearthed. Illuminated.

During this season I think about coming back. Returning.
I remember the Sunday morning I asked two fathers: how do I come home?
It's the day when both showed me the way.

Holly Norton is a writer.

Monday, December 22, 2014

Mindful

I teach mindfulness techniques to my clients, encouraging them to slow down and take notice in the here and now. These skills can help them pay attention and gain an appreciation of life, utilizing their senses of sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. They often tell me that they feel like a new person and more alive.

All too often, we operate on auto pilot and take much for granted in our busy lives. Have you ever driven a familiar route only to wonder how you got there upon arrival? I know I have. In the time I was driving, I was so preoccupied with my thoughts of the day that I missed out on everything in between. We can be creatures of habit. Sometimes driving a different route, parking in a different space, or even sitting in a different pew at church can help us take notice and have a new appreciation.

I enjoy long-distance running and often feel closest to God during some of these runs. When I was 25 years old and married less than one year, I developed blood clots throughout my leg and was hospitalized for three weeks. Upon discharge, I had to learn to walk again. Those were some of my darkest days. It was easy to give up hope, but I was determined to make a full recovery and do all the activities I enjoyed once again.

Although it took time and a lot of training, I ran my first marathon in 2003. I’ve run many races of varied distances since then. Last month, I ran a half marathon in Wisconsin. A couple of weeks ago, I ran a 15k in Chicago with my twin sister and niece.
One recent Sunday morning, I ran in the rain before church. I splashed through puddles and felt the cool wet rain on my face. I listened to the soft melody of drops hitting the ground around me. I saw squirrels and birds nestled in the trees. The rain drops tasted salty as they ran down my face and into my mouth. I smelled the lingering aroma of bacon cooked in a nearby kitchen. My water-logged shoes became heavy as I reached my destination.

Each step that I take when I run, I am mindful of God’s presence in my life and appreciate God's creation around me. I hope in each step you take this Advent season, you can take time out to be mindful of what Advent means for you.

Deb James is a mental health counselor.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Opłatek

Growing up in Poland, and to this day, my favorite part of Christmas time is Wigilia (pronounced vee-geel-eya). Wigilia is the traditional Christmas Eve vigil supper in Poland. Each year at dusk, my brother and I would look through the kitchen window with great anticipation for the appearance of the first star. It is with the appearance of the first star that Wigilia begins. I remember our family, kneeling down around the kitchen table. It was covered with a crisp white tablecloth and a bundle of hay sat underneath it. There was always an additional place set for an unexpected guest who, especially that night, should never be turned away. My father would read the Nativity story from Luke’s gospel, and after prayer and reflection we would all share Opłatek (pronounced oh-pwah-tek).

Opłatek is a very thin, usually rectangular wafer. It is identical in composition to the communion wafer but embossed with Christmas-related religious images, such as the Nativity scene. It is a beautiful tradition where each family member holds a piece of opłatek in their hand, and in turn, allows one another to break off small pieces from it. When the wafer is broken off, a wish is exchanged. 

This simple, yet deeply meaningful act of sharing opłatek is filled with tender emotions, as wishes of good health, happiness, and fulfillment of dreams are voiced. There is so much hope as thoughts of innermost feelings for one another are expressed. As I reflect on this year’s theme of our devotional “All Earth is Hopeful,” I can’t stop thinking of the strong feeling of hope that is present during sharing of the opłatek. A hope and longing for things that once were or things that have not yet arrived in our lives. 

As the Christmas Eve nears, I want to share my opłatek with you: wishing you all the kind of hope that brings peace and joy to our lives despite any challenges and circumstances. It's a hope that’s not simply a wishful thinking, but hope that’s based on confidence that God is always with us. It's our highest hope for a bright future - forever.

Ewelina Bergert and her husband David reside in Bettendorf with their sons Jonathan and Jacob. She teaches business management and marketing at Black Hawk College. 

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Poppies

A voice says “Cry out.”
And I said “What shall I cry?”
“All people are like grass,
and all their faithfulness is like the flowers of the field.
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
Because the breath of the Lord blows on them.
Surely the people are the grass.
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
But the word of our God endures forever.”

Isaiah 40, 6-8


November is an emotional month for me and my family. On November 21, 1998, my 37-year-old husband died after a long fight with leukemia, and we faced Thanksgiving that year emptied and numb. Christmas was even worse. It was a darkness and a grief I don’t forget, despite all the healing and living that has followed.


