​First band concerts ... I’ve witnessed this phenomenon three times now. Several years ago Emily played the clarinet. Then Taylor played the flute. Most recently it was Maddie’s turn. Somehow, I always forget what a band full of sixth graders sounds like. It’s not always easy on the ears.
 
Maddie started playing the oboe last summer. She’s already come a long way. At first she could barely squeak out a noise. When she did make a sound, I could’ve sworn she had bagpipes in the basement. Now she’s playing songs that are not only recognizable, but enjoyable.  

I found a seat as the band warmed up. A hodgepodge of melodies and sour notes echoed throughout the gym. I’m always amazed at the number of band kids in sixth grade. Unfortunately, we all know how it goes. By seventh and eighth grade the numbers drop significantly. That’s when kids realize that learning an instrument is actually a lot of hard work.
 
I glanced through the program. Twinkle Stars. Jingle Bells. Frere Jacques. It seems like only yesterday Taylor was playing those same simple songs. Now she’s in the high school marching band and gets to play cool songs like Eye of the Tiger and Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Her only complaint is the unflattering wardrobe, although I like to call it “character-building clothes.”

I wish I could pull each sixth grader aside and warn them. “There will come a time when you’ll want to quit. Don’t do it. Stay committed. Keep practicing. It gets so much better than this.”
 
The auditorium grew quiet as the conductor stepped onto the platform. In no time she was conducting her little heart out. First she set the tempo. Then she gave signals to show how and when the band should play. But there was only one problem. Very few students bothered to look up at her. Every kid focused on their own music right in front of them.
 
They also weren’t listening to one another. The clarinets overpowered the flutes. The trumpets drowned out the trombones. I could see the conductor wanted certain sections to back off and play a little softer. But everyone just kept blasting out their own parts.     
 
It occurred to me that sixth grade band was much like the early years of my marriage.
 
A few years after Curt and I were married, we began to realize something. Marriage was actually hard work. The main problem? I focused on myself. He focused on himself. We really didn’t listen to one another, because we both had our own agendas. As you might guess, this became extremely frustrating. Honestly, I felt like quitting. 
 
And that’s when we did something we’d never done before.
 
We looked up.
 
God had never been a major part of our marriage. But in desperation, we invited him to lead us. We looked for His direction instead of our own, and we finally started doing what He told us to do.  
 
“Okay, back off now. You’re coming on a little strong. You need to be a little softer here.”
 
Everyone goes through difficult times in marriage. If you’re experiencing that right now, can I just encourage you?
 
There will come a time when you’ll want to quit. Don’t do it. It can get so much better than this.
 
I’m glad we didn’t quit. Our marriage isn’t perfect, but it is a great blessing. I believe the best is yet to come. Especially if we stay committed, listen to one another and most importantly, keep our eyes on our Conductor.

My kids have access to amazing technology. They send messages on Facebook. They can text, tweet, email, follow people on Instagram and snapchat their friends. 
    
Now let’s compare that to when I was a kid. Other than talking on the phone, here’s how I communicated with friends.

I passed notes during study hall. I wrote letters over summer break. I corresponded with pen pals from other countries. 

I think my kids are missing out.

Call me old fashioned, but there’s something special about seeing (and reading) someone’s handwriting. Everyone has their own unique style. It’s kind of an art form. A lost art, I’m afraid. 

For example, how do you space out your letters? Do you make narrow or wide loops? How do you dot your i’s and cross your t’s? Are your letters rounded or pointed? Do you use heavy or light pressure? Are letters slanted to the left or to the right? Or not at all? All of these factors create a distinct writing style that's unique to you.    

Here’s an example. Patty and I have been friends since fourth grade. To this day I can recognize her handwriting with only a glance. It’s unique to her. 

I can’t tell you the number of notes Patty and I passed from grade school to graduation, but thanks to my pack-ratty ways, I can tell you what we wrote about. (I recently dug out a few from storage!) Here’s a brief summary of our most popular topics during our junior high years. 

Boys. Shopping. Volleyball. How much we hated our hair. School dances. Stuff other girls said. Boring classes. Difficult tests. Unreasonable parents. And whatever plans we were trying to make for the upcoming Friday night. 

Obviously our letters didn’t include any deep, philosophical discussions. But that was life in seventh grade.

Here’s a nice one from Patty:  

I’m glad I kept a few of those old letters. If nothing else, they’re entertaining. However, here’s what happens after my kids read a message from one of their friends. 

