God and Dog Walking

The Wild Side

2010-02-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

OK, I'm going to try to make this my second-to-last Aruba post. (I may get desperate in an icy April and have to revisit but for now...Savvy and I are moving forward. That said, I still have to remember to get my thoughts down on the Natural Bridge.)

On our last day in Aruba, we went to the wild side of the island. Most of it is a national park, parched and laden with cacti and caves. Some of it is like I've already posted...rocky shoreline and crashing waves.

The northeast corner of the island has the same crashing waves but with long, empty beaches. There are no resorts here, I think, because there are reefs and rocks that make bathing fairly dangerous.

On the longest of these beaches, reachable only by jeep, Steve and I came upon some windsurfers. It's a wild sport here because the wind is jet speed. Just getting the kite-like sail from the sand into the water requires strength, persistence, and some luck. We followed on of these windsurfers through the whole process of harnessing, lifting the sail, and getting through the surf and into the water. It took some doing, and made me sad that I'm far too old and bad-bone-ridden to do it.

He finally got into the water. I got some good shots but this one captures the spirit of it. Strength and skill combined with raw Creation power is breath-taking. And it's yet another reminder of how God's wonder found off the beaten path.

The closest we got to this wonder was our Jeep. We got to watch, and be blessed.

If only I could have ridden the wind.

No Disguising It

2010-02-02T06:14:00.001-08:00

Take a look. Doesn't she look great? Savvy's almost full-grown, and is as graceful and lovely as her breeding predicted.

So cute when she's playing in the snow, isn't she? Know what she's doing?

She's digging for poops.

OK, all dogs eat poop. Cat poops are their favorites but the horse manure left on the trail, or the cow flaps that are distributed when the bovines across the street get out--yeah, these are good.

The dumb dog used to dig for Maddie's poops. Oh, I suppose I get it, given Maddie is her role model. But once she ran out of Maddie's droppings, she began digging for her own. She pries the lump out, tosses it around, and when I challenge her...gulp.

Her behavior is incestuous cannibalism, if you ask me. And I am in NO mood for her kisses, no siree.

There's a massive spiritual analogy in this one. But I'm not going there. No way.

I report. You apply.

A Rising Tide Lifts All...Dogs?

2010-02-01T06:59:00.000-08:00

I am not going to presume to be an expert on Aruba. But my sister tells me that everyone--unless they're infirm--has a job in Aruba. There is no welfare. Certainly observation shows that the Arubans are busy, and pleasant. The 'friendly-island' slogan definitely applies.

Not having been here for six years or so, Steve and I noticed many new houses. Housing in Aruba is modest and simple but it looked like the bad economy has not reached the island. Given I'm not a demographer or economist, I have only one way to truly judge.

The dogs.

On our previous visits to Aruba, dog sightings were few, more toward the "country" side of the island, and those dogs seemed mangy. Life in a dry, equatorial island is not accomodating to canines.

Every neighborhood we drove through now has dogs. And the boys (our term for friendly dogs that hang out, regardless of gender) are looking good. Sleek and secure in their properties. Out in the early and late part of the days, sheltering in the midday heat.

Who needs statistics when you've got dogs to tell you life is good.

Adventuring

2010-01-28T07:04:00.000-08:00

So you've got your pool-sitters. They get out early, save lounge chairs for friends, establish themselves at the tables, nice people who are content to go no further than 100 feet from their rooms. And that's okay. Many are elderly and have earned their rest.

It's just not for me.

Then you've got the beach sitters. At the big hotels, you've got to get out early to save a spot under the grass umbrellas (the name of which I never came remember). One of the biggest hotels requires people to line up at 6 AM to receive a "flag". If they leave their beach chairs unattended for more than two hours, they will lose possession of their location.

My sister and her husband are too practical for all that. They buy beach chairs, go to the open-air beaches (where the waves are better) and happily share shade with everyone.

Steve and I...well, we're known for adventuring. Or, as my sisters used to put it, risking everyone's lives so we can inherit.

The most famous natural landmark in Aruba is the "natural bridge". (I'll post about that another time...the natural bridge is its own spiritual reminder of mortality.) The natural bridge is on the wild side of the island, requiring a ride over bumpy dusty roads. All the tour busses go there, unloading people into the parking lot. They take their pictures, buy expensive souvenirs, then get back on the bus.

We take a ride and I spot sand way beyond the natural bridge...and beyond any road...unless you're riding a 4-wheeler to go over volcanic rock.

So I say to Steve, "let's hike there."

Aruba isn't the best place for hiking. We're near the equator, and noontime sun is brutal, even for natives. However, the wind on the wild side of the island blows steadily off the water, with nothing to block it. There's the illusion of bearable, and sunscreen does the rest.

So we hike. And it's not bad, and not long. I trip once, fall and don't break anything, thank you, Jesus. We come to a private beach, water too violent to enter but gorgeous just the same. We go in to our ankles and just savor God's glory.

And then, I spot more sand.

"Let's hike there," I say and because Steve is the right guy for me, he says, "Sure."

So we hike some more, discover a hidden little river and a bigger beach. And such blessed privacy and beauty.

All this to say...God's glory is worth hiking for. Look beyond, and take the risk.

I'll remember my sister's kindness and the lovely company she and my brother-in-law Peter provide. These are special moments that bless us.

I will, however, forget all the hotels and restaurants and even the nice pool we enjoy.

But this...this private beach where God's glory pounds with every crashing wave. This I will never forget.

Lifted Up!

2010-01-27T04:47:00.000-08:00

The seas have lifted up, O LORD,
the seas have lifted up their voice;
the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.
Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,
mightier than the breakers of the sea--
the LORD on high is mighty.
Psalm 93: 3-4

Paradise Found?

2010-01-25T04:26:00.000-08:00

So I'm sitting here, 8 in the morning, the wind sweet on my face, the temperature a bearable high 70s, the birds flitting overhead, and the wind again, like a constant chorus of rejoicing as it ruffles the palms. The waves on the sand are like God's heartbeat.

I wonder, is this was Eden was like?

How amazing to step out the door and know I won't be assaulted by icy rain or heavy snow or sullen skies. Could I live like this? Easy answer, one perhaps my Canadian and Coloradan friends might agree with (though maybe not this day, in January.)

No.

I can love the warmth and the wind, the easy ocean, the lovely people (Aruba IS the friendly island). But those of us who have been blessed with variety will not give up our snow easily, even when it's April and good grief, we've had another foot of it! And given Aruba or New Hampshire in flaming October, I suspect I'd choose New Hampshire.

I wonder about the people of Aruba, folks who grow up here and have every day sun-filled and wind-kissed. How could they see this as stunning beauty, when never having experienced those twenty-below days, when I have to slime my face with Vaseline to keep my skin from frost-bite. Surely my dog would chose not to live here--the Aruba dogs move slowly, and wisely. They do not bound or soar, like Savvy does.

Did it snow in Eden, I wonder? Did the leaves turn blazing colors, then drift on cool winds to blanket the ground? Or was it days of sun and sweet air and the Lord drifting through, blessing all He had done.

And did Adam and Eve take it all for granted? Did they want more variety?

Did they know they would bring snow and ice to the world?

A Rose By Any Other Name

2010-01-23T10:42:00.000-08:00

So Steve and I are here in Aruba, a guest of my sister and brother-in-law. I was going to post about missing my dog; or the stretching Janice does with us every morning; or how the waves crash in and then crash out (how does THAT happen?).

So I pull up Blogspot and discover everything is written in Dutch! Aruba is a Dutch protectorate, so that explains the Dutch, I suppose.

Somehow, my physical location prompts the appropriate language to be displayed.

And isn't that just like the Holy Spirit? Catching us right where we are.

Hope?

2010-01-19T06:55:00.000-08:00

Today is election day here in Massachusetts. I've been working the phones all month, started when Scott Brown was down 30 points. This past weekend polls point to a Brown victory.

Even to get close is unthinkable in this state. Being out among voters, it's startling to see the hope in their eyes. This was the same hope we saw in Obama supporters a year-and-a-half ago. It's an odd phenomenon, this hope for a red victory in the bluest of states. People resent the surge of government, and the helplessness of not having their voice heard.

The nation hears us now. Massachusetts has become the twilight zone of hope.

And then there's Haiti, a brutal contrast to the privilege we have. A country in unimaginable ruins, in desperate need of hope.

God, the world seems too big at times like this.

Mackel for President?

2010-01-07T06:52:00.000-08:00

Not gonna happen. Good grief, I couldn't take the rejection.

For the first time in 30 years, when my toddlers and I passed out Reagan brochures, I have gotten involved in the political process. I am volunteering at a call center for a senate candidate for the upcoming special election to fill Ted Kennedy's seat. Our job is to phone independent voters, remind them of the special election, ask them for their support.

The first time I did this, I was wounded whenever someone hung up on me or told me coldly, "I am on the other side." It's only just treatment, since I rush telemarketers off the phone like this. I used to just hang up but then I saw Slumdog Millionaire and was convicted of my rudeness. So now I apologize before I hang up.

After a couple of weeks, I'm no longer bothered by rejection. I've had some great conversations, even had the opportunity to say "God bless you" to strangers who are brethren. The thing is...it's all about numbers. Getting the Scott Brown name and message out, understanding that there will be a number of people we can't possibly reach.

It's a wonderful thing that God doesn't work from a database, nor does He do numbers. His only numerical criteria is "as numerous as the sands on the seashore or the stars in the sky." He doesn't keep proclaiming His glory in the heavens--or through our voices raised in worship--and hope to gain a certain percentage of supporters.

He doesn't need our votes. But He so longs for our hearts.

Jesus Christ for Savior. Yeah, that's a campaign I can support.

We All Need a Safe Place to Rest, Eh?

2009-12-31T13:24:00.000-08:00

Psalm 91:4

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

Ho Ho Ho. No No No

2009-12-19T07:41:00.001-08:00

Savvy's been sick. She's on her second antibiotic for a urinary tract infection. The first bill was $140, including antibiotic, pain med, office visit, "pill pockets" and urinalysis. I had to go back for the second antibiotic and pay out another $70. She's still shows no improvment and my heart breaks when I see her squat and try to pee. Yesterday on her walk, she must have squatted 3o times. When we're in the yard, I need to wave a cookie under her nose to get her to come back in. She's trying to rid herself of the waste, poor thing.

Speaking of waste...

I just read that the last Democrat hold-out on the Health Care Reform bill has caved and will vote yes. Senator Nelson is self-proclaimed pro-life and now has cover to pretend that this bill will allow states to refuse abortion funding. Right...and I've got an ocean liner to sell Sen. Nelson of Nebraska.

When I paid all that money for Savvy's care this week, I couldn't help but think of people without health insurance. I remember the old days when doctor's visits and medications weren't covered. Things were cheaper back then because we KNEW what the cost of most visits and procedures were.

I have to get a molar crowned shortly. The cost is $1300. I know I paid $800 just a few years ago. Phew.

So I do worry about people without health insurance, especially with so much unemployment. We have a massive entitlement culture in this country, both for people on government dole and those of us who have sailed through the last ten years. I worry especially about people caught in the middle, the working people whose jobs are disappearing rapidly. The first worry is usually 'how to I pay my mortgage?' The second is 'what do I do about health care?' Dear ones who travel through this blog have faced this worry.

But I hate that I don't trust our government. I hate that I have no voice. (I live in Massachusetts, after all.)

I hate that I think they're all idiots. And I hate that I can't trust any media outlets to help me see what the real truth is.

And what I really hate is that I fear we've brought this on ourselves.

I've been guilty of spend-spend-spend in my own life. To see it on the national stage is frightening. And I worry that, with a massive bill created in darkness, no one will be served but the ruling class of this nation.

Bah humbug.

God is good. I know this. Fix your eyes...come on, Kathy. Fix your eyes on...

Hard to do when I'm fixing my eyes on Savvy's back end, to see if the poor thing is getting out any urine. Hard to do when I'm fixing my eyes on Washington and shrieking, "when was the last time you guys climbed under your car in December to change the oil; or picked through the discount bin at the supermarket; or struggled to keep a business going so you don't have to lay off your one employee; or bought your own groceries or pumped your own gas or drove to work in a snowstorm so you wouldn't lose a days pay or...lived like us?"

Big things and small. God is good. Fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of my faith.

Oh man, still so much work for Him to do!

Merry Christmas, Christ is born, Christ will come again.

Ho ho ho. Proverbs 31: 25

Love

2009-12-14T10:57:00.000-08:00

I fell in love with my husband the day I heard him speaking baby-talk to my two cats.

That was 36 years ago.

Clearly, I have chosen well.

The Sweet Smell of Snow

2009-12-09T05:30:00.000-08:00

It's snowing again. The forecast say this should turn to rain but I don't see it on the weather map. Just a blob of blue. And it's beautiful snow, hard flakes that make powder and oh--how they cleanse the air!

I'm in my upstairs office, Savvy sleeping under Ryan's bed as I work. This is our schedule, and we're both a trifle disoriented if we don't keep to it. In another hour, we'll be out in the snow, wearing orange so the hunters don't mistake us for a buck. Breathing in the sweet smell of this snow.

And wondering...why? Why does calamity seem to come in clumps?

In the past month or so, three people in our church had health crises. These are the stalwarts, my brother and sisters I have known for almost 20 years, the wise and faithful among us whom we take for granted. Nancy and Diane were struck with breast cancer and, given it was Diane's second, she chose a dramatic surgery. Dana--who not only helps gird our church but the whole community--suffered heart problems that led to a bypass.

I forget we're all going older. I hate--oh, how I hate--to see loved ones suffer. Especially when it's all sudden and in a clump and the rock we think we've built our church home on takes a hit. But praise God, they know THE ROCK, and God is bringing them through healing. Still--I'd wish their illnesses on serial killers or rapists. Not our dear ones who are so giving. They shame me because I'm not as generous with my time and surely don't have their wisdom and faithfulness.

And then...Dave, one of my oldest writing pals, is diagnosed with a terrible cancer. He's in good hands and has had some observedly miraculous progress (thank you, Jesus!) but it will be a long and perilous road back to health. My writer's group are all touched and worried.

And now...Stephanie, the wife of another writing brother. has cancer. Her brother-in-law is the pastor of a large and wonderful church, so she will have a lot of prayer support.

But still. All these beloved have to walk hard paths. I sit here in a comfortable office, my puppy stretched out under the bed, heaven's snow falling. And think. And pray. Because I know what it's like to think about life going on around you when you are suffering. You sometimes want to scream, "Hey! Stop shopping or watching movies or whatever and look at MY life, stalled here in pain." I remember thinking that at my father's funeral, listening to the minister and watching the cars go by outside and how, in the midst of sorrow, life goes on.

I worry about my sisters, Mary and Janice. I love them very much and I always worry about them getting sick. If Nancy, the picture of health and beauty, can get sick, anyone can. Funny--I don't worry about Steve because we've been through two drastic illnesses in our marriage.

I don't like this clump of illnesses. It scares me.

Lord, I pray this day that you raise to health: Nancy. Diane. Dana. Dave. Stephanie. Amd I pray that they see Your blessing, and give You glory. I ask that I be faithful.

That I be faithful...and not fear life's clumps.

Faith Is Being Sure Of What You Hope For...

2009-12-08T09:57:00.000-08:00

Whiter than Snow?

2009-12-07T08:06:00.000-08:00

So much for training Savvy to pee on demand with an offer of a "cookie." Steve informed me that this weekend's snow has provided a revealing insight.

Savvy fakes it.

She is known for multiple stops...squatting, allegedly peeing, then grabbing her morsel, then repeating the process. As responsible dog owners, we do want that bladder empty before she comes back in the house.

Saturday Steve caught her cheating. Squat, pee, cookie. Squat, pee, cookie. Squat...wait a minute, that snow is still white and unbroken!

Hm.

Savvy Does Her Job

2009-12-01T05:06:00.000-08:00

Every dog owner knows he or she needs to "name" the dog's necessary but indelicate functions. There's going wee-wee or doing your business. My mother called going poop doing your load. I loved my mother but I always hated that term, though if you've got a large dog, that's exactly what it is. Steve has been taking pride lately in the size of Savvy's poops. In his mind, a big poop means big dog.

Our term for performing the necessary functions is do your job. It's a multi-functional term that, combined with a dog biscuit, pretty much now can instruct Savvy to pee on demand. We have done the whole training thing--choose a term, apply it with a bunch of praise and a snippet of treat when the pee or poop happens, and teach the dog to then go on demand. Or invitation.

Like all Labs, Savvy is a fruitcake when it comes to treats. She so lusts for that taste of biscuit that when she's told to do her job, she'll go...get the biscuit...then scurry off six feet and go again, expecting more biscuit. She has, after all, done her job.

There's an unfortunate consequence to this multi-stage performance. She has been so eager to be rewarded for doing her job that she'll turn and look for the treat before she's quite finished. That has left us back where we started pre-housebreaking--with a stinky dog. I now make sure to stay in her line-of-sight so she doesn't turn and look for me while she's fulfilling her responsibility.

When I lose sight of God, I too often do the same thing--soil what He's called me to do. He calls us to fix our eyes on Jesus and don't go chasing the biscuit.

I'm off now--to do my job.

Uh-Oh, They Caught Us

2009-11-27T06:26:00.001-08:00

What The Cold Revealed

2009-11-24T05:27:00.000-08:00

I ashamedly remember my first year singing with the choir. I must have been a spry 40 years old or so. We had an elder soprano named Frances who had horrible arthritis. Her top knuckles were so eroded that her finger tips twisted sideways until they were perpendicular to the rest of her fingers.