Five years later, on November 18, at age 41, I gave birth to my first child. I'd not imagined I'd be a parent so late in my life, but my son Rohan's birth felt very much like "the breath of the Lord" blowing on withered grass and fallen flowers. It was also the first time I’d been back inside a hospital since Michael died, so it was remarkable to walk out the doors with a newborn, feeling new-born myself, and strong, rather than desperate and bereft. Every November since, I celebrate my son’s birthday before I face my late husband’s death, and within those three days I experience again the expanse of what it means to be human: immense sorrow; incredible joy.

As we move through Advent we face that same expanse in the imagery, music, and messages of the season. For those of us privileged with good health and a home and enough to eat, the season twinkles with images of the baby born in a manger and the star that led the faithful to him. But we also carry our private losses and the seemingly insurmountable challenges of our diverse and dependent humanity on this planet. Our collective images include darkness, great suffering and loss, and our celebration of the holy birth happens with the knowledge that there will be suffering commensurate with the gifts we receive as children of God. How do we bear this? How do we live meaningfully in the face of it?



In my professional life I teach poetry, including poetry of witness - poems written out of conditions of political extremity. One of the images I’ve carried this Fall is the sea of 888,246 ceramic poppies, “planted” between July 17 and November 11 of this year, to commemorate the centenary of the beginning of WWI. The installation, titled “Blood swept lands and seas of red,” (the opening line of an anonymous poem credited to a WWI soldier), poured from the “weeping window” of the Tower of London, and filled the moat before it was concluded on Armistice Day. I’m haunted by the beauty and tragedy of the exhibit – by that “spill” of blood and the beauty of the flowers that symbolize the lives given in service and too soon. I’m moved also by the more than 5 million people who visited to pay their respects and to honor and remember the fallen, and whose financial donations bought those flowers to fund organizations committed to healing the physical and emotional wounds of military service people.

That spill of blood and the beauty of flowers that symbolize both death and renewal are images for our Christian faith as well. This season those poppies in the moat seem to anticipate the poinsettias that will illuminate chancels at Christmas, and I’m moved, always, by the power of art to embody our losses, our hope and our faith, and in the words of Isaiah, to “cry out” in every voice and on every subject, through all the seasons.

Rebecca Wee is mother of Rohan and Maren, a poet, and a professor of English at Augustana College.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Behind the clouds

“Behind the the clouds the sun is still shining.” - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day before Thanksgiving 48 years ago, I was in the 8th week of my 3-year Army enlistment. B-5-1 was making the hour-and-half march back to barracks. It was cold, with a wet snow falling, and the sky going from gray to black of night. SSG Bolonis advised us to just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

We did make back to the barracks and the 3 years did pass. I eventually came back to the church and that led me to faith. I don't know if SSG Bolonis was religious or not; I do know that he always had hope and tried to instill it in us.

The first Good Friday the sky turned black and Sunday the Sun shone brighter than it ever had shone before. Now if the days are gray or things seem black, I know that God's offer of hope is eternal. Jesus was the birth of a new kind of peace and hope. No matter how dark the clouds, the light of peace and hope shines brighter than ever. 

Rick Withycombe's journey at St. Paul began November 22, 1975, when he and his wife, Jean, were married.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Waiting for Grandma Lydia

I remember as a little girl waiting for my grandmother to arrive at Christmas. My brother and I would climb up and kneel on the cedar chest, faces pressed to the window, watching for Grandma Lydia to pull in the driveway. As we saw the white Chevrolet turn onto our street, we burst out of the front door in a flurry, anticipating the many tins of cookies packed in the trunk, along with her beautiful German manger. 

After hugs and kisses, jumping with excitement we shouted, “Grandma, please open the trunk.” In her gentle voice she said, “Shhh. Be still.” She slowly searched for the keys in her purse, opened the trunk, and there were those beautiful tins packed perfectly in boxes so they would not be damaged during the trip. I can remember my mother, now peeking through the window, smiling as Grandma Lydia filled our arms with cookie tins. Her trust in us was amazing. There was no doubt in her mind that we would get those tins to the kitchen safely. 

With the tins stacked neatly on the counter, we were hoping for a taste sooner than later. “Grandma, when do we get to try a cookie?” Again her sweet reply was, “Shhh. Be still.” We waited patiently while she carried her suitcase to the bedroom, hung her coat in the closet, and checked herself in the hallway mirror. 

