The Singer Sewing Machine

Speckled with nicks and scratches from decades of trusty family service, the old Singer sewing machine was coming to live with me.

I can't remember a time when I didn't want the Singer. I grew up with it. Many were the nights I listened to its whir as Mama's hands guided exquisite fabrics across it. And seldom did a day go by that its hum didn't fill the house.

For hours Mama could be found hunched over the Singer, busying herself with cotton prints and small buttons; with satin ribbons and yards of lace. She whipped out dresses fit for a princess to wear. Nothing proved too difficult when it came to her three little girls.

Mama was not one for homemade-looking clothes or a mere, this-will-do outfit, either. She had imagination and energy—lots of energy. There were sailor dresses, ruffles, petticoats, jewel necklines, peter-pan collars, and wide, velvet sashes. She also possessed a flare for the unusual, for embroidered pockets, for appliquéd collars, for exotic bordered prints.

It was not unusual for Mama to carry pen and paper to the expensive department stores. Contemplatively, she studied the complex outfits hanging in the window, tilting her head this way and that, drinking in the full view.

By the time we arrived home, she had a sketchy drawing, remarkably like the costly dress in the window. With grim determination splashed across her face, Mama carefully set out to fashion a dress of equal beauty and resplendence, often making her own pattern from an old newspaper.

Excellence was Mama's goal. She spent a lot of time measuring and marking, gathering and stitching, slowly bringing her creation to perfection.

Before long, her voice would call to me. Time for a fitting. I can still remember standing under her serious stare, inhaling the virgin cloth, her skillful hands tucking and pinning.

Mama's sewing ability appeared endless. Not only were we kids dressed flawlessly, so were our dolls. One Christmas, my sister and I received identical wardrobes for our ten-inch fashion dolls.

Created by my mother's clever hands, each tiny piece appeared magnificently stitched, a mirror of their creator's vivid imagination. There was a royal blue formal gown, high-waisted, complete with silver sequins and a white netting overskirt; a flannel housecoat, buttoning down the front; a bright red shift dress, with a ruffle along the tail.

My mouth gaped as I stared in wonder at the dainty garments nestled inside the white tissue. I was convinced Mama and the Singer could work miracles.

When I got the call that the Singer was not being used (she had finally bought a new one), I eagerly offered to take it. Not that I could sew a stitch, but if the Singer could work miracles for Mama, maybe there was hope for me.

When the machine arrived, a few days later, I felt downright weepy as I steadied it in front of the spare bedroom window, resisting the urge to hug it. I longed to hear its steady hum fill my home.

It wasn’t long before the Singer’s magic called to me. Without even meaning to, I found myself snatching up pieces of fabric whenever I saw a sale sign. I drug out old patterns and bought new ones. I was like a woman possessed. Not that it did me any good. My sewing abilities were unimpressive, at best.

I remember the first time I stood in front of my little daughter, a batch of straight pins hanging from my lips. Time for a fitting.

Hesitantly, I wrapped my humble creation around her small body, the fabric's pure scent rising to meet me. As I critically studied the simple cotton dress, I felt discouraged. "Well, it sure can't compare to anything of Nana's," I said.

Anna Marie patted my arm, carefully dodging the pins I wielded. "But Mama," she said, sweetly. "Even Nana had to start somewhere."

And so she did, as do we all.

Adapted from the book, Silver Linings (Pacific Press), by Dayle Allen Shockley. All rights reserved.

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On Fridays, Cindy hosts a blog party called Show and Tell. You're all invited, so head on over.

Miracle At Dawn

In February of 1997, I came close to becoming a widow when my husband had a close encounter with death while in the line of duty. You see the passenger seat in the photo above? That's where my husband was sitting when part of a church wall crashed onto the cab of his pumper. February 21st is a date I will never forget.

It's a rather long story, and I don't expect that everyone will have time or inclination to read it. But if you're interested in reading how the simple prayer of a firefighter's wife and her little daughter was answered in a mighty big way, here's the long version.

When I married my husband in 1980, I didn't fully understand what it meant to be the wife of a firefighter in a major city like Houston. But it didn't take long for me to get it.