DELETE. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love technology. I like the convenience of texting. I enjoy keeping in touch with folks on Facebook. I would NOT want to sit down and write my blog in longhand each week! But with all of our digital options, we’re losing the personal touch. 

My friend Brenda knows the value of a handwritten note. Not only does she like to send cards (yes, through the U.S. Postal Service!) she also takes the time and effort to write something inside of her cards. 

​Emails are easy to ignore. But when I find a card amongst the bills and junk mail, I immediately open it. Brenda’s cards are so kind and encouraging. I’ve actually been tempted to send her a thank-you note for her thank-you notes! 

Twenty-one years ago, my grandma gave me several handwritten recipes at my wedding shower. I refer to her recipes often. I love seeing Grandma's signature - the same familiar signature that signed my birthday cards year after year.    

This past week I had the opportunity to look through Grandma’s old recipe boxes. As I flipped through the cards, I pictured my grandma, standing by the stove with an apron around her waist, stirring a big boiling pot of something yummy. 

One card had dried specks of frosting that had probably splattered from her mixer. Another had a dark spot from opening a can of chili beans nearby. Grandma's recipe cards are a small piece of her that I can hold in my hands. I know it sounds strange, but it all feels so … personal. 

Handwritten notes show the recipient that they are worth the extra time and effort. That’s why I’d like to end this week’s blog with a little note from me to you. 

What do you think? Am I the only one who misses actual handwriting? Leave me a message - I'll even let you type it.   

Madison ripped open the envelope and pulled out a gift certificate. Her eyes widened as she read the print. With a joyful squeal, she launched both arms into the air. “Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

It was the reaction I was hoping for. 

Birthday shopping for Maddie had become a challenge. She’s too old for toys. She’s too young for an Iphone. She likes cute clothes, but that’s not really her thing. I wanted to give her something she’d love. 

What did she love? 

Well, she loved gymnastics, but lately that wasn’t going so well. For several weeks she had complained of back pain during practice. I took her to our family doctor who called it a muscle strain. She recommended rest – and no gymnastics for two weeks. Maddie was not pleased. 

After two weeks, the pain continued. I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon who ordered an Xray. Thankfully, he found nothing wrong with her spine. He recommended Ibuprofen and more rest. 
                            
A few days before Maddie’s birthday, I stumbled across a picture of our family horseback riding in Colorado. I remembered how much Madison had loved it. Suddenly, I knew what to get for her birthday. After a quick internet search, I found a horse stable that offered trail rides. They had an opening in three weeks. Three weeks? Patience didn’t come easily for Maddie. At least she’d have something to look forward to. 

Taking a break from gymnastics also didn’t come easily. Madison felt lost. She normally practiced four times a week, three hours a day. But what do you do when suddenly it all stops? 

Instead of the gym, we headed to Grandma’s. Maddie loves animals and Grandma’s farm has an abundance of them. They were a welcomed distraction.  

Though I was grateful Maddie’s back didn’t hurt constantly, it still hurt when she ran or moved a particular way. Finally, I’d had enough. I called back the orthopedic surgeon and asked for more tests. He ordered a bone scan. Within a few days, we got the results.
 
“It looks like Madison has a bilateral stress fracture.” The doctor turned to Maddie with a sympathetic look. “This means absolutely no physical activity – no gymnastics, no volleyball, no running, no pitching lessons, no PE, nothing – until your back is completely healed.”
 
I couldn’t imagine Maddie’s emotions. Anger? Grief? Frustration? But I knew what I felt: sadness. Not because my daughter could no longer do gymnastics, but because she could no longer do the things she loved.

After a tough couple of days, Madison accepted the doctor’s orders. Each day was a little better – until she remembered the gift certificate.
                                                                                       
“Do you know what I’m excited for?” She asked unexpectedly one day.
 
Suddenly I felt like a heavy weight had dropped onto my chest. I knew what was coming.
 
“I’m excited to go horseback riding.”
 
The look on my face said it all. There could be no horseback riding. Tears streamed down Maddie’s cheeks and my heart ached again.
 
Over the next several days I couldn’t get her look of disappointment out of my mind. I had to fix this. Surely there was something I could do. If she couldn’t ride a horse, maybe she could at least spend some time with one. I called my aunt, who was the owner of two sweet ponies and three beautiful horses. She was happy to help.

​One night I stopped by Maddie’s room to tell her goodnight. She sat up in bed.   

“Mama, she began, “Do you think we could go to a gymnastics meet and watch my teammates? I think we might have a pretty good team this year.” 

