Listening to a dog who was listening

When last night shadowed darkest,

Duffy barked, awakening me.

“What?” I asked,

rising to pet him.

He jumped, growled, barked again.

I opened the blinds.

Right outside my window stood an enormous deer.

Duffy howled.  I rapped on my window.

The deer fled.

Duffy kept barking.

Shawn turned on outdoor lights.

I opened bathroom blinds, knocking on another window

as numerous deer at wood’s edge slipped away.

Stillness. 

Back to bed.

Cold feet.

A spring happening

The ground is greening, and a flush of pastel buds softens the lines of the tree branches, which have been stark and bare for months.

We planted grass in our backyard, and tufts of soft green are starting to rise from beneath the straw we scattered as protection atop the seeds.

Last night we went into town to set up the chairs for today's Bible study.  It was actually warm enough that the thought of ice-cream didn't chill my bones, so I told Shawn we could stop for some on the way home.  He always wants to stop for ice-cream.

A few miles down the freeway, Shawn started rummaging around in the compartments in his car, and he said, "Oh no!  Oh rats!"

"What?" I asked, worried.

"I don't have my wallet," he replied, morosely.  "We can't get ice cream.  You don't have your purse, do you?"

"You told me I didn't need to bring anything," I reminded him, because he had.

He felt terrible.

"It's okay," I said.  "I'm not mad at all."

"But you invited me to get ice-cream," he said.  "You never want to get ice-cream.  And today you did, and now we can't."

"It's okay," I said.  "I was having second thoughts anyway.  I'm not the least bit mad.  I was thinking we probably shouldn't be eating ice-cream, and now we will do the healthy thing."

He looked unhappily ahead at the road.  We got to church and set up the chairs.  He was still grinding his mind, trying to figure out a way to purchase ice-cream without a wallet.  We got into the car and began the sad drive home, through the dark of an early spring evening.

Black sky, black road, smell of newly plowed fields, bright headlights, shining white stripes along the shoulder of the road.  Two warm, dry hands layered one another on the console between two front seats as the engine hummed and wheels rolled round and round and round.

A Halloween fright

This morning, I went to take Duffy out for a walk.

He paused on the threshold of the front door.  Looking down, I tugged at his leash, stepped out ahead of him to set a good example, and then slowly began to close the door, easing him forward.  All the time, I was watching him and talking to him, encouraging him.  Finally he hopped forward.  I finished closing the door and glanced up, only to see a gigantic cat, curled forebodingly in the nearest porch chair.

It was a huge cat with gray stripes, massive back legs, and a long, long tail.  Startled and shocked, I gasped and began screaming.  The cat did not move.  I gripped Duffy's leash and ran, dragging him across the street, screaming all the way.  On the far side of the street, I was able to gather myself and do a deep breathing exercise while I surveyed my situation.  The cat remained contentedly curled up in the chair, thwarting me from any hope of re-entering my home.

Shawn was upstairs in his study, holding an online meeting with a group of people who were assembled in Nevada.  He'd been preparing for this meeting for days, possibly weeks.  Even if he heard me scream, I didn't know if he could break away.

There I stood, in the street, chilly and windblown, shaking, grasping the leash at whose end was my tiny, four-pound puppy, wondering if the twenty-pound cat on my porch was ever going to be finished with her nap in my chair.

Then, like a hero, or an angel from heaven, Shawn opened the door and called out, "Just a minute!"  A few moments later, he appeared with a clear spray bottle, which he sprayed in the cat's face.  The cat rose from its lounge and dashed off, towards me actually, but I ran in a circle down the street and back towards my house.

Yes, it is Halloween.

If this post does not make sense to you, you can read about my cat phobia here.

Falling

Shady, rustling, green overhead,

at the tip of a branch, a flicker of red.

Laughing and careless, not looking ahead,

Eat, drink and be merry, is what they all said.

So they played and worked and risked and splashed,

they earned and spent, they cried, they crashed.

Some of them lingering, some of them gone,

and the ones who were left wondered how to go on. 

The leaves on the trees turned to colors of flame

As everyone realized life isn’t a game.

Some gain it all and discover thin air,

some attain nothing and faint in despair,

while everyone wonders if anything’s fair.

Why, we ask, when we cannot see,

and the leaf at the end of the branch of the tree

falls, but not down, as the wind blows free,

its dance through the sky is a mystery.