Grandma returned with a smile on her face. “I think it is time for cookies and hot chocolate!” Together we pried the lid off each colorful tin and quickly picked our two favorites to eat that afternoon.

After enjoying our cookies, Grandma invited us to sit next to her by the Christmas tree. She gently lifted the German manger from the box and positioned it just so under the tree. My brother and I delighted in arranging the many pieces in the manger. As we continued to rearrange the three kings, shepherds, cows, and sheep, Grandma began to sing Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht.

This beautiful tradition has continued for decades. My children had the joy of Great Grandma Lydia bringing the manger to our home each Christmas and now the manger rests under the tree of my daughter Beth each year. What a precious gift we received from our grandmother. Her simple words and actions reflected the spirit of Advent. She taught us so simply the importance of waiting and hoping.

Joanna Roland is the administrator of preschool and kids' learning at St. Paul Lutheran.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Colorfully celebrated

I happen to be one of those fortunate persons who grew up going to church every Sunday. I have my parents and grandparents to thank for that. I suppose a person could say that I haven’t experienced much Sunday morning diversity. I’m not too bothered about that, and am proud to call St. Paul my church home since my baptism as a one-month-old.

Being part of a faith community inspires me and helps me to think of others, especially during the Advent and Christmas seasons.  This is the season of goodwilI, God with us, of generosity and love for all people. I see folks standing out in the cold ringing bells for good causes, children lining up and singing what are new songs to them during pageant and choir rehearsals. I am favored with countless goodies on large trays and platters, and am uplifted as the organ pipes blow on cold Sunday mornings. It’s really a great season, and I have yet to tire of hearing dozens of arrangements of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.

Human beings, as dynamic as we are, find ways to smile and to care for one another, even in what seem like hopeless situations. We hear every day about those who are bent on destroying rather than building up or loving others, yet stories of hope and survival emerge. I know groups of people who don’t have access to health care, nutritious food or clean water, yet births and holidays are colorfully celebrated. I am at awe at how much joy is shared amid the most challenging living conditions.

So the Advent season for me is a season of hope and belief, to be shared with others, and positioned right smack in the midst of a whirlwind of living in this world of change, need, and heavy doses of reality.

Glory be to God, for God is among and with us. And blessed be those who know their need for God.

Todd Byerly is the operations director at St. Paul Lutheran and the vice president of the board of Empower Tanzania.


Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Such potential

Years ago, during another of those times of reoccurring conflict and trouble in the world, someone voiced the opinion that they felt sorry for our kids, and those of their generation. They opined that things are far more complicated than the revered “good ole days,” that these kids will never have the chance to live simpler, and meaningful lives. The implication was that the world is on its way to becoming unfit to inhabit, a place of little hope for this generation’s youth.

Just a few weeks ago, I observed our son walking from behind a curtain and was transformed in the moment. At the time, I was thinking about the young boy and anticipating what I would see, and out walked a young man. The juxtaposition was quick to catch me by surprise. Later reflecting on the moment, I felt intense emotion. Yes, in part, it was about longing again for the days when he was a boy. But, it was also a moment filled with pride, in his accomplishments and in realizing the depth of respect I feel for his convictions. My thoughts carried me to the reality that he is far from alone in living the type of life he pursues. The passion and conviction, we see it in his circle of friends, his peers, and in youth far outside of our immediate social boundaries.

I have always found comfort in the fact that God has an important relevancy in my life. As I regularly look for affirmation, I seek evidence of our potential, of our goodness, and trust hope for guidance. With the news and the distractions that continue to intercede into our lives, youth are the light that shines to fill us with the hope of the season. These are children of God; possessing such potential, and so capable of guiding our world into its future. I feel God’s relevancy and embrace this season as a time of abundant hope.

Scott Teasdale shares his life in Davenport with Cynthia, Thompson, and Linnea.

Monday, December 15, 2014

A small cafe

My favorite family photograph was taken in a California park one foggy Christmas morning, following a memorable journey the night before.




The distant lights of Los Angeles were beckoning as we traveled north on the empty I-5 corridor. It was Christmas Eve. The five of us were returning from a day spent with old friends at San Diego’s Sea World to our hotel in an eastern suburb of the sprawling southern California metropolis.

