One Book, One Bettendorf

I believe in volunteering in my community.

 Today I had the privilege of meeting a wonderful woman.  We belong to the same church but she is unable to attend services so every week a volunteer drops off the Sunday bulletin and a tape of the sermon.  It was my week to make the delivery.  She asked if I could stay for a while, and we had such a pleasant visit.  This past week a church member who was a long-time friend and neighbor of hers passew away, and we cried together.  She is very proud of the house she and her husband built and is very happy she is able to stay in her home.  She worked outside the home for over twenty years, and we laughed about some of the action of her employer.  If I did not volunteer, I would never have had the opportunity to meet this delightful lady.

My volunteering has changed over the years, just as everyone goes through various stages of life: beginning with 4-H, community events, running club races, on to PTA and other school programs, to domestic violence and child abuse, to my current involvement with a local children’s therapy organization and an area gardening program.

I feel very strongly about being active in the community.  I have had the privilege of meeting and working with wonderful individuals, have made new friends and learned do much from the years of volunteering.  I sincerely believe in being involved in your community — not to be taking all of the time but to give back as well.  Every community has many volunteer opportunities, and I would encourage everyone to try it — it truly is a life-changing experience.

Bev Thies

Growing up with nine siblings turned out to be a good beginning to my journey through life. I remember going to the hospital dressed up in my “Sunday best,” only to stand on the lawn of the hospital to wave at my mother and most importantly, to meet my new sister, four times over. Each one confirmed that I was part of the bigger picture. I had five older siblings to learn from before I entered different stages in life. It seems that the only thing this didn’t prepare me for was hand-me-downs from my brothers. Wearing brown and green stripped boys t-shirts taught me humility and the ability to find courage and pride no matter my circumstances. I strove to find that place in my family that defined my purpose among many. The road to adulthood was a path of responsibility littered with times of great joy, laughter and bonding.

As a teen, I found it awkward to fit in, balancing both responsibility and discovering who I was, again, among many. Little dabs of courage filtered into my being, yet self-acceptance didn’t seem to find its way. I found that being who I thought people wanted me to be kept the peace and provided me with a sense of acceptance. I became a vessel full of masks. The path I traveled was one of a country road, laden with rocks and pot holes. Yet I did survive myself.

Becoming an adult meant becoming a wife and mother. And so I turned onto that path of “life to the fullest.” Only to find seven years later that the path I chose was a dead-end. With two small children at my side, my search for reason, purpose and joy began. I finally found that by taking off all of the masks and whittling my life into a bare life-form, motherhood, joy and contentment seeped within me. Then upon discovering that I could love unconditionally and be loved the same my path took a turn onto blacktop. I married a man who was also raising two daughters, and we formed a family filled with much responsibility, littered with times of great joy, laughter and bonding.

Within this journey I also found the ability to survive grave illness and was graced with a precious peek at the peace and love of what eternal life could be like. I strive for that peace and love on the highways and interstates of my present life. Amazingly, I often find myself seeking discovery back on old country roads for the blessings that I have, past and present as I believe that the miracles in life are in the journey. Sadness allows me to define gladness, loss lets me appreciate what I have had and most importantly when I meet potholes along the way I remind myself that there is peace and love awaiting me in the purpose of my continued journey.

Susan (Susie) Marie Sumstine

We all have defining moments in our lives and my moment occurred on a Friday spring day. It started like every other day, but with exceptions. One, my paternal Grandma was in town visiting, which was a rare occurrence. My clinically blind grandma also brought with her a handgun, although my family was unaware of this at the time. And most importantly, my mom gave me a very long hug that morning before I set off for school that day. So long was the hug that I had to pry myself away, so I wouldn’t be late to school. I knew that my mother suffered from depression, but this was unusual.

Later that same day, I was pulled off a school bus that was heading to a junior high track meet. The principal told me there was an accident at home and a police officer would take me home. By Sunday, my mother was pronounced dead.

After my mom’s death, life was expected to go back to normal. I went back to school and I tried to pretend as if nothing had happened.

