Geminids Meteor Shower a Bust....

...due to significant cloud cover, but I have been treated to the occasional twinkles of fireflies in the wood and songs of the night by peepers and crickets, snuggled by Ashley, resident kitty, and Maggie, guardian Australian shepherd, is on duty, watching all from the top step of the front porch.  Starbucks Holiday Blend in my Franciscan Desert Rose mug, 70º at 5:10 A.M., gentle breeze, flannel pajama pants, an unneeded down throw by my side...I wish you were here to enjoy these holy moments with me.  All this and the view of our Christmas tree from the front porch looking in has made for a peaceful morning.

My thoughts have been with a young mother-very-soon-to-be who lost her grandmother two days ago.  She is brokenhearted as she was so looking forward to her baby girl, aptly named Noel, meeting her great-grandmother.  My daughter-in-love lost her last grandparent this past week as well; PopPop he was called, never got to meet his newborn great-granddaughter.  

So life goes, cruelly to one generation in agonizing loss, blessedly to another who was in that limbotic place of not being able to live or die.  I had the pleasure of meeting both these beloved grandparents, and as with most who get to live a long life, their bodies had begun to be uncooperative.  I often think of the words of a first cousin of my mother's--does that make her my second cousin or first cousin once removed?--"No matter how old and decrepit they get, it's hard to let them go."

But go they must, and the mantel of historian is passed to the next generation.   My grandmother told me numerous times that her mother was able to identify any bird by its tracks and by its song.  That information must have marinated in my soul, for when the time was right, as a young married woman and mother, I had a thirst for knowledge--I wanted to know the identity of the many birds flitting, soaring and singing in southernmost Georgia.  I bought bird books, I took pictures, I set up bird feeders in my quest to be like the great-grandmother I never met in person, but knew so much about from stories my mother and grandmother told me.

My love for the Word of God came from my "Grannie."  She often retreated to her bedroom to read it and many times I'd find her sleeping, her Bible open and face down on her chest.  The Word found its way into her heart from her bird-loving mother, of whom it was said could hear any passage read aloud and was able to identify chapter, verse and book.  Grannie's Bible, with a completed family history section filled in, resides in a place of honor, on the dresser in the guest room which doubles as a morning prayer room, my prayers said while sitting in a chair which belonged to Grannie. 

I've bunny-trailed in my storytelling, as Grannie often did.  And those young ones who listen patiently to the same stories told over and over, each time anew for the teller, will be rewarded when their own children and grandchildren listen, eyes possibly rolling, yawns stifled inwardly, but words settling in their souls, germinating for the next generation.  

The two aforementioned baby girls will meet their great-grandparents in a different way, but I know they will meet them all the same.

A song of hope, "Hallelujah, We Shall Rise"

I Know It's a Small World, But...

...how is it that today I met someone I knew only by name and circumstance?

Mr. A and I passed the Repeat Boutique on Norman Drive and I told him as long as this has been there, I had never gone in to shop.  A dear friend of mine works in receiving there, the busiest part of the store whose proceeds go toward a ministry which helps pregnant women.  

My friend introduced me to another employee, said her name but I didn't hear it, and added she was from Louisiana.  She, Mr. A and I spoke for a few minutes, and we learned she worked primarily in the book section of the boutique.  We said our it's nice to meet yous and I realized I hadn't retained her name and asked her again.  

It was Freida.

It had to be.  

This was on my desk at home:

I had chatted privately on Facebook with my niece, her husband had just lost his brother.  The parents of both men are still living and though I don't know them, my heart hurt for them and what they are going through.  I asked my niece their names and committed to pray for them.  

My nephew by marriage is from Louisiana.  All the puzzle pieces fit. 

I said to Mr. A, "This is Cajun's mother!"  And I told Freida I had prayed for her just this morning.  I marveled at this God-ordained moment.  