Firefighters are highly educated in building construction and high-rises, in emergency care, hazardous materials, WMD response tactics, as well as the latest rescue and fire-fighting techniques. They also must maintain an extraordinary blend of gentleness and toughness. They fight fires with hands of steel; they comfort victims with hands of compassion. Such duties require not only great physical strength, but enormous mental strength. It isn't an easy task, and it isn't the job for just anybody. 

A firefighter can't fall apart when stumbling upon the charred body of a tiny two-year-old girl whose Christmas tree triggered the house fire that killed her. Firefighters can’t lose control of their emotions when they arrive at the scene of an accident and see a distraught mother who has just witnessed her three-year-old daughter's decapitation by an airbag. 

These things, my husband has witnessed. And when the call comes in that a homeless man has collapsed on a city sidewalk, a firefighter offers the same care to him as he would to his own father. Firefighters react to life's tragedies and catastrophes, to acts of God and to human wretchedness. This is what they do.

It wasn't easy, getting used to being a firefighter's wife. Stan worked 24-hour shifts at a time, giving me plenty of time to worry and be anxious. But, thankfully, God helped me early on to not do those things. Instead, I kissed him goodbye on the morning of his shift, and prayed a prayer for God's protection over him every night when he was away (click on photo to read "A Firewives Prayer"). I refused to live my life in fear, but rather trusted that whatever happened, God would be there.

After the birth of our daughter, whenever Stan was on duty, Anna and I always included a prayer for "Daddy's" safekeeping. And that was exactly what we did on the night of February 20, 1997. We ended our goodnight prayers with, “And God, please keep your hand on Daddy tonight.” With our prayers said, she and I crawled into bed and fell asleep.

About half past five the next morning, I was awakened by the ringing of the telephone. Who is calling me at such an ungodly hour? I wondered, hurrying to silence the ring. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Shockley?” The voice on the other end was a man’s.

“Yes?”

“This is Chief Holleman, safety officer with the Houston Fire Department.

“Yes?” I said, my voice uncertain.

“I need to talk to you about your husband.”

Suddenly, my heart raced. “Yes, sir,” I said, still unsure.

"Stan’s been involved in an accident. We’ve got him in the trauma unit at Hermann Hospital right now and …”

I could hardly breathe. My hands began shaking. “What kind of accident?”

“Here’s what we know. Stan and his crew were just arriving on the scene of a church fire early this morning, when part of the church wall fell and crushed the pumper.”

“Crushed the pumper?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, my God! Were they inside the pumper?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid they were,” he said. “Stan was the only one injured, and we believe he’s going to be okay, but I didn’t want you to hear this on the morning news. They're checking him out …”

“Is he conscious?” It was my voice, but I felt like an observer eavesdropping on someone else’s bad news.

“He blacked out earlier, but he’s conscious now. What I’d like you to do is just hang tight for me. They’re running some tests on him and I’ll call you back as soon as I know more.”

“Chief," I said, a sob catching in my throat, "I really want to be there.”

“I understand, Mrs. Shockley. Let me get these test results, and I’ll call you back. Okay? Just try not to panic. I’ll be in touch soon.”

In that moment, it felt as if every drop of blood drained out of my body; I was practically hanging from the telephone. I collapsed into a chair in the darkened kitchen and tried to catch my breath. Dear God, I pleaded aloud, please let Stan be okay. Please!

Most of my husband’s years in the fire department were spent at Station One, in the heart of downtown. He has been on the roof of every building in Houston's magnificent skyline. During his career, he witnessed countless hair-raising sights—some you’d have a hard time believing. Just the month before the accident, he received a commendation for his outstanding skills as a captain. He had even encountered a few close calls with injury, but never anything of this magnitude. The phone call from Chief Holleman was the call every wife of a firefighter fears: "Your husband is in the trauma unit."

As I attempted to get myself presentable to go to the hospital, the phone rang again. Chief Holleman was sending Chief Kelley out to drive me and Anna to Hermann.

