Uncontained

It's a small thing, really. But it's catching my eye at unexpected times, in unexpected places, and I can't seem to shake it.

Over a year ago, I set up a card table in my family room and covered it with craft supplies––paper, stickers, glue, jeweled embellishments, decorative tape, ribbons, and glitter.  Yes, glitter, fine red glitter, contained and congregated in a small jar. When family gathered at my house, some accepted the invitation to sit at the craft table to play and create valentine cards.

No one played harder than Calvin, my three-year-old grandson. To him, there was no such thing as sprinkling glitter, only pouring glitter. Red specks generously billowed about him, with just a fraction landing on their intended target. Calvin happily created a brightly colored, sparkly, shiny, sticky, beautiful mess.   

During February, it was a mess I enjoyed. But at month's end, I bagged up the craft supplies and put away the card table, taking broom, dust cloth, and vacuum to the area, cleaning it up as best I could. 

Like sand that comes home from the beach with you, later found in your children's ears and hair, in the creases of your car, the bottom of your purse and your washing machine, my red glitter inhabited unlikely spaces.  It rested between and within books on the shelves, couch cushions, edges and ledges of my home. I can't trace their journey, but some of those invasive red flakes traveled to my mountain cabin fifty miles away. 

Though they sparkle with the same brightness as they did the day I bought them, now when the shiny specks catch my eye, they no longer hold the beautiful memory of fun times at our craft table. Instead they carry condemnation. They tell me I am sloppy, that I always leave things undone, and that there's no hope for me. They were intended to embellish cards celebrating love, yet now, weightless as they are, they transport heavy, damning messages:

I can't contain my glitter. I can't contain me. I haven't finished cleaning up from a project I started 13 months ago. How dare I move on to the next thing, not having tidied up from the last thing? The accusations fly and land me in a decades-old memory.

I returned home from Los Angeles, where I had completed a two-day examination to become a certified court reporter. I was tired but elated, floating on a wave of emotions, and still dressed in an outfit that made 20-year-old me look and feel professional, competent, legitimate. 

"How did it go?" my dad asked from his chair in the corner of the living room, while I was just a few steps into the entryway. Through a beaming smile I told him how well I believed I had done, how relieved I was that the test I worked two years to prepare for was behind me. My words spilled out.

Having overheard me describe my time, my mom marched from the kitchen and planted herself a foot from me with her fisted hands on her hips. She was a beautiful woman, but the anger scribbled across her face in this moment blotted out any signs of that beauty. "Yeah, but is your room clean?" The words, uncontained, flew from the jar. Like the glitter I still can't clean up, they were red, they landed in unintended spaces, and just when I think I’ve remembered the last of them, they catch my attention yet again. 

Anymore, it doesn't really matter what comes after the "Yeah, but." I can quickly render as illegitimate the ideas that rise up in me. 

“Oh, I’ll send Carol a card,” I think to myself. “Yeah, but what about Shirley?” 

“I’ll weave those thoughts that have been dancing through my mind into a poem,” then, "Yeah, but what about that piece you never finished, or those writings you thought about but never even started?” 

I long to speak hope into others during this weary, drawn-out time of the Covid pandemic. “Yeah, but I myself am often weary and discouraged,” and, “Yeah, but there are so many voices out there hoping to bring light into dark places." The "yeah-buts" circulate about and get too much time on my mind's stage. 

From the ampitheatre of Earth, I look up at the night sky and see the stars, still multiplying, God lavishing the universe with sparkles. They swirl and float, those captivating curlicues, brightening my dim eyes, satisfying my thirst for wonder and awe. If there is more room for stars in the sky, is there space for a sparkle, a fleck of light, another word carrying a glimmer of hope? Can I yield to God's pouring into me then through me words that bring courage, trusting they will land on the hearts of those who need them? 

A scene I recall from a 9/11 documentary re-enacts two men buried deep under rubble from an exploded building next to the World Trade Center towers. The men lay injured and trapped a good distance from each other. A small stream of light from above squeezing through the rubble could be seen by one of the men, while the light's ray was blocked from his comrade’s view. They knew as long as there was light, there was an opening through which someone could reach them, a sliver of hope. The man who could see the light kept reassuring his friend of its existence, until the rescuers reached them.

I look down in church on Sunday, and my eye catches a miniscule red sparkle in the center of my phone. I sigh. Again I look down, this time at a Bible placed on the end of the pew. White glitter, catching the light, is strewn across its cover. I look up to see the pastor's wife has decorated the sanctuary for winter, with glimmering snowflakes resting on green pine boughs surrounding the ceiling’s edge. I smile to realize she also could not contain her glitter. It feels like hope, for me, to know that others move forward beautifying the world with their creative ideas, even though they may leave a bit of a mess behind. 