Mr. A and I were enjoying a leisurely afternoon.  We'd had lunch with an old friend and a new, gone to Target to purchase a gift for a baby shower, paid the power bill and upon leaving that location, I suggested stopping at the Repeat Boutique.

I didn't need anything, but I'm always up for a gander at what a thrift store has to offer.  This wasn't a lark or a whim.  It was an appointment from above.  

Being aware of Freida's unspeakably painful loss, Mr. A and I offered our condolences.  She invited us back to the room where the book sorting begins and showed me a poem read at her son's funeral called "Goodbye."

Goodbye to the sun, 
this is the last you will shine upon my face
to the wind and the grass
and everything beautiful around this disgrace

Goodbye to the trees and to this house
to the memories I held so dear
to those that haunted me in my sleep
and the one I’m creating out of fear

Goodbye to the faces I know best
and of those I never did meet
Goodbye to the lives I’m leaving behind
and the life I didn’t complete

Goodbye to my friends and family
you were the reason I held on so long
Goodbye to those that helped me
when my life seemed to always go wrong

Goodbye to my dog, 
my best friend excited to see me every day
goodbye to the living
as my eyes faded to grey

Goodbye to the dreams I might have had
to the love I never met
Goodbye to the passions that died
and the person I was and hope you don’t forget

Goodbye to the life that I once knew
please know I really did try
I love you all

please hold on as I say my goodbye

By the time I got to the part about "those I never did meet" tears began to fill my eyes.  My niece and nephew, Freida's daughter-in-law and son, are expecting a child next month.  The baby will not meet its uncle on this leg of the journey to eternity.     

Of all things, Freida began to say comforting words to me.  At lightning speed, my mind processes the fact that she has buried a son, but is concerned about my tears.  How is she that strong?

I told her I was okay, that I cried at the drop of a hat.  I shared with her that I had lost my brother under similar circumstances, but his death came not in an instant, but from several decades of self-destruction.  

I confided my belief that there are some who are so tenderhearted they have to leave this world to find peace.  She nodded in understanding.  Her son, my brother, they are finally at peace.  And we are the ones left behind to cope, to grieve.  

My understanding and empathy were limited, though, to the cause.  However hard it was to lose a brother, I can only begin to imagine the depths of pain caused by losing a child. 

And I considered how often I commit, via Facebook, to pray for someone.  My prayer life is far from what it should be, yet I do try to remember those who have asked for prayer and those on whose behalf I have offered to pray.  It is not the prayer or the pray-er; it is the God of this Universe to Whom we pray.

Galatians 6:2 tells us that in bearing one another's burdens, we fulfill the law of Christ.  I believe we are instructed to do so because some burdens simply cannot be carried alone.  Today, the Lord granted me an unexpected meeting with someone whose burden I feebly tried to help carry.  I am inadequate in and of myself, so I had to bring it to Him.    

RIP T-Tom 
    

Mama

Mine.  

Yours.

The day you have to let her go.  

The days, weeks or months preceding the time she exhales her last breath...and the time afterwards.  

I'm not an expert, but I've been in your shoes.  I scrolled through my Facebook news feed this morning, and near the top was a heart cry of someone in the agonizing wait, the transition of her mother from this part of eternity to the next.  Then there was another post which was foreboding.  Another daughter in mental and emotional pain over her mother's physical suffering.  

The words were not abundant in either post, but a person reading them who has walked that difficult road didn't need many to know.  Our mothers, in physical agony, give us life, and we, in emotional agony, release them from this world.

Once, I left the hospital for a short while and sat at a restaurant in the mall drinking something, God knows what, I forgot, maybe a Coke or sweet tea. Sitting by myself at the mall drinking a cool beverage wasn't something I'd ordinarily do; I simply needed to take a break from the surroundings my mother could not escape.  Life seemed so unfair at that moment.  I was 39 years old, able to come and go as I wished, and my mother, someone who'd always relished her independence, was tethered to an oxygen machine and IV fluid lines.  My break was physical only, as my mind and heart remained a couple of miles away where she was.    