The dreaded moment had arrived. I had to tell my daughter, then 10, that her father—her best buddy—was hurt. She lay sleeping peacefully on my bed.

“Anna, I need you to wake up, baby,” I said. “Mom needs to tell you something.”

She cracked one eye.

“I don't want you to get upset, but Daddy’s been hurt at work and I need to go to the hospital and see him.”

Her eyes flew open. “Mom!” She started to cry. We held each other and prayed. I took her face in mine and said, “No matter what we have to face today, sweetheart, God is going to help us get through it.”

Suddenly, I was filled with a sweet peace as I realized the truth in my words. God would help us get through it, no matter what.

Squeezing my hand, she shut her eyes tight, a thin stream of tears trickling down her cheeks. “I want to go with you to see Daddy,” she said.

A few minutes after six, Chief Kelley arrived at the house. Anna and I climbed into the HFD vehicle and headed toward the medical center, making small talk along the way.

Arriving at the emergency entrance, Chief Holleman was there to meet us, along with Houston’s fire chief, Eddie Corral. “I need to warn you,” Chief Holleman said, as we hurried inside. “Stan looks pretty bad.”

I nodded, my heart pounding out of my chest.

The first person I saw inside the hospital was Stan’s best friend and fellow-HFD member, David. I don’t remember everything, but I do remember falling into his arms and thinking how comforting it felt to have him there. David and I talked awhile and decided he would stay in the waiting area with Anna, while I went in to see Stan. She would see him later.

When I walked into the trauma center, a host of men and women from the fire department instantly surrounded me, all offering their sympathies and wanting to be of help in any way. Never have I felt more like I was among friends than I did that morning. A brother had been injured, and the feeling of camaraderie was powerful.

In the middle of the room, I caught a glimpse of my husband, propped up on a gurney—a pallid, bloody mess he was, but I’d never been happier to see him. A surgeon stood behind him, stitching up a six-inch gash in the top of his head.

When our eyes met across the room—mine and Stan’s—it was a moment frozen in time. He doesn't remember it at all, but I'll never forget it.

The two-alarm blaze was the morning’s top news story in Houston, and headlines in the next day's newspaper. Stan’s crew had been the first to arrive on the scene of the pre-dawn fire at the vacant Good Hope Baptist Church. As his chauffeur pulled around the corner to catch a plug, Stan leaned forward, reaching for the microphone to make his initial report. That’s when part of the church wall came crashing down onto the roof of the pumper, directly above the passenger seat, where he was sitting.

The collective weight and force of the falling structure was so great that it blew out all the tires on the pumper, and left an enormous V-shaped dent just above the passenger seat. Trapped inside the cab and knocked unconscious, Stan began losing blood from the deep wound on his head. Normally, he would have been sitting upright, but he happened to be leaning forward, reaching for the radio microphone. Had he been sitting upright, he most likely would have been killed, or left with severe spinal injuries.

The crew of Engine 1 (who could so easily have been seriously hurt or killed, as well) worked feverishly to free Stan from the wreckage. I was told later by Chief Raney, one of the district chiefs who helped pull Stan out of the pumper, that when he saw Stan’s face, he felt certain he was not going to survive. In Chief Raney’s words, “I’ve seen death, Mrs. Shockley, and Stan had the look of death on his face. I didn't think he would live.”

The editor of the firefighter’s union paper would later write about it this way: “The good Lord was looking out for our members again!”

Indeed, He was. Outside of 25 stitches in his head, and the expected aches and pains from such an injury, Stan would be okay.

Shortly after his release from the hospital, we drove to the shop where the pumper—a total loss—had been towed. As we crawled up and surveyed the tangled wreckage where Stan had been sitting, we looked at each other in a wide-eyed stare, our mouths opened. There was no question about it; a miracle had occurred here. The simple prayer of a firefighter’s wife and daughter had been heard; God’s hand of protection was evident.

Some weeks later, when Stan returned to work, one of his colleagues handed him a picture that had been taken at the scene of the fire and pointed out what looked like the shape of an angel in the flames. I don’t know a lot about angels, nor how they operate on earth, but I do know that an angel was looking out for my husband in the early morning hours of that cold February morning. Of that, I have no doubt.