If I can see the sparkle when you can't and you can see it when I can't, let's tell each other about it, shall we? Let's remind each other of the light, even if just a flicker.

It's no small thing, really.

The Exchange

He was tall and built, handsome, beanie-capped,  cheerful, and bundled up, the Christmas tree lot employee. He stood taller than most of the trees displayed on a corner south of town and could lift a hefty tree as though it were as light as an umbrella. He moved about the lot with ease this crisp December evening, helping wherever he saw a need.

I saw him approach several different people before he made his way over to me, where I stood waiting while my husband paid for our tree. As he moved closer,  I noticed he was holding something up. It was pink and a little sparkly, rectangular, and he handled it as though it were something important.

"Is this yours?" he asked, his hands cupping what appeared to be my cell phone. Yes, it was, but I intentionally left my phone in the truck, I thought I remembered. How can that be?  He pointed me to where he found it, hundreds of feet from where we stood.

He restored to me something I didn't even know was missing.

Gushing thanks and praises to my Christmas tree farm hero, I said, "This is just like a Hallmark Christmas movie! There is always a tree lot and often an angel, and you're my angel who returned this to me!"

His smile shone brighter than the white lights dangling above us. "Thank you, ma'am. That warms my heart," he said, as he rubbed his gloved hand over his chest.

We talked a bit more, and again I referred to him as an angel, while I gave more detail about what happens in Christmas movies. When we said goodbye, he said, "Thank you so much again, ma'am. I can't tell you how much my heart is warmed by what you said."

Did my words restore to him something he didn't even know was missing?

I'd really like to think so.

Diane Mann 2019

Sparkle - A Blessing for Ashley

I almost said nothing, but I'd been thinking about it for a few weeks. "You wear your sparkly headband so well. It looks great on you," I said to a local Starbucks worker. "Every day," she said, "I come to work wearing my apron and my sparkles. Can't leave home without my sparkles." She stepped closer to me as I explained I have this extra sparkly headband at home I've been wanting to give her. The accessory shop, when I was picking out hair jewels for my daughter's wedding, was having a buy two, get a third item free sale, so I picked out this headband that really didn't work on me. "But," I explained, "I think it would look so pretty on you." Her eyes were filled with tears as she listened and expressed her gratitude. I wasn't sure whether it was for noticing her or having the thought to bless her, but clearly she was touched.

The next day I was leaving town and stopped at Starbucks with the sparkly piece in hand. Disappointed to see the headband-wearing barista wasn't there, I inquired of the person working the cash register about when she would be in again. "Tomorrow morning is her last shift," he said. "She is quitting work to take care of her grandmother, who is ill." He explained how dear she is to everyone with whom she works and how missed she will be. I borrowed his pen he uses to write on people's cups and with it wrote on the tag of the headband, "Ashley, keep sparkling every day."

I picture her now donning a different apron, in a sense, a different headpiece, serving her grandmother and brewing blessings and love in a different arena. I love to think of her crowned with the love of God and being the hands and feet of Jesus. And I say a prayer for Ashley as she cares for her grandmother and a prayer of thanks that God gave me courage to follow a tiny desire I had to bless her.

And to think I almost said nothing.

Diane Mann, 2016

My Father's Voice

As a little girl, when Sunday School was over, I'd dash to my parents' class, 
reach on my tippy toes to sneak some sugar cubes from their refreshment table then make my way through a jungle of tall people until I finally reached my dad, who would  pick me up with his strong arms. Back then, all the men wore dark-colored suits. Once after searching for a while, I found a pair of legs  I was sure were my father's. Hugging this leg tightly and fully expecting to find the rest of my father attached to it, I looked up only to discover it was not my daddy after all! 

What eventually would lead me to my father was his loud, booming voice. His laughter permeated the room far above that of any other noise, and that inevitably drew me to him.

Even when I became adult with children of my own, I'd hear my father's laugh in the church sanctuary and know he was there, which I always found comforting.

A strong voice, a thundering laugh. A sound that could be heard above the others. That was my father's voice.

Was. I say that because he broke his neck after falling from a roof.  He became completely paralyzed from his neck down and relied on a ventilator to supply his every breath. Being unable to move at all was harsh enough, but for the first two months following his injury, he also could not speak. 