How many times I wondered about what was going through her mind.  She sat on the edge of the bed calmly waiting for death.  After a career spent mostly in geriatric nursing, she knew exactly what, when, and how...and would that have been a mental torment in addition to the physical suffering? She didn't elaborate, true to her form.  I asked her once if she'd like to lie back and she said matter-of-factly, "I can't breathe."  She did say she wasn't afraid. And she wasn't.      

As she waited, she requested something I'd never done for her, a bath.  Mom was a borderline hoarder, her home a dusty, chaotic mess of practical and sentimental items she couldn't part with, but her personal hygiene was beyond meticulous.  She wouldn't go barefoot because she couldn't stand the grit of sand on her feet.  I gently washed her back, her feet, and she, not much of one for praise, said I did a good job.  

As the youngest of her four children, I doubt she'd expected that I'd be the one attending her.  It didn't seem likely.  I wasn't nurse material.  I had older siblings.  Two were incapacitated.  One she seemed to favor a bit more than the rest of us, was present, but there are things pertaining to a woman's dignity which are preferably done by a daughter.  

Mom legally appointed me to speak for her in the event she couldn't speak for herself because she knew I would, and I did.  To say no to a medication which would elevate her dropping blood pressure was hard to do, especially when I was required to sign a paper documenting the refusal, but the temporary condemnation of the enemy saying I was signing her death warrant was overcome by the memory of her frank words, "There are things worse than death."  She, helpless in a bed, rather than caring for someone in that predicament, was one of them.      

The day before she lost consciousness, when Mom and I were alone in her hospital room, she looked at me with her dark green eyes, pupils almost indiscernible, and said, "I know you'll be all right."  Even on the brink of death, her piercing eye contact was unnerving.  (Her best friend of over four decades, prior to becoming that, admitted she'd called her "Mean Eyes" behind her back.)    

Mom knew I'd be all right because I was the one most like her, good, bad, and ugly, a survivor, a scrapper, one who loved deeply, just most people didn't realize it because they saw only the 'don't cross my line or I'll push you back over it' side.  Our likenesses caused us to butt heads a number of times, a battle of wills which sometimes made Armageddon sound like child's play.  

I have few nurturing mother stories to tell.  One I do have came after her death.  I was in bed, burning up with a fever, and I sensed her presence, laying her hand across my forehead as she would when I was a child.  Some might say I was delirious, and I have considered that possibility myself, but ultimately concluded she was checking on me.

She had left my presence bodily, but the essence of her which cared deeply had not died.

She had a vision about heaven once, said the Lord spoke to her, told her He was going to give her a glimpse, just a glimpse, of what was to come.  It was so overwhelmingly beautiful and peaceful, she, ordinarily articulate, had trouble describing.  I believe that is what sustained her to the point her worn out earthly body would be exchanged for an incorruptible eternal one.

You may be told, with reasonable accuracy, when the end will come, but knowing it will happen and seeing it happen are two entirely different things. Be as brave as you can for your mother because hearing is the last sense to depart before her spirit.  (My mother taught me that when I was a teenager.  She was caring for two young men in the nursing home, both comatose, and she said she always told them what she was doing and why because she believed emphatically, and in contradiction to the medical science she practiced, that they were aware.) 

It is the oddest feeling, burying one's last parent.  It is as if one's boat has lost its anchor.  In the stablest of lives, which I was fortunate mine was, there is a compartment which feels uncontrollably adrift.  As long as my mother was living, I knew I had a place to go if I found myself in the position of having no other place to go.  I wouldn't have wanted to dwell among the mess of possessions she loved, but knowing I could if I had to was a back-of-the-mind comfort.  

Whatever age you are when your mother dies, you are finally, completely on your own.  

The lost feeling dissipates in time.  Be patient with yourself until that time comes.  

