The Wall

I've been here before

Temple of Sinawava, Zion National Park

Having followed
Accepting the invitation
Wide eyed
Open hearted
Hope filled
Stepping down a new path
Skipping
Receptive
Joyful
Trusting
So very trusting
I entered
With the promise
Of Your Presence
To then suddenly
Cruelly
Slam up against
A wall
Hard, crashing
Huge
Damning
Dark
There I wait
Befuddled
Horrified
Confused
Hope drained
I lean flat
Against its
Surface cold
I pound
I scream
Sobbing
From parts of my Soul
I didn't know
Existed
Will the tears
Ever stop?
Banging my head against
The rock
Desperately
Wondering what
Happened, where
Did I turn wrongly?
Exhausted I can
Flail about no more
I hear a rhythmic
Beat of a heart
Jesus
It's Your heart
A distant song
Becomes clearer
Louder than my
Cries I am quieted
With Love resting on
The Chest of
Jesus, My Rock.

Diane Mann, 2012

Enough and More

I belong to a rich family, wealthy in love, fun and those all important memory-making traditions.  In fact one could call us the "More Family" and pretty much get it correctly.  Our true name, however, is "Carver."  The clan consists of my parents, me and my five siblings and our spouses and 20 grandchildren all born within 11 years of each other.  Far be it from us to eliminate an old tradition to make room for the new.  No.  That would be too -- well, simple.  Each new way of commemorating the holiday season becomes a link to the treasured chain we fondly know as Christmas.

"Christmas will be smaller this year, much smaller," I could hear my father proclaiming regretfully each December when I was a young girl.  "Don't expect too much."  Feeding six children on a teacher's salary was never easy, without the added cost of gift purchases.  Our father was not wanting us to get our hopes up, yet we always had more than enough.

As we six children wed, beginning households of our own, magnetically we were drawn together again each December anticipating the long-kept rituals:  caroling in rest homes, craft making, walks through the Euclid Avenue Nativity scenes and viewing the spectacular neighborhood of lights.

A cherished event was our Christmas Eve progressive dinner.  Beginning in Hesperia for one course of a meal, we in our line of minivans wound our way down to Upland, followed by Walnut, on to church in Pomona for candlelight service, to three of our homes in Chino, ending up at our parents' Chino dwelling.  The laughter shared as we moved all 34 of us to each home was even better than the food we consumed throughout the night.

So it went each year.  "More" was exciting.  "More" was fun.  "More" was happily chaotic --

That is, until our father fell from a roof, severing his spine in June of 1998 leaving him paralyzed and completely ventilator dependent.  The commotion prior to his accident was for glee; but after, for survival.  I recollect not much about the first Christmas after he was injured, except to say we numbly went through the motions.  Because Dad could not fit through anyone's front door in his wheelchair, he did not attend the yearly dinner.

"Let's do less this year," someone mentioned as we planned for Christmas 1999.  Less?  The "More" family doing less?  Childhood fear of having to do without echoed in me.  But less it was as we met only at church then at our parents'.

Because our party was smaller, more thought was put into costumes and a script for the reenactment of the Christmas story, avoiding the usual hustle-bustle of kids' digging in Grandma's closet for shepherd wear, wiremen robes and pillows for Mary's stomach.  For once all truly was calm and bright as we closed our evening singing "Silent Night" much less off-key than we ever had.

We gave my father, Paul Carver, a chin-operated electronic page turner that Christmas.  Two weeks later his book was opened to Page 66, and he died, the pages of his life numbering 66 years.  Dad's counselor spoke of his last session saying that our father at that time could not stop speaking about the incredibly beautiful and meaningful Christmas he shared with his wife, children and grandkids.

I will forever hold close to my heart that sacred night, the Christmas when less was 
enough -- and more.

Diane Mann, 2000

Printed in the Chino Champion

Layers

There it is again

That area I thought was healed

The ordeal I thought was done

The fight I thought was won

"Another layer," they say

Another layer of healing

Brought to the surface

Not so much the revisiting of an old wound

As a brand-new visit

Of a brand-new aspect

Of the same old wound

It feels like, here we are again

But here I am anew

Looking at another layer of me

Looking at another layer of You

I want to scream in frustration

At myself

For not getting over my issues

But Your Presence finally quiets me

Until at last we sit with what is

Sifting through it all

Together

My ineptitude, Your affirmation

My ingratitude, Your persistent generosity

My stubbornness, Your patience

My unforgiveness, Your mercy 

My recurring illness, Your hand of healing

My fierce anger, Your infinite kindness

My ceaseless "why's," Your ceaseless Presence

My exhaustion, Your breath reviving

Urging me to surrender 

To rest on your Big Love Ocean

To know You

To know me

To know You in me

And me in You

Again

And yet again

Within these layers

Of me

Discovering layers

Of You.

diane mann, 2013

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

Sunday Morning After Friday Massacre

Many of my days have ended in tears, but today my pillow absorbs fresh cries upon my waking.  I scan in my mind over the three other bedrooms in my home, rooms once occupied by my four full-of-life children, children, now grown, tucked safely in their own beds, their own homes.

Twenty-eight hundred and eighteen miles away from me, parents are waking, if they were able to sleep, to the raw new reality of that empty bed, that empty room, that empty  hall in which footsteps and laughter of their children will never be heard again.   An echo of their grief reaches me from the other side of the country.