A strange mix of relief, pride and contentment swept over me. “Maddie,” I said. “I think that’s a great idea.”

I suppose it's a lesson we all have to learn; how to let go of our own plan and trust that God has another. It's not easy. I mean, what do you do when you can no longer do the things you love? 

You find something new to love.

​Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. – Isaiah 43:19

“I don’t know, Maddie. This could backfire on us.”

Madison fidgeted in her chair. She didn’t want to consider the possibility.

Just the day before, Emily’s friend had asked if we’d be interested in dog-sitting while her family went on vacation. Of course we were interested! We just had one problem … convincing Curt. 

Curt has many wonderful qualities, but he is not an animal lover. He has never owned a dog. He’s allergic to cats. It’s actually amusing that he married me, a farmer’s daughter, who grew up surrounded by cats, dogs,horses, rabbits and a whole assortment of other animals. 

Through the years my girls and I have tried to change him. We’d insist he go with us to visit the pet store and see all the adorable puppy-dog faces. That didn’t work. Sometimes I’d attempt to sweet-talk him into it. That didn’t work. Every year the girls would write “a puppy” at the top of their birthday and Christmas lists. And that didn’t work. We tried it all, but Curt never budged.

So when he agreed to let us dog-sit over Labor Day weekend, no one was more surprised than me. But I did need to bring Madison back to reality.

“What happens if one of the dogs has an accident on the carpet? Or chews on Dad’s shoes? Or barks all night? Dad will say, ‘I told you so,’ and we’ll never get a puppy.”

Madison sighed. She knew we were taking a risk. But if it meant spending a long weekend with a couple of cute puppies, it was a risk she was willing to take.

Now, in the interest of time (and word count), I thought I’d show you (rather than tell you) all about it. Meet Mindy and Ruby ...

Let’s just say … These. Dogs. Were. Adorable. And very well-behaved.

Each morning Madison eagerly ran downstairs and was greeted by two playful (and extremely pleased!) puppies. She giggled as Ruby snuck a quick “kiss.” “It’s like having a pet store in your own house!” Madison beamed.

We were having so much fun. Meanwhile, Curt basically ignored them.

Before we knew it, the weekend had flown by. The puppies went home, and our house seemed empty.

“Now what am I going to do?” Madison slumped into a chair. “I played with the puppies whenever I was bored.”

I held out my hand. “How about we go for a walk?”

As we headed on our way, I thought about the weekend. It was nice to hang out with the puppies, but it really didn’t end as I’d hoped. Curt didn’t instantly fall in love with them. He really didn’t have much to do with them at all. I felt a twinge of disappointment.

Suddenly, Madison looked up at me with a wide smile. “You said it might backfire, but I don’t think it did.”

Gotta love her positive attitude. 

That's when I realized something. Just like taking a walk requires one step at a time, there are other things in life that also must happen – one step at a time. I grabbed Maddie’s hand and squeezed.

“You’re right sweetie,” I said. “I don't believe it did.” 

Hi everyone!

This week I'm sharing a post I wrote for the Quad City Moms Blog. It's called, How to Be a Better Wife: Five Great Reminders from my Three Little Girls.

So here's the deal. About ten years ago I made an eye-opening discovery ... someone had stolen my husband's heart! Well, it was actually three "someones." My three little girls. 

But guess what happened? I realized that when I started seeing my husband through my daughters' eyes, I became a much better wife.

I'd love for you to pop on over and read all about it. You can click right here: How to Be a Better Wife. 

See 'ya there! 

Sheri

Normally I don’t notice real estate signs. After all, I’m not in the market for a new house. But the other day on my way home from the store a sign caught my eye. Actually, it was the smaller sign on top of the sign.

It said, “I’m gorgeous inside.”

My first thought? That must be one ugly house!

I couldn't resist. I made a sharp right turn, sending soup cans rolling across the back of the van. I cruised through the neighborhood and found the house. Turns out, I had totally misjudged it.

The house was nice. Maybe it lacked a little curb-appeal, but it certainly wasn't the dump I’d pictured. I wondered what it looked like inside. Was it really gorgeous? I imagined that cozy home pleading with potential buyers as they drove by. “Please, just give me a chance. You’d be surprised if you’d take a closer look.”

Suddenly, a strange thought went through my mind. What if people came with signs like that? 