Every once in awhile I'd glance at her fingers and think (now, shamefully): I'll never let that happen to my fingers. I figured you could tape your fingers or maybe splint them so they would stay straight. That's what I would have done, I thought all those years back.

What an ignorant fool I was.

Now I have severe "erosive" osteoarthritis. That means that the cartilage in the joints of my fingers and thumb have been eaten away, leaving the bones to grind against each other. An X-ray would reveal a haze where my joints are supposed to be.

This "bone dust" is a wonderful metaphor for fallen creation. As Paul says in Romans 7:

For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!

How many times I've repented of my stupid thoughts about dear Frances! Beyond her near century of service to our church and community, two things stand out to me. She sang with choir into her eighties, and though her voice grew faint, she always sang in key. (In my spry 50s, I'm finding it hard now to not go flat.) And, though the year she died she was into her nineties, she still managed to knit something like 50 scarves, hats, and/or mittens for the children in her extended family. Twisted fingers, failing eyesight and all.

Were I only to have a portion of Frances' spirit!

I have a blessing Frances did not. About five years ago, I had two joints on my left hand fused against pain. This was the only remedy at that time. Last year I had a joint replacement in my left hand, this year a joint replacement in my right hand. I lost the pain on "mousing" and typing, and gained the ability to open jars.

In August, I had the joints in two fingers on my right hand not fused--replaced. I continue to discover the extent of this blessing. Yesterday I picked up my flute for the first time in years and delighted in pushing the keys. I can make a fist. Today I sit in my office, typing and mousing happily away. Pain-free.

There's been another blessing associated with my hand restoration.

Last winter, we kept the thermostat at 68. This was far too cold for my hands, so I wore two pairs of pants, a tee-shirt, turtleneck, and sweater to get my body temperature high enough to bring comfort to my eroded fingers.

Today the temperature in my office is 62. I wear yoga pants, a tee-shirt, and a light long-sleeve shirt. My fingers are warm and happy because Dr. Stefan Strapko of Nashua, NH restored what was eaten away.

Frances May of Dunstable, Massachusetts blessed so many with her twisted fingers. Without complaint. With conviction.

With a quiet and enduring faith.

Thank you, Jesus. Frances deserved these pain-free and functional fingers far more than I.

The Older Women Teach the Younger...

2009-11-21T13:57:00.000-08:00

Daisy O., a two-year-old beagle, visited last Sunday and took 2 hours to teach Savvy how to play. Savvy rolled continuously for almost an hour, trying to "submit" to her elder. Daisy persisted, hopping around, on, and over Savvy until Savvy finally figured out what to do.

She was more than ready for Sadie when she visited today.

The elder hath taught the younger.

The Heart of the Matter

2009-11-20T07:52:00.000-08:00

We had powerful rains last night and this morning. It's hard to believe that we got pounded at 9:30 this morning, greeted by blue skies and bright sunshine by 10. Perfect for Savvy's morning walk.

One of the by-products of the forester's mess is that the woods have many deep ruts where the path used to be. In the spring and after hard rains, these ruts fill up with water. I have hated these ruts--they're nearly unpassable when wet and treacherous when iced over.

Amazing how a puppy can change one's perspective. I now do not leave the house without boots because if it's not dewy (or frosty) grass, it's mucky, wet woods. When it was just me and the forester, I hated having to wear boots because of his mess.

But here's the untended consequence of that mess -- water for my dog,.

Savvy discovered water her first day with us, stepping into her water bowl and overturning it. Gone are the days we used to have to bend down and hold the bowl when she drank. Now she's a lady (relatively), drinking nicely from her bowl. And the jacuzzi. And the toilet bowl...not yet but she's trying to figure that out.

Savvy is a Labrador Retriever, bred to run through swamps and bogs to retrieve water fowl. That breeding is fully on display on a day like today when the ruts are filled with water and she can leap and dive and splash and frolic to her literal heart's content.

I love the ruts because my dog loves them. I'm blessed by watching this joyful emergence of her basic nature.

And isn't this what God expects of me? Joyful frolicking in whatever mess He allows in my path?

What Every Dog Lover Dreams Of

2009-11-11T05:16:00.000-08:00

Grace, dignity, and beauty. Correct?

And here's Savvy...starting to doze off under a bed, the toilet paper she's stolen by her side. Yep. Grace, dignity, and beauty indeed.

That's my pup.

Mortality in Splintered Steps

2009-11-10T05:59:00.000-08:00

Steve's father died yesterday. At 94, we all agreed he had years left. Harry still babysat his great-grandchildren, loved lobster rolls, loved his wife Evelyn more than anything.

One can wax on about mortality as if it's to be measured on the vet's scale. But life will have its way in splintered steps, marching or leaping or shuffling forward until it fades away with the morning mist.

Breathe in. Then sigh.

Mortality in Leaps and Bounds

2009-11-06T05:15:00.000-08:00

Savvy is going to the vet weekly for her shots. They always weigh her, a tail-wagging exercise that makes me so pleased she's not Tasha, who would scramble off the weighing table.

Two weeks ago she gained 2 pounds. This week she gained 3 pounds. No fat on this dog, she's all muscle and lately, lots of leg.

The lesson of mortality is so evident in her rapid growth. Dogs her breed live around 10 years, can become pregnant at 6 months, so she's got to grow fast. Sometimes she's grown during her afternoon nap, so the dog that went into the pen comes out a taller lass.

I can't remember Barnabus, our first lab, as a puppy. Perhaps that's because that was almost 30 years ago. Or perhaps it's because I had two toddlers at the time so he fell into the mix. Tasha came to us at 1 year old so she was full-grown, though terribly in need of training and order. So I watch Savvy with considerable joy, but also a certain trepidation, as soft puppy turns so quickly to gangling doggie. Adolescence will come around Christmas, adult-hood next summer.

Maybe then I'll stop thinking about how fast time goes. Until then, I'll praise God for the miracle of puppies and stop worrying about the mortal inevitabilities.

Creation Thuds

2009-11-02T06:44:00.000-08:00

I have a deer tick imbedded in my umbilicus. Deep in, under a fold of skin. (And we won't mention the adipose tissue cushioning it!) I will need to go to my doctor to have it cut out of there.

I discovered it only because my belly broke out in a rash. Yeah, that good ol' Lyme Disease rash. Otherwise, why ever would I venture into my own umbilicus. I prefer to meditate on the Lord Almighty, and not my navel.

I know from Genesis 1 that deer ticks were not designed to feast on blood. And that they do is part of our corporate Adamic sin. That a disease as potentially debilitating as Lyme nestles deep in their throats (or whatever ticks have) is downright tragic.

And now that tick has to be cut out of my bellybutton and the Lyme washed from my blood.

So it goes. Over and over again.

God-awful Day?

2009-10-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

God-awful is a common term, but really improper, when you think of it. That said, were you to quiz 100 people about this day, 99 of them would term it such. It's cold, pelting rain, rising wind, barren trees. Just awful all around.

Savvy would be among the 99, should she be allowed a vote. I have to lure her from the porch with "cookies" that, despite my rain slicker, are soggy before we even make the woods. It's a four-bite hike to get her in there, and she looks skyward with trepidation. Meanwhile, I'm soaked, my Patriots cap dripping madly, my slicker, sweatshirt, and tee-shirt drinking up the cold rain, my pants soggy between the tops of my boots and the bottom of my slicker.

God-awful is the term that comes to my mind but I dismiss it quickly. It's improper to pair the name of the Almighty with an adjective like awful, and blasphemous to throw the description about. Ugly might be the best term. Wet, windy, cold, the color of October flung to the ground in a brown mess, with six months of lifelessness ahead.

And yet...as we venture deeper into the woods, Savvy shakes off her trepidation and takes the lead. Something has kicked in, the essential nature of a Labrador Retriever that makes water friend and not threat, that makes sticks and sod and puddles a fulfillment of the Lord's creation and not something to be endured.

Something kicks in for me as well. I'm even wetter but my warmth spreads outward, my soggy shoulders defying the awfulness of the day. I am the 1 in 100, the fool out in the maelstrom, the witness to God's creation in all its glory, even as He has stirred the clouds to drench dog and woman and woods.

Last week the colors peaked and the tourists snapped photos and ooh-ed and ah-ed about Indian summer and ripe apples and brilliant trees.

This week -- this day -- is mine, to be shared with a puppy who has found her God-given nature and thus exults in the storm. I exult with her, though perhaps without her, my praise would have been grumbles.

Thus is the essence of a dog. The ability -- the calling --to turn a hideous day into a God-awesome one.

De-Pooping the Pup -- Part II

2009-10-28T05:23:00.001-07:00

So Savvy's a good girl this morning, comes with me through the rain and mist to the edge of the woods and does her business.

I go inside to fetch her breakfast, come back 60 seconds later and can't find her. She's a homebody, a front-porch pup who never wanders. I walk out in bare feet, in a mild panic as I call for her.

She's in the bushes next to the porch. Digging up BadCat's newly-deposited business. And of course, being a Lab, she's eating it.

I yell at her to "drop it" and shuffle her inside.

Interesting how she looks for cover to do her own poop, but is willing to eat cat-, deer-, dog-, or you-name-it-poop.

Is this me, Lord? Hiding my own sins but quick to dig up others? Taking a sick nourishment from someone else's fall?

De-Pooping the Pup

2009-10-27T04:14:00.000-07:00

Getting Savvy to poop is like pulling teeth (ugh, such an ugly image). There's no predictability to her function and thus, no easy way to ensure she's done her business and can be let inside among civilized folk. Yesterday I spent an hour following her around, waiting for her to go. Nothing, so she finally came inside and was penned while we had supper.

I took her out again, and she finally pooped. Ah, safe I thought, and brought her in to enjoy her company. We were upstairs, making the bed and playing. Steve was tossing a toy, she was running joyfully wild and we all were enjoying puppy time.

Then I smelled something. "Smell that?" I asked Steve.

"I never smell anything," he said. "You know that."

It smelled like dead fish. I sniffed his clothes (because who knows what chemical he'd worked with that day) and then his breath. Ah, sweetness.

"I don't smell anything," he said again.

My nose never lies. The dog had pooped again, a big present on the white carpet.

"Bad!" I yelled, and brought her to visit it.

She seemed to have no shame, and yet the fact that she went behind a chair speaks of some regret.

God's nose is far more sensitive, and his desire for me not to soil the white carpet far more exquisite. Is it any wonder sometimes He's got me wandering the "yard" when I think I should be let inside?

Pain In The . . .

2009-10-26T04:08:00.000-07:00

This morning I will have my sixth injection of cortisone into my spine. I've had my lumbar injected, my hip joint, and my hamstring tendon. Still, the Pain remains.

I've celebrated the Pain's first birthday on October 16th. That's not the day of the injury. I can't even pinpoint an injury. But it was a very important day for the company I worked at, and I marked it with hard work, mild rejoicing with co-workers, and a butt-full of pain.

Despite all the MRI's and injections and therapies, the pain remains the same. Today is my last chance at a steroid-induced relief. After Dr. S. injects my sacro-iliac joint, there's no location left to inject.

I have little hope of relief, because thus far I've gotten none. And it's an odd Pain, in some way, a blessed Pain. It hurts when I sit, dissipates when I stand, disappears when I walk. Is it any wonder I longed for a dog -- and thus a rationale -- for many, many walks?

No one sees the Pain, except perhaps Steve who watches me squirm in my chair. Marj sympathizes because she knows pain. Otherwise, it's an occult affair, no evidence of agony because I walk vigorously.

I can't help but think of the pain of others. Hidden -- deeply. Placed -- oddly. Agonizing -- silently. The pain only God knows because people walk through the world with no sign of sorrow and hopelessness. How does the Christian seek out such pain? The quick answer is that we don't -- we let the Holy Spirit bring it to us. But there are signs. Sometimes just a new wrinkle, like the one I have over my right eye. Deep furrows in the face from enduring. Sometimes a too-slow "fine" to the question "How're ya doin'?"

I need to forget that Pain, forget my fear that this last desperate shot to ease my Pain will fail, too. Need to stop worrying about the day when someone says, "Sorry, Mrs. Mackel. There's nothing more we can do."

Need to stop feeling sorry for myself.

Need to rejoice in the time and beauty and puppy that bless my walk. What grace is this, that I can walk without the Pain? What blessing should I walk forth with?

Whose pain to carry as I God-and-Dog-Walk? After all, it's a miracle that I don't have to carry my own,

Fuzzy Bone Redux

2009-10-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

I was mulling mortality, organizing my thoughts into something palatable (and dare I say -- forcibly intelligent?) when Savvy provided me an earthier perspective.

She found Fuzzy Bone.

Fuzzy Bone started life as Tasha's favorite toy. Tasha gave it plenty of go-arounds, even in later life, so that it became quite "icky." I stored it away with Tasha's doghouse and quilts after she passed on.

Sadie found it. Groady and sticky, it was not fit for canine companionship. For sentimental reasons, I asked Jamie not to trash it. I'm not sure what I had planned, but Tasha's death was still to near to part with her favorite toy. We should have thought to bury it with her but that was such an outlandish, insane event, we didn't think.

Someone -- maybe Jamie, or maybe I -- buried Fuzzy Bone under old brush and dead leaves on the edge of the woods.

Savvy found it this morning. It was not only soaked and filthy but it had a layer of green mold growing on it. This only enhanced its desirablility for Savvy. She will not be allowed to keep it -- and this time, it will be trashed -- but it heartened me before the icks set in to see my new pup embracing my old pup's joy.

I'll worry about mortality some other time.

The Cross Near the Woods

2009-10-21T05:37:00.000-07:00

We've got a cross on the border of the woods. Steve made it for a Maundy Thursday presentation a couple years back. It's as rustic as can be, two sticks notched in the middle and wired together.

When the Maundy Thursday presentation was past, I couldn't bear to take it apart and toss it back to the woods. I hung it in my favorite sitting place, and too often pass by without even noticing. It blends in well, you see.

This morning I was depositing a Savvy-job over the wall when I did notice. I sat, wanting silence. The mind whirs and bucks, impossible to nail even on the smallest of crosses. The birds shouted and sang and squeaked, a symphony that finally brought me to silence, thank you, Jesus.

So I sat. Pooper scooper at my feet. Considering the cross.

Thinking how big one would have to be to hold a man. "Hung on a tree" isn't simply an Old Testament prophecy. Looking at my meager cross, a poor representation of what the real thing had to be to hold a man.

To hold a man. To kill a man.

How do I dare approach anything bigger than my Maundy Thursday cross? Even this one made of sticks has its own majesty, in an undying image of an undying man.

So I will sit. Pooper scooper at my feet.

Certain of What We Hope For

2009-10-20T05:41:00.000-07:00

Savvy and I were outside for the sunrise today. The grass was iced over, the dahlias destroyed, but there was a lightness to the air that infected the puppy, and she bounded instead of trudged to get her business done.

It's been a while since I've seen the sunrise, and this one was a beauty. In the Tasha days, we'd run down to the road and cross to the farm so we could watch the full glory of colors across the fields and through the branches of the ancient trees. Instead, I settled for the promise of the sunrise, a peek of colors over the trees that block the horizon.

Someday Savvy will be old enough and obedient enough to enjoy the full glory of the sunrise. Until then, I'll hold back...sacrifice my pleasure for her safety. And what sacrifice is that, really?

Never Say Never

2009-10-16T04:53:00.000-07:00

Our Accidental Poet asked me the other day if we had snow yet. "Never in October. This is my favorite time of year," I told her. "Leaves blazing, sun warming, wind with just the tiniest pinch of the season. No. Never in October."

I wake this morning, struggle into fleece pants, boots, mittens, two sweatshirts (because I can't find my jacket) and get Savvy out for her first business of the day. Peering through the dark, I see never falling from the sky.

I'm calling it Accidental Snow. Because it's not supposed to happen this way. Too early, I'm not ready, it takes away the beauty of the trees and my last valiant dahlias fighting the inevitable.

There's a space between will and could and never. It's the latter space--between could and never--where God likes to play.

My head can comprehend the could but my heart fears the never, because the closer I get , the more God has to pry my fingers away from the maybe-later.

That snow coming down is today's Accidental Never. With God, it's never accidental. And I'm so afraid of slipping...

Be Still and Know...

2009-10-12T06:07:00.000-07:00

The Image of the Invisible God

2009-10-06T06:40:00.000-07:00

Savvy's second trip outside this morning was around 7 A.M. (Note the second trip...for which I hope to garner much sympathy.) The sun was cresting the trees in the east, leaving no mystery as to its rising. Because of its position, it shone directly on one of our second-floor windows.

As I walked around the lawn, imploring Savvy to do her duty, I discovered a "hot" spot in the air. Given it was a little over forty degrees and the cold mist was still rising from the grass, I was surprised to find such heat. I turned toward the house, realized I was being hit flush in the face by the reflection of the sun off the glass of that second-story window.

Sun--to window--to me. Not the most graceful of metaphors but I couldn't help but enjoy the power of such warmth, and the wonder of it being imparted to me. Especially because we think of the transparency of glass, and not of its power to give back light.

Were I only so transparent and yet so reflective.

Bear Ye One Another's Burdens

2009-10-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

You'd like to think that having a young puppy would be rife with opportunities to meditate on the wonders of creation, new life, love, and general puppy cuteness.

I spend most my time meditating on poop. More specifically, when and where is it coming?