Most often I can block bad news out, way out, far away, not my reality, protecting my heart, my mind.  Not so now.  Not so.

Can we create a new app, somebody, please?  One that flips the calendar backwards?  Can we put an undo button on this mess, this blow-to-our-guts horror?

Some Sundays I don't want to go to church, choosing to watch the sermon online, but today am drawn there.  Gosh, I want to be early.  I long to sit with other people, all with huge question marks in our eyes, carrying what-the-hecks on our hearts.  A.  Time.  To.  Mourn. Together to listen for that voice of hope in this seemingly completely mad world.  A time to pray and wail, to weep and wait, to listen, to be comforted.

Some days the questions seem a whole lot bigger than the answers.

Merciful God, meet us here with the reality of your hope amidst the reality of our anguish.

The One Who Answers My Prayers

An answer to prayer –

Not what I dreamed of

Not what I hoped for

But wrapped in love

Your answer came

With a clear reminder

That You, the Potter

Do what You wish with the clay

I was certain you were molding me one way

Only to find I was wrong

That of which I was so certain

Vaporized in a moment

But you did not leave me empty

Gently and with so much comfort

You assured me

That Your ways are far above mine

And convincingly You reminded me

That You are able

To do abundantly more

Than all I could ask

Or even imagine

So yes, with sadness

And some wondering

I will thank You

For this answer to my prayer

And with anticipation

I choose to look ahead

To discover what You are creating

Of me, the clay

Make me soft and pliable

Easily yielding to Your hand

So fervently working

So lovingly molding

Give me peace

Knowing I can trust

The artistry of such a Sculptor

As You

I will not pretend to understand

When I really don't

But will trust what I know to be true of You

Oh, who am I to question

My maker, my molder

The One who answers my prayers?

Diane Carver Mann 1996

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.

Show Us You (A prayer for my daughter and her husband on their wedding day)

To You, O Lord, we lift our souls

In You we place our trust

Let not the hardships of this life

Remove Your joy from us

May hope not depart

May truth be near

Putting forth its light

As we look to You

Led and loved by You

Guide us on paths that are right.

And when we stumble and fall

Or don't give a care

For all You are and You do

When we close our eyes tight

To hide from Your light

Let us know that Your grace

Is there too

For there's nowhere You're not

Show us You.

diane mann 2011

The Prize

Have you ever won a booby prize?  You remember, it's the gift you get for pinning the tail onto a friend's forehead rather than on the intended paper donkey's behind.  Things went really badly for you, but you were given a prize of some sort anyway to console you for the failed outcome of your performance.  While praying recently for a dear friend's mom who is being tested for Alzheimer's disease, God revealed a way I see Him and His consolation that He wants to change in me. 

"Lord," I plead, "Please help _______ to not have Alzheimer's.  Let the doctors be wrong and the tests come back negative.  And be with her husband and her children as they help her through this time.  God, if you don't keep her from having Alzheimer's, then please be with her and her family throughout this ordeal and show them more of You."  What I really, really wanted, my Plan A, was  healing for my friend's mom.  But if God refused to provide my very best plan, I asked Him to go ahead with Plan B, which was for Him to be with this family.

After closing my prayer in the name of Jesus, this thought arose in me:  God is not the booby prize, yet I pray as though He is such!  The Lord's precious Presence is far greater than any outcome for which I'm begging.  I do know I can bring my specific requests to God, even as Jesus pled with God in the garden.  "Pour out your heart before Him," writes David in Psalm 62:8.  How wonderful and necessary it is to be able to honestly come before God laying out my petitions and grievances.

But I believe God is showing me that, even more than these answers that I am seeking, His with-us-ness is what it's all about.  He wants me to know -- to deep-down know -- that His goodness is infinitely more good than any perceived badness is bad.  Is disease awful?  Yes!  I am still praying for this dear lady to not have to go through the suffering that accompanies this illness, but whatever God allows to be sifted through His loving hands will, as we trust and look for Him, leave us awe-full of Him.  So even the awful can eventually leave us awe-filled.

"When you pass through the waters, I WILL BE WITH YOU," promised God to the Israelites (Isaiah 43:2).  As I spent time with God absorbing the truth about Him in this passage, He gave me a mental picture of myself as a mom clinging to my children in the water when they were unable to swim.  Because of how precious they were to me, I held on tightly.  Nothing was going to cause me to release my loving, protective grip on them.  In His goodness, in His love, He embraces me in the rough waters of life tenderly, with care and with His strength as my father.  During those times of being held by God, I come to know Him more intimately and to trust Him in new ways.

Whether the Lord God plucks me or my loved ones out of the stormy times or carries us through them, He is better than the answer to any prayer for deliverance I seek. "I am the first; and I am the last," says the Holy One.  He is the only prize!  Oh, to know the sweetness of this truth more and more fully as I live this life He has given me!

Father God, if I or others are to be healed, let us know You in the healing and wholeness you provide.  And if we are to go through hardship that we dread, may we find You there and know your grace to be more than sufficient to meet every need.  Let me more and more see that You are both the destination and the journey.  "I am the first; and I am the last," You say.  You are the only prize!  And You are what I desire.