The depth of the sorrow, the height of the pain,

is something we never could clearly explain.

The world is broken—we cannot repair it,

the burden is crushing, with whom can we share it?

God knows how brokenness dampens our eyes,

He cares for us deeply—He does sympathize,

despising the damage, the wounds and frustration,

results of the curse that has ravaged Creation.

Thus He entered our mess in the form of a man,

tasted our troubles in full, so He can

completely relate to the anguish we face—

He sees us, He loves us, He offers His grace

through Christ who astoundingly died in our place.

Immortal, He died, but how can it be so,

The Source of Life buried with death down below?

We can’t understand, but in faith we believe,

He died and He rose so that we can receive

Life—mortal souls gain eternal reprieve.

Green leaves turn crimson and orange and gold,

then fall to the ground as the air becomes cold.

Bare branches spread their frail twigs like black lace,

between them the stars flicker starlight from space,

and secretly, quietly, God pours out grace.

The trees will again bear new leaves and new life,

and one day we all might find freedom from strife,

because of a tree that was stained with His blood.

Flowing red was the color of hope, peace and love,

falling down from the heart of our Father above.

(I wrote this poem as a favor for a friend.  It came together yesterday.)

Jonathan's birthday

Twenty-three years ago, on this day, I was giving birth to my fourth child, my beautiful brown-eyed boy.

It took me four tries to get a brown-eyed baby, but finally he arrived, the baby who looked like the baby I'd always imagined, the baby who resembled some of the old baby pictures of me.

Our babysitter, Debi, was with the other three kids, who were five (almost 6), four, and two (almost 3).

Jonno was the only one of our babies who was actually born at The Birthplace, that calmer, homier facility adjacent to the hospital.  It has since been shut down, in favor of keeping all births closer to emergency technology in case of complications.

Oddly, I don't remember much about leaving for the hospital, but it was sometime Saturday evening.

The Birthplace had regular beds, not hospital beds.  They were covered with quilted bedspreads.  It was all done in homey florals, with wallpaper borders and golden oak rocking chairs.  Today's homebuyers would sigh at the hopelessly out-of-date decor, nothing gray, nothing white, nothing stainless steel.  I think the idea was to escape a clinical, antiseptic look.  Personally, I thought it was charming, and comforting.

I took a bath while I was laboring.  They had a bathtub, and I tried to relax in a warm bath.

By Sunday morning, I was tired, and the labor continued.

In all my deliveries, I never had an urge to push.  I didn't ever dilate much past 8 cm, either.  I'd just get to 8 cm, and then it would stay there.  In the first three deliveries, they finally told me to push, even though I was only measuring 8 cm.  I did, and it was hard, and it hurt a lot.  It takes a lot of mental fortitude to push, inflicting that kind of pain on yourself, when you don't have any urge to push.

Finally, when Laura was born, (my third time around), I asked for a shot of novocaine (xylocaine?) at the point of exit.  This helped immeasurably.  So, I approached Jonathan's birth with the expectation that I would again have a shot of novocaine, for much needed help and relief in the final moments before birth.

However, I also hoped that I would develop an urge to push this fourth baby out.  I'd read everything about birth that I could find, and all the authors assured me that if one is patient and gives nature a chance, the body will eventually heave the baby out of its own volition.

At about 10:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, August 27, 1995, after something like 14 hours of laboring at the hospital, no sleep, and no food, I sat in a golden oak rocking chair and cried with exhaustion.

My midwife came in and told me that we could put an end to this dreary business, if I would just only push.  So I finally agreed to get on the bed and exert myself.  I said, "Can I please have a shot of novocaine, so I will not be so afraid?"

She said, "No.  It's still too early.  You will tear if we give you novocaine right now."

The bed was flatter than a hospital bed.  It didn't crank up into a supportive sitting position, nor did it have arms that flipped down for me to grab.  I sort of missed the hospital beds I'd had for my other three deliveries.

Meanwhile, Debi had taken the other three kids to church.  Everybody at church knew I was having a baby.  They prayed for us.  Jonathan's birth was covered by the corporate Sunday morning prayers of our church.

I told my midwife that I didn't want to push until I had a shot of numbing local anesthetic.  I told her I was afraid to push without that shot.  She told me I had to push until the baby's head crowned, and then she would give me the shot.

