Dogs From Heaven

After my dear Zoe died suddenly, I thought they might have to just bury me too. She was the first dog that I didn't have to share. All the dogs in my life had been the "family dog," going back to childhood. The many canines that we've owned in my adult years also belonged to our children. Zoe was a Christmas gift from my husband, the most perfect puppy God ever made, in my opinion. She came here house-trained, never chewed up my furniture, looked to me for all her cues, obeyed us implicitly and looked like a living doll. She was the definition of faithful. She was taken far too early. Her digestive system shut down and would not wake up. My daughter and our future son-in-law helped me bury her in the front yard. It's been two years and I still can't pass that spot without my heart weeping.

My grief wouldn't be assuaged. My sister let me borrow one of her old, retired show dogs for a week. I fell in love with her kind, humble heart. She was related to Zoe and it was obvious. Even though she was an outdoor dog and old, she house-trained immediately. My sister gave her to me, after Ken fell in love with her too. Her name was Misty, but I renamed her Sadie. Everyone said I couldn't do that with an old dog. I told them, watch me. She is my constant companion, attentive and sweet. I don't know how I've gotten lucky enough to have two dogs this good. 

This week, my sister asked me to keep Sadie's granddaughter, an adorable mop of a dog, an Aussie Doodle. They called her Kitty, but then her new owner named her Piper. The new owner turned up allergic to the dog, so my sister is trying to rehome her. When she got here Saturday, she wouldn't come to either name. Ken took her for a trip around the yard and had her with him while he worked on a project. By the time they got in the house, he had named her "Chewy" -- he thinks she looks like Chewbacca from the Star Wars movies. Bless Pat, that dog already thinks that's her name. I don't know if she's destined to stay with us but I dare say she might end up confused about all those names. 

There's nothing in the world like a good dog. The unconditional love that they radiate is something akin to God. I believe He molded them in the garden, one of those undeserved gifts that go above our heads. We take them for granted, but they still love us. We have much to learn from them.   

Our Firsts

I'll never forget the day Ken and I bought our first house. It was a darling, tiny little hovel, full of mice, filth and literally thousands of roaches and water bugs (a nice term for monster-sized roaches). During our renovation of it, our good friend exterminator treated it seven times before we could move in, the worst infestation he had ever seen. To this day, I can abide a mouse way more than I can a roach. They are plumb evil, and I'm convinced they are part of the curse on Adam's original sin. Ugly, oily reminders that we need Jesus. 

What wasn't ugly was the sweet cottage waiting to be revealed under all the unsightly mess. We didn't have a clue how to fix that house up, but my Dad and a host of Ken's buddies helped us. We lived with my folks while we toiled over it. I was newly pregnant with our first child. The stress of remodeling a house, living with my parents out of a suitcase and being newly pregnant stretched our wits to their very end. I had been a compliant, easy-going wife up until then. Ken didn't quite know what to do with this half-crazy, hormonal woman who emerged from the chaos. 

Several hair-raising months later, we finally moved in. The house was as cute as a daisy -- light yellow with green shutters and white trim, cherry red cabinets in the kitchen gleaming (a cobbled-together repurposing of various mismatched finds which came together delightfully when I applied paint and new porcelain knobs), charming wallpaper with red cherries and yellow lines, fresh paint everywhere and a newly-trimmed yard by KenLawn. He's good. We were exhausted and so grateful for all the help and new knowledge. The day we moved in, we plopped on the couch with a collective sigh and counted the days until our baby arrived.

I loved our yard. We had a little garden and beautiful green grass. Our property backed right up to the railroad tracks. We would sit in our swing and watch all the unusual trains go by. It took us maybe a week to get used to the whistles, and then we simply took them for granted. The months passed and my tummy grew to extraordinary proportions. I knew in my heart that he was a boy and that he was huge. I would sit in the swing when Ken was at work, trying to imagine how our world would change when our little big man came. I would talk to him, patting my tummy, dreaming about what he would look like, what he would sound like, trying to imagine how I could love him any more than I already did.

