One Book, One Bettendorf

I believe in travel and its perfect ability to transform a wayward soul into a dedicated adventurer.  I believe in caught moments, stupendous sights and sacred silences as well as lost shoes, lost luggage and lost prejudices.

I learned to travel young imprinted by my parents who spent Sunday afternoons on car rides and dreams.  Looking out the car window at land to build a house on, led me to believe that promises were always “out there.”

My first trips were 100 milers to my grandparents’ house.  I spent those miles in the ‘56 Olds sparring with my sister for every square inch of  backseat acreage.   The leg room was limited and my sister hogged the seat, but the view outside the window was always worth the trip.  We took Highway 47 up the center of Illinois to Joliet.  Along the way were bathtub virgins, triple shake drive-ins and 2 building towns.  I listened as my parents talked about the condition of the roads, the smell of fertilized fields and whether the car was running okay.  I liked the green fields, the wind in my hair and the license plate game.

It was on a trip the summer I was 12 that I became a traveler for life.  My father wanted to take the fabled Route 66 to California, and so we set out on our first road trip.  We had to do the shoestring tour, since there were four of us with a long way to go and limited money.  We had countless rest stop meals where we ate bologna sandwiches on Wonder bread.  Once, in the Badlands, it was 120 degrees and by the time we’d stopped for lunch, the bread had grown crunchy in the heat.  But there were charms to be had in the teepee motels, hairpin curves and exotic Indian dancers.   No souvenir stand was safe from us and no scenic overlook was over looked.   I fell in love with the road and the endless adventure it offered.  No amount of backseat spats, queasy stomachs or superheated leather seats could have kept me from the amazing canyons at my feet, the tidal spray of my first ocean or the charm of a new, pool side friend.  

These many years later, my life is still informed by the traveling I do.   I never expected that on the way out to the unknown, I’d meet myself along the way.  I found what curiosity can bring and what an open heart can reveal.  I learned that the roads that seem to lead to nowhere always ended up somewhere I’d always wanted to go.  I found out that a picture of a place without a person in it was forgettable, and the best pictures were the ones I memorized with my heart.   I learned that setting out in a beat up car is as good a starting place as first class on any airline.  

I believe in travel, because travel plots the course; I have to take it.

Gaye Dunn

My dog, Toby, loves fortune cookies. I like the fortunes inside. It is a treat to crack open the cookie and see what the small, white slip of paper reveals. Will it be funny or true? My friend once found one that actually read “You like Chinese food”. I wonder who writes these fortunes. Sometimes they really aren’t fortunes at all.

Stuck on my refrigerator, along with the calendar, pictures and magnets are three fortunes. I saved them because they reflect my beliefs. The first one reads, “A different world cannot be built by indifferent people”. I believe this is true. When we hear about or experience things that disturb us, it becomes an opportunity for change. It is when we sit back and accept intolerance or injustice that we reject the possibility that things can be better. Just one person can make a difference.

Another fortune suggests we should “Take the advice of a good friend”. When someone we know, who truly cares about us, tells us something, I believe we owe it to ourselves to listen. We do not always have to do as they say, or even agree with them. But when we know they have our best interest at heart, we should at least consider their opinion.

The third fortune states, “Love does not always wear a friendly face.” As the mother of three sons in their early twenties, my first thought was about setting limits and consequences. However, I believe it is more than that. It is about loving people when it is hard. It is easy to love our children when they are newborns or sleeping toddlers. It is quite another to love them when they are sullen middle schoolers or reckless teenagers and it can be hard to believe they love us in return. The face of love can be sad when dealing with an aging parent with Alzheimer’s Disease. It can be frightened for a spouse or angry with a friend. Sometimes it is hurt or disappointed. But through all of these faces, I believe it is the tolerance, respect and ultimate love we show one another that makes the difference.

So, I believe if we look closely, we can sometimes find hints about how to live our lives in unexpected places, like fortune cookies.

Jill Asbury

It was on a golf course that I first learned to appreciate nature, artificial and manicured though it was; it had open spaces and trees around the fairways and greens. Four decades later I no longer played golf, but used the courses differently.

Let me apologize for our surplus of snow this winter. I must have brought it on by wishing so hard for the snows that I remembered from childhood, until a few years ago; snows that stayed on the ground for the season. For several recent years, wet snows covered for a few days and melted. Not enough for cross-country, my favorite form of exercise. Out on the expanses of our golf courses and parks, with trails through the woods along narrow creeks, gliding smoothly along, breathing clean fresh air, away from traffic odors and mechanical noises. It was exhilarating and invigorating.  Now that my wish came true and there has been plenty of snow, I’m unsteady on my feet, and my skiing friends have moved away. My courage has left me to go alone.