I was unhappy, but I complied.  I pushed until his head crowned.

"There's your baby's head!" she cheered.  "Do you want a mirror to see?  Do you want to feel his hair?"

"No!"  I replied, "I want my novocaine now."  Seriously, I am convinced that she thought she was going to be able to distract me into pushing him out without the shot.  I was mad.  She finally gave me the shot, and a few minutes after 11 a.m., my beautiful baby boy came into the world.  After the midwife delivered his head, Shawn pulled him the rest of the way out and cut the umbilical cord.  I remember he had the most delicious, plump little shoulders.

I took a long nap after that, while Shawn held our new son against his bare chest and watched TV in The Birthplace's living room.

That is the story of Jonathan's birth.  I am so thankful for this beautiful child, this gift from God, this son born on a Sunday, full of promise and hope, covered with blessing.

A Schubert Story

Most of the time, the foreshortening of my phone's camera drives me crazy, but once in awhile it renders something well, such as in this wistfully whimsical capture of Schubert:

Schubert is probably the cutest dog in the world, and exceedingly beloved.  This must be why we invest ridiculous sums of money in his veterinary care, which is endless, because he has terrible allergy issues affecting his skin and the inside of his mouth.

Schubert patiently, trustingly endures all manner of health routines.  We soak his feet in epsom salts, squirt drops into his ears, brush his teeth and rub antiseptic gel into his gums.  We lather him with allergy shampoo and make him stand, shivering, for 7 minutes before his rinse and (worst of all) blow dry.  He eats nothing but one hypoallergenic brand of dog food and his multiple medications and supplements, which he receives with much pomp and circumstance every evening in a small ball of cream cheese, his favorite.  His med-yoo-seen, we call it, and he comes running, sliding on the rug in the last lap towards my fingers extended with the smeary prize. We call this his magic carpet trick, and all of us are very proud when his form is on point.

Recently, we switched from an insanely expensive daily allergy pill to a slightly less insanely expensive monthly allergy shot.  Yesterday, he received one of these shots.  Poor guy.  He always gets into the car full of so much happy anticipation.  Then, as he realizes that the car is following the route to the vet's office, he begins to shake and tell us, "Oh no.  I have made a terrible mistake."

Shot completed, Shawn and I left him in the house and headed off to an appointment together.  We returned home at lunchtime, famished, and sat down to eat.  We were so hungry that it took us a moment to realize that no furry friend had come to greet us.  I went off and searched the house for him.  I looked in all the usual places...

He wasn't on the sunporch.

...not even hiding amongst the pillows on the daybed, as he sometimes does.

He wasn't keeping watch out the living room widow.

...not even slacking off on the job.

He wasn't cozied up on the futon in my study,

neither awake nor asleep.

I finally located him, huddled miserably on the blue chair in our bedroom.

I carefully lifted him, and he moaned miserably.  I carried him down to the kitchen, where Shawn took a look.  We were both concerned, but not knowing what exactly to do, we finished our lunch.

It was a lovely day, so after eating, we decided to take a walk.  We leashed up Schubert, and I carried him out to the boulevard across from our corner, where I set him down.  Schubert didn't cry, exactly, but he looked at us with a face full of woe, and turned back toward the house.

"Something is wrong with him," I said to Shawn.  I have a gift for stating the obvious.

We put him into the house and walked without him, a grueling walk for me, filled with worry and lupus symptoms and too much sun.

After our walk, I worked on some computer tasks, and Schubert snoozed on the futon nearby.  I googled his allergy shot, which claims to be natural and bio-friendly and free from side effects.  I called the vet's office and asked if side effects are common after this shot.  They said, "Virtually never, but if he is still feeling poorly tomorrow, you'd better bring him in so we can check for underlying issues."

Shawn told me, "Right, because we haven't spent quite enough on him yet this week."  Usually Shawn is a big softie about vet bills for this little guy, but there do come days...

Around suppertime, Schubert got really bad.  I carried him to the sunporch and laid him on the daybed, because that is one of his very most favorite places to lie, and he could be near us while we ate.  Usually he burrows amongst the pillows with wild abandon, but last night he just lay stiffly on his side across the middle of the bed, feet sticking straight out in front of him.  He was oddly still.

