It's a Sad Day

When your little boy clings to the neck of his dog, sobbing because she's going to be put down, it's a sad day.

Should that same little boy be sitting next to his sister's hospital bed begging her to live through a vicious dog attack, that would be an even sadder day.

The saddest day of all would be witnessing that little boy dripping tears on his sister's casket because the jaws of the dog were big enough, and powerful enough, to snuff out her life in one bite to the neck.

I chose the sad day version this morning, and our beloved Great Dane fell asleep forever in my lap on the floor in the vet's office.

I'm thankful for the God of Daniel who held closed the jaws of this enormous creature when she lunged, snarling, at my little girl, without provocation.

Thank you, Jesus, that the bizarre aggressive episodes ended only in a sad day.

What Was That Noise?

Yesterday, Doug and I decided to get Slim in 6. We popped in the dvd, our son left the room "before I get grossed out", and we got started.

We're supposed to take "before" pictures of ourselves so that we can compare them to our "after" pictures with the disclaimer "results not typical". We haven't yet taken our photos (which I'm supposed to do in a sports bra and shorts. I'm thinking why not go all the way and get a bikini?), but I can assure you that our experience this morning surely fit into the "results not typical" category.

I'm still crying.

From laughing.

At my husband.

If he would care to laugh at me, he'd be incapacitated for the day, but he chose to diligently watch the screen and give this work out his all in all. I couldn't help sneaking a peak at him once in awhile, and I would just crumple to the floor. He wasn't doing anything wrong, I think it was his enthusiasm that slayed me. That, and the noises.

In deference to our dignity, I will not expound on the noises beyond: we're old enough that lying on the floor and attempting to bring our knees and chins toward each other results in some...noises.

That's all I'm going to say.

Not long after our workout, I heard Doug leave the house for the day. Frowning at the fact that he did not come upstairs to tell me goodbye, I headed downstairs to get my phone and call him. On the second step, as pain sliced through my thigh muscles, I had an epiphany...

Ring, ring.
Doug: "Hello?"
Me: "Did you leave without telling me goodbye because you didn't want to climb the stairs?"
Doug: short burst of chagrined laughter, hesitation, then "Yes. My thighs are killing me! I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a couple minutes trying to pysche myself into climbing up, but I couldn't do it. I was gonna call you...."

We started dating when we were 16 years old. I guarantee you we never thought this day would come. But we'll get through it. If we're successful, we'll be slim in 6 weeks. THEN I'll post the photos!

What Did You Learn Today?

Their entire lives, I've home schooled them. From the cradle I've used correct grammar, read to them, and sought to engage their brains in rational and purposeful thought. As toddlers, they were never excused from wrong actions because of their age. Entering into more formal academic education, one of their primary objectives (primary to me, but not necessarily recognized by them) became not so much the math and science; rather learning how to learn and to love to learn.

I'm trying to raise learners.

Learners who can take instruction, follow directions, ask for guidance, dig for truth, rely on the Holy Spirit, respect authority, appropriately question authority, obey trusted authority, assume responsibility over their sphere, their words, their actions. Learners who look at the world through the lens of Jesus and search for the heart of the matter in fairness and truth. Learners who delight not just in knowledge but in understanding, and who pay attention to details that others might miss, striving to respond always with the heart of Jesus.

Lofty goal, I know. But allow me my lofty goals.

Come with me now to last Tuesday. We were on our way to visit with a Burundian refugee family who has been recently relocated here in the Phoenix area from a camp in Tanzania. Our role in their lives is to help them acclimate to American culture and to practice English with them.

As one would expect, the organization repatriating refugees from various countries is not placing them in upper middle class neighborhoods. The journey to our Burundian friends' apartment complex, therefore, leads us through a section of Phoenix that actually causes me to hesitate periodically and ask "Where am I?" As in, what country am I in? This is not a derogatory question, it's sincere. I see enough of another culture(s) around me that I have split second flashes of confusion. At one point, I even had the fleeting thought, "Where's my passport?" (When I'm in Burundi, I always have my passport with me.)