I learned to read lips. Each day that I would enter his hospital room, I was 
able to see him mouth out "I love you" one more time. I read statements such 
as "Unbelievable," "Why?" "I will never move again," but the most memorable 
and important to me was, "I love you." That, followed by a strong kiss on 
my hand from him left me more than grateful for each visit, for each day. My 
dad thought he was useless at times, but he was giving out blessings right 
there from his hospital bed.

Funny. He had no voice, yet I was listening more intently than ever. 
"Dad," I would ask, "are you still the richest man in the world?" (as he 
claimed to be before his accident).

"I am," his lips would mouth silently.

Months later, after therapists had worked much with his equipment,  the day came 
that he was able to speak. With only my mom and a hospital worker 
present, the words he chose were, "Jesus loves me.  This I know."

So many messages are heard by us when we travel dark roads, when tragedy 
threatens to take over our lives. Without a doubt, the "Why me?" creeps in. 
Questions prevail about God's goodness or lack of it. Blaming others, 
blaming self. Messages of our own uselessness and helplessness can cripple 
us inside and leave us believing lies above the truth. 

Through all the times of questioning and doubt, however, there's a father's 
voice in the room. It leads you to Him, the One who will pick you up with 
His strong, welcoming arms. A persistent voice, one that we need to hear 
above all the others, saying, "I love you. This one thing I long for you to know." A 
voice that leads you straight to where you belong. There's no mistaking it. 
It's the voice of your father. Do you hear Him? 

Diane Mann

Treasures from the Trail, Part 2 - Bearing the Burden, and The Truth About Truth

1,000-foot climb at Mile 3 - Tired Me

I wasn't too far into my hike before I felt the effects of having packed seven extra pounds of stuff beyond what I was used to carrying.  By "not too far into my hike," I mean the road was still visible where the plush, air-conditioned bus dropped us off minutes before, while we were wide-eyed with anticipation over the adventure ahead.

Some of the additional poundage could not be avoided:  a bear canister in which all food must be stored, layers of clothing, raingear, food for a five-day journey.  Maybe four pairs of socks was a bit too much, but that is where my excess ended.

In the past I'd learned of an unnecessary, even harmful addition to the weight of my pack:  the hammer of condemnation.  At times I have necessarily imagined laying a heavy hammer down on the side of the trail as I hike.  And what a lighter load I have to carry after doing so!

The hammer pounds into me who and how I'm not compared with who and how I think I ought to be.  The  messages of the hammer go something like this:

"Real hikers don't have any extra tummy bulging above their waistbelts, and they look a lot more like the people in the REI catalog than you do, firm, smooth and strong."
"If you were really amazing, you'd go a lot faster.  You'd take those big, granite steps head on rather than finding shortcuts around them."
"Your pack needs adjusting?  It's not the pack; it's you.  Your frame is wrong and twisted or this pack would fit you fine.  You are wrong."
"Uphill shouldn't be difficult.  You are just weak and lazy.  You can't do hard things."
"How dare you enjoy this time?  People in the world -- and even people you know -- are suffering."

Oh, and this one:  "Your husband wishes he were married to a truly athletic woman.  You are holding him back and are a burden to him."

(All the above messages have been hard battles, but the italicized one has brought many tears and much wrestling with God.  He won -- well, I guess we both did -- and I came out changed, like Jacob.  And, yes, like Jacob I limp.)

Even though I'd abandoned the hammer on a dusty trail in Southern California over 300 miles away,  the ugly, heavy tool tried to get me to take on its damning lies once in a while as I faintly remembered what it previously pounded into me.  The lies now passed as quickly as they popped up because I'd learned that living, moving and having my being in Christ is more fun, free and light -- and where I was made to be.

As I see me as He sees me and live under the adoring gaze of my Creator, I dance, not as if no one were watching, rather as if Someone who is bursting with love, grace and delight toward me cannot take His eyes off of me.  Sometimes I picture Jesus hiking in front of me backwards, as though we are two ice skaters.  When I start to wonder what my husband, Brent, is thinking of me (Brent has been nothing but encouraging about our hikes, so this comes from me and the hammer),   I look at Jesus, and He reminds me of what He thinks of me and feels toward me, which is what matters most.  Best of all, I begin to believe it and live in that place.