You become re-anchored in the strength she instilled in you.  You remember her wise responses to all manner of life's complications.  If she was a sweetheart, you cherish that, you give thanks she gave you life and taught you how to live it.  In cases where mothers fell short, bottom line, you are here, and she was responsible for that.  Whatever sacrifices she undertook to make that happen, God willing, you will come to a place of gratitude for that.

You'll get up each morning and go about your life on a grace I call autopilot. When the autopilot grace has done its job, the permanence of her absence on earth sets in, you continue on anyway, forced to be a little stronger. Everyone's journey of grief recovery is different, so I won't be so presumptuous as to tell you what the rest is like because I don't know.

I do know you will survive, the shroud of grief will eventually lift, though you'll always miss her, and the Words in the Bible about weeping enduring for a night, but joy coming in the morning show themselves to be completely and utterly true.  

In the meantime, know that everyone who has walked where you walk now cares deeply, they wish they could spare you this heartache, they know they can't, so they say prayers they believe will carry you through.  And they will.

My prayer for you is that the peace Christ promises which exceeds all human understanding will surround you now and always.

Rest in peace, Lillian Yvonne Allen Sutton, July 31, 1934 - January 21, 2003

Mom, front row, second from right

A Monday Morning Smile...

...or maybe even laughter aloud.

When I count my dearest friends, Mary Frances Bryant has been numbered among them for around fifteen years.  

If ever the phone rings before the roosters crow, I don't panic at what might be bad news, but realize it's probably Mary Frances.  She knows I'm a morning person and it's all right to defy the traditional 9 A.M. to 9 P.M. calling hours.  Actually, I don't know if that's traditional etiquette, but if I wrote an etiquette book, that would be my guideline.

Anyway...

She has been rejoicing for a niece who'd long wanted a baby and was finally blessed with a little boy.  Doing what babies do well, he was on a crying jag and her husband asked, "What is wrong with him?!"  

My friend's niece replied, "I don't know.  I've only known him two weeks!"

Mary Frances has endured the worst any parent could--twice.  She has buried two of her four children.  That is always with her, and it was a part of our conversation as well.  She is in her early 70s and she has a part-time job plus she sees to her elderly mother's needs.  Her mother lives semi-independently. Mary Frances cooks for her and takes her to doctor visits and on errands.  

She is an inspiration to me and I hope by sharing a little part of her life with you, you'll be blessed with a smile to start your week.

Love,

Mrs. A

Rich and Spoiled

That's me.  

Not in the Kardashian way, and I'm happy to report I am only vaguely familiar with them, have never watched their television show, which I gather the plot consists of obscene flaunting of material wealth and excess in all categories.  

Surely I'm not the only person 50+ years of age who gets excited when Big Lots has their 20% off everything sale!  My sweet husband and I went there yesterday and bought sixteen bare root roses for a total of $36.00.  For less than the cost of a dozen roses on Valentine's Day, I'm going to have a rose garden.  Suddenly I have been made a very rich woman!

I wasn't too selective, couldn't be really, but chose all the roses which had signs of new growth, and ended up with a variety I intend to label before planting.  I asked my husband only one more thing, to tell me where he stored some five gallon plastic buckets we have so I could soak the roses in them.

This morning, after baking banana muffins, loading and running the dishwasher, feeding the dog, cat and birds, then piddling on Facebook, I went to get on some grubbies to play in the dirt.  I walk into the master bedroom, which has three vertically long windows, and see this:  

On the right hand side of this picture, the white rectangle on the fence is a piece of lattice on which climbs seven sisters roses rooted from a great-aunt's garden.  Hers came from my great-grandparents' farm, my kind of heirloom.

Tears promptly filled my eyes.

Yesterday my sweet husband asked me if I wanted him to put down the material which keeps weeds down, and I said, no, I didn't want to bother him with this, it was enough he bought the roses.  It is hard for me to say I now have more free time than ever in my life when I am aware how many obligations so many others have.