Curious how Savvy can pee predicably. Her BMs, while blessedly infrequent, seem to bear no relation to what she's fed, when she's exercised, or even how excited she becomes. She has no angst about dropping a present, though if she poops inside, she'll be sure to bark and whine until I clean it up.

Savvy is at least showing some small aptitude of finding a spot that's out of the way. That requires me to dig out a flashlight and hunt down her messes. I am resolved never to let one sit in our yard but to speed and scoop, keeping our lawn pristine and my bare feet free of that sickening "what just squished between my toes" sensation.

Having worked through some issues with my church brethren this past year, it seems to me that crises in the body of Christ seem to follow the same pattern. With all our wisdom, we want to be able to predict when and where but, when we least expect it, some stinky drops in our mist. Sometimes it takes some doing to root it and scoop it before another joins it. Most of the time, we don't smell it until it's spread far and wide.

Oh Lord, if only my spiritual nose and my faithfulness were half as developed as my passion for puppy poop!

I Forgot How to Find the Sunrise

2009-09-29T04:37:00.000-07:00

I lost my dog, my career, my health, and almost my son. Too busy focusing on what the locusts had eaten, I forgot I could walk with God without a dog at my side.

God blessed me and my family in our year of darkness and pain. Incredible blessings that took me that year to find.

I'm ready to walk again, though it's with babysteps because I need to be retrained far more than our puppy. I took her out this morning, she did all the wonderful and smart things a baby dog can do to please her owner. (Look Ma, no newspapers needed!)

I wandered the front lawn, watching the night mist rise into the early day. Watching the east for the sunrise but I couldn't figure out the bright sky and dark clouds. Had the sun already risen? I couldn't see it but it might sit low on the horizon this time of year. Was it behind the trees or should I linger, waiting for the gold to dance in the east?

I couldn't remember how to find the sunrise.

But at least I remember that I need to look...

2008-10-27T16:42:00.001-07:00

Test.

Walk On!

2008-08-29T01:51:00.000-07:00

No, I have not God-and-dog walked off the end of the world, though it may seem that way. I’m sorry for the long absence and have missed coming to this blog, missed you all.

This seems to be a weird year for the body of Christ. I’ll share a bit of my circumstances, but I know I’m not alone, that it’s not all about me, that God is at work. Many of my dear Christian brethren have also gone through odd and difficult times in the past few months. That’s life in a fallen creation—life that just begs for light, and I’m thankful that the Lord has not left us without that Light.

I am now working for a living. It’s been thirteen years since I worked a real job. Thirteen years of professional writing meant my time was my own, and I had ample opportunity to walk the dog, sing to the sky, and stumble through the thicket in pursuit of God. Most of you know I had a publisher back out of a contract, which left me with a book in hand and no place to go. Finances were very strained—as I know it is for many of you—and I had to find a job.

God has been so gracious. After being humbled by three months of little interest, I am now working in a job that pays decent money, offers plenty to do, and provides very nice co-workers. It’s tough adjusting to a 40-hour work week after so many years of floating here-and-there. I have no complaints, even am ashamed to consider that I might. Please pray I do a good job, help this company that produces much-needed pharmaceutical products. It’s a good cause, and I want to be helpful to the hard-working people here.

The most difficult part is being in a closed environment, in a secure facility. Last week learned I can leave campus at lunch time. Praise God—across the way from where I work is abundant conservation land! I can walk, oh thank you—I can walk in the trees and along the water during lunch. No dog, I’m afraid, though I’ve met a black lab named Digby whose lucky owner walks at lunch.

My dear husband also has some serious (but not bad) things going on at work. I’m not at liberty to discuss them now but they’ve added to the challenges we’ve faced as a family these last few months. And my son has been so very, very sick…and we’ve been praying hard for recovery.

So we’ve been out straight, but that’s life and you all share it with me. And that is my blessing.

I hope to drop in more often. I miss God-and-dog-walking, miss all of you. I am blessed to borrow Sadie now and then, and even more blessed when I can take my grandson into the woods and teach him how to splash in the stream!

The wolf will live with the lamb...

2008-07-31T05:38:00.000-07:00

...but which is which?

And Now a Word from My Sponsors...

2008-06-24T21:06:00.000-07:00

...in this case, the marvelous people of the CSFF blog tour. We know Vanished has suffered a blow at the hands of my publisher but these awesome folks stuck by me, and have pooled their time and talent to tout the book (and, I hope, critique it if they feel justified). I am honored and blessed by their dedication to the genre and craft of Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy, and so grateful for the privilege of being a stop on the blog tour.

If you get a moment, stop in with one or more and give a hello.

See what the other CSFF (Christian Science Fiction & Fantasy) blog participants have to say about this book:
Brandon Barr
Justin Boyer
Jackie Castle
CSFF Blog Tour
Gene Curtis
D. G. D. Davidson
Jeff Draper
April Erwin
Karina Fabian
Beth Goddard
Andrea Graham
Todd Michael Greene
Katie Hart
Christopher Hopper
Joleen Howell
Jason Joyner
Carol Keen
Mike Lynch
Terri Main
Margaret
Shannon McNear
Melissa Meeks
Rebecca LuElla Miller
John W. Otte
Deena Peterson
Rachelle
Steve Rice
Ashley Rutherford
Mirtika or Mir's Here
Chawna Schroeder
Stuart Stockton
Steve Trower
Speculative Faith
Linda Wichman
Laura Williams
Timothy Wise

Can't Live With Her...

2008-06-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

...can't live without her.

Crossing the Jordan

2008-06-22T04:35:00.000-07:00

Sadie is not a water dog. No way.

I've been walking her by the river, where there's plenty of opportunity to splash and swim. Her only foray into the river was a slip and slide, and a massive leap out of it. There's also little streams that Tasha used to dash through, tiny trickles of water that I thought might induce Sadie to dare getting wet. But Sadie either jumps over them, or takes the footbridges.

So I started walking across the street. (We are blessed with huge tracts of conservation land.) There's no river and lots of low-lying land spawns mosquitoes but there is one attraction that I can't resist. The area I call the "stream" walk has a nice stream that eventually crosses under the street and wanders the river, and a lovely footbridge over the stream. I love to sit on the bridge, have a Diet Coke, and do a little work.

Sadie accidentally stepped into the stream and discovered she didn't melt. So, as I sit and read, she putters in the water, allowing it to touch her paws (though nothing more.)

Yesterday I wore old sneakers on the walk. I sat on the bridge, read for awhile, and then decided I wanted to see where the stream went. (Keep in mind--this is New England, lots of trees and dense foliage.)

So I stepped into the stream in my sneakers.

Sadie went nuts. Suddenly she's dashing up and down in the water, running up the banks and leaping at top speed across the stream. It's as if my entry into the water gave her permission to experience its joy.

Hm. Sound familiar?

Nighty-Night

2008-06-15T20:34:00.000-07:00

Steve got on a plane this morning, off to Cleveland to take a seminar. I'm the traveler--it's so unusual for him to be gone and me to be left behind. I was heading upstairs to bed, thinking about this and automatically thought, "Oh, well then maybe I'll let Tasha sleep in the bedroom tonight."

Except that's not an option.

Funny how easily an old part of life rushes back when you least expect it.

Sadie would gladly sleep in my room but she has her own "mommy and daddy" who need her close. So I'll sleep soundly with happy memories.

By the way, the stream in the photograph is one that the forester destroyed. Sad. But I've got happy memories...and new trails to follow.

------------Heaven and Hell on Earth------------

2008-06-13T10:06:00.000-07:00

I'm housesitting for my daughter, and enjoying trips to a nearby state park. I work for awhile, sitting on a picnic table with my computer and enjoying the breeze off a sparkling lake. Then I put my computer away, hike across the long dam to the far side of the lake.

No one seems to go here, though it's a lovely spot. Shaded by trees, plenty of large rocks for sitting, sun glistening off the water, dappling the leaves so everything seems to be sun-kissed. Like heaven, I think. God bending to this perfect afternoon and breathing a little touch of heaven.

Except...

...I'm reading a book named NOT FOR SALE by David Bastone. I've been reading it in conjunction with Gary Haugen's book TERRIFY NO MORE, to learn about human trafficking. I'm stunned to learn that, what I ignorantly thought were isolated instances, have become the norm in many countries. I thought sex trafficking was about bringing prositutes to other countries. It's not. It's about kidnapping teens AND children--and we're taking little girls--and forcing them to be raped by ten men a day. And it's pervasive. In terms of human slavery, I almost vomited when I read about children as young as four being forced into a day's labor. Growing up as slaves, never understanding they live in a so-called "free" society.

My grandson is four. My nieces are six and eight and ten. It's horrifying. I won't go into more details because I can't do this trafficking thing justice. Bastone's or Haugen's books cover the problem well.

Gary Haugen runs a very-well respected Christian agency--the International Justice Mission--which operates to rescue people, give them long-term aftercare, see that the criminals are prosecuted, and change the attitudes and laws of not only foreign governments but our own United States government. You can read about their work at http://www.ijm.org/.

Bastone's book describes many other fine organizations dealing with this terrible evil.

But what about me?

I'm sitting on a rock on a beautiful day, thinking "heaven on earth."

I'm sitting on a rock while millions of people--too many young children--are forced into slavery and the sex trade. "Hell on earth" can't begin to describ the evil that is inflicted on God's children.

I'm sitting on a rock named Jesus.

I need to stand up, let the rock move.

I need to pray the rock will move me. If He cannot, I deserve to be crushed.

Covered

2008-06-07T09:34:00.000-07:00

I've had a tough spring, business-wise. I won't go into details, though many of you know them. What's important is that, when things were at their worst, a group of dear Christian friends prayed for me. Since that night of fervent prayer, I have not felt any anger or bitterness, though I have the "worldly" right to do so.

It's been a rainy week, with umbrellas called for. It occured to me as I sheltered from the rain that these dear friends of mine have been my spiritual umbrella. I have been kept dry while they have huddled over me, spreading the Holy Spirit's "feathers" like a canopy.

Yesterday, though it was still raining, my grandson wanted to go out to play. So he got dressed in raingear that would keep him totally dry. I laughed, thinking about the armor of God, and how we must look to the Father as we head out into the "rain."

Probably a lot like my four-year-old grandson, I think.

Getting to Know You

2008-05-29T11:55:00.000-07:00

Know that old song from THE KING AND I? Getting to know you, getting to know all about you.

The next line is: Getting to like you...getting to hope you like me.

I'm not sure that applies to Sadie and Sullie. They're trying but their natures get the best of them.

Take this morning, out in the yard. Sadie is sitting with me as I work, when Sullie "happens" to wander by. (She is Satan, you know...alert for every opportunity.)

Sadie can't resist. She jumps up, approaches the cat. Sully does the back-rise/tail-snap routine. Sadie freezes. Sully stares. Sadie takes a cautious step. Sully takes a cautious step. They freeze again, study each other.

Sadie takes a sniff. Sully lowers her tail, tilts her head, about to rub against Sadie's chest when...

...the dumb dog pounces. Sully hisses, swings her claws, and Sadie jumps away.

Sully...all seven pounds of cat...chases Sadie...thirty-five pounds of dumb dog...across the yard and down the hill.

Satan-reference aside, there is definitely a spiritual lesson to be learned here. The question is...am I the kitty? Or the dog?

Depends on the day, I suppose.

Going Home...Finally

2008-05-25T04:11:00.000-07:00

It's been a tough nine months, hiking-wise. First I smashed my shoulder in September and had to walk on eggshells all fall and winter. Then I had the thumb surgery, a delicate affair which still requires me to wear a protective splint outside. And of course, Tasha got old and needed me to slow down for her...which I did.

Yesterday I went "home" for the first time since last September when I ruined my shoulder.

I've been up to the ridge--that rocky ledge at nearby conservation land--many times since all these injuries. But I've not been able to complete the rocky trail that loops through many ridges because of one small cliff-like rock that sits in the middle of the trail.

It's not high--maybe fifteen feet. But it requires actual climbing instead of walking, and no way would I risk my surgically-repaired shoulder to best it.

Until yesterday.

I decided it was time to go home again, resume possession of one of the most beautiful and lightly-trails around. I loaded up my backpack, put on my best hiking sneakers, strapped on my splint, and went for it.

The trail was so lovely...and I'd missed it so much! I got to the rock, sized it up, decided yes...time to come home. Climbing it requires wedging your toes into a tiny crevice, grabbing the embedded tree (see picture) in the cliff and hoisting up.

It requires a step of faith. Once you hoist, you need to push up without any handhold until you grab the trunk of the tree. There's that split-second of hoping/praying that momentum will lift you high enough to make the grab. Otherwise, it's slip, crack your chin on the rock, scrape your belly as you slide off, and think, "I'm never going to come this way again," acknowledging the inevitability that there are last times in our lives, though we seldom recognize them until they're long past.

It's not time for the ridge trail to be a last time. No way, not yet.

I secured my pack and my walking stick, made sure my thumb splint was secure, dug my toe in the crevice and my right hand around the tree root...

...and hoisted.

And made it, quite easily. But the thing is, it turned out I didn't need the left (repaired) arm at all. Something I had forgotten. It's not about the pulling with both arms...it's about the hoist...stepping out and up in faith.

I didn't conquer the rock. The rock welcomed me. And now I'm home.

Oh No-NO! (Yes, YES!)

2008-05-20T14:16:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is about baseball but, like most discussions about baseball, it’s a whole lot more.

You see, Jon Lester pitched a no-hitter last night for the Boston Red Sox. No-hitters are wonderful because they are rare, but something even more rare than a sports milestone happened last night in Fenway Park.

Nineteen months ago, in the middle of pitching his rookie year for the Red Sox, Jon Lester was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Apparently, if a young adult HAS to have cancer, this is one to have, with a 90+% cure rate. But cancer is cancer, and when Red Sox nation were informed of the 22-year-old Lester’s diagnosis, millions of people gasped, and held their stomachs. People get cancer every day, and it’s never fair, especially in someone so young. But to see it play out on the public stage like that was a grim reminder that this ugly reminder of a fallen creation is always lurking, striking young and old, rich and poor, talented or ordinary when we least expect it.

Lester got a clean bill of health right before spring training 2007 and was ‘allowed’ by medical folks, the Boston Red Sox, and his millions of brothers, sisters, mom’s and dad’s to come to camp. The Red Sox wisely started him in the minor leagues last year because no one wanted to risk his health (except Lester himself, perhaps). His first game back in the majors was in Cleveland later that season, with his parents flying in from the West Coast to watch. The cameras kept cutting to his parents, especially his mother, and I wanted to cry with her.

Last night, I swear I heard Mrs. Lester whoop for joy from 3000 miles away.

This past Sunday, I asked my class on Ezra when the last time they experienced a genuine and pure yelp of joy. Like no-hitters, perhaps they are too rare. One member of our study suggested that God intends such ebullient expressions to be an customary (though heart-felt) part of worship. We agreed in principle though, as New Englanders, we looked at each other and wondered if any of us would dare to leap and raise our hands high to the Lord.

Which is why last night was so special. Less than a year ago, another young Red Sox pitcher pitched a no-hitter. Yes—they are rare but we’ve been doubly blessed. We were thrilled for Clay Buchholz and danced the happy dance but it’s not the same as watching Jon Lester return to the game last summer, pitch the winning game of last fall’s World Series, and deliver an astounding performance last night.

Sports allows us to whoop for joy.

God’s majesty requires us to.

Thanks, Jon, and thank you, Jesus.

You Can't See Me! (nyah nyah)

2008-05-17T16:11:00.000-07:00

Or so Sullie thinks, as she "hides" from Sadie.

Are my hiding places from God just as flimsy?

Lessons Learned Hiking Glen Eyrie

2008-05-13T15:29:00.000-07:00

After the conference at Glen Eyrie (Colorado Springs/two weeks ago), I stayed for a couple of days of hiking. This was an exercise in faith (or perhaps foolishness), given I would be climbing with a broken toe. But Glen Eyrie is an astoundingly beautiful corner of God’s creation and no way could I not hike.

My biggest adventure was the Garden of the Gods overlook trail, deemed “difficult” by the Glen. Moderate by New Hampshire standards, the trail was only difficult because of the first lesson I—as a long-time hiker—should already know.

Lesson 1. Not all turns are marked.
By the time I followed a level trail to a lovely but non-spectacular look-out, I realized I must have missed the turn-off from the main trail. Hence:

Lesson 2—It’s no sin to back track.
In fact, back-tracking can be downright wise, even though it did not help me discover the trail turn-off (which I have since learned from other experienced GE hikers is apparently not marked or obvious).

I knew the Garden of the Gods trail left this one. I just didn’t remember exactly where it should and didn’t backtrack far enough. Which leads me to:

Lesson 3—It’s not enough to consult the map.
If I had either memorized the map or brought it with me, I would have realized the turn-off for the GG trail came very, very quickly. I had assumed it would be obvious so I just hiked on and on until it was abundantly clear I had missed it long ago.

This misunderstanding led me to climb what I hoped was the turn-off but what in reality was a very steep deer/elk trail. Because it was so steep and sandy, I had to rely on the occasional rock outcropping and the brush to keep from slipping down the hill. Which brings me to:

Lesson 4—If you’re going to reach for a branch, make sure it’s alive.
Otherwise, it’ll break off in your hand. The trick is recognizing signs of life on brush that hasn’t budded yet for the spring. I won’t go into a horticultural discussion here but the best test is a tug and then a yank. A branch without sap will be dry and break away. A branch with the lifeblood still in it will hold.

