Janet's Blog

It was the first day the bridge was closed on the Scottsbluff/Gering Highway, and I told myself, as I climbed into my car, to remember to turn left at the stop sign. But, wouldn’t you know it, I turned right instead. And in the midst of my turning the wrong way, I started singing a line of music I had never heard before: “It’s gonna take some time to change my muddled mind.” I took that as a sign from God that it was time to write a new song. As I mulled that over, I realized that a lot of us are dealing with much harder changes than an annoying bridge closure.  I had to turn around and head towards this bridge instead,  one of only three others that crosses the North Platte River between Gering and Scottsbluff. Life has been difficult this year for many who have been dealing with accidents or injury, illness, retirement, grief, or one of numerous other unexpected struggles. It doesn't help that the world around us is evolving in ways we never thought possible, with drast...

I've been writing songs since I was 16--or even longer, if you count the nursery rhymes I set to music and sang for my baby sister. Most of the music I've written are Christian hymns and songs, and all but 20 have been written in the last 15 years or so. That means I have averaged seven or eight songs a year in recent years. Last year was different. I was driving back and forth to Fairbury frequently to help my Dad navigate the last few months of his life. For half a year, I made that 800 mile round trip two or three times a month. When I drive long distances by myself, I usually sing along with My Bridge, a Nebraska Christian radio network that is available all the way across the state. But something new was added during last year's trips. I found that God was giving me new songs to sing as I drove. Composing music while driving can be problematic because it's impossible to write and drive at the same time. So, I sang the new songs over and over, and recorded them on m...

  D ecember is here at last, this exciting, magical, sometimes overwhelming month we all love. Or do we? December has much to offer, it's true. Even sleepy little towns are busy this time of year with concerts and children's programs, parties and parades. Every main street in the US is decorated. Every store promotes its seasonal sales. Delivery workers are so overburdened that, unfortunately, even enterprising porch pirates have many choices. It's easy to become so wrapped up in the trappings of our modern day Christmas celebrations that we overlook the real meaning of this ubiquitous holiday. Even the word, Christmas , spells out the truth about the season: Christ's Mass was a worship service instituted about a thousand years ago, when Holy Communion was celebrated in commemoration of Jesus' birth. What started as a Christian feast day has somehow morphed into the extravaganza we continue to celebrate as Christmas.  Perhaps you are feeling jaded about life in gene...

I was sitting on my stool at the front of the church on Sunday, mostly hidden behind my music stand, as usual. The worship team was playing The Wonderful Cross ,   which is an updated version of When I Survey the Wondrous Cross. The verses are the same hymn I've known my whole life, with an additional chorus. This particular version of the song calls for the bass, and most other instruments, to play only a D for the entire verse, with other appropriate chords added just during the chorus. I have the verses memorized, and I can play an open D with my eyes closed and my left hand tied behind my back, so I didn't need to look at my music. At first, I glanced at the rear screen, where the lyrics are displayed for the onstage singers to see, but since I already knew the words, my gaze shifted across the singing congregation. I couldn't help but notice the family standing right in front, some singing, but most struggling to keep from crying. The elderly man on the end was sitting...

I was seventeen or eighteen when our traveling ministry group sang at a nursing home in Oklahoma or Minnesota, or some other state on one of our three-week-long journeys. I remember seeing a sign that stated "Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life." Another popular sign urged the residents, and perhaps the staff, as well, to "Bloom Where You are Planted." Our Traveling Ministry group, Wheels of Faith . Pictures like this make me grateful for recent, digital photography. I don't know why I hated those signs, and their implied meanings. They make perfect sense now. But then, I probably thought they didn't really apply to me, since I was sure I had my whole life ahead of me. Perhaps it seemed like it was asking too much for nursing home residents to do anything meaningful with the remainder of their lives. Or, maybe, the signs just seemed like clichés, even then, when the sayings were new. Now, I know differently. I've had an active ...

I was just sixteen, the first time I rounded up some friends to sing in the nursing homes in Fairbury. It was summer, so we had some time available. And, I loved the new-found independence that came with having a driver's license and a vehicle to drive. The vehicle was unconventional, to say the least, but the old, yellow, converted mail van/catering van was perfect for hauling several girls and guitars. The only seat was the driver's seat, unless you counted the folding chair that slid toward the back of the van whenever the driver used the brake. For the most part, my passengers sprawled on the cold, metal floor in the back of the van, or perched carefully on one of the raised wheel covers. We usually met in the early afternoon once every week, or so, in my church's parking lot, because Grace Lutheran Church was located just a few blocks from the nursing homes. When our youth leader noticed what we were doing, he decided he wanted to organize us, and open up our minis...