Nevertheless, this load was a heavy one, and my shoulders were carrying the brunt of it.  We stopped to adjust my straps often, which helped slightly but did not provide enough relief for me to walk without agony.  During miles two to four, when we were hiking switchbacks over a steep, rocky hillside in the heat of the day, I began to ask God to help me shift the weight to my hips, where it belonged.  He gave me the idea to relax my shoulders and allow my whole body to help carry the burden.  I physically was bracing too much.  Just like when life gets hard and I try to shoulder the responsibilities I've been given all on myself and don't ask for help, I was overwhelmed and exhausted.  I will sometimes encounter a difficult situation with the attitude that I had better brace and strive because this is a tough thing I'm about to do, when really, God is calling me to settle into the now of my life, receive it as a gift from Him, seek to know and love Him more in that place and call on Him to help me.  He has given me His presence with me and resources (in this case, the rest of my body that needed to share the load), and beckons me to use them.

I considered a phrase I had not previously pondered, "deep-seated gratitude."   We experience gratitude in our bodies in the "seat" of us, between our hips (if you sit with your gratitude for long and sense it in your body, you will see what I mean).  I am fatigued as I try to let my life rest on my own shoulders.  But as I receive with openness what is on my life's path as a gift, what I am carrying is much more manageable and even becomes enjoyable.   

I began thanking God for His Presence with me and even for the difficulty of the trail, trusting Him to strengthen me.   It is said God never gives us more than we can handle.  I find that so funny.  I believe He intentionally gives us more than we could possibly bear so we will realize our need to depend fully on Him and His offering of grace, strength and love toward us.

My ascension of the steep, switchbacked mountainside held for me new, refreshingly different messages from those of the hammer.  Brent instructed me wisely in how to approach the too-high rock steps that drained me, leaving me huffing and puffing for air (the ones I'd previously thought I had to be amazing to conquer).  "Look for intermediate steps," he encouraged, "to conserve your energy."   Hikers I met coming from the opposite direction cheered my way, "You can do it!" or "You're doing great!" or my favorite, "Very soon you will see a waterfall!"  Ah, the promise of beauty and refreshment ahead!  I absorbed the encouragement offered as a sponge and let each word and smile that came my way fuel me.  Having laid down the lies, there is space in me to receive truth.

And truth is always freeing.

Night Vision

The view from the end of our favorite trail was glorious, the sun beginning to set as my husband and I stood atop granite boulders in the orange glow, receiving the beauty that surrounded us, relishing everything about those moments. "It's a good thing brought my headlight," I commented, as we realized our three-mile hike back to our car would take us a couple of hours. "And we have a quarter moon to help, too," Brent replied.

Soon my light was necessary for me to detect the path and all it consisted of—the rocks, roots, branches and ice patches that could easily trip me. I loved the adventure and mystery of only being able to see a few feet in front me and was grateful for the light strapped to my head to illuminate my steps.

Brent, however, was trailing far behind me. I raced back to him, eager to share my light so he, too, could see the trail. "No, thanks," he said. "I need to be far from your light because, when I'm near you, it ruins the way my eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it throws me off."

I wonder how often I've been insensitive to the need of others when they're going through dark times. My need to rescue kicks in, and I run up to them with whatever light God has given me to "help" them find their way, when it could be a holy time for them to sense God in the night, to know Him in ways they'd never before known Him, to trust Him for each step, to lean on the the vision of the One to whom darkness is as the light of day. 

I'm finding it is important to honor as sacred another's journey and to realize the way in which God is helping me may not be the unique, personal way He is providing for another.

I was thankful for my headlamp as I hiked in the dark. It was a gift to me. And my husband treasured the chance to hike under a starlit sky and a quarter moon, embracing the challenge of discerning his way with only what was provided in the night sky. That was a gift to him.

Isaiah 45:3 says this: "I will give you the treasures of darkness and hidden riches of secret places, that you may know that I, the LORD, Who call you by your name, am the God of Israel."

As well-intentioned as I may be, I could be robbing my loved ones of the promised treasures and hidden riches awaiting them by rushing in with my bright light! 

I'll continue to seek God in my shadowy places, receiving whatever light He gives, whatever He has to show me of Himself, and will keep learning to entrust others to God, who constantly is revealing Himself to us. Let me never be a hindrance to another's knowing and learning to know God, even in times of darkness.

There You Are

Yesterday my husband and I celebrated 24 years of marriage. I have become convinced that, while we are indeed blessings to each other, these blessings can be awfully difficult. Our relationship has been at times painstakingly hard yet filled with much that is bountifully good. I liken our home to a laboratory whereby God is making us both molded more and more into the likeness of Christ. What happens in laboratories isn't always pretty, but wonderful things are created there.

This is a poem I wrote years ago when a friend's husband left her. It speaks of being at the end of ourselves with our love for each other. I believe it is at that point we truly learn to love with the love God has given to us.