I've lived that season as well, a former card carrying member of the sandwich generation.  There were many days of my life which were scheduled in this manner:

• get up and get kids ready for school
• throw in a load of laundry, then quick pick up of household
• go to my mother's and do the same at her house
• take her to the doctor or grocery store or both
• pick up kids, then go back to doctor's office to pick up mother
• (kids would do homework in doctor's office)
• somewhere between all this, work a little job as a book vendor
• gave up substituting job at the kids' school, had to leave it too many times to take mother to emergency room
• take her home, settle her in from doctor/ER/grocery store
• go home, prepare for ball games of the season
• make supper, clean up
• fall in bed exhausted, slept well, thankfully, save for the times I would take my mother to the emergency room in the night
• get up the next morning and do it all again
• in the midst of all this, I wrote a newspaper column for 12 years and was doing preliminary work on a book
• and when I thought this season of life was winding down, I found myself in a care giving role to an older brother who was dying

I am not someone who prides myself on being a human-doing.  I believe everyone should carve out time to be, to think, meditate, and ponder.  I also realize this is close to impossible in some seasons of life.  

I didn't do all the aforementioned single-handedly; enormous credit is due my loving husband who pitched in above and beyond what any spouse could desire.  As is said about the time our children are babies, these days were long, but the years were short.  Suddenly, it seemed, I was/am looking for things to fill my time.

Each day is not pre-filled for me and I must give thought to what I'd like to do that is of some value.  In the crazy-busy days, the value was always present--what higher calling than raising children and seeing to the needs of the elderly and sick?  And I'm living a season in life now so many long for, having enough time in the day to do what one wants without being rushed.  

There was another season in life which was completely opposite the crazy-busy days, interminably slow to me, growing up.  

As a child, I'd gaze out the window of my elementary school classroom, longing to be there instead of confined to a desk which was no different to me than a chain and shackles.  It took decades, but that dream came true.  

Along with another, a rose garden.

No doubt most people thought that the roses which grew alongside the carport of my childhood home were the work of the women of the house, my grandmother AKA Grannie, or my mother.  That assumption would be wrong. The roses were my father's joy, a man with brawny biceps, around six feet tall, whose life's work included driving a gasoline tanker, working in a pit crew at races, butchering meat on the weekends, and running a gas station while working as a mechanic, chain-smoking all the while.

Those roses smelled a lot better than Daddy's second-hand cigarette smoke!  And they were lovely, delicate, what a contrast to a man with deep brown skin and equally deep furrows in his forehead.  I didn't know their Latin names, didn't know they had Latin names, but to me they were red velvet, yellow with a pink-tinged edge, pink, white, all more beautiful than my senses could contain.  Back in the day, I stopped and smelled the roses nearly every day they were in bloom, full-on face plant, breathing in as much as my little lungs would hold.  

With any luck, I'll eventually be inhaling heaven sent scents.  I have neither the knowledge nor the intent of becoming a pissy rose gardener.  My late mother once told me about a woman who grew roses who was so afraid someone would root one of her roses, she'd gather and discard the clippings.  I simply want to enjoy my Big Lots roses in my own wrong-side-of-town manner.   

God created these lovely plants, and He is giving me the joy now of oversight and arrangement.  Mr. A has demonstrated great faith in me, he who once quipped my black thumb had evolved to brown, lovingly doing the harder work of preparing the soil.  

I sometimes wish he understood that I want to do those more taxing jobs, that I have time to do them, but I must appreciate how rich in love and spoiled by chivalry I am.  

I was never promised a rose garden in this life, but it seems the good Lord, in His awesomely perfect timing, has brought me a second one to enjoy in a season of life when I have time to do just that.  