It gave me the creeps.  I kept going in to check on him.  He looked from a distance as though he were asleep, but close up, I could see that his eyes were wide open, and he was looking around, although holding his body stiff and still.  I touched him gently.  He flinched and moaned, but turned his head toward me and licked my hand softly, telling me, "I trust you, mom.  You are a good lady, and I know you will help me feel better."

Shawn had to leave for an overnight business trip in Kokomo, Indiana.  I'll admit, I was feeling mighty sorry for myself.  My son's apartment building burned down three days ago.  I had a significant lupus headache and aching legs.  And now my dog was going to die while my husband was in Kokomo, Indiana.  When poor little Piper died, it was February, so we could keep his body in the cold garage until his burial.  But yesterday was a warm spring day.  The bugs have been coming back.  Whatever would I do with Schubert's body if he left me while Shawn was gone?  I felt Schubert's skin, and he was burning up.

Around the time Shawn left, I got out Schubert's med-yoo-seen.  I also got out an 81 mg aspirin tablet.  Shawn has those for his heart, although he rarely takes them.  I remembered that when Piper was a wee pup, barely two pounds worth of canine matter, he had a reaction to a puppy vaccine, and the vet said he could have one half of a baby aspirin.  I figured Schubert needed something, and he seemed as likely to die without the aspirin as from it, so I tucked it into his cream cheese ball with his other meds.  Hearing me working with the cream cheese (or maybe smelling it), Schubert stumbled over to claim his treat.

Then we did TBG time for moms and dogs.  TBG time for moms and dogs is Schubert's most absolute favorite thing in all the world.  After the sun sets in the evening, Schubert spends approximately 100% of his time sitting on the brown blanket on the sectional in the living room in the dark, hoping for TBG time for moms and dogs.  Last night, he got it.  We watched an episode of Escape to the Country (a British house hunting show), and he curled up next to me.   It seemed as though the aspirin offered him some relief.

After the show, I carried him outside and set him in the grass for his last outing before bed.  He limped around pitifully, did what needed to be done, and then loped directly back inside, stumbling on the threshold. He was confused, because usually med-yoo-seen follows the last outing, but he had already had his med-yoo-seen.  I got a single morsel of hypoallergenic dogfood out of the cupboard, and lured by the promise of this reward, Schubert toiled upstairs to bed on his own four legs.

We both got ready for bed in record time.  Due to my lupus headache, I may have skipped some steps.  Schubert was curled up in his little bed under mine even before I'd finished putting on my pajamas.  Exhausted, I fell asleep immediately and slept until 4:30.

At 4:30, I awoke with my head full of thoughts about leptospirosis.  Leptospirosis is a deadly infection that dogs can get from exposure to wild animal urine.  We have foxes in our neighborhood, and last year, a neighbor's dog nearly died from leptospirosis, which he allegedly contracted by licking something upon which an infected fox had urinated.  On Saturday, Shawn had gone down to The Bottoms with his chain-saw to clear a fallen tree off a path.  I'd taken Schubert down to check on Shawn, halfway through the job, and a neighbor was there.  The three of us chatted for awhile, and then I noticed Schubert licking and eating something on the ground.  It's never good for an allergic dog to eat anything unknown, so I'd pulled him away and taken him home, but I woke up at 4:30 a.m. this morning, haunted with the idea that my dog had been licking a spot where there was residue from fox urine, and now he had leptospirosis and would soon die.

I listened for him, but there was silence under the bed.  I couldn't sleep, could barely even breathe.  I wanted to gather him in my arms and cuddle with him on the futon, but his odd quietness frightened me.  Finally, at 5:30, I collected my pillows and the cotton blanket from the back of the blue chair, and went to the futon by myself.

In the dark on the futon, I listened to the clock tick, and slowed my breathing to its rhythm.  In through the nose, smell the flowers, count of eight ticks.  Hold for eight ticks.  Exhale through the mouth, blow out the candle, count of eight ticks.  Repeat.  Focus on the ticks and the tocks.  Breathe.  Don't think words.  Count and breathe, breathe and count.  Sleep came in a wave of mercy.

I awoke to a very gentle and whiskery sniffling in my face.  He'd found me, and he was alive!  Our unspoken conversation went like this:

Schubert:  Hey mom!  I love you!  Why didn't you tell me you were here?