I realize this does not happen to you. That's terrific. It doesn't happen to my own children. That's even more terrific. Because when I ask, "Where are we?" they calmly answer me, and we keep driving. Is it so wrong that this is normal to them?!

That truth revealed about one of my (many personal) 'issues', let's continue down the road to the apartment complex located in the Phoenix suburb of Looks-Like-Mexico-But-There-Are-Burundians-Walking-Down-The-Street-With-Babies-On-Their-Backs-So-WHERE-THE-HECK-AM-I?

We needed to stop at a dollar store for a quick purchase before our visit with our new friends, so when I saw a sign for one, I pulled in. To Mexico. The ground to roof-line bars on the store front tipped me off to the fact that the locals don't consider this area overly safe and secure, and the man with a far-off look in his eye pacing in front of the store spurred me to say to my kids, "Just stay close to me, and pay attention to what's going on around you." They know this drill well, because they go everywhere with me. I've said this to them in Africa, in airports, in cities all across the United States. Shoot, I have to. Child predators swarm through middle class white America.

We walked into the dollar store, which my daughter said reminded her of a grocery store in Burundi, and everyone who saw us paused with a mixture of wary and curious. We walked through the store as though we visit Mexico every day, got what we needed and headed out the door.

The man who had given me pause on the way in now had his back partially toward us, his left hand holding that nostril closed and his right hand raised to his right nostril as he loudly and repeatedly sniffed.

As we headed for the van, I noticed my children lagging behind. I said something I never, ever, ever, never, ever, ever, never expected to say to my children, "Get in the van and away from that man snorting cocaine." (This I said quietly, by the way.)

Once inside our vehicle, we had a little chat about that man and what must his pain be that he has turned to drugs. We're not to judge him for his drug use, but to care about his heart. I told them my haste was due to the fact that drugs render individuals unpredictable, and if he was actually snorting cocaine, that that drug often exhibits in bizarre acts of violence. I just didn't want to be there if that happened. I then proceeded, in response to their questions, to demonstrate how drugs are snorted--which is why I knew the guy was snorting some type of drug (and should they ever find themselves in a situation in which someone is snorting drugs, I want them to be able to recognize what's going on). I clarified with them that I didn't know for sure which drug he was snorting, and that maybe he was just sniffing from a runny nose and not snorting any drug at all...but his whole demeanor made me suspicious and we have to be alert and act accordingly--with wisdom, not fear.

We went on to visit our Burundian friends, teaching them to count in English and playing cards with the kids. And I never gave the Dollar Store Snorting another thought.

Until dinner.

As we sat together as a family, feasting on broccoli & cream cheese pasta with chicken and salad, I asked the kids, "What did you learn today?" We had a morning of school, a great visit with new friends from another country, a drive through town that looks so much like yet another country--so many cultural things to take in and ruminate on. I was waiting for my children to show themselves the deep learners that I tell myself I strive so hard to mold. But no. Their dad nearly choked on his rotini when our daughter said:

"I learned that you actually snort drugs. I didn't know that. I thought you either took pills or shots."

Effective immediately, I resign.

Pull Up Your Pants

I mean it. You've had your fad, you've shown the world you're big, you're bad, you're belt-challenged. You've also shown the world your butt--and if I may speak for the world for just one minute: we never wanted to see it!

So
Pull
Up
Your
Pants

One day I was driving through Greenwood (Indiana), and I just couldn't help myself. I rolled down my window and exercised my spriritual gift (exhortation) on a young man walking knee-jutted (the necessary posture for one trying to keep one's britches from dropping to their ankles). I yelled, as any good mother would, "Pull up your pants!"

It felt great!

He didn't acknowledge me (which is probably why I'm still alive), but I felt better.

Until yesterday. Walking through Target was the worst offender of all. A nice looking kid who just needs to be told: THE FAD IS OVER. And your entire gluteous maximus is showing. He was wearing a belt, and it was riding completely under his seat cushions. Not riding low, not part way down, no. Completely under.