    

...Today You Will Be With Me in Paradise

RIP Robert 09/26/52 - 02/11/09

The Crucifixion

26 And as they led him away, they seized one Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, and laid on him the cross, to carry it behind Jesus. 27 And there followed him a great multitude of the people and of women who weremourning and lamenting for him. 28 But turning to them Jesus said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. 29 For behold, the days are coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren and the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ 30 Then they will begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us.’ 31 For if they do these things when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

32 Two others, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. 33 And when they came to the place that is called The Skull, there they crucified him, and the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. 34 And Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” And they cast lots to divide his garments. 35 And the people stood by, watching, but the rulers scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself, if he is the Christ of God, his Chosen One!” 36 The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine 37 and saying,“If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” 38 There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.”

39 One of the criminals who were hanged railed at him, saying, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” 40 But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? 41 And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.” 42 And he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” 43 And he said to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

----------------------------

I'm not sure

the broken places

were ever mended

but your travails

did not go

unnoticed

by your Jesus

You acknowledged Him

unashamedly

at the end

You knew Him

all along

during the decades

you dowsed

your heartaches

They would not

go away

as certain tormentors 

though you tried

to wash them 

into oblivion

You knelt

and asked Him

into your heart

and war waged

for decades

No demon from hell

or satan's emissaries

on Earth 

can taunt you

now

where there are 

no 

tears, death, mourning,

crying or pain

All those things

are gone forever

and though 

it feels

you are, too

I know

that I know

that I know

I will see you again

as I did

in my dream--

young, strong,

unblemished

wearing garments

of red--the blood

and white--the righteousness,

an undeserved gift

mercy granted!

I was looking

at your likeness

in a photograph

on the mantel

which captured

the culmination

of your life's hardships

and in you walked

glorified 

old things 

had indeed

passed away

Thank you

for the hug

I needed

the reassurance

I love you, Bubba

Some judged you harshly

and serrated tongues

cut jagged wounds

on your already

torn heart

But you have risen

above all that

and those who continue

to recount the bad 

have the stench

of death 

on them

instead of the

Good News

which Jesus proclaimed

with every ounce of His being

the crescendo

on the cross

where He gladly

welcomed

latecomers

"Truly" our Lord said

on February 11, 2009

"today you will be

with me

in Paradise" 

Another Throwback Thursday: My Best Friend is a *itch!

The family Australian shepherd, our granddog Maggie, was in the living area, on the couch where her "Grandpa" doesn't want her to be, and I was in the craft/computer room frittering away time on Facebook, not feeling too guilty as two electric servants, the dishwasher and the washing machine, were hard at work.

Suddenly, a knock, knock, knock in the laundry room told me the washing machine was out of balance.  I got up quickly to redistribute the clothes, and Maggie was already in there looking at it as if to ask, "What's wrong with you?!"  

Earlier this morning, she barked at our cat, Ashley, when she made the mistake of curling up in my recliner for a cat nap.  I used to scold Ashley when she'd sharpen her claws on the sliding door or dining room window screens, but I don't have to anymore.  Maggie now runs to where Ashley is misbehaving and barks at her!

Today's TBT picture is of me and Maggie in my truck.  How classically southern is that?--a Georgia girl, her dog and her truck.  This is 2010.  Maggie is approximately 10 months old here and I'm 47.  

During Maggie's first year of life, she frequently ran off to a nearby horse pasture to follow her instincts to herd.  The problem with that was she had to cross the intersection of two major highways to get there!  It's a wonder she is still with us today.  There was that day I was freshly out of the shower, wearing only a nightshirt, and my husband called and told me to get over to Perimeter Road (one of the highways facing the horse pasture) right then, he was trying to get Maggie to come to him and she refused.      

Our animal communication styles are decidedly different.  He wants to dominate, command and subdue and I am more like Dr. Doolittle, though animals will respond to my point and glare gleaned from mommyhood days.  Maggie and her Grandpa were having a standoff and Maggie was winning!  I responded promptly to Grandpa's barked order because he is ordinarily a gentle soul who never bosses me about, but Maggie didn't know him as well as I do and she wasn't budging.     