He finally arrived, two weeks late and big as a lumberjack. 10 pounds, 8 ounces, wailing like a Banshee. The day we took him home, my heart trembled in fear. This Jon-boy was my dream, but I despaired of how to raise him, how to do all the things that he needed. I wanted to repeat the good things that my parents did in raising us, but felt poorly equipped to do that. One morning, soon after coming home, he was crying and I was crying. I was holding that man-child in the rocker, trying to figure out what to do to soothe him. It seemed like the long road in front of me was fraught with failure and despair. Then I looked deep into those sweet, bunny-blue eyes and began to sing a lullaby to him. "Jesus Loves Me" and then "Tell Me Why." He stopped crying and snuggled right up onto the crook of my neck.  Our little shelter, full of love and humanness, was ready to hold us, just as I clung tightly to my dear baby. It was all going to be okay. 

Hikes into the Unknown

 My childhood held no Disney, skiing or trips that involved an airplane. Those things are not required, when the earthy world around you is grounded by true love and imagination. I was oblivious to the simplicity of the trappings of our lifestyle, because within it was the bounty of a secure, happy home. As children, we were required to work hard, but there were also the gossamer wings of play and freedom that my folks understood were necessary to a healthy childhood. Fancy hotels and exotic trips were never a possibility, but the humble crackle of a campfire and the buzz of a Coleman lamp were luxuries of the most exquisite nature. Bacon popping in a skillet, burnt marshmallows on the ends of sticks, midnight trips to the comfort station...spelled heaven to us kids. I know that my Mama, who loves all things clean and tidy, must surely have loved us to the moon and back. She endured the chaos of camping -- planned, prepared and executed -- because she truly loved us. There was a similar theme when it came to animals. We had a menagerie of mammals that paraded through my childhood. She fed them and let us always have them, simply because she loved us. There could be no other reason. Animals were not her idea of fun or delight, whereas I could not live without them. So she made sure I didn't.

One of my favorite camping stories was when we had gone to some state park in north Georgia. We had always tent-camped, but my folks had snatched up a pop-up camper on the side of the road for $25. It was a mess. They painted it, put a new plywood floor down, then used a piece of leftover linoleum from our kitchen to dress it out. Mama sewed a new cover for it, using the old, ratty one as a pattern. Then she sprayed it with something to make it waterproof. This trip was our first outing with the dolled-up camper. There was no bathroom, but we were in high cotton, no longer relegated to the ground when we slept. 

I met a new friend at the campground. She was adventurous and more sophisticated than I. We hiked and climbed up a sheer rock wall, her showing me how to navigate with just my hands and feet. We were there a few days and tramped all around the expansive woods. One day, we had hiked a long way and came across a beautiful, shallow creek. There was a natural waterslide, where the creek sluiced invitingly through what appeared to be acres of shale. We debated jumping into that creek and sliding to wherever it led us. Then we debated some more. We talked about different scenarios and how we would deal with them, if there were danger involved. It was a very shallow creek. Surely it would be okay. We paused at the edge, daring each other to do it. This went on for some time, and then suddenly, inexplicably we decided against it. As we hiked around the mountain, the sun was getting low in the sky. It was a beautiful evening, purple and orange streaks near the horizon. The air was fresh, balmy, sweet. We explored the terrain as it curved  around the hills, going back down rather up now. There was a new smell in the air, akin to the earth after a storm. After a sharp bend in the trail, we came into a large clearing, where the creek we had observed earlier came into focus...spilling hundreds of feet into a massive crater. Chills went down our spines as we realized where we would have ended up, had we taken our carefree, natural waterslide ride. God protects children and fools. We might have been both.

There are times that I recall that day, the magic of it and then the decision that probably saved our lives. We make choices all the time -- choices to turn this way or that, decisions to take that road or this one. You could make yourself crazy, worrying about what is right or wrong. We could decide to just stay in our houses for a year or two, just in case. I have pondered these kinds of things all of my life. I have been young and now am not so old, but I do know this: "If the Lord wills, we will do this or that" (James 4)....and every bend of the road is fraught with adventure, danger and even, yes, boredom. Pray for protection. Pray for wisdom. Trust God to guide you, then go ahead and live.