However I can still enjoy the undeveloped wooded area behind our house. I have seen spectacular sunrise color displays through the bare trees, and a large variety of birds, including an occasional bald eagle high in the oaks. I have seen squirrels, deer, ground hogs, fox and raccoons leaving intriguing tracks in the snow. Some of the animals are refugees from former habitats now covered with houses, buildings, and cemented parking lots.

I believe in preserving natural areas and keeping some open spaces around buildings and houses, and not paving over every inch of ground.

I miss seeing the cornfields along 53rd street, and I miss the blue flowering chicory and white Queen Anne’s lace off Kimberly Road on my way to a store. I need daily reminders of the natural world…”The beauty and mystery of creation-of the essential joy that is life.” (Quote from “Snow” by Orhan Pamuk)

Mary Rose Hawkinson

In 1689, the Japanese poet Matsuo Basho, while on a ‘walking tour’, described his journey. He wrote, “Each day is a journey and the journey itself home.’ I believe our trip through life, daily and cumulative, must be made one day at a time and that each day is made lighter by the presence of one true friend on the path.

I believe special friends come into our lives, unexpectedly, at just the right point in time, joining our journeys together. One autumn evening I was at a picnic with a bonfire on a farm outside the city. While we were engaged in watching toddlers play in the peacefulness of the surroundings, a stranger spoke to me. This young woman asked if we possibly belonged to the same church. Our journey began.

I believe a friend walks with one daily. We would phone each other and at the mere vocalization of each other’s name, we’d completely dissolve into laughter. At day’s end she was my release, and I hers. We would laugh for long minutes. I marveled at these wordless conversations. The more I laughed with her, the more I laughed each day and the more people I met with whom I could laugh. There were times my face ‘hurt’ from laughing.

Basho took someone with him on his voyage through the rough terrain of Japan. I believe a true friend is the companion who walks with me, not in my footsteps but alongside me in the course of the time we have together. It might be a lifetime.

We traveled together. Through my friend’s eye I saw the landscape, the beauty of the setting sun, the greenery of nature, the order of a formal garden. She took me to flower shows and I began to ’smell’ the roses. I went with her to see the Dead Sea Scrolls and eventually ended up at a seed emporium. She knew everything about turning seed into beauty. I was in foreign terrain and I learned to speak the language from her.

I believe friends share special moments. We celebrated Christmas with a Tea and her wonderful Angel Tree, filled only with Angel Ornaments. I once went with her on the coldest, snowiest day of December to the Amana Colonies to look for THE special ornament of the year. It was a relentless search and we laughed our way home.

I believe friends support us also on our spiritual growth path. I first experienced walking the Labyrinth with my friend. Together we took a class in understanding the Labyrinth and ways to experience the walk.

I believe Basho was right over 300 years ago when he wrote about the essence of the journey being precisely a journey within, daily on the ‘trip’ of a lifetime. The essential friend relationship is my journey daily and reflects the changes my friend brings into my life.

Margo Thornton

There is a concept known as “Tikkun Olam”. This is a Hebrew expression meaning “…the healing or perfecting of the world.” It is not at all uncommon for a bit of Hebrew text from the Talmud or similar source to be susceptible to two translations. In this case I take it to mean that to heal the world is to perfect it, as well. In what has come to be a traditional saying, Rabbi Tarfon said: “It is not incumbent upon you to finish the job (of perfecting the world); but neither may you shirk from it.”

I understand this to mean that it is possible for the world to be perfected only if every person, in each generation, does his part, contributes his effort to the good.

Rabbi Tarfon spoke his now-famous words in the second century of the Common Era. Through the centuries men and women of good will, persons of every religion, every nation, every color have made their contribution toward “Tikkun Olam”.

Throughout human history, many great men and women have contributed to “Tikkun Olam”. I am thinking of such great names as Thomas Jefferson and Albert Einstein, and many others. Some were not so well-known, yet their work has been important. These might include Martin Buber, Martin Marty, and Thomas Cahill.

Mostly, though, the work of perfecting the world is carried on by the millions of men and women who are not famous, and who do not even consider that what they are doing is part of this essential process. These are the people we all know, the ones we think of as “saints”, though they would not consider themselves to be such.

“Tikkun Olam” is more that a Jewish tradition or even Jewish theology. It is, fundamentally, a condition of our humanity. It may rightly be questioned as to the possibility of actually perfecting the world – though, like most of life, the effort is of greater import than is the result – but there can be little doubt that the reverse is true. Should we give up our efforts toward “Tikkun Olam”, the human condition will surely be diminished.

I believe in “Tikkun Olam”. I see it every day. I saw it in my parents, both now deceased. And, though I frequently fail, I continue to try to do my part in the work of perfecting the world.