******

Soft Lemon Coolers

Put a little lemon sauce on anything and I feel certain I'll eat it. I love all things lemon and these soft lemon cooler cookies are as easy to make as A, B, C, and so yummy. They will disappear in record time.

Soft Lemon Coolers

1 - Lemon cake mix

1 - 8 oz. Cool Whip (softened)

1 - egg

Powdered sugar, as directed

Preheat oven to 350°

Mix first 3 ingredients well. (Dough will be stiff and sticky.)

Using two spoons, or a cookie “scoop,” drop spoonfuls of dough (make size according to your preference; I prefer about 2 tablespoons of dough, per cookie) into powdered sugar and coat thoroughly with hands. Shape into flat discs and place on lightly-sprayed non-stick cookie sheet.

Bake for 8-10 minutes or until light brown. Cool for five minutes, then place on wire rack.

Allow to cool completely. 

Don’t over-bake!

Yields approximately 4-dozen soft cookies.

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This is my first time to join up with Michael Lee's scrumptious Foodie Friday (love how that sounds) blog party, and my picture of the lemon coolers is rather a sad sight, compared to the photographs she serves up. 

Click on over and be amazed, but consider yourself warned. You'll come away hungry.

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I'm also linking up with Cindy's Show & Tell party. Always a treat to go there.

Coming to terms with "thin"

I stepped on the scales yesterday and nearly fell off. I had gained five pounds. That may not seem like a lot and, in all candor, my skinny clothes still fit well, but the upward trend caught my attention, because I know--boy, do I know--how one little pound leads to two and five to ten. So ... here for all to read, I'm calling an end to my out-of-control love affair with Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies.

You have no idea how difficult that will be. For starters, I'm married to a gentleman who buys me things I don't need--like the three boxes of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies in the kitchen. That's not counting the two boxes I've already eaten. Frankly, I don't know why they call them "thin" anything. They may look thin, but they have deadly effects on thin figures. And I keep them in the freezer, which only makes them even more irresistable. I love that little crunch the coldness gives them. And I can't ever eat just one. It's way worse than potato chips.

I know. I have a real problem. But doesn't Dr. Phil say the first step in solving one is admitting you have one? Well, Dr. Phil, I'm on my way to recovery. I have a problem with these thin little sweet things, but today, on this Tuesday, I vow to do with less. No more eating one whole box in one day. I promise.

When Love Came Calling

It was Valentine's Day. My husband had a rare day off, but I was not so fortunate. For two weeks my job had been grueling. An urgent project often found me putting in twelve-hour days. So when the florist delivered a grand arrangement of a dozen red roses shortly after noon, my mood lifted. I opened the envelope and drew out the card. Love always, Stan, it read.

How sweet, I thought, placing the large vase of flowers on my desk. The sight of the roses cheered me and filled me with anticipation for the evening. With our daughter visiting her grandparents, it would be just the two of us. Something that hadn't happened in a long while.

At 3:30, the phone rang. "Are you leaving at four?" Stan wanted to know.

"On the dot," I assured him.

"Good," he said. "I’ve got steaks on the grill."

The sun was softening as I drove home, one hand steadying the vase of flowers beside me. So lovely was their fragrance, I found myself relaxing. Just around the bend, a man who loved me waited.

As I drove in the garage, I glimpsed Stan out on the deck beside the smoking grill. He greeted me at the gate with a kiss. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving," I said, realizing I was. With an arm around my shoulders, he led me and the roses into the house where I couldn't believe my eyes.

The dining room—normally reserved for special occasions—resembled an intimate restaurant. Glass and silver dishes sparkled beneath the warm glow of two slender, red candles. Cloth napkins lay perfectly folded beside two china plates. On my plate lay an envelope that said, “To my sweetheart.” Somewhere I heard the soft strains of Jackie Gleason's orchestra.

"It's beautiful," I gasped, placing the roses in the center of the impressive table.

What followed was a luscious four-course meal, all prepared by the loving hands of my sweetheart. As the candles burned lower, I felt all of the day's tension melt away.