Me (stroking his fur softly): I wanted to, wanted so badly to, but every time I touched you, you groaned.  I was afraid I would bother you or hurt you, and actually, I was afraid you might be dead.

Schubert: I'm not dead!  I'm a happy guy!  See, I can wag my tail for you!

Me: Look at you!  You must be feeling better, sweet puppy.

Schubert (curling up next to me, making maximum contact with his furry back, crowding me deliciously): This is so nice!  I love this!  I wish you would have told me earlier that you were in here!  Let's get some good zzzzzs in before the alarm goes off!

And thus began a most joyful morning.  When we arose, Schubert barked and frolicked for his breakfast, just like usual, and although he slipped and tripped a bit due to some stiff hips, he seems to have loosened up quite nicely.  He's back on the job, barking at the birds in the front yard with exuberant gusto, and I don't care if that is redundant, because redundant joy is a great blessing.

It didn't even bother me when the garage door was broken and I couldn't get the car out to go to Bible study.




P.S. Happy May Day!

An amazing gift

After the holidays, when the kids had left and the house was forlorn, Shawn and I rattled around in a mild depression for awhile.

Then I had an idea.

I cut up about 50 little slips of paper, almost one per week of the year, and divided them between us.  We sat across from each other at the kitchen table and wrote out things to do on the slips.  It could be anything: "Invite somebody over for dinner in a week; plan the menu and start preparing today."  Or:  "Go down to the basement and empty two packing boxes."  Or:  "Go shopping and buy each other a gift."

We filled out our slips, folded them in two, and put them into a container.  Every Friday, we draw one.  If we are too busy, we do not have to draw a slip, but that has not happened yet.

Last Friday, this is what we drew:

(Shawn wrote it, and it says, "Sit, Relax & enjoy a complete Beethoven Sonata or Symphony")

I knew immediately which Beethoven Symphony I wanted to listen to.  The Beautiful One, of course, that draws you in and takes your breath away.  The one with the melodies that intertwine and swirl around each other, stroking your heart and making you hope it will never end.  The one with the second movement I call, "The Broomstick Dance."

I'd borrowed it on a CD from the Liverpool Public Library many long years ago, when Shannon, David and Lu were very small and Jonathan not yet even born.  We lived in a little white cape in North Syracuse, and I would play that CD and dance around the small living room with the babies, pretending to sweep like a dreamy Cinderella during the second movement, and galloping madly in circles through the last movement, until we fell in an exhausted heap at the end.

When the CD was due at the library, I returned it without noting which number the Symphony was.  Thus began a search over many years to learn what it had been and recover it.

All I knew was that it wasn't the 5th Symphony.  So it was a long search.  Finally, one day I bought a CD through a classical music club we'd been sucked into.  It was Leonard Bernstein's final concert with the Boston Symphony Orchestra: Four Sea Interludes by Britten, and a Beethoven Symphony.  I put it into the CD player and it was the one!

Last weekend, we couldn't find Leonard's final concert CD.  We went through all our other Beethoven recordings, hoping to find our beloved symphony on another one, and ended up listening to the 6th Symphony, I believe, which--although a very good symphony--was not the one I was hungry for.  Unsatisfied, we continued our search for Leonard, and finally found him buried deep in a compartment in Shawn's car.

We listened.   We loved it.  I said, "I don't have a bucket list.  But if I did, I would put on it that I would like to hear this symphony live!  Someday, will you take me to hear this live, Shawn?"

I was thinking it was Symphony 2, so I Google searched it, and found that the LA Symphony Orchestra is performing it in March at Disneyland.  Shawn said we probably wouldn't be able to make that performance.

Meanwhile, on Wednesday I went to a brunch with some Bible study friends, and one of my friends invited me to a Mozart Birthday Bash at the University of Illinois this weekend.  At home later that afternoon, I went online to peruse tickets for Mozart, and happened to see that the Minnesota Orchestra was going to be here at the University on Thursday, performing Beethoven's 7th.  I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow I thought to go downstairs and check the Leonard CD, and sure enough, it was not the 2nd Symphony.  It was the 7th Symphony.  Here.  In town.  The very next day.  And two perfect seats remained in the second row of the balcony, left of center.

Since Shawn and I hadn't given each other Christmas gifts, he was more than happy to purchase these two tickets.

