Doggie Love

 

I waited a long time to adopt a dog. 

Years ago, living in a small apartment in the Fenway in Boston, I longed for a canine companion.  I would gaze longingly at others who would stroll up and down Queensbury Street with their own dogs, wondering if I would ever reside in a place large enough for the type of dog I wanted (I love big and small dogs alike, but imagined myself with a larger model, perhaps having been subjected to too many Levi's commercials in which big happy canines romp through streams with rugged looking owners).  A man down the road from me was father to a Great Dane, but I couldn't imagine leaving a large dog alone in an apartment all day while I went to work to earn the money for kibble (I'm not sure if the Great Dane's person worked outside the home).  Not to mention that my life at the time wasn't stable enough for a dog; I was never sure how long I would be living at said apartment, or even in Boston, and my emotional state at that time, passing in and out of bouts of sometimes severe depression, was not conducive to good doggie parenting. 

Now, these many years later, I find myself proud mama to a white German Shepherd beast, adopted from a local breeder whose family my husband and I sought out when it was decided that a white Shepherd would be the best dog for our family.  I'd perused the shelter down the street, and much crying and sharp words passed between the husband and I when I fell in love with a huge black Shepherd named Monty who was so eager to play and to come home with me. Hub was not interested in Monty, and I was heartbroken at the prospect of having to leave the shelter without being able to save even one dog.  Those places are like doggie prisons-sad, a bit smelly and filled with the sorrow of loss and abandonment.  After we returned home and my vows to disengage myself from the dog search had given way to the more pressing need for a canine friend, I began searching breeders.  Finally, we located a family who seemed to genuinely love their dogs, a family who raises white Shepherds as an additional job, which seems to be as much a love for them as it is a vocation.  Our boy came home to us from Foxhunt Shepherds two years ago last February, and he has been a great fit for our family ever since. 

Our Shepherd was a gift from God.  Seriously. With a reddish stripe of fur running down his back, he isn't a "perfect" white shepherd, which is truly perfect for us since we tend toward being a ragamuffin bunch ourselves.  Nobody in our home is a poster person for the perfect, Happy Days/Mulberry type of all American family member.  We tend more toward the all American camper/hiker/motorcycle rider type and we love it that way.  On any given day, it's questionable whether or not my daughter will don a pair of shoes, though we would never go so far as to leave the house without wearing any.  Our homeschooling lifestyle has lead to us being a more laid back family, with chickens strutting about the back yard, attempts at vegetable gardening underway, and digging in the dirt strongly encouraged.  Last week's treasured gift was a bug collecting kit which I found for our daughter in one of those bins set up by the door at the supermarket.

Yesterday morning we woke to find our dog sporting a swollen eye.  He'd been shaking his head all night long, my husband said (usually I'm the one to wake up when such things take place-I must have been exhausted that night, however) and it was obvious he'd gotten into something in the yard the day before.  I immediately suspected a toad, since our dog suffered the same experience about a year ago, and a quick trip to the vet had revealed that a toad was the most likely suspect. Every summer when the rains begin in earnest the Bufo toads arrive (or maybe they just come out of hiding) like one of the plagues in Exodus. Big, ugly things, they emit a toxin that is capable of killing dogs and cats, and every animal parent I know detests them.  Lately, I've been spotting them everywhere, but it's impossible to keep them from our yard and I'm constantly concerned  that our dog will find one, which, apparently, he did a couple of days ago.  For reference, here is an article about the wretched things:  http://www.fondrenpetcare.com/bufo_toad.htm.

Fortunately for us, our very large dog survived the night (probably due to his size) and we were able to bring him to the vet in the morning and obtain medicine to quell the swelling and a shot to counteract the effects of the poison.  I will be monitoring our dog's nightly, pre-bed pee runs in the back yard to help prevent future toad attacks, but am concerned that this is the second time such an encounter has been had between our dog and the neighborhood toads.  This type of incident really makes me grateful for all of the people and animals in my life today who I might take a little bit for granted.  This reminder is good.  But I still dislike the toads.

Childhood's Fleeting Way

Flipping through some old photo albums over the weekend I was struck by how much our daughter has changed. Pouring over the pages, I could clearly recall most of the moments in which each shot was snapped, and yet, the time between then and now has passed so quickly. My heart lurched as I fully understood just how quickly my girl is growing, how little time we as parents have to be parents to a small child. I've been feeling extreme frustration with regard to how much time is stolen from my time with her. I've felt angry and upset that I never can seem to balance everything in a way that makes me feel comfortable.

As the day moved forward and the laundry was folded and the business work was typed and faxed and filed away, my frustration only increased. I managed to squeeze a few minutes outside with my daughter, walking behind as she pedaled her bike up and down the road, but the heat was opressive, even at 4:30 in the afternoon, and we didn't have much time left before I needed to get dinner on the table before the Hubs needed to leave for a meeting with friends.

I'm finding myself very much looking forward to our trip up north in a month, when I can focus on my little one without so many distractions and really enjoy being with her. I know that we all have work to do in this world, and that sometimes doing that work can be a struggle. I'm trying very hard to do the work set before me with joy and a grateful heart. That said, year six is flying past at an alarming speed and it will never be here again.