My belief in God was defined early on due to my family tragedy, as was my ability to forgive. I remember my mother’s vibrant and enthusiastic manner before her illness and unfortunately, I also remember vividly her chronic, and unrelenting depression. I also believe that my grandma contributed to my mother’s death. This is not a conclusion that has come easily or quickly for me. The mind is mysterious in how it protects us from things that are so difficult to comprehend.

Much later in high school, a well-meaning individual informed me that my mother couldn’t be in heaven because of the manner in which she died. I remember vividly my angry response. How could God punish her for an illness that wasn’t her fault?

I wanted to believe God would not judge in such a hateful way, but the question lingered stubbornly in my mind. I decided I wouldn’t have anything to do with a God or church that condemned so easily. It seemed hypocritical to me that God would be so unloving when God was needed the most.

Overcoming many obstacles, I was able to move forward with my life and accomplish all of the “normal” benchmarks that were important for me to achieve. I finished high school, went to college, got a job, got married and started a family. But it’s been a difficult journey.

I now believe I survived this complex tragedy and other difficulties, but not entirely on my own accord. I believe in guardian angels, the people that God puts in our lives to sustain us so that we might reach our God-given potential. It took the birth of my children for me to believe in God and the importance of forgiveness. God knows my unique heart and loves me just the same for it. And now, maybe I know and trust God’s heart too.

Sharon Kendall Dunn

I believe in public libraries.

My love of public libraries started when I was a child. My mother, who only went to school through eighth grade, had the wisdom to take me to the Berlin, Wisconsin, Public Library. It was a Carnegie Library with two long flights of steps, one outside and one inside, before you reached the main (the only) desk. Behind that desk was Miss Safford, who registered me for a library card. Number 3670.

As soon as I was able, I went to the library by myself, every day in the summers, less often during the school year. Miss Safford retired and Miss O’Connor took over. She recognized me as a Reader with a capital R. When I had read everything in my age level and below, she began bringing out books from the adult section for me. Then, even though I was only thirteen, she let me into the adult section. Miss O’Connor was my kind of librarian; the kind that will bend the rules in order to nurture a reader.

Well, time passed and I chose librarianship as a career. I learned that there is a large community of people who also believe in public libraries. For example, one day a few years ago, I met a woman in the lobby of the Bettendorf Public Library. She had recently donated to the Library Foundation and I thanked her. “I thank you,” she said. She told me she was a Hungarian immigrant and had grown up in Chicago. “We were poor,” she said, “but I never FELT poor because I could go to the library and get whatever I wanted to read.” If you want to be thanked a lot for the work you do, become a librarian. People will love you for helping them find a book or piece of information.

Yes, I believe in public libraries. They were a haven for me as a child. They are a free resource everyday for countless people. They nurture reading. They are a fundamental ingredient of this democracy.

Faye Clow

I believe in the power of words. Words, whether from the mouths of friends, family, acquaintances, or even strangers, have the power to build people up or tear them down.

As leader of a 6th grade Girl Scout troop, I witnessed the beginnings of something I painfully remembered from my past. It was the practice of girls, struggling with the angst left by puberty, attempting to break down others in an effort to validate themselves. Over the years I had used a lot of positive techniques to encourage the girls’ self-esteem. Still, as junior high approached, I began to see behavior - and words - that troubled me.

I selected a few scouts and placed beads in front of each one, explaining that they represented beauty, intelligence, and talent. The object of the game was to get the most beads. I ridiculed one girl’s outfit, then took a bead. I teased another about a failed test, then took a bead from her. The insults continued until I reached the last girl. I told her I wouldn’t take away any of her beads. Instead, she would have to take away a bead from another girl for me and say something mean to her, as well. This was all done with an air of fun and the girls laughed throughout the exercise, but their eyes spoke differently. Though they clearly knew my behavior was wrong, it was also clear that they had seen it before… maybe done it before.

After counting my beads, I declared myself the winner. The girls didn’t agree. They also didn’t believe that I took away the others’ beauty, intelligence, or talent. They did acknowledge that I took something else. I took away their self-esteem. Though all of my comments were false, we discussed how deep inside each girl might be wondering: is it true? What you hear often becomes what you believe.