L. Edward Sizemore

Being over 65, I can remember Edward R. Murrow’s fall from grace and reduction (?) to “This I Believe”. I also recall NPR’s version of same. Both soar – embracing basic believes in a manner so personal, so profound in their simplicity they cut to the core of our being, bringing at times a tear, some drawing us downs to our knees, others invoking laughter. This the power of words can do.

I cannot think of another way to express more fully what I believe than to say, I believe in words. We embrace words in many ways: in song, in poems, in books, in blogs.

Words compose everyday experiences. We greet the new day with soft sounds, with joyous shouts, with yawning whispers. Some of us use more, some less but it is words that get us through the day. At night we go home to words be it family, T.V., radio, newspapers, books.

Words can inform, entertain, educate, hurt, chill. They can be delivered variously in love, anger, concern, be loud, soft, sung, written.

Words I love are heard as walk from my car to the grocery store. With an elementary school adjacent I hear children at play, a happy, squealing chorus of words. Saturday mornings bring the resonate voice of Don Wooten on his public radio show, always a parley with his guest. Some of the best couplings of words are on “My Word” from the BBC.

Words I hate are “The axis of evil”, and “Weapons of mass destruction”, a litany epitomizing the horrors our country has lived nearly the whole of my grand-daughter’s seven years.

Words are power. Roosevelt’s “We have nothing to fear but fear itself”. Churchill’s “…We will fight them…” and his “…Now we are entering a world of imponderables…”

Donahue, Rather, Murrow – voices held captive by a silenced media. If we as Americans believe anything, we should believe in words and our freedom to use them. The usage of words, whether spoken or written, should be our right to exercise. This I believe.

Rita Waage

A legacy from my Dad was the importance of one’s “presence” at the wake/funeral of relatives, special friends, and co-workers in our lives.

When I was about ten, Doris, a special girl friend, close to my age, lived nearby. After a long illness, Doris died of a brain tumor. We both were attending Rainbow School, a one-room school for grades primary through eighth. While she was ill, I had a hard time understanding why she didn’t want to play any more, why she got sicker and sicker. Going to visit her always left me very sad and very confused. I often cried after we left their home. Life just didn’t seem fair!

When Doris went to live with Jesus, I was even more overwhelmed. Then there was talk of her funeral. Of course, Dad explained that he and Mom would be attending, and he felt that my brother and I should go with them. And, he further explained that I should be brave enough to share a few words with Doris’ parents, on my own, and he shared a few ideas of things to say. I did go up and said a few words, but I have no idea what I said, or whether it was appropriate. Then I ran (not walked) back to Mom and Dad. I do vaguely remember that her parents gave me a smile, and they told me how glad they were that I came. Also, my parents confirmed that I had done the right thing.

Later, when we were home, Dad and Mom explained that it was not real important what I said. Dad believed the important thing was “our presence,” which let the people know we cared deeply, and chose to be with them during a difficult time.

As the years passed by, I never forgot what he said. He and Mom always seemed to be there for the special people in their lives. Dad certainly was a very special person in my life. And many years late, after my husband’s death, my pastor encouraged me to take “Befriender Training” at Genesis Hospital, Davenport. We met once a week for nine months. I learned much in these classes, as they were very interesting and informative. Then I was qualified to call on hospital patients. Every visit was unique. Some patients have concerns about life and health issues. I listen carefully to their stories. I often pray with them. And I really feel blessed when they thank me for visiting them! I have been a “Befriender” for ten years.

I feel Dad’s encouragement to be “a presence”, and learning to listen carefully to peoples’ stories, has enriched my life in many ways. I have met so many interesting people. I will always be grateful for growing up in a home with caring values.

Thanks Dad for sharing the importance of being “a presence” at an early age. You were the greatest!

Ann Duede

Martin Luther King once gave a speech that began with the memorable words “I have a dream”. When man landed on the moon it was considered “…one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.” So it was said. And I believe in the power of words.

Now, in my braver moments I consider myself a poet. I know there is a power in words. Otherwise how would I explain the fact we’ve all had moments where we’ve said things and then wanted to instantly take them back. That is the power of words, and none of us is immune or untouched.

In a class I once took it was said that in naming a thing you release its power over you. I know there are two words that have power over me. One word is a secret I guard from everyone, everyday. That word is homeless. For 3 months now I’ve found myself among the lost souls, all searching for hope or caring, or redemption, or love, in a world where sometimes not only people, but entire lives, slip through the cracks. I stay in a mission. My home address is a P.O. Box.