Climbing almost straight up would have been impossible four days earlier, when I was still unaccustomed to the altitude. By the time I attempted this climb, my body had churned out enough extra red blood cells to acclimate me to breathing. Which reminds me of:

Lesson 5—Good breathing takes time and practice.
On Sunday at the Glen, I couldn’t even climb stairs without huffing. By Thursday, I could hike two hours and still sing.

This little detour finally brought me to where I could see the path. However, I had to cross some grassy soil before actually getting onto the path. I was on level ground again but the trick here was that there were tiny cacti among the grass. Since I was wearing socks and sandals due to my broken foot, I had to watch every step so not to get pricked. Those needles are barbed and rotten to get out once you’re stuck. Which brings me to:

Lesson 6—It’s not cowardly to test every step if the circumstances call for it.
I was now on the right trail, one that climbed a series of steep hills. Every time I thought I had to be approaching the final hill, I’d crest it to discover another. Which is how I learned:

Lesson 7—Trudging can be a gift.
I supposed knowing when to turn back is also a gift but no way, not after following the wrong trail to its conclusion, backtracking, climbing a steep deer trail, and braving a field of cacti-laced grass. No way. So I trudged and trudged. Though the air was 45 degrees and the wind harsh, I was soaked with sweat.

So I trudged on and on until finally I crested the last hill and beheld what I couldn’t from any of the lower hills. The photo of the snow-covered Rockies and Pike’s Peak cannot do the reality justice.

I sat down on the bench and beheld the glory of what God has given us. And quickly learned:

Lesson 8—Don’t be deceived by circumstances.
I rapidly cooled and, with high winds, had to pull on my ski hat, jacket, etc. even as the sweat still clung to my skin. I had to tilt away from the sun because, though circumstances felt like winter, the truth was it was May and high altitude—a prescription for a terrible sunburn.

I hated to go down but—in this side of heaven—one can only drink in so much beauty. So I started down the nice, clear path and remembered something I know from mountain climbing in New Hampshire.

Lesson 9—It’s oftentimes harder to go down than up.
Going up, your weight leans into the slope and your momentum opposes gravity. Coming down, your momentum, weight, and gravity conspire. Not a bad thing if we’re talking stairs or a road but when it’s a path with very loose sand, coming down can be downright treacherous. Which reminded me of something I should have known:

Lesson 10—Use a walking stick.
Next year I’ll be sure to pack mine.

I arrived at the dining hall, my legs like deadwood.

Four hours later, I went out for another hike. Better prepared, though still with lessons to be learned.

It wasn’t lost on me then, and still isn’t that each one of these lessons is a tremendous spiritual analogy.

I report. You decide.

Hemmed In

2008-05-08T05:45:00.000-07:00

The woods are getting smaller and smaller.

First the beaver pond and environs was declared “No Trespassing” because of the ATV’s, dirt bikes, and snowmobiles. Then the back side of the hill—a huge territory—was posted “Keep Out” for the same reason. Okay, I thought. Once the forester leaves, we’ll have all these news paths on this side of the hill to enjoy.

We all know how that turned out—he left without cleaning up his mess. The woods on this side are nearly or completely impassable in places.

Okay. I’ve still got all the conservation land to enjoy. Both Pepperell, MA and Hollis, NH have been magnificent in setting aside large tracts for woods for the public to enjoy.

But I can’t enjoy them because, for the first time ever, the black flies (“no-see-um’s”) are swarming me. I used to be sorry for both Steve and Marj, who are succulent targets for these miniscule tyrants. “They never bite me,” I would say, injecting suitable regret that two people I love are so terrorized.
They’re biting me this year, in droves. I cannot go in any woods without being circled and snacked on. It’s to the point of intolerant, so I stand in my woods and wonder “What is going on?”

Is God hemming me in? That’s sure what it feels like. (And yes, I know it’s not all about me but circumstances are conspiring…)

I’m supposed to embrace this, am I not? Psalm 139 speaks to this so beautifully:

O LORD, you have searched me
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
you know it completely, O LORD.

You hem me in--behind and before;
you have laid your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.

You have laid your hand upon me. I’ve always loved this concept.

I’m hemmed in at home, with my son’s family living with me. They are a joy and a blessing but I’ve still to learn how to focus without wanting to go play with my grandson or walk in the yard (no woods, drat!) with my grandpup.

Am I guilty of what the psalm speaks of in the most beautiful of poetry?

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths,A you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.

Do I long to be with a dog when I walk so I don’t have to be with God? Slow to anger, full of love, abounding in compassion—why would I flee when His Spirit pours these wonders out on His children?

Today it’s raining. Driving rain or bitter cold, even a blizzard won’t stop me from walking. Am I racing to God, or flying away? If I buy a netted hat, will I be further hemmed in? Will I resume my walking—to or away from my Creator?

When Sadie or Maddie strains on their leash, we who love them hold them fast.

His right hand holds me fast.

Home

2008-05-06T07:59:00.000-07:00

And it feels like home because there's now a dog living here.

It's taking a little getting used to. Tasha had been deaf for so long, I forgot what it's like for a dog to react to noises we humans can't possibly hear.

BadCat's also had her adjustment period. She spent a week in the cellar, cowering. I finally loaded her into her cat carrier and brought her up into our bedroom for a change of scenery. Sadie came running after her and BadCat finally had enough--she struck hard. Sadie yelped away and now there's an uneasy truce between the two. Sullie is back roaming house and yard, and Sadie follows at a respectful distance.

Sadie is having walks in our woods, bounding over the barriers of limbs and tree trunks the forester left. I'm eager to walk her on the conservation land but I need to wait until I know she respects my call and will come every time. (She's about 2/3s there.) Until then, we'll stay close to home.

Nice to know God doesn't just live in Colorado.

Doggie Envy

2008-05-02T06:08:00.000-07:00

We now have a new dog at our home, our 'grandpup' Sadie. Unfortunately, I only saw her in passing, since my son's family moved in Saturday night and I left 3:30 AM Sunday. We had a moment to sit down and watch the Sox game, and I was envious because Sadie curled up on the floor next to Steve. I am convinced she will have no room left in her heart for me after a week with him.

Here at Glen Eyrie, I climbed up to the Dorothy Fall's. It was spectacular, a testament to the beauty of creation. I'll post more tomorrow but God fills those canyons with his grace.

When I got to the falls, I sat and enjoyed the music of water crashing into a clear pool. Beyond the falls, one can climb even higher but I didn't have time. A young couple came down from the upper peak, their skinny, part-yellow lab mutt with them. Suddenly, the only beauty I had eyes for was this dog. He was shy, wouldn't come to me until I offered a pretzel. Even then, he got only close enough to snatch the pretezel away. I couldn't take my eyes off him, even though as dogs go, he was pretty odd looking. Very skinny, with big, almost German-shepherd ears.

To me, he looked like heaven. Angie Hunt and Nancy Rue have two dogs, and I have to live on imagined hugs from Lab puppies and Mastiff wonders all week. To see a real dog was a real treat.

I have another couple days here, and will soak in God's glory and--if I'm brave...no scratch that, humble...I'll seek His face.

But it's so much easier when I have a dog at my side.

Not What I Planned For

2008-05-01T17:56:00.000-07:00

I'm in Colorado, having just finished teaching at a writers' conference at the spectacular Glen Eyrie. I was privileged (and amused/encouraged/inspired) to teach with Angie Hunt, Nancy Rue, and Alton Gansky. I was blessed to spend time with our own Kay Day and the Accidental Poet. Too many wonders to recount but the weather was spectacular and I couldn't wait for today--the beginning of my two-and-a-half day retreat--so I could do some serious hiking.

Yesterday was in the high 70s and, after the official close of the conference, I hiked up to a lovely waterfall.

Today is May 1. It snowed. This morning, the snow was so bad, I couldn't read the road signs on my way to an appointment. I had to slow to a stop in the middle of the road, and try to make out the writing through the snow flying sideway and under the snow stuck to the signs. This afternoon the snow lessened but the wind picked up, a nasty chill.

I had planned for sun and fun. Given that my proclamation to the conference was entitled "This Wasn't What I Had Planned," I suppose today was appropriate. God is allowed to throw curve balls whenever He deems suitable.

I can only hope tomorrow will be a meatball, right down the middle. Brrrr.

Going on Faith

2008-04-21T04:49:00.000-07:00

I was at the Gideon Media Arts Festival all last week, had an amazing time. Flying into Charlotte on Monday, I was struck by the trees all bursting with leaves. It was like coming into another world, a world of hope for the future.

The conference was in Asheville, a two hour ride inland from Charlotte. Some trees were green, others still bided their time.

I came home to some green grass but still barren trees. I look at them this morning, expecting life. Still waiting but I know it's coming.

My son's family will be here next Saturday. My grandson and I will throw rocks in the stream and begin the process of moving sticks out of the path in the woods. He'll see it as a game--what little boy doesn't love an invitation to hurl sticks.

Sadie will come with us--a young dog, full of joy with no eye to the barren trees. Hope always blooms in kids and dogs, with expectation to what was or what should be. What is is daily bread, and that's all that's needed to jump and play and take joy.

A Nation Forgives

2008-04-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a national holiday in my part of the country.

Opening Day at Fenway Park.

Red Sox Opening Day is always a reason for hope, but until this millennium, was rarely a reason to celebrate. Now we've won 2 World Championships in the past four years, we also have reason to rejoice. Yesterday featured an amazing ceremony, with the unfurling of two world series banners the size of the entire outfield fence. World Series rings were passed out to players and on-field personnel. The usual suspects got the loudest cheers--Ortiz, Ramirez, Papelbon, Lowell, and our newest 'toy' Jacoby Ellsbury.

One surprising recipient of cheers was JD Drew. Drew had a dog of a regular 2007 season but was a hero in the crucial game 7 with the Indians when he had a 1st inning grand slam. He's started this season hot and thus--for now--all is forgiven.

But a larger, more magnaminous act of forgiveness took place yesterday.

In 1986, the Boston Red Sox were on the verge of beating the New York Mets and winning their first world series in 60-odd years when Bill Buckner let a ball go through his legs. My son Dan was nine at the time, and so devastated, he swore he'd never watch the Red Sox again. Dan got over that, but the devastation ran deep throughout the entire Red Sox Nation, and poor Bill Buckner had to move to a small town out west to escape our wrath.

Until 2004, the name Bill Buckner drew groans from Red Sox fans. The scars never healed, the bleeding often resumed, usually pricked by those darn Yankees. The first World Series championship in 86 years began the healing. Last year's championship has made all of Red Sox nation absolutely serene. (Trust me when I say this was a miracle.)

Yesterday, Bill Buckner threw out the first pitch. He came out of the scoreboard and made the long walk to the pitcher's mound. I'm sure that first step was hell...wondering if we would boo and curse or just stand, silent and stunned.

He got a standing ovation that went on and on. He cried as he walked, cried and waved and smiled. A nation was healed, a son returned home, hope delivered as a perfect strike.

The thing is...it wasn't all of us forgiving Bill Buckner.

It was Bill Buckner forgiving us.

Bless him for his courage to come home, where we never should have let him leave. I'm sorry, Bill. Thank you.

The Forester Lied

2008-04-06T12:09:00.000-07:00

When he started this whole tree-cutting business in the woods, he told me, "Don't worry, I'll clean everything up. We don't waste wood--we use it all. This process leaves the woods healthier than before I began." Just when I'd begun to think I'd imagined the whole conversation, I ran into another abutter whose family rides (or used to ride) their horses in the woods. Apparently, they were told the same thing.

The forester lied.

He's gone, not coming back, and he's left a horrific mess. The paths that were once spectacularly beautiful (see photo...look closely, you'll spot Tasha) are now close to impassable. They're either loaded with downed trees and cut branches, or they're pitted with 2-3 feet deep holes caused by his heavy earth-mover.

It's treacherous for walking, even worse for the horses. My neighbor knows the landowner, and hopes he'll be granted permission to use his bulldozer to clear the paths. The landowner lives out of state, and given that the woods are "landlocked," the only commercial use for them are logging. With the debris left around most of the land, we're not sure how healthy the remaining trees will be.

Okay, I know--not my woods. But I also know I've been a good steward of this beauty, as have my neighbor and the other hikers and horseback riders. (No comment on the occasional 4-wheeler.) The point is, such a tangle of branches, trunks, and mud is chaos, not good foresting.

And to push this beyond a simple whine, I have to consider the forester's work in light of my own walk of faith. It's one thing to cut out obvious sin but it's another to do the hard work of clearing the debris. Those logs (or planks in my eye) are easy to spot, but that tangle of consequences easier to hide or just walk away from.

Now that the forester is gone, I need to sing praises again out in those woods. And let God bless as He will.

Shining Through

2008-04-04T07:01:00.001-07:00

I am SAD. Not sad, but a little of that, too. SAD as in Seasonal Affective Disorder.

In other words, I need sunshine to thrive.

I can battle through January and February just fine. The sun is low but when we have snow, it brightens the world. It's March that's tough and April can be a killer. We have had a month of gray days, wet snow and rain. Easter bloomed sunny but bitterly cold. More gray days until finally, this Wednesday, the sun came back. Again, a cold wind made the temperature feel like in the 20s.

This week I spent a few days house-sitting my daughter's new home. She lives near a state park o so I bundled up and went over there, determined to huddle against the wind and soak in some sun. There's a beautiful rock by the water, big enough for three or four people, with a nice slope to lean against.

I lasted three minutes before the wind drove me looking for shelter. I followed the shore of the reservoir until I reached the dam. The spillway was open and the water flowing out was so wonderfully loud and fervent. I found a rock in the shelter of the dam that still got full sun and lay back on it.

I listened to the water flow hard, felt the sun soak into my skin, and felt the darkness lift.

And then I dropped my hand to rub the ear of the dog who wasn't there. I didn't need the dog to be Tasha...there's just something about sun and water that begs for a velvet ear to stroke. And it occurred to me that my desire for the sun is so much the desire for God's radiance; that my love of the rushing water is my love of the Living Water that is Jesus; and that velvet ear that was there for all those years is like the steady companionship of the Holy Spirit.

It's raining again today. But that's okay because you...dear ones, who walk this path with me...you are my velvet ear today.

Filling Tasha's Footsteps

2008-04-01T15:43:00.000-07:00

I wonder when I'll stop turning around on my walk and checking for Tasha? Or come into the house through the basement and listen for the click-click of her paws on the floor overhead?

Soon enough because Sadie is coming to take her place. She's bringing her family with her--my son Dan, his wife Jamie, and my 4-year-old grandson.

A double blessing indeed.

I'm already making playdates for Sadie with Maddie. Maddie will be thrilled to have a young dog to frolic with. She watched Tasha grow old and fragile and missed the opportunity to tussle over a stick or go for a swim.

I wonder if Maddie looks over her shoulder, wondering where Tasha has gone?

Glen Eyrie Writer's Conference 4/27-30

2008-03-31T10:02:00.001-07:00

For those of you who've emailed...here's some further information on a wonderful writers' conference. If you've never been to Glen Eyrie in Colorado Springs, the Navigator's website just can't do it justice. It's heavenly, infused with divine peace.

Here's what's going on the week I'll be there. Join me if you can!

We—Nancy Rue, Alton Gansky, Kathy Mackel, and Angela Hunt—are so excited about our upcoming adventure. Some of you have questions about what will be covered in each track, so we’ve put together brief synopses for you! We’ll talk more on our first night together, so you know just what to expect.

Oh! And if you’re adventurous, you might want to pack a pair of (modest) pajamas for our pajama party! Nightwear not required, however. J

Novels With Nancy (continuing course)
Whether you’re coming with a completed manuscript in hand or simply the germ of an idea in your head, Novels With Nancy will take you from where you are in the development of your novel and guide you through one approach to creating rich fiction. We’ll use a hands-on, workshop approach to:

· clarifying where you want your book to go thematically
· fleshing out a powerful plot
· discovering and getting to know multi-dimensional characters
· creating setting that is in itself a character

NOTE: This is not a nuts-and-bolts lecture class. Come prepared to write (laptop or long-hand), imagine, and try some things that may sound a little out there!

And in the afternoon Nancy will teach. . .

Manuscript Mentoring: “And Then It Got Worse” – Bring your manuscript, summary, plot outline, or just an idea and we’ll work specifically on your special plot challenges.

Manuscript Mentoring: “Who ARE These People?” – Bring your characters with you in whatever form they now live (don’t’ let them be shy), and we’ll treat them to an afternoon of hands-on development

Public Speaking for Writers: Al Gansky (continuing course)

Sooner or later it’s going to happen. You’ve written a book and someone wants you to speak to their church, Rotary Club, women’s luncheon, men’s breakfast, or some other gathering. How should you prepare? How long should you speak? How do you write a speech? Can you get rid of the butterflies in your stomach? Alton Gansky who has delivered more than 3,000 speeches, sermons, workshops, classes, keynotes, and more, will take the student through the basics of speech writing and delivery—and have fun doing it. The class is open to writers or others who need to stand before others and talk.

Writing the Difficult Scenes: Al Gansky

Every novelist (and nonfiction writer, too) faces scenes that are more difficult to write than others. From love scenes to descriptions of violence these scenes tax the writer’s creativity. How much is too much? How little is too little? Alton Gansky, author of 30 books, will give the student the tips and techniques that make every scene, no matter how difficult, do its job.