In broad daylight, clad only in a nightshirt and flip flops, I stood on the shoulder of Perimeter Road, calling to Maggie who was stubbornly ensconced in the median across from the horses.  She telepathically took my pulse first to see if I was as upset as her Grandpa, decided I wasn't, and bounded across two lanes and jumped dutifully into my Explorer.

As suddenly as a puppy stops chewing everything within its reach, Maggie stopped running off and became glued to my side.  True to her breed, she needs a lot of affection and often sits or lies touching me.  Sometimes all 44 pounds of her jumps into my lap when I least expect it!

Maggie was adopted by my younger son and his girlfriend within the year the older of my two brothers died, her primary residence with us at The Ponderosa, where she had more acreage to bound than in town.  My grief for my brother was nearly engulfing, too much for other humans, and Maggie sensed that.  She was completely available for my thoughts, tears and prayers. One evening while she was still a pup, we were sitting on the front porch after dark.  I was in awe of the majesty of the night sky and knew the Maker of it held the power to release me from the stubborn grip of grief. Suddenly this precious little creature began to growl, moved from my side and positioned herself in front of me.  

She wasn't big as a minute then, but like the day she arrived at The Ponderosa, she was oh so bold.  I don't know if she was confronting a creature in the woods or a demon sent to torment me, but she stood her ground, hackles raised...and that was the moment she completely won my heart.  Her protective vigilance ushered in a much needed breakthrough.  

At the time my brother died, I'd been abandoned and turned on by several dysfunctional extended family members while I was helping care for him.  He had his own liquid demons in life to battle, and in the end, not enough close family members stood loyally by him.  I learned the hard way that when someone dies leaving unresolved issues literally in their wake, the aggrieved misguidedly seek another target.  I commenced building a fortress to keep out those who, in better circumstances, would have grieved with me.   

Enter a silky-coated Australian Shepherd puppy to the rescue. My son's girlfriend wasn't completely up the back steps with our newest family member cradled in her arms before Maggie was boldly barking at residents who'd preceded her by more than a decade, the family cats.   

All the chaos a puppy brings to a household mysteriously, miraculously transformed a twisted grief journey to a straighter road toward internal peace and recovery.  I believed the Lord Himself sent this animal into my life to help cement what He'd already tried to tell me, weeping may endure for a night, but joy is sure to come in the morning.    

In 2013, circumstances prevented my son and his girlfriend from keeping custody of Maggie--exorbitant pet deposit, move across the country, small apartments, etc.  It appears that Maggie's fur-ever home is with Grandpa and Grandma.  I had told them I realized Maggie was their dog and I was ready (emotionally, but I didn't say that to them) to relinquish her.  Yeah, maybe I lied a little, but humans still come before animals and if my son and his girlfriend wanted to take her, I intended to send her with them as bravely and graciously as I could pretend.    

My son said to me, "She likes you," emphasizing the word you.  Maggie loves everyone in the family, even those who could do without her affection, but I was the person to whom Maggie was most attached.  It just kind of happened by default; the kids gave her as much time as they could, but with several part-time jobs and numerous college classes between them, they didn't have the amount of time a very affectionate dog needed.  Along that part of their lives, time was all I had, blessedly, to work on the business of healing my heart, broken over the loss of a sibling who had never once said a harsh word to me. Ever.  

my late brother, my baby and me, Christmas 1999

I later learned my baby boy told my older son that he couldn't take Maggie, he didn't want to "break Mom's heart."  

Pausing to wipe my tears.  I'll wait while you wipe yours.

There are days when I threaten to ship my rambunctious Maggie to Colorado to be a crag dog to my mountain climbing son and his girlfriend, then she'll lay her head on my knee or my chest and I melt, affirming she is still at the right place at the right time.    

Maggie is content to run while I walk trails in the woods, and she performs other important duties like keeping the cat and household appliances in line. Her unconditional love, the type we frail humans can't always give, saw me through a rough patch in my life. Some are offended when it is pointed out that God spelled backwards is dog, but I'm not.  It's high praise to one of His finer creations; in my case, one renewed in my spirit that God's Word and love is unfailing.   