So last night we went to this concert at the Krannert Center, and it was so good.  So good.  It was so good, I could not believe it.  Usually with a classical concert, they do something unfamiliar or obsolete first, and then finish with the familiar thing that people really want to hear.  But last night's concert was amazing from start to finish.

It began with Sibelius, En Saga, Opus 9.  While not as renowned as Finlandia, it was completely lovely.

Then, oh then.  The second number was Tchaikovsky, Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor for Piano and Orchestra Op. 23.  Inon Barnatan played the piano solo.  This was absolutely amazing, and would have made for an ultimately satisfying evening even if it had been the end.

However, it was not the end.  After intermission, the orchestra came back and played Beethoven's 7th.  I was so excited, I thought I'd burst.  It was absolutely thrilling.  I cannot imagine a better concert.  The only bad part was that it ended.  I wanted them to play it all over again.

It is astounding to me how this all came together.  How did it happen that the symphony I have always loved best would surface in our minds just in time for us to discover (randomly!) that it was in town, and buy tickets to see it?  It was very well attended.  Why were our perfect seats available?  The seats were perfect right down to our view of the solo pianist, which I had not even thought to consider.

God does the most outrageously amazing things sometimes--before we even ask.  I wouldn't even have thought to ask for something like this.  Oh, He is such a good planner.  He even took care of logistic details.  It was a twenty minute drive, in light traffic, with free parking beneath the center.  The parking spot right next to the elevator was open and waiting for us.  Can you believe it?  Why do I ever doubt Him?  If He can plan something like this, pure beauty and joy simply to thrill my heart, how could He not work out the salvation of souls who need Him?

Psalm 4:6

Many are asking, "Who can show us any good?"  

Let the light of Your face shine on us, O Lord.

Amen.  Thank you, Lord Jesus.  Thank you.

Sunrise

I may have written about this before.

I think about it fairly often these days.

I'm sorry.  I just don't have it in me to look through all the things I've written and check whether this is redundant.  Redundant.  Circling thoughts, unresolved issues.  Just writing.

(the sun at 8:00 am in my neighborhood this morning)

Sunrise.

Back in the day--
back when we all lived together on Sugar Pine Circle,
sleeping under the same roof,
eating lots of soup and homemade bread,
sloppy joes on Thursdays--
back when we were together,
laughing, fighting, apologizing,
sharing stories,
doing school projects,
driving to events and practices,
participating at church together,
praying,
memorizing Bible verses taped to the sliding glass door in the kitchen,
processing tons and tons of laundry
and practicing musical instruments for hours,
goodnight kisses and
scrambling not to miss the bus in the morning--
back in that day,
we used to go to the beach for a week in the summer.
Together.
The six of us.

Beach vacations were a blessing, salt and sand and a whole house to relish.  We combed the eastern tip of the island for ocean treasures, shook sand out of our beach towels, walked for miles in the edge of the surf.  We bobbed in the swells, our eyes and mouths filling with salt water when waves broke at unexpected moments.  We washed our feet with a hose underneath the house, rinsing toes and flip flops before going inside to air conditioning, showers, aloe gel, maybe even chili dogs and watermelon.

The weeks went Saturday to Saturday.  David and I developed a tradition of getting up while it was still dark one morning, and walking out to watch the sunrise, just the two of us.  We did this near the end of the week, usually Thursday.

Our alarms would go off, and we'd meet in the living room, pulling hoodies over our shorts and tanktops, stepping into flipflops awkwardly with the clumsiness of somnolence.

Sometimes we went out far too early.  5:30 am on the beach can take your breath away with its damp chill.  Cold, damp and dark, the early ocean aura elongated time, and our walk up the beach towards the east seemed interminable.  Yet, we walked on, sometimes asking one another, "How long do you think it will be?" or, "Can you see any light on the horizon yet?"

If it was low tide, we'd sit down on the cool, packed sand, its chill dampness seeping up our tailbones and into our spines.

And we would wait.

And wait.

And, the time I remember most clearly of all is the time when the sun never did come up.

David and I waited and watched, but never saw anything.  Eventually twilight lightened into day, but still we saw no sun.  Nevertheless, it was nearly 7:00, and the grandmothers were beginning to bring the early-rising toddlers out for their first romp.  Under indirect illumination, we reversed direction, walking west whence we'd come.