There you are
The man I gave my heart to
Years ago
We said I do
And knew
That nothing would pull us apart.

There you are
The man I wounded
With sword-sharp words
And careless insults
Pointing out who you were NOT
Instead of magnifying the good in you.

There you are
The man who closed his heart
To me
It didn't happen in a day
Or even overnight
Out of my hurt
I hurt you back
Not even really knowing
You, my strong husband
Were hurt-able.

There you are
Physically here
Yet continents apart
From the woman
To whom you gave your heart
And who offered hers
to you

There you are
But with the slam of a door
Suddenly you aren't
If someone had shredded me
Into a million pieces
I could not experience
Any more pain
Than that which I now know
The anguish
Of your absence
The dissolving
Of a dream
Promises broken
So much I wish I could undo
But time goes forward
Not backward
And together
We destroyed each other
The very people
We vowed to cherish
Above all else

Here I am
With an unexplainable hope
God, who heals hearts
And rebuilds lives
Has sustained me
Through this time
When I think, I'll surely die
He tells me that
No matter what's ahead
For me
Or us
That he will be there
So close
Loving me
Directing me
Comforting me
Seeing me as precious

Here I am
Asking forgiveness
Understanding your reluctance
To trust
To try again
We have failed so much!
I know now
That I expected you
To be God to me
You were to heal my hurts
To know my every need
To make me whole
And inevitably
You could not do that for me
Nor I for you

Here I am
Seeing life
And marriage
As a process
Two people learning
Failing
Forgiving
Growing
Who agree to LEARN to love

It won't be perfect
There are scars
And there will be future struggles
But God will be with us
Loving us
Forgiving us
Teaching us
Pouring His grace on us
He is the only One
Who can put the pieces back together
And grow that once-promised
Forever love
Back into our shattered lives

Here we are
All we have to offer
Is our brokenness
Our sorrow
Our weakness
And regret

There He is
With open arms
His potter's hands
Wanting to lovingly mold us
Into who and how He wants us to be
Both to each other
And to our children
This is His specialty!
He is not shaking a finger
At us
Or looking down
In disdain
He is not surprised
By our inadequacies
But is lovingly willing
To enter into
The darkest corners
Of our self-destructive ways
And there meet us
And mold us
All we must do
Is admit our weakness
And He promises
To be our strength

There He is
Knowing our brokenness
Because He too was broken
In order that we may be whole
Knowing our sinfulness
Because He became sin for us
So that our sins
Would not be counted against us
Knowing our loneliness
Because He died alone
So that we may have fellowship
With Him
And with each other

There you are
Here I am
Above all
There He Is

Diane Mann 2002

Premature Conclusions

"How did their kids turn out?" we hear people ask. "My child turned out..." we'll report. These conclusions about the children's character really emerge as the offspring become 18 years of age or graduate from high school. I have seen parents so completely discouraged and bereft because of how their children "came out." (And I do not mean to make light of the real heartache parents experience as we watch our children struggle). I find it laughable, however, that such final judgment is declared when these young people are not even a fifth through their lives and only at the threshold of their adult lives and accepting responsibility for themselves.

Does anyone really know how they, themselves, "turned out" as of yet?

Conclusions. There is such a finality to them. I reach them about others, and I reach them about myself. Neither takes into account a dynamic, involved, powerful God who, by His Spirit, is in the business of transforming lives.

I've heard it said that we are to withhold judgment. Another way I am viewing this with regard to spiritual transformation is, "Don't come to a conclusion about yourself or others." Conclude that God's mercies will continue to be new every morning. Conclude that He is molding you more and more into the image of Christ as you yield yourself to Him. Conclude that nothing is too hard for the Lord. But do not look at yourself or other believers and say it is finished! Nothing could be more discouraging or untrue. And we all know that how we live stems from what we believe.

The word "conclusion" stems from Latin "conclusio," which means "closed." If I say the matter is settled regarding God changing me, I am saying my limitless, infinite creator is limited! And I'm essentially lowering the gavel (that I was never intended to hold) and declaring, "Case closed!"


Oh, Lord God, I am only beginning to see your transforming power in my life. How miraculous are your mercies that refresh me each day and give me hope of Christ becoming more and more evident, guiding, comforting, loving and making a new creature out of me. If there is anything I am sure of, let it be You, in me, the hope of glory. May I each moment wait expectantly on You to be so very present and open myself always to You.

IN CONCLUSION: I can't wait to see how I and those I love are going to turn out! I have a feeling we'll all look a lot more like Jesus than we do now!