We live in a world obsessed with physical appearance. I remember my adolescent years when I went through an awkward stage. Okay, I went through several awkward stages. I had my share of bad perms. I wore wire-framed glasses. My teeth were crooked. And I hated my freckles.

Back then, I didn't know what God had to say about judging ourselves (and others) by their appearance.

“The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7 (NIV)

You've probably heard the expression, “beauty is more than what meets the eye.” I think that’s true. I’ve seen a lot of “beautiful” people who look gorgeous at first glance. Then, after a closer look they became very unattractive. A pretty face is nothing if you have an ugly heart.

Now that I’m 40-something and the mom of three girls, I want to remind them to focus more on their inner beauty. But it’s tough to teach a lesson that I’m still learning.

When I spot that occasional (gasp!) gray hair or when our bathroom light shines a little too brightly, revealing another wrinkle – I mean laugh line – I’m tempted to scream, “Somebody help me! I need more curb-appeal!”

But it’s easy for me to see the qualities that make my daughters beautiful. Compassion. Kindness. Creativity. Determination. A witty sense of humor. Curiosity. Courage.

I want my girls to understand what truly makes them beautiful. I want them to take pride in their accomplishments instead of their appearance. But most of all, I want to tell their future boyfriends this …

Take time to get to know her. She's more than her appearance. Look a little closer - you'll be surprised at what you see. Because she’s not only beautiful on the outside, she’s gorgeous on the inside. 

Hi everyone!

On a recent family vacation I had the opportunity to try something new. (And completely out of my comfort zone.) Whitewater rafting. In the end, I realized that battling those rapids is very much like motherhood! 

This week I'm sharing my post, "Top Five Ways Motherhood is Like Whitewater Rafting" from the Quad City Moms Blog. I'd love for you to check it out.

http://bit.ly/1vELwEg
 
Let me know if you can relate! 

Have a great week,

Sheri

“My shoes are tight and they’re getting worn out.”

I vaguely remember Madison telling me this one morning before school. But honestly, I didn't give it much thought. The school year was almost over. Her typical summertime footwear consisted of flip flops and softball cleats. Why buy new shoes at the end of the year?

So a couple of weeks ago I was packing for our trip to Colorado. I dug out Maddie’s shoes and gave them a quick glance, assessing their condition. Yep, they were worn, but they’d be okay. I tossed them in a suitcase and didn't see them again until the day we went for a long walk. 

“Mom, my toes hurt. These shoes are tight and rocks keep poking me.” 

“Surely they’re not that bad,” I said. Girls can be so dramatic. I leaned over for a closer look. And that’s when I realized her toes were squished and practically sticking out. That girl needed new shoes! 

You know the saying, “Don’t judge someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes”? Well that came to mind as I thought about the pain Maddie had endured!

Speaking of pain - and walking in someone’s shoes, I've been thinking about that saying ever since I heard the sad news about Robin Williams last week.

“Don’t judge someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes.”

It’s good advice, but realistically, it's impossible. After all, we've all had different experiences. There's really no way to know exactly what someone else is going through. 

Take Robin Williams, for example. On the outside, he looked great. He seemed happy. Confident. Successful. But on the inside, he battled the pain of addictions, depression and the early stages of Parkinson’s disease.

When someone asks me, “How are you doing,” my quick and simple response is usually “fine.” But I remember one day when a friend asked me that question – and I decided to tell her the truth. I wasn't fine. My life looked good on the outside, but on the inside I was falling apart. 

Like with Madison's shoes, it wasn't until my friend stopped to take a closer look could she see I was falling apart. And I'm so glad she did. She took time to listen - and her support helped me through a tough time. She also gave me a great reminder.  

Maybe we can’t walk in someone else’s shoes, but if they're facing a difficult situation, we can certainly walk beside them.  

I never intended to become a stalker, especially with my kids in the van. But I suppose that’s how it looked. I just couldn't resist. My girls didn't help matters either.

“Mom, can we please drive by the blue house?”

Poor kids, I thought. They missed the place as much as I did. I hit the brakes and made a sharp left turn. Hopefully the new owners wouldn't be outside today.  

My youngest pressed her nose against the window. “What did they do to our yard?”

“Some kind of landscaping, I guess.” I shook my head and continued gawking. 

My oldest daughter shot up in her seat. “Look! The curtains are open in my room.”

An uneasy feeling swept over me. Why did I feel guilty? I wasn't doing anything wrong. Yet I wondered what the owners might think if they recognized me. I scrunched down in my seat. 