The Amtrak trip from Iowa, with our sons ages 9, 6, and 3, had been organized to celebrate Christmas with family. Both of us planners, Don and I had secured our train tickets from Galesburg and packed sandwiches, snacks, books, and games for the three-day, two-night trip across the western states. 

But we had not planned for food in the city of seven million on this holy night.

The always-busy LA freeways were deserted as Don, Chris, Jon, Alex, and I searched the exits for an open restaurant. With stomachs grumbling and arguments coming from the backseat, Don and I were worried that we were not demonstrating the awe and wonder of Christmas Eve or even physically nourishing our hungry boys.

Finally, under a sky full of sparkling stars, we found a small café with warm, welcoming lights and a friendly staff who stayed late to serve us. Turkey sandwiches and potato chips were a feast.

The five of us were reminded of a night 2000 years ago when Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus found sanctuary in a humble stable. Our family was also lifted by hope, expectation, and the kindness of strangers that long ago Christmas Eve.


Pat Sierk is a retired teacher.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Until we meet again

A couple of years ago, the pastor of my previous congregation asked me if I would give a temple talk on Sunday morning on the theme, “What being a Christian means to me."

I was on a scaffold shingling a modification to my garage on Saturday afternoon when I got the call. I thought she must be kidding, but apparently she wasn’t, so I said yes. Instead of praying for God to deliver me from this preposterously impossible deadline I’d placed on myself, I actually achieved a certain level of introspection and clarity about my talk that only sheer panic can inspire.

I had some good bullet points to my reasoning, but the more I thought about what I would say, I discovered the single most important aspect of my Christian faith: I have hope. Imagine if “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die,” was the totality of our existence, and hardship and death were its highlights. I’m sorry, but I choose to have hope.

It's the hope:
  • afforded by the promise of the risen Christ.
  • one day I’ll be introduced to my grandfathers for the first time, that I’ll see my mom and dad again, and, so too, my wife, Jana.  
  • the pain and sorrow I hold in my heart from Jana's passing will one day be a forgotten memory.
  • that because of Christ’s sacrifice, we have been given the keys to the Kingdom of God, and no earthly calamity can ever take that gift away.
I choose hope.

Craig Witte is a concrete truck driver for his family’s ready-mix business.

Editor's note: Jana Witte was a beautiful soul, a music teacher who touched countless lives of junior high kids in DeWitt, Iowa, and elsewhere. Her love of music and infectious smile was a gift to so many, including this editor. One of her favorite songs, which she taught every year to her select girls' choir, was the Irish blessing, May the Road Rise Up to Meet You. One of the lines in that song seems a most fitting ending to this devotion: "Until we meet again, may God hold in the palm of his hand."


An Advent Life

He carried me…Simple and sincere words from a woman who, without knowing or trying, has become hopefulness for me. A dialysis outpatient I gratefully call friend comes easily to mind as I think about signs of a Hopeful Earth. Very near the end of her son’s struggle with cancer, not one bit strong herself, she made her way to the top of the steps where he was lying in his basement apartment. As she lowered herself down, one step at a time, she wondered how she would possibly make it down and back up. Then she felt arms strong and kind, her grandson’s arms, carry her to the bedside of her son…

There’s room at my table...A resident new to her nursing home was unwelcomed for various reasons into the community. She had her struggles settling in to a new place, at times grumpy and hard to be around. My watchful friend paid attention and thought about all this. She was new, too, and not so sure of her own place. One afternoon, as folks were arriving for dinner, she spotted the woman, alone as usual. A wave, a chair offered, new life…

A jar of pickles… "It’s the little things," she said at our most recent visit—"a bottle of ketchup, a shiny penny." When she sees a penny (if you look closely, you’ll see them everywhere) she gathers her strength and bends to pick it up. Off it goes to a friend who saves pennies for a cause that serves those in need. 'You know, it’s the little things that matter most….'

All is well…She is no stranger to suffering, loss, and grief. A chronic health condition that requires 15 or so hours a week on a dialysis machine; moving from home to nursing home; the loss of a son; family concerns, physical pain and more - and all is well. It seems this becomes truer for my friend every day. We haven’t talked about Advent. I don’t know if her religious practices even include it. She just comes to mind at the mention of the word. Her Advent gift to me - and you - is an abiding expectation that all is well and Jesus is why. Old news but newly told by a woman who accepts its promise and knows its joy.

We first saw Jesus a baby in a crib. This same Lord Jesus today has come to live in our world; he is present, in neighbors we see our Jesus is with us, and ever sets us free.   