Screenwriting: Kathy Mackel (continuing course)

Let’s workshop your story, capture its soul and discover its the visual essence. Define the three-act structure of your plot. Script your opening scene and storyboard your climax.

Polish and Shine: Kathy Mackel

Let’s take apart the first 300-500 words of your story, examine word choice, sentence and paragraph structure, tone, and pacing. We spiff it up together, send you off to rewrite, and cheer when you come back with your shine. Limit 10 writers per session, first come, first serve. Please email Kathy ahead of time with your pages (kathrynmackel@aol.com). Fiction and non-fiction welcome.

The Freelance Writer: Angela Hunt (continuing course)

So you want to write—but you’re not sure what! Do you write novels or articles or speeches or plays? Do you write for pleasure or for profit? Could you make a living with your pen? Angela Hunt will discuss the various markets and show you how you can break into them. She’ll also show you how to tighten up your prose to improve your odds of acceptance. She’s a firm believer that anyone can write anything, as long as they understand the blueprints!

Reading Analytically: Angela Hunt

Ever read another writer and wonder how they managed to create such a lovely string of words? How they managed to transport you to another place and time? We’ll learn how to read analytically so we can dissect writing to see what works . . . so you can use the same tools to make your own writing sing!

Looking for a Good Book? Try Chapter-A-Week

2008-03-24T15:36:00.000-07:00

It's hard enough to find books that are just right for everyone. Chapter-a-Week gives readers the opportunity to read sample excerpts from a broad range of Christian fiction every week without having to pay a cent! Plus it's a great way to discover new authors you might not have found otherwise. We don't fill your inbox with needless emails. Only one email per week is all it takes to discover great new titles.

Founded in February 2002 by beloved novelists Jane Orcutt and Angela Hunt Chapter-a-Week has had a steadily growing readership. Chapter-a-Week is a Yahoo! Group, so simply sign on to be a subscriber of the list and you'll start receiving your excerpts every Friday. Just go to:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ChapteraWeek/ and click "join this group."

Tasha's Gone, Sultana Rules

2008-03-24T08:32:00.000-07:00

My daughter accuses me of putting gross pictures on my website but some things must be seen to be believed.

First, a word about the BadCat. Most animals freak out or mourn if they lose a companion pet. Not this girl. She's taken over the house completely, strutting as if she drove the final nail. She does, however, seem to be at loose ends, doing a lot of rolling and meowing, following even me from room to room.

But, if you look at her picture from this morning, there is no question who is now the alpha dog (okay, so she's a cat) in this household.

I was just sitting on the front porch, looking out at our acre of snow as the sun beat down on my shoulders, enjoying a little moment of praise.

BadCat comes up. I ignore her because to greet her is to invite disaster. She rubs against me, purrs, climbs on my lap, sends fear into my marrow as she rubs her face against mine. I venture a pat, then another, and we have a moment of harmony.

She walks away, purring.

I sit, soak in the Spirit, and out of nowhere, she attacks me! She whacks my arms in three rapid-fire blows. Mind you, I'm wearing two long-sleeve shirts, but she gets deep into the skin. The picture cannot do her damage justice because I've got wounds on the other side of my arm, and bruises are beginning to form.

What did I do, other than love her? She has pierced me deeply and without provocation.

The spiritual analogy is too chilling to offer.

I need a dog.

Frozen in Time

2008-03-21T07:50:00.001-07:00

I've been climbing the hill, taking care not to step on Tasha's footprints as I go. Eventually the spring will have its way, melt the foot of snow that's still out in the woods, and Tasha's legacy will disappear.

Yesterday a cold front came in, and today an icy wind blows. I know when I go out to hike today, I won't be crashing through snow or ice but walking on top of it. Tasha's footprints will be frozen and uneraseable, at least for the next few days.

And I think, how fitting for Good Friday. This is a day when the sun blackened, time stopped, eternity held its breath. Creation was frozen in time while the Savior completed His work. We know Easter will come but on that day, his disciples and followers didn't understand.

They could only look at his last bloody footprints that led to the cross...and wonder when time would wash them away.

Rest in Peace, Natasha 1990-2008

2008-03-18T10:38:00.000-07:00

Faithful companion of Kathy and Steve, Natasha is survived by Sultana ("BadCat") and her good friend Maddie. Ms. Mackel was pre-deceased by her beloved cat friends Martha, Frisco, and Keyser, whom she protected from coyotes and cuddled with on every possible occasion. A canine member of the 4000-ft club, Natasha spent her last day eating tuna fish and climbing the big hill next to her home--twice.

No condolences necessary--we climbed a lot of mountains together. She earned her rest on the mountain top.

I Hate Billy Crystal

2008-03-16T04:05:00.000-07:00

Oooh, what an awful thing to say on a Sunday morning. Palm Sunday, of all times.

And I don't really hate Billy Crystal, though I do suffer the Red Sox fan's reflex of despising anyone or anything adorned with a Yankee insignia.

But I do envy Billy because this week he lived my dream. (Okay, the dark side of my dream, given the whole New York Yankee thing.) For his 60th birthday, the Yankees signed him to a one-day contract and he got to bat in an actual game. He struck out but word is he actually got the bat on the ball and hit one foul of the first base line.

Marj and I are teaching a Sunday School class on the book of Daniel. Today's ice-breaker question is: "Have you ever sacrificed your dream for the good of someone else, or for the greater good?"

Today we'll be looking at chapter 10. Israel has been in exile for 70 years and Daniel is now into his 80's. Cyrus has given Israelites permission to return to Jerusalem and re-build the temple. This is something Daniel has longed for since being taken to Babylon. And yet, when permission is given to return, Daniel stays behind. Scholars believe it's because he could serve Israel--and God--better by remaining in his post of high authority and interceding for the people there.

Daniel didn't ink that one-day contract.

I'm of the age where I can't help but think about unfulfilled dreams. When I speak to women's groups, I joke about the realization when I was about 10 that I would never play for the Boston Red Sox, simply because I was a girl. I go on to unfulfilled dreams...singer, dancer, astronaut.

Writer was never in my plans. When my sister Janice Freeman was a star pharmaceutical rep, it didn't enter her mind that she would become a fitness trainer, and serve many women who are rediscovering their own dreams.

God wills what He will, and it's a blessing--and a challenge. Those Israelites who returned home, found rubble and opposition.

Tell me your dreams. Tell me what you've given up, and what you've found. And if you dare, tell me God's dreams for you.

Just a Little Taste

2008-03-14T03:35:00.000-07:00

So we still have snow on the ground. Some south facing hills are barren but in my yard and the woods, the snow can run two feet deep. Snow is a misnomer at this point...with the rain and snow and thaw and freeze, it's more like freezer ice. The woods can be treacherous. I can be walking along, mushing through the mess when suddenly I break through a layer of ice and end impaled in the snow up to my thigh. I now know what it means to hyper-extend the knee.

Tasha has the same struggles. She's lighter and her weight is distributed over four limbs so she's less likely to break through, but when she does, the look on her snout is pure betrayal. She's gotten cautious, afraid to walk through three inches of water. Weeks earlier, she'd fallen into the same water when it was two feet deep. She doesn't trust her eyes now, nor my urging.

With all of it, there's a taste of spring in the air. Yesterday was a bit over thirty degrees, with a brilliant sun that was an absolute tease. The breeze is so clean, I want to drink it. Spring dances over my head but winter clogs my steps.

Heaven is in the air...but I know what it's like to crash through hidden ice, and hyper-extend my soul.

Thumbs Up

2008-03-11T22:11:00.000-07:00

Elsi was kind enough to email me to ask if I was OK. I am...in fact, I expect to be better than all right in a couple months.

I had a joint replacement in my thumb last week. Arthritis had worn away the cartilage in all my finger joints and my thumb has been particularly troublesome because I can't grip. My sister Janice Freeman has had similar surgery years ago, though her surgeon used a tendon to cushion the joint, a procedure called Excisional Arthroplasty.

Joint replacements in fingers have been almost 100 percent failures with the exception of the major thumb joint, which now has a long-enough success record (6 years) that I elected to go with the prosthetic implant rather than the tendon cushion. If this doesn't work, I'll have to have the same surgery Janice had. But I'm hopeful.

And I'm grateful. I have a tremendous amount of metal in my left side now (hip, shoulder, 3 fingers). I'm no bionic woman but the improvement in quality of life is a blessing.

Now that I've learned to type with one hand and a couple fingers, I'll be back to posting. Tasha and I have continued to walk, me using my hiking pole to protect my new hip/shoulder/now hand on the ice.

It's all good. And it's all God.

That's Life!

2008-03-05T05:24:00.000-08:00

I love to look out the front door in the early morning, praise the Lord for the sunshine and the new day.

Today it's pouring rain on top of the six inches of snow we got over the weekend. It's a driving, gray rain. An angry rain, it feels to me. Even when I look past it, I gaze over the soggy snow and into the barren trees and see no light.

I tell myself rain is a blessing, that water is the physical essence of life, that this water offered from sky to land will make the grass green and the flowers bloom and the vegetables hearty. I remind myself that the water slapping the ground is only a shadow of the living water, the stream of life that nourishes my soul.

That's life that I see from my front porch. It's not always sunshine and sweet music. Sometimes it's hard and cold. But oh...so necessary.

Raging Against the Glass

2008-03-02T05:27:00.000-08:00

So I'm awakened last night by a howl and a scream. Turns out Sultana is having a cat fight. Only...she's inside, and the cat she's fighting is outside. We have the full glass front door, and even in the darkness, Sullie spotted this fluffy black cat licking Tasha's food bowl. Utterly disgusting but Sullie does the same thing.

She's at the door, uttering a continuous yowl. Loud enough to wake up Steve, a sound sleeper, and Tasha, who sleeps like the dead. I try to shoo her away (no way I touch this cat...ever) but she's not moving. Fluffy takes the challenge on the other side of the glass, begins her yowl. I tap on the glass, try to get her to go away.

Finally, she leaves the porch. Sullie runs into the office to watch from that window. I close her in there, thinking it's over.

Awhile later, Fluffy comes back and darn, if Sullie doesn't get herself out of the office and start up the fight all over again. This time she's beyond peeved...she's enraged and leaps at the glass, snarling, hissing, claws out.

Nothing can come of such activity, of course...a useless, impotent fight only disturbs those around you, brings a bump off the glass but no resolution for the warrior. Sometimes we batter the image we see in the mirror. Sometimes we yowl against the glass ceiling we think is heaven. Sometimes we want to rip and shred that which we can't possibly touch.

How many times have I said this? Get thee behind me, BadCat.

Enough, Already

2008-03-01T05:33:00.000-08:00

Six-Word Memoirs (more added--keep 'em coming)

2008-02-25T06:27:00.000-08:00

I challenged folks to submit six-word memoirs. Interestingly, it seems like it was easier to capture our pets than ourselves in six words. Honestly, beyond my loves baseball, wrong gender, writes instead snippet, I found it hard to write a serious one for myself. So I walked up the hill, and sought...not inspiration...clarification.

It's a useful exercise, I think. A snapshot, to be sure, but take away the trappings and circumstances, what do we get down to? It's easy enough to do the heart seeks and loves the Lord description--and we do aspire to that. But when we look in the mirror, who do we see?

Thank you to all who have shared their memoirs. Some submitted more than one--I chose my favorite two. Some also included clarification which I am not posting. I think it's more compelling to be 'raw' about this.

If anyone else is prompted to share, email me at kathrynmackel at aol and I'll add you on. Or you can share in comments, if you'd prefer.

God redeems all locust damage-hallelujah!
Elsi Dodge
http://www.rvtourist.com/

Empty Nest blahs, new adventures exploring
Jane Squires

"Reluctant Geek, now deep fries words."
David W. Fry
http://www.frydwords.com/

Think once - twice - then zip mouth!

Nancy Wade

I. Clicking her shoes to no avail.
II. Pastors wife trying to stay afloat.
Suzanne Schaffer
http://www.luvchai.blogspot.com/

I. cold in Maine, heart in pain

II. Regal Name, Children's Work, Song Crafter
Victoria James
http://www.victoriajamesmusic.com/

Climbing hills. Running to? Or from?
Kathryn Mackel

Writing and quilting using God's talent.
Laughing how God changed my plans.
Merry Stahel
http://www.merrystahel.blogspot.com/

http://www.constructiondiarystahels.blogspot.com/

Loves Family. Helps Women. God Directs.

Janice Freeman

http://cookwellbewell.blogspot.com/

Slippin' and Slidin'

2008-02-20T06:07:00.000-08:00

Rain and haze, alternating with crisp, freezing temperatures still plague the Northeast, and make walking in the woods an adventure. A couple of days ago, I spent an hour in the driving rain hiking around the hill, up the backside, and down the new path the forester has made. I was out in that horrific weather to stomp footprints into the top layer of snow.

We had a deep freeze overnight and an inch or so of ice formed over the snow. Even on flat sections of the path, the ice was impassable because it was so slick. Even shuffling couldn’t keep my feet from slipping. The slightest four-inch rise or bump was an invitation to disaster. But my footprints—two inches deep in the ice—made for very safe walking. All I had to do was keep to them, even on the steepest parts of the hill.

Tasha is no respecter of footprints. She was fine the first half of the walk, where the path is relatively flat. As long as she trotted instead of run, she didn’t fall. But the spot where I start up the hill (which used to be a ski slope) is dreadfully steep.

Wisely, I had driven my feet straight into the snow the day before, rather than trekking on top of it. This gave me stair-like steps to follow. As I slowly climbed, I realized that Tasha had not followed me. Instead, she was about twenty feet to my right, clawing her way up the slick crust. She saw me looking at her, and stopped.

And then she started to backslide. The panicked look on her face was hilarious (especially given there was nothing dangerous behind her). She finally slid back to the level path and had to retrace her steps to follow up the footsteps I had laid down.

We reached the top of the hill, where the trail levels off. She stayed with me, even though the walking was the best of the hike. I took a right and started down the hill, following the track the forester bulldozed. My footsteps were frozen into the snow here as well, a nice two-inch hole to step into and not slide.

Tasha went her own way again. I tried to call her to me but she wasn’t sold on following in my footsteps. Her back legs went out from under her and she skidded down the hill. Her claws caught, she righted herself, and trotted over to finish the hike in my footsteps.

Yesterday it was mushy again, and I took the opportunity to stomp out a new path. This totally confused my poor dog who had obediently followed in my footsteps, only to see me veer waaaaaay off our normal path. I wanted to check out a stream that only rushes this time of year.

I’m glad Tasha trusted me to follow, even when I took her into strange territory. That cold, pure water was worth every stompin’ step.

Six-Word Memoirs

2008-02-20T06:06:00.000-08:00

Now that we've honored our pets, I'd love to hear your six-word memoirs. My newsletter readers have been emailing them in...please join them. I'd like to post them this Sunday. Feel free to send more than one, though I might choose only one to post. (Otherwise, you're sending a twelve- or eighteen-word memoir!)

To refresh your memory on how it works, here's a couple of examples from Angie Hunt's posting on her blog (http://alifeinpages.blogspot.com) from a week or so ago:

Found true love twice, with spice. --Stephanie Whitson Higgins
Dazed/confused most of the time. --Robin Carroll
Got lost. Got found. Got joy. --Nancy Mehl

Send yours along to kathrynmackel at aol. We'd love to get to know you better. And you might get to know yourself just a little bit better in doing this.

She Came Looking for Me

2008-02-15T08:24:00.001-08:00

Two days ago we had five inches of snow, followed by hours and hours of driving rain. Overnight, it froze, leaving us with a horrible mess. The driveway is impassable by foot because it's thick ice. The snow has an inch crust of ice on it. It's bad if you go through, and it's worse if you don't because it is so slick.

When I took Tasha out for her afternoon walk yesterday, my plan was to bust through the ice and make a path for her to follow. She got excited, jumped on the crust and broke through. I didn't get into the woods before I decided to take her back, fearing she'd get cut. I put her inside and left a note for Steve, telling him I had gone into the woods by myself.

Once I got in there, I saw that the woodcutter had been through on the paths with his bulldozer and broken up the crust. It was a lovely little walk for me, though I picked my way very, very carefully, and used my walking stick. Though I didn't go up and over the hill like Tasha and I have been doing, I was out almost an hour.

Though Tasha had been inside all this time, as soon as Steve came home she insisted on going out. She not only came looking for me, this dog who is nearly deaf and has so-so eyesight spotted me almost immediately out in the woods. She worked her way along the crust--breaking through in places--until she reached me.

I took her home via the woodcutter's trail, keeping her safe.

Were only I so habituated to being with God that I would so wisely know where to seek Him out, and easily find Him!

I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO PLEASE, PLEASE TELL THE TRUTH!

2008-02-14T08:44:00.000-08:00

My six-word memoir (Loves Baseball. Wrong Gender. Writes Instead.) should clue you that I watched the Congressional hearings yesterday. Combined with my love of baseball is the research I did for BOOST, my upcoming novel about girls taking steroids.

What looked like a he said-he said investigation---or witch hunt, depending on your perspective---of Roger Clemens’ alleged steroid use was in truth a check on The Mitchell Report. Following the 2005 publication of Jose Canseco’s book Juiced and the ensuring Congressional hearings, Major League Baseball commissioned former Senator George Mitchell to investigate the use of steroids in baseball.

Some of the players named in the Mitchell Report have admitted to using HGH, steroids, or both. Some have remained silent. Only one player---Roger Clemens---came out forcefully with a denial.

