Faithful Companion

I miss my dog.

Phoebe would have been 13 this past Easter weekend. When I got her, I was told she was born on Easter...I know that Easter can vary weeks in the calendar, but it's the only way I ever seemed to remember it. Funny. I was sitting in the hospital with Chris sleeping away on Easter this year. She came to live with me on a Thursday. During my single days with the show "Friends" was ever so popular, my group of friends would meet at one apartment or another for an evening of NBC's Must See TV. They helped me name her - so Phoebe it was. I had NO idea how to train a puppy! She chewed EVERYTHING. Shoes. Books. Papers. My students' homework. "The dog ate your homework!! Ugh. I remember realizing that though I thought at that time I was at least semi-prepared for motherhood, (even with no spouse on the horizon) that I was sorely mistaken! From that point on, I preached "Puppy!" to every newly wed couple as they started planning for babies. Seriously, it should be some kind of law that you must raise at least one puppy before you have to take that first prenatal vitamin.

More than once I heard phrases like "a face only a mother could love," "so ugly she's cute," and so on. With her wiry hair and snaggletoothed under bite, I guess there was truth in the words. Living single in the big city, I loved it that she had a big bark. If anyone knocked - or just made noise - outside my apartment door, she'd bark like a 100 pound dog. Fierce or frightened - it was a toss up. But loud, no question. A little over 10 years ago when depression reared it's ugly head and sucked me down into it's black hole, my doctor wisely recommended hospital treatment. I was admitted to a day program. I went in the morning and came home in the evenings. You know, like a job. And, boy, was it ever work! Being that depressed is tiring enough, then add to it all the emotional and mental work done during a program like that. I'd come home like a wet rag. Not that I had any desire to go out and about. Even if I had, I'd have been too exhausted. I would just lay on my daybed that served as a couch in my apartment staring toward the television. During those three weeks, Phoebe would come and lie on my chest with her head on my shoulder or neck and just be there with me. That was exactly the companionship I needed.

In more recent years, my other babies cried "unfair" that Phoebe "liked me more." Poor girl, she'd go sniffing room to room to find where I was and wait for me there. That's faithful. No matter that she didn't receive the amount of affection that she used to when it was just the two of us. No matter that her younger "siblings" pulled her tail and (sometimes) got away with it. She would still search me out and find me. Just to be sure of me, I suppose.

January of this year found her to be suffering most likely from an aggressive bone cancer. In a matter of days she had developed breaks in at least two or three places in her leg bones. With wise and comforting words from my dear brother, I found a vet who lovingly helped me let her go. And tonight I miss her. I'd really like to hear her annoyingly loud bark and then have her come sit on my chest.

Brody's Hand

In a previous post on the other blog, I gave a list of blessings. Most with little or no comment or explanation. Again and still I feel blessed by my son's sweet hand. It is a five, almost six year old hand. Still thick and squishy like a little boy, but becoming bigger and stronger day by day. And as much as I love the feel of his hand in mine, I think I'm realizing more and more that what I love most is his desire to have it there. He still reaches for my hand with his. When I take his hand to cross the street or walk through a busy parking lot, unlike his older sister, he doesn't automatically remove his hand from mine upon reaching our destination. We hold hands as we walk back home from taking Iris to the bus stop, and then again when we go to pick her up. He holds my hand for a moment after I pick him up from school as we head out of the parking lot telling me about his day. Today was his last day of pre-kindergarten. Next year he'll ride the bus with his sister and I won't have the luxury of those daily mama and her boy moments.

I tell him often that the feel of his hand is one of my "most favoritest things." The other day after that repeat discussion, I asked him if he'd please still hold my hand sometimes when he's a grown up man and I'm a little old lady. He looked me right in the face and smiling said he would. I believe him!

Don't you think perhaps it is a bit like the Father when we choose to come into His Presence? Yes, He's always glad to see us, but even more so when it is in moments of our desire to just be with Him as opposed to coming with a long list of requests or complaints. To put our hand in His, saying, Father, I choose to be with You right now. I choose Your Love. I choose Your Presence. Don't you think His heart might just pop with joy as a warm smile crosses His face? See, that's why I love to lift my hands in worship. I'm not sure what goes on in the minds of others, but for me, it's like the toddler running across the yard giggling with joy at the sight of her Papa and saying "Daddy, I'm here! Pick me up, so I can be closer to You!"

Missing

All those days of writing during my husband's health crisis. Then to just stop. I've missed it...the writing, that is. Perhaps I missed only the connection of knowing that people I know and love - as well as others I may not know at all - were taking the time to get a glimpse of my life. Perhaps it was the freedom that a time of crisis gave me to say what I really wanted to say. Perhaps it was getting feelings from my heart and soul and giving them words and a place to live outside of me. Perhaps it was an egocentric mindset that remembers the accolades of others towards my writing. Perhaps it is the vanity in me that choses to believe them. Perhaps it is all that. Or none of that. Or something else altogether. The bottom line is that, well, I've missed it. Maybe I do have something to say that others can find encouraging. Or maybe I just want a place to vent. My own little podium at the town square. (You know, that was one of the things I often said I liked about teaching high school kids - on a good day, I had a captive audience that would change every hour on the hour. If my routine was up to par, it was a blast.)

Here the topics will range from whatever to whatever. Here I will speak freely of the Joy and the LIFE that the Lifegiver showers upon us. What we chose to do with that Life, well, friends, that is the question isn't it?