Nancy Ingelson is a hospital chaplain.

Friday, December 12, 2014

The gift of an angel

Four months ago on a beautiful Saturday evening my family prepared for the long awaited surprise 40th anniversary party for my in-laws. Guests were in transit and my husband was running a last minute errand. I was home alone with our two children making final preparations when the fire alarm went off. I sent the children to the front porch and managed to put out a kitchen fire, but not without severe injury to both my legs.   

My life was too busy for this set back. My husband was starting a new job in two days and coaching football, my oldest child was starting school in two days and my youngest was home. I was scared, in horrible pain, depressed, stressed and determined to take care of myself and everyone else somehow. I am private and not comfortable with vulnerability and accepting help from others. I didn't want anyone to see me this way. 

Within a few days of my accident in a weak moment I confessed to a dear friend. She does not accept no easily and insisted on coming over and taking care of me. I was mortified and embarrassed and holding on to my pride. She came not just once or twice, but for weeks. She left her chiropractic practice between patients each day and came to my home. She sterilized my bathroom, cleaned and medicated wounds, got groceries, did laundry, picked up kids and took me to doctor appointments. She took time away from her own family, responsibilities and personal needs to be there for me. I was broken, could hardly walk, in physical and emotional pain beyond anything I can adequately describe. I needed her and my family needed her, and she was there. 

She was our Angel.

The humility and servitude that I have experienced during this most difficult chapter of my life from my dear husband, family, friends and the St. Paul community and staff is one that I will forever treasure. 

Jesus was born in a humble barn. Heaven came down to earth, but when it did, it came in humility. Our God honors those who are willing to humble themselves and serve others.  Jesus said he did not come to this world to be served, but rather to serve us.


Amanda Landers-Each is a former NYC Marathon event planner and now a stay-at-home mom.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Light in a storm

The colossal raindrops were striking my face with the force of a hammer, and the temperature was dropping fast. The word dark doesn’t even begin to describe the night that was so thirsty for light, that the beam of my flashlight was devoured by the atmosphere as soon as it left, rendering the tool practically useless. The storm by itself was deafening, the rain and sleet pummeling into the earth, the thunder cracking and rolling, and the high winds roaring with the energy of a freight train. Sirens sounded in every direction, and the lives of 400 young Cub Scouts, their leaders, and my camp staff depended on me being able to hear my two-way radio, and issue orders to coordinate this emergency response. It was 2:30 in the morning, and a tornado was headed our way.

When campers check into camp, we go over emergency procedures. For a tornado, there was only one building at camp strong enough to stand up to the forces, so everyone is to meet there. At night, in cases such as this one, campers are told to stay in their campsites, and a staff member will collect them and escort them to the safe area. This reduces risk of Scouts becoming lost in the dark, and puts me in direct communication with every unit since every staff member has a radio.

After mobilizing my staff, I listen as each one checks in with me as they report to their assigned site, reporting that all are accounted for, and they were heading for the safe area. Then the call came, “Apache Campsite is empty.” I have 40 souls missing. I call my assistant in the safe area to see if the group went there without waiting for an escort. Negative. And on top of that, one of the groups that had just been escorted there miscounted kids back at the campsite, and they are missing a boy. The wind screamed and a tree fell fifty feet in front of me, blocking my path. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and prayed. “Heavenly Father, I need your guidance now, more than ever. Work through me to keep these boys safe, and guide me to those who need finding. Amen.”

After opening my eyes, I felt God’s presence immediately. All stress and worry had left me. Everything would work out. Not a minute had gone by after praying that I saw flashlights off in the distance. It was the missing group from Apache. They left their campsite when things started to get bad, but took the wrong trail in the dark since they hadn’t waited for an escort. I directed staff to get them to safety, while I went to the other campsites clearing them one by one. Guess who I found in his tent, hiding under his cot, wrapped up in a sleeping bag? The lost Scout who didn’t leave with his group.

Nobody was seriously injured that night, and though we did have serious wind and rain, the tornado ended up passing us by. This experience reminded me that we don’t have to wait for God; God is always here. When we get caught up in the excitement of life, we just need to focus on God, and follow God's lead. God is always your light in a storm.


Ken Brooks works for the Boy Scouts of America and is an auxiliarist in the US Coast Guard Auxiliary. Ken and his wife, Katie, are members at St. Paul.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

The last word I heard him speak

“The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners...to comfort all who mourn...” (Isaiah 61: 1-2).