There’s a couple things at play here. The first is the fairness of competition and the purity of the game. If Barry Bonds is pumped up on steroids and hits home runs instead of fly balls off Curt Schilling, where is the fairness in that? If Jason Giambi, who has admitted using steroids and suffered from a pituitary tumor because of it, is so pumped up on the juice that his forearms look like they’re about to explode, where’s the purity in that?

I understand the temptation to use. As a chronic pain sufferer who has never smoked marijuana, I have had times when I was desperate to get some pot to relieve my pain, help me sleep. As someone who is still rehabbing from a shoulder injury, I would love to be on HGH to accelerate recovery.

Sports Illustrated just did an article about an in-line racer whose father started him on the juice when he was only thirteen. A football coach I know told me when he played in college, Winstrol was so widespread among his teammates that they were left out in plain sight in dorm rooms.

The temptation is immense. A teenager wants to build his body and draw the attention of college or pro scouts. A college player wants to get off the bench, or be a star. A pro player on the bubble wants to get good enough to keep from being cut. A very good pro player wants to become great, and thus hit that huge payday.

I just want someone to tell the truth.

The way to stop this cycle is for a sports icon like Roger Clemens to stand up and say, “Yeah, I did it. What did you expect? If one does it, we all have to do it to keep up. Our careers are so short and the rewards so immense, how can I not do it?”

The Mitchell Report made clear the steroid problem is the responsibility of MLB owners, the players’ association, doctors and trainers, and the players’ themselves. We fans are not to be excused. The home run chase between Maguire and Sosa revived baseball after the strike almost killed it. We want power and speed and performance. I want David Ortiz to be clean and pure but I also want him to jack homeruns.

Andy Pettitte, a close friend of Roger Clemens, gave testimony and an affidavit that Clemens told him he took HGH. Pettitte was devastated to have to give this testimony but, as a Christian, he said he was compelled to tell the truth. Not only did Pettitte stipulate to McNamee’s accusation that he injected Pettitte with HGH in 2002, he confessed—under no duress—to using it in 2004 (not with McNamee). He didn’t have to say anything about the second use but he told congressional investigators that “someday he would stand before God” and he wanted to be truthful about all his use.

Assuming Clemens did use steroids, as the evidence suggests, that he pitched so well deep into his forties is likely a result of illegal performance enhancement. Contrast him with another excellent pitcher, Greg Maddux of the Atlanta Braves and the San Diego Padres. Maddux has also has pitched into his forties, not with power like Clemens, but due to experience, wisdom, and guile.

It seems to me, as we “walk out our salvation with fear and trembling,” we should follow the Maddux example and not the Clemens-Bonds model. Spiritual maturity brings wisdom, experience, craftiness which not only keep us in the game but---like Greg Maddux with his young teammates—helps us model how to do it clean.

Please guys---just tell the truth. I’ll forgive you. And I’ll cheer and cheer and cheer!

Our Pets in Six-Words

2008-02-12T04:48:00.000-08:00

There's a new book called NOT QUITE WHAT I WAS PLANNING. It's a collection of six-word life summaries by writers and speakers, collected by Smith Magazine. Please enjoy some six-word summaries from my friends.

(If you want to join in, email me at kathrynmackel at aol and I'll amend the list....Keep them coming...we just got our first bird!)

Enjoy! I certainly did.

* * *

Shrill bark. Jumps high. Loves Robin.
Poppet
~~Robin Lee Hatcher's pup)

Prancing hooves, bowed head, gentle heart
Classy Bonanza (aka Nanza)
~~Wanda Dyson's Quarterhorse

Too smart to be a dog.
Daytona (aka Toni)
~~Wanda Dyson's Austrailian Shepherd

Survived coyote kiss, chews good handbags.
Fiona
~~Kristin Billerbeck's 14 week Yorkie/Pom Puppy

Chew Dig Chew Cuddle Chew...Sleep.
Dasha
~~Karen Ball's 4-month-old Siberian husky

Affection and food. More, more, more!
Dakota
~~Karen Ball's Aussie-Terrier mix we got from a shelter, whom we affectionately call our "black hole of emotional need"

Unconditional love wrapped in (tangled) fur
Belle
~~Mindy Starns Clark's Shih Tzu

Long red hair, matching temperment, squeaky.
Fergie
~~Sunni Jeffer's cat

Docile, petite, pretty, a female terminator.
BC (aka barn cat)
~~Sunni Jeffer's barn cat

Gentlemanly, loves to work and hug.
Chester
~~Sunni Jeffer's adopted stray dog

Uninhibited, affectionate, big heart, no brains
Tigger
~~Janelle Clare Schneider's boxer puppy

Getting older, loves affection, shadows Janelle
Mystery,
~~Janelle Clare Schneider's Cavalier spaniel/Pomeranian cross

Sleep all day and steal socks.
Elliot, Emily and Eloise
~~DeAnna Dodson's cats

Four cats in the house. Crazy!
~~Cheryl Hodde's cats

Lots of love. Gone too soon.
Eddie
~~Nancy Mehl's Jack Russell pup

Do my job. Foam and growl.
Babe
~~Angela Hunt's mastiff

Look mastiffly. Bark deep. Hide quick.
Charley
~~Angela Hunt's mastiff

Sleep, eat, snuggle … life is good!
Lady
~~Elsi Dodge's elderly beagle

Stalk, attack, plot … accept homage graciously
Dolphin
~~Elsi Dodge's saber-toothed tiger masquerading as a tabby cat

Whole house chewed, puppy eyes, forgiveness.
Bacon D
~~Annie Jone's Hammbutt - a terrier + dachsund = Derrier, 8 mos

Evil eyes, fast claws, stay away
Sultana
~~Kathryn Mackel's cat

Very very old, still climbs hills
Natasha
~~Kathryn Mackel's dog

Wrestle with Koda and chase Ryan
Sadie (the Lady)
~~Ryan Mackel's dog

Walk? Run! Play! Sniff! Fun outside!
Echo
~~Merry Stahel's wolf/husky mix

I will protect after my nap.
Flint
~~Merry Stahel's Shiba Inu mix

The world should fear this cockatiel.
Reepicheep
~~Danielle's cockatiel.

Always happy, want Food, love Love.
Brittany
~~Judy Vine's 11-year-old best buddy

Best Cat. Purred loudest. Loved most.
in memory of Miffer
~~Janice Freeman

Saying Everything in Six Words

2008-02-09T07:22:00.000-08:00

There's a new book called NOT QUITE WHAT I WAS PLANNING. It's a collection of six-word life summaries by writers and speakers, collected by Smith Magazine. Angie Hunt challenged some of us to have at it, and the results are on her blog today. Please check it out, see if your favorite authors are there:

http://alifeinpages.blogspot.com/

For example, here's three that I cut and pasted:

Princess by nature with good handbags. --Kristen Billerbeck
Sarcastic Southern belle, lies like kudzu. --Tammy Alexander
Happy mom outgrew job. Invented another. --Deborah Raney

Next month, I'm going to sponsor a contest for my readers (and my friends, ya'll) to submit their own six-word memoirs. But given we're all pet fanatics in this neck of the woods, let's see if we can do our dogs/cats/birds/whatever pet lightens our lives.

Here's a great example from Robin Lee Hatcher:

Shrill bark. Jumps high. Loves Robin.
-- Poppet Hatcher

Please email me at kathrynmackel at aol dot com, and I'll post them in a couple of days. And I promise...I will not post Evil. Evil. Evil. And more evil. as Sultana's memoir. (Unless she whacks me today.)

Eyes of Love

2008-02-08T04:48:00.000-08:00

I'm fine, I'm fine. No big deal. It was a small patch, and I have an L-shaped repair over my eyebrow. A small bandaid would cover it but they put this big pressure bandage on it because they stretch the skin to cover the hole, and they need pressure on it for a couple of days.

Here's what's funny. My sweet husband called me midday, made sure the procedure went fine. He came home, said hi, got about his business while I cut the vegetables for the stir-fry. I finally asked him what he thought of this big bandage.

"I didn't notice it," he said.

"How could you not?" I asked.

"I don't know. I just saw you."

It's not a disregard that made him overlook the bandage, I know. He just wasn't looking for the injury...he was looking all all of me for whom I am.

Doesn't God do that? Dig us out, bandage us up, and then see us with His eyes of love--see us whole?

The Eyes Have It

2008-02-07T03:42:00.000-08:00

I need to have a basal cell carcinoma surgically removed from my eyebrow today. No big deal--basal cell is a surface cancer, 100% curable simply by removing that outer layer of skin. I'm going to have a Mohs micrographic surgery, which means they'll remove some tissue, freeze it and look at it under the scope. If there's still some cancer cells, they'll remove more issue. On and on until the region is clear of the basal cells. It's a procedure I'm grateful for, because it's designed to remove the cancer but also to limit disfiguration.

The only problem? I likely will have to be at the surgeon's office for about 4 hours, most of the time spent waiting.

I cannot sit still at the best of times.

And I certainly cannot sit still in front of daytime television, which the receptionist cheerfully tells me will be available in the comfortable patient waiting room.

Two things can entertain me enough to sit still. One is reading, the other is writing. I plan to bring my computer and get some writing done but there's a little complication.

I wear contact lenses. And because I need them for distance and reading, I have different lenses in each eye. My left eye has the lens for reading, my right for distance (though I usually don't bother to wear that one.) If you've never experienced this, it sounds bizarre but your brain accomodates both lenses, automatically focusing with the correct eye for the correct distance.

Because the patch of cancer is on my left eyebrow, I won't be able to wear my reading lens. And Iwon't be able to wear my glasses because they cover the spot with a bulky bandage between removal and inspection. I've been told my eye will probably swell shut.

Reading and writing are like breathing to me. I can't just sit there for four hours and vegetate. I HAVE to be able to read. So I put my reading lens--always worn in my left eye--into my right eye this morning.

And thus...the war began. My right eye took to the lens right away...I can read quite well with it. But my left eye is not happy, not at all. It wants to do the reading because that's been it's job for years and years. With uncorrected vision, it can't help at all. But it keeps trying to, thus screwing up the corrected vision in my right eye. I walked around dizzy for the first 20 minutes, my brain was completely disoriented because it was being directed to read and see close-up from the wrong side. As I write this, my left eye is still trying to help...but it's calming down a little.

This puts me so in mind of the Holy Spirit. When God gives us that spiritual corrective lens, it's a joy and a revelation. But I keep trying to see life through my "old" eye, focusing the way I'm used to focusing, seeing the way I am accustomed to seeing. The war between the redeemed eye and the natural eye can be spiritually disorienting, even to the point of open warfare as the natural eye submits to the corrected--and transformed--eye of the Spirit.

The Christian walk can be a dizzy affair as our vision is corrected. Lent is a great time for getting back into focus, isn't it?

If A Tree Falls in the Forest--Redux

2008-02-01T11:54:00.000-08:00

The joy of snow and ice...the ticks are gone for now, and Tasha and I can tromp anywhere in the woods we can get to. The only limiting factor is the fact that there is a crust under about six inches of our latest snowfall, so some places are treacherous. We think we're walking in that small layer of snow, break through the crust into empty air until hitting ground a foot further down. I'm learning to recognize those areas by the waves in the surface snow that indicate empty space underneath.

Tasha is feeling frisky these days and happily following me up this hill. Don't think a little rise...think a hill that's probably a half a mile from side to side. It's so big and steep that it was once a local ski slope. It's great exercise for me and she gets excited when she sees me heading up instead of around.

The other day, I checked the weather map (as I always do) before heading out. The map showed showers about sixty miles away but was otherwise clear.

Hm. Right. Tasha and I were on the far side of the hill, cresting it when dark clouds and very high winds blew in. It is very dangerous to be in the woods during high winds (and someday I'll tell you my miracle story) because big branches and huge trees that are either dead or dying can be brought down. I was stuck on top of the hill, trying to figure out a safe way home.

And then it occurred to me...the forester has been cutting trees on the side of the hill where I never go, because it is always laden with ticks. No ticks on this day and, because he's been cutting, there was a clear swath all the way back to his workspace (which is on the other side of my stone wall). Tasha and I cut over that way, still under trees but not nearly as many as in the other ways back to my home. The windstorm raged over my head but the trees were now at a distance, giving me a real measure of security.

His clearing had made it so less likely that some disaster was going to come down on my head.

Will I ever learn?

CAT MONTH...Did I miss anyone's cats? Email me privately if I did and I'll get your kitties posted. kathrynmackel at aol

Oh the Pain, the Pain!

2008-01-27T03:20:00.000-08:00

Elsi left such a beautiful comment to my last post--touched my heart--that I thought I'd clarify something here, rather than in a comment.

The thing about my shoulder now is that it is not painful--except when I do my rehab stuff. So I could go the rest of my life like this, arm that works somewhat, and never have pain.

Or, to regain the function that my arm was created for, I must go through the pain. In these months, my therapist has been the expert at dealing out the pain for my own gain, but now that I've "graduated", it's up to me to apply and endure the pain...for my own health.

Each time my therapist pushed and pulled my arm, causing enough pain so I was kicking the table, she'd whisper, "Relax, relax. It's okay." As the months went on, I began to believe her, because I saw the results. And I trusted her to cause such pain for my own benefit. And now I'm an expert at working my shoulder into that pain, knowing it's the best thing for me.

I could sit this one out, and have no more pain. Or, I could keep working.

And if this isn't a marvelous (though painful) analogy of our Christian walk, I don't know what is!

***

Speaking of good health...be sure to check out my sister Janice's blog. She's running a series on Osteoporosis, and she did one post on Alli which should dissuade anyone from trying it. Do check it out at:
http://cookwellbewell.blogspot.com/

Use It or Lose It

2008-01-25T16:59:00.000-08:00

File this one under "you don't appreciate what you've got until you lose it."

I graduated from physical therapy yesterday, but I'm still getting "it" back. The "it" in question was my ponytail, something I'd totally taken for granted until September 29 when I took at header at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport and smashed my shoulder to pieces.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the story, I had a plate and many, many screws put in before I could come home to Massachusetts. I've been in physical therapy since. That therapy has required enough pain that I would leave the session with a bright red face and teeth marks in my tongue.

I was declared "graduated" because I have become proficient enough in administering my own pain to progress at home. Two hours a day, I listen to sports talk radio and scream. Given that, in the time I've been doing this, the Red Sox have won the World Series and the Patriots are heading for the Super Bowl, you may rest assured that my screaming (and cursing) are because of the pain and not celebration--though in my case, one could argue they are synonymous.

When I came home from Dallas, I required neither a cast nor a sling because of the hardware in my arm. My arm, however, hung like a swollen, dead fish at my side. I could move my fingers but little else. My early goal in therapy was to be able to rest my arm on the table long enough to type. This took almost a month.

My ultimate goal in therapy is to get my ponytail back. I still cannot easily raise my left hand to the crown of my head, and I certainly struggle to hold it higher than my shoulder for the period of time it takes to pull my hair through a scrunchie. Today I bit the bullet (or would have, if I had one), bent my face to my lap, and tried my best to get a ponytail in. As you can see by my self-portrait, I did it, though not without a couple of karate yelps.

Though my ponytail is far from perfect, I got what I wanted.

God, being ever so much wiser, may desire something else.

Earlier in the day, I had knelt at the door for a moment of prayer. I began to sing and, as with so many songs, needed to lift my hands. My right arm shot up but my left arm creaked and chugged its way heavenward, pain surging as I stretched and stretched. And I was struck by two thoughts.

The first is...you don't appreciate what you've got until you lose it. Before my accident, I wouldn't have thought twice about raising my arms--though perhaps more too often to cheer the Sox than to cheer our God.

The other thought is this: how often do I take the privilege of prayer and worship for granted? If it is too often, then stretching heavenward will become painful, perhaps to the point of almost impossible.

Use it or lose it.

Meet George, Valerie Comer's Charmer of a Cat

2008-01-23T07:41:00.001-08:00

I continue to be astounded at these clever and loving cats we're meeting. I'm also a bit irked since I have the only unredeemable cat in the group -- but I'm enjoying all the cyber cuddles. Please welcome Valerie Comer and her cat George.

George, aka Fur Face, is almost 13 and looks like a Himalayan. His actual lineage is purebred Alley Cat. He was born behind my sister-in-law's couch and dubbed George by her toddlers, who dragged him around by his hind legs and tortured him. This actually made him into quite a tolerant cat. My kids, much older than their wee cousins, weren't too sure about the new kitten's name when he moved to our house, but they decided that rather than Curious George he was the George of Warner Brothers fame, where Marvin the Martian squishily hugs Bugs Bunny and says: "I will hug him and love him and call him George, and he will be my best friend forever and ever."

The most annoying thing about George is that he isn't as attached to his hair as I'd like him to be.
But astounding? Yes, in several ways. We've had open stairs for much of George's life. His favorite game involves touch-and-go tag on the stairs. There are so many directions we can tag him from but he does a superb job of defending all angles. He rarely plays with claws out unless he has given plenty of warning that he no longer finds the game amusing.

The most amazing thing is that he acknowledges his name every single time it is uttered. If he is asleep (on the chair that folks notice does not contain the permanent indentations of any human bottom) his ears will twitch. After speaking to him a few times he will open his eyes and look at me as if to say, yes? What is it this time? The funniest aspect of that is every time my husband calls him, the cat comes running. In the past few months, Jim has been training George to come when he snaps his fingers. I can still scarcely believe that any self-respecting cat would leap to attention when summoned, but the evidence plays itself out for me often!