2014, here we go!

The kitchen calendar has just been turned to February, and though I've accepted how fast time flies, I still marvel.  Some nights pass so quickly, I believe the Lord is pushing the fast forward button so He can hurry up and bring us to our forever home with Him.  Of course that means somewhere on the other side of the world, someone's days are rushing by!

My fondness for winter is non-existent, but my heart is warmed midway by the celebration of Valentine's Day on the 14th.  I enjoyed the cartoon Valentine's Day cards exchanged in elementary school and I've relished the romance of grown up gifts of love.  At Sallas-Mahone Elementary School, in a building which no longer exists, we'd color Valentine themes on a paper bag, tape them to the window sill and on Valentine's Day they'd be filled with cartoon cards and if one was lucky, a heart-shaped lollipop would be threaded through one or two.  

In 2009, the older of my two brothers was buried on Valentine's Day, and remarkably, it was one of the sweetest Valentine's ever.  My husband quietly presented me with flowers, candy, and a card on which he wrote that he was so sorry these came on a sad day for me.  His gesture of thoughtfulness was the first thing I saw the morning of my brother's funeral, waiting for me on the dining table.  The way my husband artfully expressed both his love and condolence at once has been one of many beautiful treasures he deposited in my heart.  

I have an affinity for all things heart related which dates to a pink plastic locket my daddy gave me; I wore it proudly on a plain string necklace.  It was perfect for a little barefoot princess who'd rather climb a tree than wear a tiara.  There were roses embossed on that little locket, which may have come from a box of Cracker Jacks, but was a treasure to me nonetheless.

On the first Valentine's Day my now husband and I celebrated, he presented me with a gold floating heart necklace, encrusted with tiny diamonds.  We knew each other barely a month then, and the gift was a sweet predictor of the future we would share together.  I handmade a card for him that year, 1983, and it is now falling apart, but he has held on to the symbol of my love as I have the necklace.

When our love grew our family by two, I began a tradition of making Valentine's baskets, little square red plastic buckets with a chrome handle, lining those with heart-dotted tissue paper and filling them with candy and little trinkets.  They'd be on each family member's respective dining chair Valentine's morning and it appeared they were anticipated with as much joy as the Christmas stockings we'd dig into each Christmas Eve.

I don't recall the year, but my late mother-in-law began distributing important papers and photographs to each of her seven children, and I thought it so appropriate that my husband's baptismal certificate was dated February 14th.  He's so sweet!  I close my eyes and imagine how blessed his mother must have felt holding her fifth child.  She and my father-in-law both said they would have had more children than their quiver full of seven if time and biology had permitted.  Being that I am a fourth child, a surprise baby at that, I've never frowned on large families, but rejoiced in the number of blessings!

Our blessings have grown up in this speed of light passing of time, and one of the things I've done to fill the time suddenly available is work on photography skills.  The picture taken above captured a Valentine the Lord made for me in a 'gator filled swamp, 2012.  I am captivated by the natural beauty of His creation and I was in awe of this unfurled lily pad, shaped in love.  It wasn't until I examined the picture more closely on a computer screen that I saw the shining star, further depicting His ultimate love for mankind, the announcement of the birth of His Son, glowing over Bethlehem.

Sometimes I am overcome by the hate in the world, but February reminds us to look for and express the love!  It's there, and to allow it to be blotted out by unkindness, well, that's a shame.  I need to respect my Lord more than that! This life is spotted with heartbreaks and loss, but His love is expressed so deeply and so dearly, it deserves priority focus!  Like the overwhelming beauty of a delicate lily in a swamp fraught with dangers is His all surpassing love for us as we traverse this world on our way to Him.

Look for all of life's sweet Valentines He blesses us with--all month long, all year long, all life long.