While Advent is always a time of preparation, last year my family found itself preparing for something very different than a celebrated birth - the unyielding combination of Alzheimer’s disease and incurable, aggressive cancer made it clear December of 2013 would mark my father’s seventy-eighth and final Christmas.

My dad battled Alzheimer’s for the better part of a decade, so I had plenty of time to adjust as my name gradually disappeared from his memory. While I had never taken his disease personally, during the months leading to Christmas it became difficult to digest the idea that I could pass the father I adored and emulated without even a flicker of recognition of his only son in his eyes. On Christmas Day itself, cancer had left him so emaciated the wheelchair felt empty as we pushed him into the sitting room where all his family gathered with gifts. I didn’t realize my dad’s final gift to me, something I had spent the past few years hoping for, was near.

The next day as I was sitting on the edge of his bed, my father startled awake and with the slightest lift of his head, his eyes locked onto mine with fleeting clarity. Expending great effort to force out enough air, my father managed the last word I heard him speak:  “Brian.” I casually replied, “Hi, Dad,” as if it were any one of the thousands of times I had greeted him. Exhausted, he sank back into sleep and I wept. Thirty-six hours later on December 28, while my mother held his left hand and I held his right, my father died.

Christmas and my father’s death will now be inextricably linked, but Christmas will never be a period of mourning for me. Because of my faith, which my father and my mother were instrumental in developing, I find the comfort Isaiah describes. I will always see Christmas as a season of hope; as a celebration of the good news delivered to us through Jesus Christ; as a treasured memory of a final full-family gathering; as the moment my father was released from captivity and found peace with his Lord; and as the last time my dad called me by name.



Brian Schou is a high school English teacher by day and musician by night.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Drawing strength

I started re-evaluating the cliche “God doesnʼt give you any more than you can handle” after my 6 year-old granddaughter, Lexi, was diagnosed with leukemia just days before my daughter, Laura, was scheduled for gall bladder surgery. I was already in St. Louis to watch my two grandsons and my first reaction, after feeling like I had been kicked in the stomach, was, “There’s no way we can do this!” Reality was, someone needed to watch the boys, someone needed to take care of Laura, and someone needed to stay with Lexi at Childrenʼs Hospital. That required a minimum of three people; my son-in-law, Brian, and I only numbered two. Within days, my son David’s family came to St Louis, picked up the boys, and took them to the Quad Cities where they hosted “cousin camp” with the my other daughter Alisa Carslake and her family. I took care of Laura; Brian stayed with Lexi.

This new wrinkle in life led Laura, Brian, and I to a discussion of the God we worship who stands with us and gives us strength when we truly need it; not a God who chooses certain people to torment. 

As we enter the Advent season, I keep reflecting on this strength “that passes all understanding.” The Christmas season brings “peace on earth good will to all men;” the strength of Christ is with us 365 days each year. With others, we have the ability and strength to make life work.

This same quality sets our church apart from other organizations, work places, country clubs, schools, service clubs. It is also what makes going to church different than finding “peace” on a mountain or watching a sunset. We are brought together by our belief in the miracle of a baby born in a manger on Christmas Day. We teach our kids, enjoy fun activities, perform service projects, eat together, and love each other even when we mess up. We draw strength when we desperately need it. 

This “peace” is not transitory, but rather, as Paul wrote in his letter to the Ephesians (3:15-21), it is “according to God's eternal purpose which God has realized in Jesus Christ [that] every family…may be strengthened with might through God's spirit...and by the power at work within us...know the love of Christ ...and be filled with the fullness of God.”

My family also discussed this phenomena when my husband, Steve, died of leukemia several years ago. Our son eulogized his father by noting, “Most people know how to live. Few people know how to die. My dad knew how to do both.” Steveʼs strength derived from that undefinable power generated by both our immediate family and our church. 

Now, I, once again, find myself relying on this support community. It is much more than our wonderful pastors and staff (although if you hang around them, you will certainly find a spirit and unity that gives you a small glimpse into what “it” is). This spirit and unity permeates our entire congregation and transforms into this power to face whatever hand life deals. As I celebrate the Advent season, I am thankful that my faith path, which leads to and beyond a baby in a manger and which sustains me with both the “peace and strength that passes all understanding,” is in this wonderful place called St Paul Lutheran Church in Davenport, Iowa.