The exertion it took to hold myself in check actually resulted in me sloshing my iced white mocha onto my flip flop (yes, I was Christmas shopping in 82 degrees), and I spent the rest of my shopping trip with a sticky foot.

Because that kid needed to

Pull
Up
His
Pants

I think I'm going to put that on a t-shirt.

Front: Pull Up Your Pants.
Back: Yes, you.

Either that or I'm going to give them a shot of their own fashion (non)sense and join 'em. I'll wear a different t-shirt that day.

Front: I'm Hip, I'm Happenin', I'm NOW
Back: Hey, you started it!

THAT will have them running home to Momma.

My friend just sent me this link of BigSix8. Awesome!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Co-sJT1GQY

Thankfulness

I'm thankful...

...that I don't have a child with cancer.
...for a husband who is kind and good and provides for us.
...for my childhood.
...that my parents showed me the path to the cross.
...that I chose to take it.
...for my navy blue passport stamped "United States of America".
...for every man and woman who has ever served in defense of my freedom.
...that my parents took me through the white marble crosses of the military cemeteries in Europe.
...that not one time did they say to me, "Freedom isn't free". They let me see it for myself.
...that when I go to the grocery store today I will have enough money to buy what we need.
...that when my child says, "I'm hungry" I don't have to say, "I'm sorry, there's nothing to eat."
...that the Most High God has my name carved on the palm of His hand.
...for my siblings. I love them.
...for a husband who loves me.
...that my children have a great daddy.
...that Pillsbury makes such a great pie crust.
...for my friends.
...for the Call of God on my life.
...for the Holy Spirit.
...for books.
...that I grew up in the Third World.
...for peace that passes all understanding.
...for the privilege of striving to make a difference.
...that I've figured out what gives my Great Dane gas.
...for Burundian tea.
...that my children love Jesus and are letting Him mold their little lives.
...for the sound of the F16s flying over my house because of what they represent.
...that God is bigger than the Boogie Man and Obama.
...that my list could go on for days.

I'm Sorry to Bring it up Again

But I have to.

The Great Dane Gas Problem in this home is reaching a toxic level. I know my friend Jackie told me to give her some yogurt every night, but folks, when this puppy eats ANYTHING other than her dog food, she explodes.

In an 18 inch diameter pool of sludge.

All over the floor (and walls).

I'm too scared to try yogurt.

This morning I was sitting in my overstuffed chair, feet curled under me, a mug of hot Burundian tea in my hand, my Bible in my lap, and a Great Dane laying regally at my feet. It makes me feel like I'm one of those author's portrayed in old movies--I'm just missing the crackling fire, the drizzle outside, and unbroken quiet.

What was breaking my quiet at 6:30 on a Saturday morning?

The wind breaking from my dog!

I'm trying to read about the Philistines unsuccessfully attacking Israel, and I'm completely distracted by the perfectly timed audible expulsions from this post-op dog.

My mom taught me long ago to breathe shallow in odorous situations, and that well-honed skill (I grew up in other countries) was serving me well this morning, but not well enough. Folks, I was overcome. Every 30 seconds.

Then a profound thought cut through my overloaded senses: I'm sitting there trying to read God's Word and draw near to Him this morning, and I'm being totally distracted by stench eminating from my dog. Scripture talks about the offerings of those with sin in their lives being a stench to God. When I knowingly have unconfessed sin in my life and I deign to think I can enter into fellowship with God's Spirit, figuring He'll overlook my sin and focus on all my greatness ('cause surely He can see how great I am most of the time...right?!), is it for Him as sickening as what's wafting up from my dog?

I think it just might be.

Only difference is, Carly's farts don't break my heart like my willfulness breaks the heart of God.

What I'm pondering today, then, is this: I don't want to be a dog fart in the nostrils of God.

Disclaimer: Mom & Dad, you did your best with me. Don't blame yourselves for this post.

The Spaying

It seems that one's first blog post should be deep and profound, but I'm afraid mine is not. As I sit here locked in the guest room with a gaseous Great Dane, profundity escapes me. Since this blog is to be about my life, I reckon this post is as good as any to get the tale started.