Then I took out a big bucket of beads and explained my core belief: there is enough beauty, smarts – whatever the coveted trait - to go around. They are not finite resources, nor is self-worth or happiness. You don’t have to take from someone. In fact, the best way to get a bead it to give one away. Positive words empower both the receiver and the giver. This I believe.

Janene Murphy

I believe in the paradoxical nature of life. The dictionary defines paradox as,
“A tenet contrary to received opinion.” Received opinion is often
synonymous with expectation. I expect things to go right in my world and
work hard to make sure that happens. I study problems and make calculated
assumptions from that exercise. Sometimes I am pleased and sometimes I
am disappointed in my efforts. In either outcome, I am amazed at the
surprises that wait. When bad things happen a lesson awaits me that drives
me deeper into the well of grace and when good things happen I am humbled
with the fact of my fortune, in comparison to the misfortune of those who disserve better.

My granddaughter Ella was born with Noonan’s Syndrome. It is quite rare
and many disabilities come with this unfortunate condition. A brain tumor,
tethered spinal cord, deafness, an unclosed valve in the heart at birth, curled
up little toes on each foot, developmental delays, one kidney that doesn’t
work, malrotation of the bowel, and chronic aspirative bronchitis that leads
to pneumonia, are some of her most noticeable conditions.

Before Ella entered this world her parents had been warned about many of the
possibilities she might have to live with, they decided, “ We will wait and
see who we meet.” On that day when both sets of grandparents and
other family members waited at Children’s Hospital for the much-
anticipated arrival, we were amazed at her beauty. She had dark hair and
eyes; a precious package that had been carefully wrapped and cared for over
the previous 9 months.

Jesus said, “Those who lose their life will find it,” hmmm, “A tenet contrary to perceived opinion,” a paradox. I lost a part of my life the day she was born. As the days and months passed there were too many hospitalizations to count. With each new challenge that felt like defeat a fixed persuasion of victory seemed to abide. Something was happening “Contrary to received opinion.”

What a paradox, I prayed the child would change, but, the child changed me.
And she has continued to change me for 8 quizzical years, from her frail little
body. Her smile is as powerful as the sun on a budding flower. Her skinny
legs are a joy to my eyes as I watch the power she has in them when she
resists her parent’s discipline. Her mission in life seems to be, turning on
every light in the house; this has taught me to change entirely to energy
saving bulbs. She lights up my life with her mischievous ways, like pulling
the chair out from behind me when I plan to sit down.

When Ella was born I lost my life, as I knew it, and found another. She
introduced me to a new one. She was the teacher, guide, and model, with several academic degrees, I became the student. Such is the paradox of life.

Ray Larson

My latest change in circumstances came after a neighbor upstairs went to the hospital for an asthma attack.  A pan of cooking oil left on a turned on stove caught fire.  Although the fire was confined to his apartment, smoke forced all residents to move.  As we waited in the parking lot for the Red Cross, I wondered where I would stay, and thought about how much life can change in less than a half hour’s time.

 When first let into the old apartment, I grabbed just enough clothes and essentials to get by for a few days, while staying in a motel room, allowing myself to be pampered.  After the landlord found another apartment for me, the real work began.

Trip after trip, I returned to the old apartment, first getting clothes and things essential for my daily life.  In subsequent trips, I gathered my books, CD’s, mementos and my manuscripts.  The acrid smell of smoke stung my eyes, and sometimes I could barely breathe as I sorted through items collected over a period of years.  I dug through newspapers saved for clippings of articles and pictures, and threw them away.  I saved some personal items and threw away some to make my move easier.  I decided to keep the furniture in good shape, and to discard the furniture worn by years of living in one place.

Mementos from my childhood, from college days and from some of my favorite jobs reminded me of the many things I enjoyed.  Photos left by my parents tied me to my family life, lived in three different states, lived in town and in rural areas, and times that shaped my life.  Through decisions made, of what to save, and what to discard, I learned what was important to me.

I rediscovered my belief in moving, to examind the breadth of my existence, the belief in the worth of a well-examined life.