Dining with my husband, just being near him, hearing his voice, feeling his touch, tasting his food, filled me with a powerful longing and love for him, and at the same time, a profound knowledge of his love for me.

It wasn't a new feeling, but one often ignored because of the hectic schedules we both lived by. As the soft romantic music spilled into the little room, I knew I would remember this Valentine's Day forever.

Driving to work the next morning, I thought about the evening I'd just spent with my husband. And I sensed the Lord whisper, That's how I want it to be between us.

"What, Lord?" I asked, unsure what He meant. "A dozen roses? A table bathed in candlelight and spread with good food? Love notes? An evening of intimate conversation?"

Yes, He said. Every day I send you flowers, but you seldom notice. You have a book filled with my love letters, but weeks pass without you reading them. I prepare a table just for you and me. And I wait for you. Yet some days you never even speak to me.

A shiver ran up my spine as His words touched the secret places of my heart. I wanted to stop the car and weep. How foolish I had been, often dismissing the gentle wooing of God. In my busy world of deadlines and demands, how many times had I left Him dining alone like a jilted lover? Suddenly, on a busy toll road overflowing with commuters, I had an insatiable thirst for God, for a more intimate relationship with Him. Just the two of us. And I knew the choice was mine. Just as the choice is yours.

God has given us the freedom to decide how intimate our relationship with Him will be. We choose whether or not we will dine with Him. Like an anxious lover, He waits, hoping we desire to be with Him as much as He desires to be with us.

“I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.” (Revelation 3:20, NIV)

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Taken from the book, Whispers From Heaven (Pacific Press), by Dayle Allen Shockley.
All rights reserved.

Photograph, courtesy of Susan, at Between Naps on the Porch.

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For more inspirational writings, visit Charlotte and Ginger at their wonderful blog, Spiritual Sundays.

Love Endures After All These Years

This is a photograph of me and my husband, dashing through the traditional shower of rice from well-wishers as we head off on our honeymoon in 1980. What I knew back then about love could fit easily on the head of a pin. Oh, I thought I knew a lot, but what can you really know about love when you've only just begun?

In a few months, we will celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary. We've certainly weathered our share of storms, but I'm not complaining. There is something revealing about braving a storm together. When you lean on each other, you discover not only your own strength, but the strength of your mate, as well. And you discover something else. Storms strip away the counterfeits and the facades, leaving only your real self, vulnerable and exposed. The pretenses are over. Maybe that is how it is supposed to be. Maybe love cannot truly be found, until everything else is lost.

We’re still a work in progress, but growing old together brings rich rewards.

The following essay first appeared in The Dallas Morning News, August 9, 2003. I share it here as part of Jo's Flashback Friday party. With Valentine's Day upon us, it's mostly about love this week. Hop on over and check it out.

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It is a warm August night—a rather ordinary evening, except for one thing. It is my wedding anniversary, and being married to the same man for almost a quarter-century makes it an extraordinary evening, wouldn’t you say?

Perhaps we should have splurged and bought impressive gifts for each other, but we don’t need a thing. Dinner out will work just fine.

Taking a final look in the mirror, I hear my husband rattling keys.

“I’m in the car,” he calls.

And in the car, he is. Only it isn’t our car he is in, but our daughter’s flashy yellow mustang.

“So,” I say, crawling in, “are we feeling a bit sporty tonight?”

“Yeah, why not?” he says, backing down the drive-way. Despite his gray hair, he looks right at home behind the wheel.

At the restaurant, we are seated at a candle-lit table, handed menus and left to contemplate our appetites. This is one of our favorite places to eat. I already know what I want, so instead of studying the menu, I peer over the top of it and study the handsome man across the table.

In our years together, I have seen every expression he is capable of making, including the one he is wearing now—it is the what-to-order look.

“Can’t decide?” I ask, almost certain he will end up with his usual prime rib.

“I thought about a steak,” he says, “but prime rib sounds good, too.”

Soon, the prime rib wins out, our order is taken and we are left alone. We make small talk, then lapse into silence.