We are adopting a 'puppy' through Great Dane Rescue here in Phoenix. She's 105 pounds and estimated to be 15 months old. She bites her nails, leaves bruises with her 'happy' tail, and eats her poop. She's overcoming Submissive Urination, has no leash training, and thinks she's the size of a chihuahua. How do we know this? She tries to sit in our laps.

Wednesday I got a call from rescue that Thursday was Spaying Day. Please don't give me too much advanced notice! The vet to which we needed to take her was a mobile unit parked in a driveway in a neighborhood 45 minutes from our house. We arrived with slobber and dog hair in odd places (Doug did not know that he had a huge slobber smear on the shoulder of his navy blue sweatshirt), and a nervous Dane who had nearly knocked us all unconscious with her gas passing. I so badly want to say 'fart', but I'm afraid it will offend you. But 'gas passing' sounds so delicate, and folks, there's nothing delicate about a Great Dane--well, you can just imagine. [On the trip home, a stench filled the van and my husband asked, "Is that you or the dog?"

He's such a romantic.]

We take Carly into the vet truck, and get her checked in. To my delight, she didn't pee for any of them! That's progress for a Submissive Urinator in therapy.

The day before, in talking with the woman who runs the rescue, I learned that she is really struggling. She's older, single, and lost her job a few months ago. As often happens to me, I asked how she was doing and she launched into a tearful tale for which she later apologized, "I'm sorry for bending your ear. I didn't mean to tell you all that."

But tell me she did, and therein my knowledge of her plight became my responsibility. I cannot save her house from foreclosure, and I can't fund her rescue efforts, but I CAN volunteer my husband to take a look at her plumbing problem that's been keeping her up for the past week as she fights to keep her laundry room from flooding. A pin hole leak had sprung in a pipe, and it was, for her, an insurmountable problem.

So, while Carly spent a few hours being rendered unable to reproduce her crazy self, we set off for Linda's house to fix her plumbing problem. My handy husband and his trusty (and beloved) tools, made a quick diagnosis, then he and Anna set off for Home Depot...and Taco Bell.

As we girls ate lunch, Doug changed a (I don't know what it's called) on the water heater, and it was done.

Then we listened. Linda is a lonely lady with a big heart that hurts. The dogs she rescues are her life. We sat in her tiny house surrounded by 4 Great Danes, an American Bulldog, a mix between the American Bulldog and a Pitbull, and a Chinese Crested (to pet this sweet little thing brings bile up into my throat. She's HAIRLESS. It's horrible.). In the vet mobile were two more Danes that Linda was bringing home yesterday afternoon to bring her TDIH (total dogs in house) tally to 9. NINE.

Wolfie
Winston
Stella
Charlie
Odin
Apache
Lucy
Lucy
Can't Remember

As we listened to Linda, I was distracted by my own life. My Blackberry brought me emails and phone calls, and reminded me of the work I had waiting back in my office. But in my spirit I knew that there in Linda's little living room was where we were supposed to be. Too many times she said, "You guys are so kind to me. You're so kind."

When the vet called to say the dogs were about ready, Linda told them we'd be there in 45 minutes, and she went on soaking up our company.

We picked up our groggy moose and waited while Linda loaded two into her van, and Anna went with her to keep the dogs calm. When she was alone with Anna she said, "What your parents have done for me...I can't...you're one of the nicest families--you ARE the nicest family I've ever met."

Do you see what I see here, my friends? A $13 piece of pipe, 10 minutes of plumbing work, a $3 quesedilla & pepsi (light ice), 3 hours of listening, our child offered to assist with dog transport...and we're the nicest family she's ever met.

I didn't have it on my agenda to spend yesterday listening, petting slobbering dogs, and eating Taco Bell with someone I don't know very well. Doug had no idea his plumbing repair would end up taking most of his day. Anna thought she was riding along to drop off the dog and come home.

Jesus has a way of overriding my daily agendas. I believe that yesterday Linda felt God's Spirit ministering to her hurting heart through us.

When Jesus says, "That's Me," I hope I hear Him every time.