Upon reaching the boardwalk that would take us home, we turned and looked back to the east.  In the sky, well above the horizon, hung a half-sun, the top of a pale red circle.  Its bottom half, which also would have been well above the horizon by then, was invisible, cloaked in some kind of white mist or cloud that seemed to run all across the horizon and blend with the overcast sky.  Half a red sun, in the middle of the eastern sky, on an overcast day.

When I pray for a miracle to dawn in someone's heart, in my life, I want it to come up like a beautiful clear sunrise, gleaming golden rays exploding over the inky edge of the earth.  I want to see the periphery of that fiery yellow star peek over the curve of the sea's boundary, spreading its reflection in a glorious streaming line across the surface of the deep, as it grows bigger and bigger until it finally detaches and mounts triumphantly, blazing in the blue heavens above while the entire ocean bursts into silver splendor.

That's what I want, but it doesn't always happen that way.

Sometimes things happen slowly, imperceptibly.  Sometimes, even when we're watching carefully, we cannot see the changes, cannot perceive the progress.

That day of anticlimactic sunrise, the mists eventually burned off, and the sky was clear and bright by noon.  We ended up enjoying a perfectly lovely beach day.  It was fine.

It was fine.

You can't stop hoping, just because change is slow and hard to see.  I think about this often, this idea and this story, together.

I will not stop hoping.

Nothing is too hard for God.

He makes the sun rise.

Some diary-like musings

Well, just like that June is over and here is July 1, a hot Saturday leading into the Fourth of July, and even though I knew it was coming, it caught me off guard, and I haven't any plans.  Frankly, I'm a bit spent, even though it was Shawn who went to Hawaii and Europe in June, not me.  It was a big month:  Hawaii, Europe, a visit from Shannon, Laura and Matthew, some bonfires, a photo-shoot, a milestone anniversary.  

When Shawn is in distant time zones, it seems to mess with my biorhythms.  I suppose that's part of loving somebody.

The kids arrived two days before Shawn returned from Europe, and left the day before our anniversary.  The morning after they left, the morning of the Big Day, Shawn remarked, "I think we should buy a rose and plant it."  So we did; we bought two rose bushes, in fact, and they came laden with gorgeous blooms, which I harvested at once.

Thursday was hot, 90.  It was another bright, sunny day.  I'm trying to train my upper hydrangeas to send their roots deep for water, so I avoid watering them every day.  Thursday was a day I'd decided not to water.

Jon called at about 9:30 (a.m.), from the bus, on his way to English class, saying that he didn't have his wallet.  He said he'd forgotten it at home.  Of course, being me, I feared that he'd dropped it, or that it had been stolen. He told me he’d been able to cobble up $1 in loose change from his pockets to afford the bus ride to school, but then he would be stuck there, lacking both his monthly bus pass and his money, without his wallet.  He needed a ride back home at noon, after class.  This complicated my walking schedule with my friend, but in the end, Shawn (whose office is in the area) said he would get Jon, and everything worked out beautifully.  Shawn retrieved Jon, and they went to his apartment.  Jon’s wallet was there just as he had said, and then they had a nice lunch together.  All these things, cumulatively, made me very thankful.  Meanwhile, I walked, and went to Menard's, and stopped at Aldi for staples (food staples, not the kind you fasten papers with).

Eventually, I headed home, pretty late in the afternoon.  It was still hot, and still sunny, and the grass everywhere is turning white-yellow.  Driving, I prayed for rain, for gentle, soaking rain, for nourishment for our thirsty grass.  At home, I unloaded my purchases.  I'd bought top soil and a watermelon, among other things (those were the heaviest items).  I was tired!  I put away the cold food items, and tidied the kitchen a bit, and then I reclined with a book, One Thousand Gifts, to take a rest before Shawn arrived home for supper.  

Shawn came home, and we ate.  Then we headed outside to look over the yard.  Strolling out to the back garden, I noticed for the first time that my new hydrangeas, the ones in the lower terrace, the ones with the poofy blue blossoms, were dry, withered, and brown, the blossoms crisped, utterly spent.  My heart sank.  Those plants had never withered like the fragile upper hydrangeas.  It never even crossed my mind to check on them in the heat.  But there they were, shriveled.  Immediately, I positioned the sprinkler between them, and turned it on low, a small, private shower.  Then Shawn and I walked Shubert up to the end of the road to take a look at the sky beyond the cornfield, checking for any hope of rain.  Some dramatic clouds shone spectacularly in the bright sunset, but Shawn said none of them looked like they had potential to rain on us.