That other word is pride. I believe there are two kinds of it. The first kind forces me to keep my homelessness a closely guarded secret to protect my sensitive self image and my ego. A guy named Henry Miller once said, “I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.” I know that in writing this and reading this aloud, that the bags I carry are lighter. I can understand Miller’s feeling. I know I’m freer now. And that is the power of words.

The second kind of pride is born through hardships and struggle. It does not come from your head but from your heart, from the human spirit. While at the mission, I found the words that lit a fire, helping me to grit my teeth and set me on my way, with more resolve than I began with. It was William Ernest Henley who told me:
It matters not how strait the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

Just to say the words “I am the captain of my soul”…my heart moves. There is a power there, a peace there, a home there. So when it is said that “Home is where the heart is.” I know my heart is not in a building and cannot be given an address. I like to think my heart is here, in these words.

Inside of all the poems I have written,
With the poets I have read,
Even scenes of movies I’ve seen
Or quotes other people have said.
I know I’ve always had home,
Buried in the things I heard,
I believe in my mission,
The place, my purpose,
I believe in the power of words.

Earnest Vaughns

I am a big fan of quilts. You are probably thinking ho-hum, or even duh? After all, is there anyone who is against quilts? Surely not cover hogs, blanket thieves, stitching grandmothers, or residents of northern climates.

My favorite thing about quilts is what they communicate. Traditional quilt patterns honor the big events in life: a marriage, a birth. Quilts provide quiet testament to Biblical passages, concepts of family identity, glimpses into history. Quilts raise awareness and money for worthy causes. Making or giving a quilt to someone says “I love you”.

Wait. My favorite thing about quilts is their capacity to renew us. The scraps piecing them together, no longer worn out, together are a part of something bigger, better. Quilts are there when we are sick, and encourage us to hang out, watching movies in our pajamas, anytime. When soiled, they can always be washed.

No, my favorite thing about quilts is that they connect us to one another. I once made a quilt with my Grandmother. We sewed, and talked, for hours straight. I am confident that many friendships, maybe even social movements, have originated among women joined in quilting circles. That’s the process of quilting.

The finished projects also connect us. Fabrics chosen, even once worn, by individuals, sometimes spanning generations, are sewn together. Wrapping ourselves in a particular quilt reminds us of the quilter, possibly, or another loved one.

I suppose I have a quilt collection, each special in a different way. The one that I won from a dollar raffle ticket evidences the care and craftsmanship of individuals I’ve never even met. My now 91 year old Grandmother made me a quilt to take to my college dorm, twenty years ago, when my favorite color was tan. My Army quilt forever links me to service with a fellow officer. But it is my two newest quilts which shroud me in healing and give peace to my soul. Made from my late-husband’s T-shirts, one celebrates the interests and vibrancy of his 36 years. The other, composed of twelve more of the T shirts he wore, will help our 2 year old son to know his Dad.

I’ve decided; my very favorite thing about quilts isn’t about the quilts. The true comfort of quilts isn’t about fabric, batting and thread, or even just about snuggling away the cold. They are symbolic. Like life, a quilt is not about what’s right in front of you, it’s really all about who is underneath.

Sarah Vordtriede

When I was a little girl growing up in small town Iowa, I took being loved for granted. I believe I did this because I was raised in a community where every member of the community knew each other’s business and everyone cared for each other as if we were all family.

I can remember lying in bed with a very high temperature, the flu, and strep throat a couple years ago; everyone in my town found out and I had mounds of flowers and cards sent to my house. This made me realize how much I was cared for.

I also remember when my mom would work late and my dad was in the fields during harvest season; I would stay at my neighbor’s house and I was treated as if I were one of her kids! These two examples, I think, may not happen to people in larger towns.

I also remember when I was on high school out-of-town class fieldtrips, the students from other schools would stare and make disgusted faces at us because we went to a Catholic school and lived in a “rich town.” I can see how others would get this perspective because usually nothing bad happens and there is no poverty in West Point. I think perhaps they were jealous!

But while I wish I could make it clear that small towns are not perfect, I only wish the city folks could see the joy and love that surrounds a small community. I know if they would give my town a try they would love it!

After I grew older, I was thrown out into the real world, outside of my hometown of West Point, Iowa. I moved to Saint Ambrose University and the love I had experienced from my small community suddenly turned into big city love. While I knew the love was there, it wasn’t the same as it was in my hometown community.

My transition to life in Davenport was a big one. For example, I have never heard so many sirens going off so often in my life! Growing up in a small town, I was not exposed to the drug dealings, shootings, and robberies that happen in bigger cities, like Davenport. I believe my being raised in a small town helped me develop strong morals and beliefs because I was not exposed to all these things.

I think those who grow up in big cities all their lives miss out on the feelings of love and coziness given in a small town. Therefore, I believe a small town was the best place for me to grow up.

Nicole Meierotto