“Is that a computer?” My daughter’s shriek interrupted my thoughts. “They've turned my bedroom into an office!” 

It all seemed so strange. Even weeks after our move, I still felt like we belonged there – as if we had every right to be there. After all, we’d made more memories in that house than those strangers had. My mind drifted back a few months when we first decided to move. At the time, I was so caught up in the excitement of building a new home, I didn’t think much about moving. My mind was consumed with countertops and cabinets, paint colors and carpets, light fixtures and fabrics. Then reality hit. It was time to start packing. Every room triggered memories.

In the master bathroom, I remembered the silly grin on my husband’s face as we watched that undeniable plus sign appear on our first pregnancy test. In the living room, I remembered the exact spot where each of my babies took their first wobbly steps.

There were birthday parties on the deck. Softball games in the backyard. Family meals around the kitchen table. And it wasn’t just the good times. I remembered trials and tears as well. Everywhere I looked, memories surrounded me. 

Within a few weeks it was moving day. After every box and piece of furniture had been carried to the trucks, we took one final walk through the empty house.

“Check all the drawers and look in the closets,” my husband instructed. “We don’t want to leave anything.”

But it already felt like I was leaving something. Part of me.   

When we moved into the new house I couldn’t wait to get settled. We arranged the furniture, hung pictures and displayed my favorite knick-knacks. Finally, everything was in its place. The house looked beautiful, but it didn’t feel like home.

To me, home was a place that felt comfortable and familiar. At the blue house, I could get up in the night, give a kid a teaspoon of cough syrup and crawl back into bed without turning on a light. In the new house, I felt lost. While looking for silverware, I found the potholders. When I needed more light, I switched on the garbage disposal. I loved the new house, but it felt so different.  

Even the holidays seemed different. We gathered for Thanksgiving dinner in a different dining room. We mailed Christmas cards and letters from our new address.

Yet, as each holiday passed, I realized something. Though the house was different, the precious faces around me had remained the same. Being with my family made it feel more like home. It wasn’t about the house. It was about the people.  

Little by little, our lives settled down into a new, comfortable routine. We made new memories and started new traditions. Then one day, while driving through the old neighborhood, I glanced back at the girls in the backseat.  

“Hey guys, do you want to cruise by the house?” 

The two older girls exchanged blank looks. Finally, my youngest spoke. 

“Nah, that’s okay.” She shrugged her shoulder. “I’d rather just go home.”

As I drove past the turn off, I smiled. Coincidentally, I didn't care to see the blue house either. At last, I thought, we were finally going home.

Lately I've been hearing voices in my head. It’s usually at night when I’m trying to sleep. It sounds something like this:

Hey batter look at me, I’m a monkey in a tree. 

Or ...

Walk her, walk her, just like Betty Crocker … go Betty, go Betty, go!

If you've never been to a girls’ softball game, you don’t know what you’re missing. Oh my goodness. There is never a quiet moment. The cheering never stops. 

I thought of my middle daughter, the pitcher. How does she concentrate with that racket going on? Isn't it distracting? She gets to hear ...                                                      

Watch the pitcher, watch-watch the pitcher. Is she high, is she low – is she fast, is she slow? Watch the
pitcher …

Or ...

Rolling, rolling, the pitcher’s going bowling! 

I got my answer the other night after Taylor’s game. She ran over to me as soon as it was over. “Hey Mom, did you see my bunt?”

I couldn’t believe she had to ask.  

“Of course I saw your bunt! I was sitting right behind home plate. I cheered before the first pitch, and then I screamed super-loud as you ran to first base. I embarrassed Emily for heaven’s sake. You didn’t even hear me?”

She tilted her head. “Nope - didn’t hear you.”

Now I was baffled.

“Well, what about when you’re pitching? I’m always cheering for you when you’re pitching.”

“Nah. I just block it out.”

As I sit here in my office, I am keenly aware that I’ll soon need to learn how to block out some other noises around here. Today is the last day of school – and tomorrow my home will become a place of commotion and chaos. I’m okay with that, until I need to write.            

I can’t concentrate with girls giggling or sisters screaming or a piano pounding or music blaring or doors slamming. And then there’s the ever-popular interruptions, like “How soon ‘til we eat?” and “Tell her to stay out of my room!” 

Like every summer, I’ll have to re-learn how to block it all out. Eventually, I’ll be like Taylor at her games. I won’t even notice. Then before I know it, all three girls will head back to school.

Of course then I won’t be able to concentrate - it'll be way too quiet.