Mike Bayles

I was baptized as a baby in the Presbyterian Church. My mother’s Presbyterian faith had pulled her through her father’s death when she was fourteen. My father was baptized Presbyterian but he wasn’t a church-goer. He was into the “spirit of St. Andrews”. We four siblings and Mom mandatorily attended church and Sunday school.

In high school, I dated a Catholic boy who’d take me to Mass on Saturday nights. He kept an ear to Vatican II. I had no idea of the impact of this history-making event

In college, I spent some time with a Catholic boy. He fell in love with a Baptist girl and attended church with her twice a week. I went to church with him one Sunday and a few of the congregation were speaking in tongues. He tearfully went forward to be healed. I was shocked at the transformation. What had pulled him away from his beliefs?

I married a Catholic in his parents’ parish.

He was a Vietnam combat veteran. Our first 7-8 years were very stressful. We moved to Omaha on a job transfer and became active in a young parish. During inquiry classes taught by a young priest, there was an older man who was one of the parish founders. The priest was discussing virgin births and said this was not an unusual phenomenon. It was attributed to nobility and anyone of high stature. This elderly gentleman left.

We had 2 children, a boy and girl. One October weekend after we had been to the school fund raiser, my husband was arrested on manslaughter charges. I decided after the media rape and police at our door, that I wouldn’t muddle in sorrow and self-pity. I had to get counseling and learn to Survive, and triumph in my own way

A mothering neighbor invited me to a retreat sponsored by the Blue Army, held within the secured walls of a 80-year-old discalced Carmelite monastery in its main chapel. When the order diminished, the Franciscan Brothers revitalized it.

Weary from stress, I listened to Brother Francis. I looked at a large crucifix and felt shrouded in security. I bowed my head in very humble prayer, slipping into a reverie I’d never known.

In total silence I hear my name spoken calmly in a man’s voice. I squeezed my eyes tight, then opened them again! Brother Francis was still talking as if uninterrupted. The pews were filled with women, and Brother Francis didn’t know me from Adam.

We are a family again and we share a few etched-in-stone Bible paraphrases to get us through the tough times: “God takes care of his little sparrows”, and “where two or more of you are gathered in His name…”

Carol Saldivar

I believe in the healing power of a child’s smile. I didn’t always. In fact, at one point in my life, I didn’t think there was anything powerful enough to heal my pain or take away my sadness.

In 1997 my husband and I were expecting our first child. It was a normal pregnancy, and everything progressed as planned. Then, three days before my due date, I went into labor and realized I hadn’t felt my baby move in several hours. Our worst fears came true in the hospital when the doctor told us our baby had no heart beat and would be stillborn.

Oddly enough, I had been prepared for almost every other adverse pregnancy outcome, because at the time I worked for the March of Dimes. I knew about miscarriage, premature birth, and birth defects. But, even though I worked for an organization dedicated to prenatal and infant health, I don’t think I ever contemplated stillbirth.

The grief and guilt I felt when my son died was overwhelming. There were many days when I simply didn’t want to get out of bed or leave the house again. But, I did. It wasn’t easy. Anything could reduce me to tears: the birth a friend’s baby, passing a baby boy on the street, even a pretty sunset or a song on the radio.

The hardest thing was not finding a “reason” for our son’s death. We consulted several specialists at top notch institutions, none of whom could give us an answer. And so, we made the gut-wrenching decision to try again. Getting pregnant again was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever done. After all, there was nothing we could do differently this time around. And so, for the next nine months, I lived in fear.

When our daughter was born, a month early, but healthy and very much alive, I started to feel a bit better. And then one day, she smiled. That simple, perhaps even involuntary act changed my life. For I believe everything good is reflected in a child’s smile: love, innocence, curiosity, joy, hope. It’s all there, you just have to look.

It’s been eleven years since our son died. Our daughter was born and then another son. Whenever the pain of losing my first born bubbles up to the surface, I seek out my children. Being perceptive, they always know when I’m feeling sad. “What’s wrong mommy?” they’ll ask. “I’m thinking about your brother today.” “Don’t be sad mommy. You have us and we love you.” Then they smile and their smiles make me feel whole again. Their smiles have the power to heal the world. This I believe.

Marcia Z. Bannon