There is nothing in life that compares to a snuggling, purring cat. Babies grow up, but the kitten remains inside the cat. This Christmas is the first year that George hasn't removed an ornament to play soccer with at least once, so maybe he is growing up at last. He is nearly always ready to snuggle if I need it and makes sure I have something to laugh at every day.

The main life lesson that my cat teaches me is how little it takes to be content. His life is full and complete with a roof over his head, food and water, a litter box, and someone to tickle his tummy. He can play for hours with the simplest of toys; the plastic tab off a milk jug is one of his favorites.

We people get so busy with Important Things that we often forget to count the blessings that God has given us. We fret over what happened yesterday or might happen tomorrow. George, however, is secure just being a cat and living in the present. He trusts us completely to fill his water and food dishes, to scoop his litter, and to come home from work to play with him. Why do we agitate so needlessly in our own lives? Why can we not rest in the assurance that the God who made us loves us and will care for us?

Valerie Comer

The Little Worlds of Valerie Comer

In My Little World [at] Blogspot

Jack Be Nimble

2008-01-22T06:35:00.000-08:00

Our friend, "Accidental Poet", has been gracious enough to introduce me to her pre-born nephew, Jack. Jack's got a few months to go in the womb and is growing well. Unfortunately, a tumor on his back is growing equally as well.

Jack's life will be an adventure and a blessing, and is worthy of walking alongside (with our dogs) and sharing our prayers. I am convinced he will one day frolic with his own puppy, and thanks to many prayers and the Internet, we'll be jumping for joy with him.

I invited you to meet Jack at his mother's blog http://www.graciousgiftofgod.blogspot.com/. Scroll to the first entry for his story, and be captivated by this young soul.

Next up in Cat Month: Valerie Comer's kitty George.

Marj and the "Redeemed" Anastasia

2008-01-21T02:17:00.000-08:00

Today we welcome Marj, and Maddie's...well, they aren't exactly friend's so we'll say...Maddie's "acquaintance."

This is Anastasia. We acquired her a year ago October. Anastasia was a stray, found by my boss's friend Dan as she was nursing four kittens under a hollow in a rock wall. Although she was pathetically thin (starved, really), she was clean and friendly with an air of elegance about her. That's how she came to be called Anastasia - she was a sort of an aristocrat living in reduced circumstances.

After the kittens were weaned and placed, we brought her home, and took her for shots and to be spayed. The vet said she was only about a year and a half old, and apparently had had a family at some point, since she was so comfortable with people. They probably tossed her out when they found she was pregnant.

She's a funny little thing. Although she's friendly, she isn't very affectionate - well, not cuddly, anyway. She follows me everywhere, insists on being as physically close as she can be, as long as I don't try to hold her. Sometimes, when she's feeling particularly mellow, she may allow herself to be held for 4 or even up to 6 seconds as a time - but no more. She likes to sit on my lap, but there is to be no cuddling. Absolutely - no cuddling.

There are things that she didn't know how to do when we got her - like opening doors. Most cats will work away at the side of a door with their paws until it opens enough to get through. Not this one. At first, she would wait and mew until somebody opened it. Then she started to watch us - and took to standing on her hind legs and trying to turn the knob with her front paws. I'm afraid it wasn't very successful. She finally got the hang of doing it in the usual cat way, but it took months.

There's another thing she wasn't up to speed on right away. Early last spring I discovered why she was so scrawny when we got her - she can't hunt. I learned this after she came to get me one morning to show me something. We were both perplexed by the presence of a large, bright green, live frog in the living room. Anastasia would oh, so tentatively, give it a gentle poke with her paw, and it would hop up and away, and she would hop back, and then forward, and so it went. She was interested enough to go after it (slowly) but didn't have the least idea what to do next. So I scooped it up and plopped it outside.

Many months later I woke up in the middle at night to use the bathroom, and there, laid neatly next to the toilet, was a little dead mouse. "By gum", I thought, "she's finally figured it out." Then I went back to bed, being unwilling dispose of the unfortunate beast at that hour. Anastasia beat me to it, anyway. My husband found the back half of that mouse at the bottom of the stairs when he got up.

Later it occured to me that really, it was very nice of her to give me her mouse. It must have represented quite an accomplishment to her (I'm not just anthropomorphising - she was positively preening all next day), and it was quite touching to think that instead of immediately consuming the fruit of her labor, she was willing to give it to me. And then I felt ashamed, because my odd little cat knows more than I do about how to show love and appreciation to her master.

It isn't easy to give your first-fruits to God. It's much easier to rationalize - "I need this", "I worked hard for this", "I deserve this". But what better way to demonstrate the depth of your attachment than to give away, with no guarantee of getting it back, the things that mean the most.

It's even better than cuddling.

Oh, What a Mess!

2008-01-19T08:13:00.001-08:00

The forester has expanded his operation, now cutting trees along the main path. It's not the cutting that is the issue for we dog-walkers, it's the heavy equipment that is turning the path into a pitted, treacherous ditch, and it is the debris that he scatters behind as he strips the trees of branches and drags off the main trunk.

Not my woods, I tell myself. Yet they are so much a part of the fabric of my heart, the mess is distressing. Strangely enough, though he's cutting and hauling out so many huge, ancient trees, the forest is still populated with many more that will--as he promised, and I know to be true--grow taller and straighter because of the foresting.

What I hate is the demolishment of paths that have clearly been around for decades, maybe a century or more.

There is a certain grace to an old path, with its finely trod ground and exposed roots, a sense of history that many others walked these paths, eyes on the trees and stone walls and sky, perhaps snatching that moment of praise and letting it go to the One to whom it belongs.

Walking is now a horror show. It doesn't show well with the snow but the path has become partially a deep ditch (from the heavy equipment) and partially a slick track (from the trees being dragged.) On top of that peril are branches and sticks everywhere that you has to pick around, often time obscured by snow. It's hard to go off the path because the forester piles the branches there, a wall of wood and pine needles.

Marj walked Maddie here yesterday and remarked that, the problem with having to watch ones feet to pick one's way through such destruction is that one loses sight of the beauty all around. I like to think that I am wise enough to stop and take that moment before I trudge on, but my impulse is always to just rush forward and put this all behind me. I want to get into the woods beyond the forested property, where nothing has changed.

Yet this morning, when I did stop, I had to struggle to look past the mess at my feet, the mountain of tree branches at the side of the path, the trees that have been downed simply by collateral damage (a bigger tree falling on them). Looking in the long view, I saw a new woods with plenty of trees but more sky, more expanse in which to praise the Lord who made this all.

And isn't that the view I need to take when God is foresting my life, and leaving a mess in my path? Not my woods--and not my life--I need to remember.

Next up for Cat Month: Marj and her aristocratic Anastasia.

Sharon Dunn and her "Crazy" Kitties

2008-01-17T07:15:00.000-08:00

I am a crazy cat lady. Cats are in almost all my books. I have a cat who is an affliction when she first arrived her name was TinkerBell. We now call her Craziness.

Anyway, the two cats I want to talk about are Buzzsaw and Big Rat. Buzzsaw and Big Rat came to us after much prayer. My daughter had lost her sweet calico Cozette and I wanted some healing and grief to happen before we got new cats.

We prayed for "just right kitties." I wanted short haired sisters. Short hair because I am tired of hair balls. Sisters because I thought two of them would keep each other company and be able to stand up to our Evil Queen Cat, Craziness.

God gave us exactly what we prayed for. Buzzsaw (so named because she started to purr loudly when my son picked her up in the shelter) sleeps on my son's head. She has an issue with being able to find the litter box, but she loves my son.

Big Rat is my daughter's cat, the cat who brought some closure after we lost the little calico.
The sisters play together and lick each other. I often find them, one using the other for a pillow, sleeping in front of the space heater. Cats are after all, heat seeking missiles.

Just as a note, these cats, like all of our cats have evolving names because cats don't call when you call them. They came from the shelter as Cashmira and Pewter. When the potty challenged one has one of her accidents, my hubby calls her Stupidhead.

My recent releases is book two in the Bargain Hunters mysteries, Death of a Six Foot Teddy Bear features Phoebe, the monster cat as a character.

http://www.sharondunnbooks.com/humorous whodunits, including book two in the Bargain Hunters mysteries
I blog twice a month at http://www.faithchick.com/.
Death of a Six-foot Teddy Bearfrom Multnomah Publishers, a division of Random House

Trapped!

2008-01-15T10:57:00.000-08:00

As evil as Sultana is, our neighbor has a cat named Patches who outdoes her in the nastiness department. Patches is so domineeringly ornery that their other cat, a sweet thing named Mischief, had to be put on anti-anxiety drugs. A couple years ago, my neighbors went on vacation and the friends charged with caring for their cats didn't give Mischief his medication. When my neighbors got home, Mischief FLEW out of the door and hasn't been seen again.

Since then, Patches has turned his considerable charm to Sultana. He has beat her up in so many places and chased her up so many trees, I've lost count. So it was with great surprise (and okay, a little delight...I fear my cat but don't hate her) that three weeks ago I saw Sullie chase Patches out of our yard!

A couple of days ago, I was working in my office when I heard a horrible howl on my front porch. It didn't sound so much like cat-fighting as like a cat getting killed. I ran out, expecting to see Sullie being carried off in some coyote's jaws.

Instead, I saw Sullie running along the railing, jumping to the ground and peeking under the porch (which is enclosed with latticework ), running to the stairs, back on the railing, on and on. The triumphant cast of her shoulders leads me to believe she had trapped some poor cat (probably not Patches) under our porch. I tried to get her to come in but she was too busy patrolling all possible exits from the latticework.

When she finally did come in, her fur was still all fluffed up and her tail lashing. She immediately went to Tasha's blanket and plopped herself down. As you can see by the picture, and other pictures I've shared, Tasha clearly is not thrilled to have Sultana anywhere near her. Didn't matter...BadCat was in a conquering mood and my poor dog was next.

As always, the spiritual analogies are too sweet to skip. The question is though...do we see God like this, trying to keep us contained, staying near us even when we try to turn away? Or is Sultana a smaller version of the lion roaring around our souls, trapping us and laying claim to us even when we've offered no invitation to do so.

I report...you decide.

Next up: Sharon Dunn and her cats, Buzzsaw and Big Rat. (Great names, eh?)

The Amazing Mr. Hemingway Halter

2008-01-14T11:32:00.000-08:00

When I initiated Cat Month, I thought (based on my evil kitty) "what could people possibly share about their cats?" You're all proving me foolish, as does Pam's cat Hemmy. Read on and enjoy! He is a remarkable cat, though, based on his wild-eyed photo in the tree, I'm not sure I'd want to be walking past him in that moment!

Hemingway (better known as Hemmy) is a multi-toed, American short hair. Ernest Hemingway loved multi-toed cats, hence the name for our kitty. He is 4 years old, has huge paws (called mittens) with 6 toes on the front and the rare 5 toes on the back. He thinks he's king of the house. We got him for our daughter, Mary . . . my hubby, Daryl, and I were in the pet store with the intention of getting a couple of hamsters for Mary. I had my arms full of hamster paraphernalia when Daryl sticks his head around the corner and says, "Hey, you gotta some and see these kittens!" I thought, well, we're not getting a hamster today, and I put the stuff back on the shelves. Sure enough, there was a fiesty kitten who seemed to love us. We bought him.

Hemmy knows he's Mary's cat. She can do anything to him and he'll just lay there. The rest of us, he bites.

He likes to play hide & seek with her. It has to be seen to be appreciated. He eats fruit and peanut butter. He trots behind us when we walk.

He's a great hunter, even capturing and killing squirrels. But his favorite treat is a praying mantis. He shows up on the porch every summer with several. I try to tell him they are protected and we'd get fined if he was caught . . . but that doesn't seem to bother him.

Hemmy really loves the Christmas tree. But he doesn't want ornaments. He will knock off anything we hang on the branches. It's pretty funny. So, we have a wildlife theme for our tree. Two cats . . . because our other cat loves the tree, too, although Hemmy is king of the tree and our other kitty must stay in the lower branches.

The most astounding thing Hemmy has done was to take Mary's cell phone in his big paws and manage to take a picture of himself. We laughed and laughed. None of Mary's friends believe he did it.

When we lost another kitty, Dusty, 2 years ago, Hemmy grieved deeply with me. For the first four days after we buried Dusty in the back yard, Hemmy sat on the grave. When I wept, Hemmy laid with me. He walked the house and called for the longest time. I believe he still misses Dusty. I know I do.

He is loyal to a fault to Mary. He loves her and provides a safe, comforting place for her when troubled.

We all grieve when we lose a pet. Then we go out and get another one, knowing we will go through it all again. One time, while kneeing and weeping at another cat's grave, I asked this out loud. Why do we do it? Daryl said, in the beginning, God gave man dominion over the animals ... to care for them ... he believes that's why most of us have an almost inborn desire to have some kind of pet. An interesting thought, don't you think?

Visit Pam at:

http://www.pamhalter.info/

Joy, Pure Joy

2008-01-14T07:04:00.000-08:00

Pam's kitty Hemmy will be up in a few hours but I had to post this video that Bonnie shared in her comments. It is too precious not to hightlight!

Bailey (the dog in the video) is the very soul of exuberance. Check it out!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sUL0KCIc48

An Apple a Day

2008-01-12T20:37:00.000-08:00

Marj was busy the other day so I volunteered to take Maddie for her walk. Walk is a misnomer...for Maddie, it's ready-set-gallup. It had snowed a foot the day before so the going was very slow for me but apparently Maddie didn't get the memo. She only has one speed, and that's heart-busting.

That's why, when she skidded to a stop and started digging, I knew I'd better check it out. Once she dug up a rotting rat and brought it home in the car with her. (Fortunately, Marj was the designated walker on that day.)

On this day, her find was a rotten apple. Worried it would make her sick, I tried to get her to give it up. She'd drop it at my feet but take it up again before I could snatch it away. I'm not sure what I would have done with it anyway...it's not like I'd stick it in my pocket, and anywhere I tossed it, she'd managed to retrieve.

I had one dog biscuit with me, enough to lure her momentarily away. (She doesn't eat the biscuits, she inhales them.) I kicked the apple deeper into the snow and patted more snow on top of it.

Of course, she found it. How she smelled it through what had to be two feet of snow is the blessing of being a dog, I suppose. No rotting treat can ever be buried so deep as to be lost. We once had a Lab who kept bringing a rotted, unidentifiable carcass home. Steve buried it and Barney dug it up. Finally I picked a hole in the ice on the pond next to our yard, shoved in the fetid flesh-and-bones, and left it overnight to freeze over.

Barney smelled it through the ice and dug and dug until he actually broke through and retrieved it.

Once more I'm reminded of how our dogs model the role of the Holy Spirit. We dig things deep, cover them good, and pretend they're gone. But that wonderful and fearsome Spirit sniffs us out.

When the hound of heaven is on your tail, dog biscuits will not suffice.

Up next for Cat Month: Pam Halter and her Hemingway!

Dolphin and Elsi

2008-01-10T14:29:00.000-08:00

Say hello to Elsi Dodge's charming kitty, Dolphin. You may remember Dolphin's travelmate who joined us during Dog Month, the equally-charming Lady.

I had to laugh at Elsi's sharing that she always wanted a gray kitty. That same desire got me stuck with BadCat!

Sounds like Dolphin could teach BadCat a thing or two!

What kind of cat is he and how old is he? (Dolphin answers this one.)

I am a brilliant saber-toothed tiger, cleverly camouflaged as a tabby cat. I’m almost five, and I’m sure I’m going to learn to drive soon. When I do—and as soon as I’ve conquered the task of opening cat food cans—I’m taking the RV and striking out on my own!

How did your cat become part of your family?
I was on vacation in Florida, swimming with the dolphins at Discovery Cove, when my 18-year-old cat died. She’d been home with a sitter, and Lady (beagle) was in a kennel. Lady was devastated at having her best friend gone; she would search the house, crying. She kept telling me, “If you loved me, you’d get me another kitty friend!”

I thought I’d get a dolphin-colored (gray) kitten and call it Dolphin, or any kitten and call it Mellon (which is elvish for Friend). A buddy called me one evening to say, “There’s a gray kitten at the pet shop; come quick!” I know better than to get a pet shop animal, but Lady wanted a new friend, so I just went to look …

I brought the adorable baby home at once. He barely filled my cupped hand, but had a purr that filled the house! I set him down on the living room rug and said, “Lady, here’s your new kitty friend!”

Lady came over and sniffed him, delicately and respectfully. And Dolphin swore at her! He said … on second thought, I can’t write the words he said, but they were BAD! Lady was devastated.
They’ve reached a mutual cooperation agreement now, but every once in a while Lady looks at Dolphin in utter bewilderment.

What is the most annoying and/or astounding thing your cat has ever done?

Dolphin’s a funny little guy. He was ill with giardia when I got him, and only about five weeks old (which is illegal here). But returning him to the pet store wouldn’t have helped him, so … But he’s an unbonded child, suffering from attachment disorder. He lives in his own world, and tolerates the rest of us. He loves traveling in the RV. He chases the windshield wipers; I’m sure he thinks they’re pterodactyls. He’s apparently a member of Homeland Security, and takes his responsibilities seriously. Without him, we would be overrun by terrorist rabbits, squirrels, and robins.

But with all that, the above picture is still the most astounding thing I’ve seen. I pulled into a gas station, glanced at the passenger seat … and there he sat!