However, as we headed home, we heard low rumbles of thunder, and as we entered our yard, a few drops of moisture fell on us.  We sat down on our front porch, and a gentle downpour began, working its way up to a drenching rain that lasted about ten minutes.  We watched neighbors--who had been out walking--scramble to get home, some with dogs on leashes, a family with little girls in their jammies before bed, and a boy on a bike who rode figure eights in the deluge.  It rained, silver lines piercing the lawns and bouncing up, misty, from black roads and gray driveways.  Then it slowed, and stopped.  I felt the smile of God on me, telling me that yes, He hears and answers prayers, because He loves me.  The earth smells so good right after a rain, the fresh scent of life, wet dirt, wet plants, even wet asphalt and cement, and (of course) wet sky.  We lingered on the porch as long as that aroma hung in the air.  When we decided to go in, I remembered to run around to the back and turn the sprinkler off.  The hydrangeas were still limp and bedraggled.

I went to bed thinking about my hydrangeas.  I wondered if it would help if I cut off the wilted blossoms in the morning; maybe the plants would survive if I took the strain of those lush flowers away.

In the morning, the sun woke me at 6:50, and I stretched and was joyful for how beautiful it is simply to realize that you are awake, and not be awoken by an alarm.  I felt the sun on my face, and the cotton sheet, crumpled around my shoulders, and I patted Shawn's big, warm body slumbering next to me, and I remembered the hydrangeas.  I got out of bed and headed downstairs, even before Schubert was afoot.  From the sun porch, I looked out, and there were my two new, blue hydrangeas, fully re-hydrated, blooming in their terrace.  Not only the leaves, but also the blossoms had come back!  Again, I felt God's love, so strong, so full of grace.  Jon has his wallet, Shawn got to buy him lunch, a soft rain fell, and my hydrangeas are beautiful.  God would be good even if He did not do these things, but I am so thankful for when He gives us these tangible, easy to read messages of His grace and presence in our lives.

Friday I just went ahead and watered, after the sad (albeit redeemed) situation on Thursday.  I watered in the afternoon, sprinkling and puttering, trimming and weeding, just generally bombing around among my plants.  After the water had sufficiently soaked the garden, I turned off the spigot and went inside to write an email.

Sitting at my computer, facing into two corner windows that look out over the northwest view of our treed backyard, I heard a loud crack.  Looking up from my work, out the window I saw a large mound of foliage dip, sink and fall to the ground with another shattering crash.

Right on top of my garden.

Yes, a 37-foot tree limb with an 8 or 9-inch diameter spontaneously broke off its tree and landed in my back garden.   No storm.  No wind.  Just a loud crack and the descent of hundreds of pounds of lush green foliage. I was kind of bummed, until I realized how blessed I was to have finished working in the garden and gone inside shortly before it happened. God is good, and it looks like He might have saved my life on Friday afternoon, around 3 p.m. 

In the end, Shawn left work early and bought a chainsaw on his way home.  In approximately 2.5 hours, he had the whole thing cleaned up.

Today as I look out at my crushed Jacob's Ladder plants, I can only think how grateful I am that the blow that crushed them was not dealt to my body.  I did like those plants, but I am thankful to be alive and free from injuries.

God is good.

Last night, after we got the garden cleared, the branches dragged to the roadside, and the wood chopped and stacked, we stood on the sun porch and looked out, up the street that forms the artery of our neighborhood, running west to the main road.  It was about 8 p.m., which is when the sun, dipping low, casts a magical glow that literally turns the black road into a radiant golden surface.  The evening sunbeams cascaded in shafts between our tree trunks, and a squirrel cavorted in the gleaming light, his feathery gray tail turned as mysteriously golden as the road while he paused, illuminated, and his little chest stood outlined against the dark trees by a bright line of deep yellow.  Between the shafts of sunset, fireflies began to pulse, brightening the dark spots of deepening evening with their spiraling slow ons and offs.

We just stood there--watching, breathing, absorbing--thankful for life and light and beauty.  Thankful for God.

I lived to see July!