Once upon a time, silence would have made us both nervous, but marriage has a way of steadying nerves. Silence is OK. Tonight, it gives me time to reflect.

All of my life I have heard people say that marriages have seasons. And it is true. We have lived through barren seasons and seasons of plenty. Seasons when we couldn’t stand to be apart, and seasons when we wondered how we would stay together.

But at this point in our marriage, we seem more settled than ever. We have nothing left to prove to each other. We are comfortable together.

Does that mean we never argue?

No. But we know that a quarrel is not the end of the world, nor the end of a marriage.

Does that mean we have lost the passion of our youth?

No. We still light each other’s fire quite well. We know the right buttons and how to push them.

Does that mean we have evolved into perfect mates?

No. But even though I am not a perfect wife, nor he a perfect husband, we are two people who have accepted each other—warts and all. Two people who, despite their differences, plan to be together “’til death do us part.”

Does that mean our marriage is divorce-proof?

No. But if two people agree (and that is the significant word here—agree) that nothing will separate them, then how can they be separated, except by death? It is only when one party breaks that agreement, that divorce occurs.

All marriages have testing points. Storms, if you will. Times when the vow, “’til death do us part,” is pushed to the limit. It may be the loss of a child, the death of a parent, the illness of a spouse, a mate’s infidelity, an attraction to another person, or maybe financial collapse.

Storms can occur at any time during a marriage, but I believe that it is during the first storm when a marriage’s ultimate strength is tested. And while I have no scientific data to stand on, I also believe that if a marriage endures that initial storm, it has a much better chance of enduring thereafter.

Suddenly, my husband reaches for my hand. As I look into his eyes, I am filled with love for the man I married so many years ago, and I am deeply grateful that we chose to weather our many storms together, because tonight his eyes reflect nothing but love in return.

All rights reserved.

Unwrapping Sunshine

After a long line of gray days, I walked past the guest room and spied squares of sunshine on the floor.

I wanted to crawl up in the bed and read a spell, but I settled for a couple of snapshots.

Here's wishing you a sun-drenched day, wherever you are.

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Linking up with Chatting At The Sky and The Inspired Room.

Tell Me One More Time About Jesus - Spiritual Sundays

Enjoy Vince Gill's magical voice.

I'm joining Charlotte and Ginger again for a weekend of inspirational thoughts and music.

Gayle, Dayle, Elaine - Siblings Flashback Friday

This is a picture of me and my sisters, circa 1963, Easter Sunday. That's me on the right. The one on the left who looks like me is my identical twin sister, Gayle. In the middle stands the most wonderful big sister in the world, Elaine.

When we were growing up, one of our favorite events was the arrival of a new Sears, Roebuck catalog. Elaine would hold the book and sit between me and Gayle on the sofa. Opening to Page 1, she would point to the page and say, "Gayle," which meant that it was Gayle's turn to look at the pictures on the page and make up a story about them. Gayle might say, "That's me in the red dress, and that's my best friend in the black hat. We've just been to see the Queen of England."

On Page 2, Elaine would point and say, "Dayle," at which time I would concoct some tale about the images there. On the third page, Elaine would point and say, "Elaine," then proceed to spin her own lively story. On and on it went. Gayle, Dayle, Elaine. Our hopes and dreams were whispered over the pages of a Sears, Roebuck catalog.

Life is no longer that simple, but our little circle remains solid. In the disquieting struggles and fears of life, we come together and find the strength to survive, to move forward, to cope. For that, I am deeply grateful.

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This post is linked up to the Flashback Friday party over at Jo's charming blog, Mylestones. It's a new thing, and sounds like a load of fun. There's a different theme each week, and there's plenty of room to join in. I hope you will.

God's Artwork

I took this sunset photo last week, sitting on the pier you see here, while The Man and I were on South Padre Island. No enhancement has been done to the picture; it's all God's fabulous artwork, and what a way He has of wrapping up the day. This is now my desktop background, and it takes my breath away every time I see it.

I'm linking up with Emily over at Tuesdays Unwrapped. It's been awhile since I was able to join in on the party.