How does your cat’s companionship enrich your life?
I always have something to laugh at when Dolphin’s around. He has his own slant on life, and doesn’t really understand why I don’t see things the same way. He is a happy traveler, loves to go for walks on his harness and leash, slaps the dog when he’s mad at me, bites me in the ankle when I punish him for something (and then we’re even and can be friends again).

What does your cat teach you about God?
Dolphin, my pudgy, strange cat, has always been quite certain the world is his kitty toy. He is confident it was created for his pleasure, and for him to use as he chooses. After all, isn’t the world full of people who want to feed and pat him? And many of them wear dangly earrings, long scarves or belts, fringed sleeves and hems, or floppy shoelaces—all clearly meant for cats to play with. Not to mention keys, coins, and spoons, all sitting on the counter waiting to be batted about, and flies and windshield wipers just waiting to be chased, and birds and squirrels outside the window … oh, it is a wonderful world, and everything in it is intended as a plaything for him!

Dolphin has a strange sense of justice. He will not tolerate being restrained or constrained as he goes through his day. The world has been made for him, and he should be free to enjoy it. He has discovered that his mama (me) has a different attitude and, reluctantly, he makes a few allowances for my prejudices (at least, until he learns to open cat food cans). He doesn’t bite me when I’m asleep, he refrains from walking under my accelerator foot in the RV, and he allows me to retrieve him when he escapes to the great outdoors.

He will not, however, tolerate being held down or squirted with water, no matter how naughty he’s been. For example, he enjoys shredding the side of the sofa, though only when I’m there to be bothered by it. He will scratch, then look to see if I’ve noticed. A flick of his tail says, You’re not the boss of me! Then he goes back to scratching, secure in his knowledge that he’s put me in my place.

When I tell him, “NO!” the tail twitches faster. Yes, indeed, he’s showing me who’s boss!
A firmer NO earns me another look. If I’m threatening him, he evaluates the profit/loss ratio (is it worth it? yes!) and continues. And when I squirt him, he is shocked. How dare you? He immediately stops what he was doing and leaves.

Within a minute or two, however, he is back. He walks up to me and nips me in the ankle. Now we are even—I punished him, and he retaliated—and we can be friends again.

Just after 4th of July, I went to Breckenridge with friends. Kaitlyn, 16, bullied Dolphin, rolling him about and forcing his compliance. Soon all she had to do was touch his forehead and remind him, “Calm!” and he would settle down.

To my surprise, this effect has stuck. He allows me to rub his tummy and tousle his ears. He purrs and snuggles. And when he forgets and starts to use his teeth, all I have to do is reach out a finger to the fur between his eyes and tell him, “Be calm,” and he stops!

Oh, I am so much like my cat! I know how the world should function, and I get irritated when it doesn’t work out my way. “That’s not fair!” is often my response when I lose something, when I’m late, when there’s road construction on my highway, when I run out of shampoo.
I panicked when I lost my credit cards, praised the Lord when we were able to replace them, and found myself highly indignant when the replacement cards were delivered late. How dare they interfere with my trip?!

So what am I saying? Maybe I’m quoting Romans 9:14: “Is God unjust? Not at all!”

In any event, I see God, leaning down in love, pressing His finger on my forehead and saying, “Be calm. Be still, and know that I AM God.”

And I roll over, paws relaxed, purring softly—secure in the knowledge that God is in control. I don’t have to worry about making things right. He’s in charge. What happens “does not, therefore, depend on [my] desire or effort, but on God’s mercy” (Romans 9:16).

The Heart of the Matter

2008-01-10T06:04:00.000-08:00

Dolphin will be making his appearance later today (and he'll steal everyone's heart) but I wanted to take a moment to point you all to my sister's blog entry on heart disease. Even though I worked for years in a hospital lab and knew all the terms like MI and A-Fib, I never understood what was happening.

Janice's blog explains a lot, and it's the opening round in a discussion on healthy hearts. Please check it out at:

http://cookwellbewell.blogspot.com/

Elsi Dodge's Dolphin is next up. For now, remember a lot of elements go into a healthy heart, not the least of which is a dog or cat to hug to it!

Woman's Best Friend

2008-01-09T07:39:00.000-08:00

I've got my share of phobias. Snakes top the list. I scream at brightly-colored ropes and hoses. If I see a dead snake on the path, I'll stay away for weeks.

Anything involved with taxes and the IRS makes me shake. (Ask my husband...it's true.) Tax preparation and submission is a nightmare for me, even though we have a splendid accountant.

My most inconvenient phobia is having my picture taken. I am the most unphotographic person in the world. I don't have good cheekbones, my smile shows too much gum, my eyes are saggy, I have no eyelashes.

DO NOT COMMENT AND TELL ME THIS ISN'T TRUE! I AM NOT LOOKING FOR COMPLIMENTS...I AM STATING THE TRUTH.

The problem with being an author is that publishers are always looking for a photo. I haven't gone to a studio to have one done because it will be agony. I won't photograph well and it will be a waste of money. Steve sometimes does my photos, almost invariably ending in us sniping at each other. I asked Marj to do this latest round and, though we've shot about 50, I still don't have a usable one.

We had tried photographing me after Sunday School, with a red curtain as background. I looked stark white, with too dark lipstick, red-eye, and just stiff-stiff-stiff. I changed clothes and makeup and went to her house to be photographed in front of her lovely bookshelves. My makeup was better but I still looked like someone was setting my toes on fire.

So she sicced Maddie on me.

The photos are a riot, and I don't know if I can even use them (given Maddie's glowing eyes) but clearly, they showed the real me. I needed Maddie to become who I really am, and not who I'm trying to be.

And isn't that what friends do--help you discover yourself?

NEXT UP for Cat Month--Elsi Dodge's Dolphin.

CORRECTION TO MY ENTRY ON 'BOILS.' Marj said: "If it's melanoma and you ignore it, you won't have to worry about old age spots."

Hellyer Takes Center Stage

2008-01-07T06:32:00.000-08:00

To kick off "cat month," today we welcome Dineen Miller and her Hellyer. (I have to admit, when I first saw that name, I thought she must have a BadCat of her own...but she'll explain the name as you read.)

Please welcome Dineen Miller and her cat Hellyer, aka Little Bit or Helly Belly

What kind of cat is he/she and how old is he/she?

Hellyer is just a tabby, white and tan. He's a year and half old. How did your cat become part of your family?My husband is an avid disc golfer. One day he was playing at Hellyer Park (that explains the name) on a record 110 degree day and heard a crying/mewing come from the brush. He went down and found this little 10 week old kitten, abandoned. We already had four cats, but he brought him home anyway.

At first look, we were all smitten by this kitten! Hubby named him Hellyer but I kept referring to the little fuzz ball as Little Bit and it stuck.

What is the most annoying/astounding thing your cat has ever done? (Feel free to answer both.)

Most annoying, he sprays all the time. Good thing he likes the outdoors. Most astounding, he likes to ride on my husband's shoulder. :-)

How does your cat’s companionship enrich your life?

He's kept us laughing since the day we adopted him. He's so unique in his personality and when he mews, he sounds like he's saying no. LOL! He's so much fun!

What does your cat teach you about God?

That God loves us SO much that He actually took the time and care to create these wonderful little creatures for our enjoyment. No other reason! That just amazes me that our enjoyment of life matters that much to God. This makes us treasure our pets even more. Since rescuing Hellyer, we've also rescued a puppy through California Underdogs. And she is precious and has been the best therapy for our daughter. :-)

Thanks for letting me participate!

Blessings,Dineen

* * * *

Dineen A. Miller2007 ACFW Genesis 2nd Place Winner

ACFW Featured Author Coordinator

http://www.dineenmiller.com/

Kittens Come From Eggs— http://www.dineenmiller.blogspot.com/

Designer Girl Graphics—Specializing in the design needs of writers and authors.

Sometimes a Boil is Just a Boil, and Sometimes It is a Blessing

2008-01-06T12:45:00.000-08:00

So I came home from Dallas in early October, my arm plated-and-pinned back together, and a small red spot on the interior of my calf.

Uh-oh, I thought. Flesh eating bacteria. (Come on, this is me...)

I followed its progress, watching the purple grow to a little bigger than a pencil eraser over the course of the next month. Finally, it seemed to be settling back into my skin and I thought, okay, I will survive.

Then it turned a toasty brown color. I watched it for a few weeks, decided it wasn't my imagination that it was developing a darker splotch inside.

I emailed Marj and said I thought I either had melanoma or old age spots (and didn't know which was worse). Supportive friend that she is, she reminded me if it were melanoma, I wouldn't have to worry about old age spots.

So I visited my PCP who thought it looked like enough of a concern to send me to the dermatologist. Hm, the dermatologist said, it's probably a sebhorric keratosis. What's that, I ask.

An old age spot.

Kill me now, I thought--ever the ungrateful child.

He biopsied it and was ready to dismiss me when I asked him to look at a spot on my eyebrow. Look is the wrong term...nothing was visible but it felt like a little, dried pimple. (Hope you're not eating...oh wait...you're all dog people so you're tough).

He biopsied that, too, and called me a couple days ago with the results. The thing on my eyebrow is basal cell carcinoma, the most common and least threatening of all skin cancers. 100% cure rate unless you let it go forever and ever. The only issue is the amount of scarring if it's not removed until much later in its run.

And the thing on my leg? Nothing. Not even an old age spot. Just a little inflammation, even though it looked like enough of a concern for a couple of doctors to say hm, better check this out. As the dermatologist was explaining to me that the brown lump that he had excised was nothing, he had this perplexed tone like...why wasn't it at least the sebhorric keratosis? It sure looked like something.

Of course, you and I know the answer to that. I never would have gone to the dermatologist for the tiny, dry spot on my eyebrow.

Sometimes a boil is just a boil. And hm...sometimes it's a blessing.

Welcome to Cat Month (Sorry, pups)

2008-01-03T17:21:00.001-08:00

Meet Sultana, aka BadCat. This is not a term of endearment...it's a warning! Note how she disrespects her owner (me) by sleeping on my manuscript. Note the terrifying gleam in her angry eyes. And look at those double paws, all the better to swipe (and strike) me with.

I do hope your cat is a far nicer member of the species than mine is. Whether a purring pussycat or a roaring lion, all cats are welcome this month. Every few days, we'll meet another kitty...and hope our dogs understand.

Send your cat's bio and photo to me at kathrynmackel at aol. Here's some questions to use as a guide.

What kind of cat is he/she and how old is he/she?
How did your cat become part of your family?
What is the most annoying and/or astounding thing your cat has ever done?

How does your cat’s companionship enrich your life?
What does your cat teach you about God?

Good Calories/Bad Calories?

2008-01-01T11:42:00.000-08:00

My friend Lisa has become a disciple. No, not of Jesus the Christ but of a book called Good Calories/Bad Calories. It’s a best-seller, written by a Gary Taubes.

Taubes is no slouch or shill for the next best diet. According to his bio on Amazon, he “is a correspondent for Science magazine. The only print journalist to have won three Science in Society Journalism awards, given by the National Association of Science Writers, he has contributed articles to The Best American Science Writing 2002 and The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2000 and 2003. ”

The premise is (quoting from Amazon.com) that “everything we believe about a healthy diet is wrong,” and, in regard to the epidemic of obesity and diabetes, “the problem lies in refined carbohydrates (white flour, sugar, easily digested starches) and sugars–via their dramatic and long term effects on insulin, the hormone that regulates fat accumulation–and that the key to good health is the kind of calories we take in, not the number. There are good calories, and bad ones.”

Lisa is thrilled with this book and its approach because, as she lives on cream, butter, and animal protein (including the fat) she’s dropping weight, body fat, and clothing size. Her blood pressure has gone down and she’s anticipating a lowering of her cholesterol and LDLs. (I’m eagerly awaiting that result.)

Still quoting from Amazon.com, here’s a listing of the “good” calories and “bad” calories.”

Good Calories
These are from foods without easily digestible carbohydrates and sugars. These foods can be eaten without restraint.Meat, fish, fowl, cheese, eggs, butter, and non-starchy vegetables.

Bad Calories
These are from foods that stimulate excessive insulin secretion and so make us fat and increase our risk of chronic disease—all refined and easily digestible carbohydrates and sugars. The key is not how much vitamins and minerals they contain, but how quickly they are digested. (So apple juice or even green vegetable juices are not necessarily any healthier than soda.) Bread and other baked goods, potatoes, yams, rice, pasta, cereal grains, corn, sugar (sucrose and high fructose corn syrup), ice cream, candy, soft drinks, fruit juices, bananas and other tropical fruits, and beer.

Kathy again: I struggle with the notion of loading my diet with animal fats while minimizing what I consider healthy starches, such as peas, yams, potatoes, and oatmeal. As a lifetime member of Weight Watchers and the wife/cook for a man with cardio-concerns, I can’t envision a healthy diet without whole wheat or pasta, or without oranges and bananas.

I checked in with my own expert, my sister Janice Freeman.(http://cookwellbewell.blogspot.com/ ) She's a scientist, medical expert, and fitness trainer in her own right. Here’s what she told me:

…I suspect the "scientific' studies quoted in the book are observational or epidemiological. The problem with those kinds of studies is that they can only show correlation, not cause and effect. And the same is true of meta analysis of studies designed to study a particular question, where some one uses the data to try to answer another question. These were the kinds of studies that led us to believe for so many years that post-menopausal estrogen supplements protected women from heart disease. There is great (unintended) bias in such studies. In the case of estrogen, it was probably due to the fact that women who took estrogen replacement took better care of themselves in general. It was not until the first double blind, placebo controlled study of (matched) post menopausal women with and without estrogen replacement was done that the medical community learned that correlation was not cause and effect. And although the famous Framingham study showed higher cholesterol is associated with higher heart disease risk, it was not until the landmark West of Scotland study (double blind, placebo controlled, 5 years), that the medical community became convinced that statins helped prevent heart attacks, even if the individual never head a heart attack.

It is very easy to mislead even relatively scientific minds when quoting "studies." Unless there is a 10 year study of high protein vs. food pyramid eating and weight control, no one can claim to be superior. I am familiar with the good cal concept, and know some people who have tried it. It actually leads to calorie restriction, since people get very tired of so much protein. It is a strain on the renal system when protein is continuously converted to glucose for fuel; the by products that need to be eliminated tax the kidneys.

Kathy again: It seems to me there’s a far larger issue at play here, one with a spiritual basis. If we believe Taubes, the human body is designed to be a carnivore.

But in the first book of Genesis we’re told:

29Then God said, "I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. 30And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground--everything that has the breath of life in it--I give every green plant for food." And it was so.

This posits us before the fall —humans and animals alike—as vegetarians. The first animal in the Bible was not killed to feed Adam and Eve, but to cover their sin. We see Daniel and his friends prove a diet of vegetables and water to make them vigorous with health but Peter’s vision releasing Christians of Jewish descent from dietary strictures. While the Lord instructed the Israelites to commemorate the Passover with unblemished lamb and bread without yeast, Jesus celebrated the coming fulfillment of this meal with what Taubes might consider "bad calories" --bread and wine.

I’m rooting for Lisa as she works her way to blooming health. No way am I a vegetarian but the notion that bacon is healthier than cheerios just rattles me. I remain convinced of two things.

First, common sense in enjoying all of creation's bounty and giving thanks for that bounty is good.

And second, the path to good health is always broader and smoother when you take a dog along.

Make It Stop!!!!!!!!

2007-12-31T06:47:00.000-08:00

A month and a half until spring training...can't wait.

As much as I hate to disrespect our dogs, I did promise January would be cat month. Sultana will hold me to the deal. I'll post questions in a couple of days.

Tell the pups to take cover...

Merriless Christmas?

2007-12-30T13:13:00.000-08:00

I’ve been remiss in not proclaiming “Merry Christmas” to my sojourners out here on the path.

It’s not a bah-humbug omission. The thing is, every time I sat down to write a Christmas greeting, I felt inadequate. Many of my fellow authors have shared greetings and memories on various blogs, and I felt I couldn’t match them—as if this cyber-celebration was a competition and not a commemoration.

Author Patty Hickman has shared with her readers the amazing work of a ministry she’s involved with, caring for folks with HIV/AIDS (http://www.secretangelsproject.com/) Upon reading about what these big-hearted, faithful folks have done, I literally jumped to my feet in praise of the One who enlivens their ministry.

So many of you offer similar service in Christ’s name. These are the true gifts of Christmas, laid at the foot of the manger to bring radiance to the child, light to the darkness.

Me? I just walk my dog.

On this last weekend of 2007, it’s fitting to ask if I’m on the right path.

I tell myself someone has to drink in the hush of the woods, be staggered by the majesty of the trees, bath in silent snow, shout praises to a sparkling sky. The key—as in everything—is praise. My pittance of what is owed has quieted because the forester drowned praise with his incessant chain saw and grinding bulldozer; the weather froze praise with bone-chilling cold; the season crushed praise with obligations; the Patriots claimed praise as their own; the writing pretended to be praise’s vehicle; the fear of failure shredded praise in bloody tatters.

The truth is that I chose to walk this path of acquiescence.

The irony is that Tasha still gets it right. She’s slow to get going but once she’s on the path, she bounds with joy. And she’s taken to looking back at me, ears perked and head tilted, as if to say can’t you keep up?

And she’s right. Out on the path, it’s not about having a Merry Christmas. It’s all about letting the chainsaw and weather and seasons and Patriots and writing and failure fall to the wayside.

It’s all about having Joyous Christ. And this, my dear friends, is what I wish you all.

(Do check out http://www.secretangelsproject.com/ .)