When a Facebook friend posted a link to an article about a Lutheran pastor who was murdered this week in Fort Dodge, Iowa, outside his church, I clicked on the link to see what had happened. I didn't expect to know that particular pastor, so I was surprised to recognize his name, and see that he was the same age as I am. When the article further stated that he had attended Concordia College in Seward, I remembered that I had once known Al pretty well. We went to college together but, more than that, when we were freshmen, we sang together on the same folk worship team of eight or ten students. Our team, "Joyful Noise," was extremely active, traveling all over Nebraska, and even into Iowa, to sing and minister at worship services, youth group meetings, and retreats. As a group, we spent a lot of time together, practicing, and riding in a school van from one engagement to another. At least half of us played guitars, because more was always better in those days before easy...

Today, on the day traditionally known as Maundy Thursday, I finally learned the true meaning behind the day's label. I am surprised to learn that  "Maundy" means "commandment." The word “Maundy” was originally an Anglo-French word derived from the Latin “mandatum,” which translates as “commandment.” After Jesus washed his disciples' feet on that eventful evening, he gave them a simple, new commandment to "Love one another. As I have loved  you, so you must love one another." (John 13:34) When I googled the word just now, I found that the Merriam-Webster dictionary defines "Maundy" as "a ceremony of washing the feet of the poor on Maundy Thursday." I suppose that the meaning has changed over the years to reflect popular practices, although I've never been present for a foot-washing ceremony on the Thursday before Easter. All these years, as I've celebrated Communion with my church family every Maundy Thursday, I'v...

I remember Novembers of long ago, when the only obvious holiday decorations were a few remaining Halloween pumpkins, still sitting on doorsteps. We were eager to celebrate Thanksgiving with family, but the stores were not filled with specific Thanksgiving decor--no Thanksgiving napkins, paper plates, or centerpieces. The stores were not crowded with Christmas displays, either; those did not arrive until right after Thanksgiving, when Santa rode into town in a horse-drawn wagon or a red convertible, or at least once in my memory, in a helicopter. Years ago, Halloween was celebrated with its brief, one day of trick or treating in our neighborhoods. Thanksgiving was observed by thanking God during an extra church service on Wednesday evening or Thursday morning, followed by the traditional, extended family feast with our grandparents. In nearly every town across America, the downtown Christmas lights were lit on Thanksgiving evening, and people began to think about doing some ...

We moved to Fairbury on Friday, May 1st, 1964. I had just turned nine years old. Mom took Danny and me to Eastward School the following Monday, right after lunch. That morning, she had met with the appropriate school officials to determine which school we would attend. Eastward was a few blocks farther for us to walk than Central, but we didn't really mind. We were eager to attend a newly-built school, which was quite a contrast to the stately, but aging, grade school we had attended in Norfolk. We were excited that our new school offered a hot lunch program, so we no longer had to hurry home for lunch. School started at 8:30 in the morning, which was quite a change for us, since we were used to starting at 9:00, but we were excited to be done for the day by 3:15, instead of 3:45. Mom fussed a little bit that we were changing schools in May, when there were only a couple of weeks of school left for the year, but she rationalized that we would be able to make some friends that w...

I was speed-walking my way through the neighborhood last night, just at dusk, with my little Shih-poo, Jackson, in tow, thinking about some long-lost sights and sounds, and even smells, and it occurred to me that I've experienced countless things that my grandchildren will never encounter. Oh, I know, they will undoubtedly be faced with a wealth of experiences, throughout their lives, that I can't begin to imagine. Just think of the stories they will tell their own grandchildren someday... But today, I wonder if Tobin, and Evelyn and little Lydia, and the newest grandson, due any day now, along with any of their future cousins, will ever get to milk a cow by hand, as I did, with limited success, when I was three or four. And, I wonder if they will ever get to hold a newborn piglet, or hear the eager snorts of a dozen little pigs as they crowd together to nurse from a patient sow. I don't remember bottle-feeding my little lamb, Lola, but I suppose there is some chance ...

If you have recently attended Calvary Memorial Church in Gering, you have probably noticed the musicians on the worship team as they sidle up the west side aisle, one or two at a time, a few minutes before each service is scheduled to start, only to disappear through the door at the front of the sanctuary. You have probably figured out that we go there, to the Green Room, to get ready for the service. I don't know how long it's been called the Green Room--certainly longer than the ten plus years I've been attending Calvary Memorial. I can only surmise that it got its name because the room, with its one khaki green wall and aging green carpet, left over from the seventies, has a function somewhat similar to those infamous Hollywood Green Rooms, where celebrities wait (and often eat and drink to excess) until it is time for them to perform on some variety show or late evening talk show. I hope I don't need to assure you that the atmosphere in Calvary's Green Room ...