Phyllis Ahlstrand is a retired English department chair and teacher at Rock Island High School.

Monday, December 8, 2014

Fear not, I will help you

The readings of Isaiah are so moving during Advent, calling us to consider our relationship with God on a very deep and personal level - to feel comforted, loved, and protected. Isaiah offers us a God who rejoices in us.

I am the LORD, your God who grasp your right hand;
It is I who say to you "Fear not, I will help you." Isaiah 4:13

There are times in our lives when we need to ask for help, but are too busy or independent and think we can do it by ourselves. In the 57 years of our marriage, we have tried to do most jobs by ourselves. But our health and age sometimes does not permit that anymore, so we are needing to look for additional help.

Recently, we experienced the need for help with the events surrounding back surgery for Leon. He was having terrible pain. A doctor finally discovered it was a fractured hip. We can thank the doctors and nurses for their professional care, and our wonderful church family of St. Paul for all the prayers, visits, and support they gave us.

The powerful advantage of Advent is that it offers us light in the midst of darkness, hope in the midst of despair, liberty in the midst of captivity, and peace in the midst of war and conflict. We need to recognize our own version of struggles. We can say "Come, Lord Jesus" with real meaning because we have experienced a time of need. 

Leon Feuerbach is a retired banker, and Deanna Feuerbach a retired paraprofessional.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Small traditions

I grew up as an only child, and due to my father’s career with John Deere we moved every two to four years. Around the holiday season, I would become jealous of my friends and their large families. They always had some sort of traditions that I felt my family and I never had. My family relocated back to Iowa in 2000, and all of our Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners consisted of my parents, grandma, Uncle Bob and me. They felt lacking in traditions - like we just went through the motions. 

What a difference it makes when one person is missing from that table. 

A little over a year ago, my 60-year-old Uncle Bob passed away unexpectedly. It was abundantly clear that he was missing at these meals. Nobody was fighting for olives with my dad, or threatening people with Cool Whip anymore. Until this time, I had taken our small family for granted. I look around the table now, and I see people that have realized this for some time. My Grandma is 90 years old, but still exercises for 45 minutes every morning. She spends 15 minutes on the treadmill reciting every bible verse that she knows, 15 minutes on the elliptical praying for people, and then 15 minutes on a bicycle watching the news. Did I mention that she is 90 YEARS OLD!?  I can’t help but see God at work in her.

My family may not be large, and have the traditions that come along with that, but we make up for it with watching Christmas Vacation, attending Christmas Eve church services, playing constant Christmas music, and making deviled eggs made specifically to my liking and some ‘doctored’ eggnog to my dad’s liking. Most importantly, we have each other’s presence.  

Matt Mercer ia a national network manager for Copart, Inc.

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Baby wait

This year, my wife Melissa and I are immersed in our own Advent. We are expecting the arrival of our first child December 22

We are waiting indeed. Waiting for baby to be born. Waiting to see our schedules shift in

order to spend time with one another. Waiting to see what kind of parents we will be. Waiting to see if he will befriend our Bernese mountain dog or the stuffed Bernese mountain dog toy. Waiting to see what kind of personality our son will have. Waiting to see who he is. We are waiting to meet him and welcome him into our lives.

As a teacher, I have the privilege to work with many youth. It is a privilege, because I get to see students think for themselves. I am fascinated at the choices they make. It’s a small glimpse in to who they will be as an adult. Now that I am looking from the perspective of a soon-to-be-parent, I find myself picking out qualities that I see in my students that I hope our son will possess - such as being kind, polite, a problem solver, passionate, determined, and genuine.


This time of year, everything becomes a countdown. With our due date so close to the holiday, I feel like every billboard, commercial, and advertisement for the 25th is somehow directed towards me: "Only ## days left to complete your holiday shopping (…and until your baby comes knocking)" or "Four more Mondays until winter break (…and until your crib has a guest)." Everything becomes a countdown. 

But a countdown indicates an ending point. Advent is anything but that. Everyone was waiting with excitement for Christ to come and to follow him as he journeyed through life. His birth was not the end of a countdown but instead the beginning of his life.


My wife and I are not counting down towards Baby Pepper’s due date. Our lives don’t stop on December 22. Instead, we are patiently waiting for life as a father and mother, life as a family to begin.

Dan Pepper is a vocal music teacher at Sudlow Intermediate School in Davenport and Youth Choir director at St. Paul.