Hearing the Word, Speaking the Word

I read a story this morning to which I could really relate.  It was the story located in Joshua, about Rahab, a pagan woman, running an inn and possibly a prostitute, who agreed to hide spies sent by Joshua's son, Nun, who were sent to inspect the land of Jericho.  Rahab had heard stories about the God of Israel, of the miraculous things He had done for His people.  One could say that she hid the spies (and thus saved herself and her family) out of fear of God alone, or because she feared these Israelite men. However, I believe that her heart was also moved by the stories she'd heard, by the stories of the Israelites and the lifestyle they embraced.  This was a time in history when harboring spies would probably, had Rahab been discovered doing so, lead to death.  She engaged in this activity at great risk to herself, but she did it anyway.  Because of her actions, Israel was able to acheive victory over Jericho.  The love of God had worked it's way into the heart of a pagan woman, saving her and all of those under her direct care.

I have never been a prostitute, nor have I ever owned an inn.  I have, however, been attracted by pagan lifestyles, battled with the demons of addiction, and spent many years observing how God behaves in the context of many different faiths.  I've prayed long and hard to be shown the right path, at times pleading with God for the answers that always seemed to illude me.  Practicing different spiritual paths did help me to understand people from different viewpoints.  I have always believed that in order to understand a culture, one must study the religious beliefs of that culture.  What my spiritual wandering did not do was lead me immediately to the answer I was seeking.  Standing in today, I can see how God lead me around many twisting pathways right to where He wanted me to stand.  While I was out on the roads searching, however, the paths often became twisted, dark and overgrown.  I always felt the presence of God, regardless of the names I used, and yet I felt there had to be a path meant for me, one way that I should take and focus upon.

I think that what really began leading me back toward the light was reading the words of another.  When I picked up Ann Voskamp's "1,000 Gifts" I entered into the world of a woman who is homeschooling, caring for a home, married to a man who works with his hands, and who earns his living through physical labor and the uncertainties that come with business ownership.  She doesn't glamourize the life of spirit, but speaks about life in the muck and struggles of life, as well as good times.  Being a homeschooling mom, married to a man who earns his living doing  physical work in a business he owns, keeping a house, sometimes wondering what life would have been life if I'd just gone back to school for art therapy and launched myself out into the bigger world, caring for animals and boo boos and preparing our daily meals, Ann's words were able to reach deeply into my heart.  The door was open just a crack back then, but  enough for me to read this book, to be open minded enough to believe what she said.

When my husband and I moved into the house in which we are now blessed to be living, we also were gifted with wonderful neighbors who homeschool their children through their church.  Nowadays, our kids run back and forth between our yards, and when they went away for a month of summer vacation, I missed the laughter and rucus of all of those children, their many and our one.  I have watched the way that this family live their lives, seen the peace the Mom always seems to hold deep within even when chaos is ensuing.  This doesn't mean she's always calm, or that her house is impossibly tidy (that would seem an impossible goal for me to reach).  There is something within her that shines outwardly, though.  One never knows how their own witnessing, even quiet, gentle witnessing (sometimes the softer type is better, actually) will effect another person.  For all of the book reading I have done, the rituals in which I've engaged, the prayers I have spoken, it was the way people acted that had the most profound effect on what I believe to be my spiritual truth.  Of course, the prayers were vital as well.  Sometimes the answers arrive in the words and actions of others, though. We need to be vigilant when we whisper (and shout, and cry) our prayers, on the lookout for the answers, which might slip into the most unexpected of moments and pass by unnoticed.     

Grateful

Today, I'm only grateful.  Grateful that we have business when this economy has become so scary.  Grateful for our beautiful neighbor, who sat with me yesterday in her back room, talking with me about how awesome God is (having a neighbor with whom I can talk about this sort of thing is miraculous and proof of His awesomeness all by itself!). Grateful for my crazy Cajun husband and the gorgeous, peaceful little girl we birthed into the world  almost seven years ago. Grateful that we have a God who picks us up out of the depths, no matter how far down into the canyons we've fallen, if we only ask Him for His forgiveness and open our hearts to the Infinite possibility.   

Doing My Part (sometimes kicking and screaming)

 
I moved to Florida many years ago, a spiritually and otherwise immature woman who thought that moving to a sunnier climate would improve my then depressed and sometimes selfish disposition.  At twenty nine years of age, I still wasn't sure what I wanted in life; when we arrive at the point where we have no idea what direction to take and no real guidance with regard to making the more difficult life decisions (such as what, exactly, we were placed on this earth to do) running away will often appear to be the most attractive choice.  And so, amidst great protest from various friends and family members and predictions  made by my beloved Grandmother that I'd miss home and would return at some point, my partner and I loaded up the UHaul and drove away from Boston. Why is it that my Grandmother's predictions always seem to bear a great deal of truth?  She was correct that I would eventually miss home and long to return.  That I actually would move back remains to be seen but I find myself wishing long, hard and often that this would come to pass, that some great miracle would create a hole in reality making this wish a possible reality.   Recently, I read a blog post by a woman who travels a great deal and enjoys the life of a wanderer.  Her remedy for homesickness is to completely immerse one's self in the surroundings in which we find our bodies, to take in and love completely where we are.  The problem for me is that while this solution has worked in the past, these days I'm too aware of the reality around me.  I love the few good friends I've made here, I adore our home, I  love our life together in our little family unit, but Florida itself leaves me sorely wanting.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful.  I feel God's grace in my life now more than ever before, and recently I took Ann Voskamp's challenge to find 1000 gifts by writing a gift/gratitude list.  Each day I find a multitude of blessings to add to that list of gifts from God and each night I read over what I've written and feel warmed by His love, aware of the many graces that washed over me in the hours now behind.   I marvel at the fact that He took so much effort to bring me back to Him, years of allowing me to search the hallways of various religious houses, all the while working in my life to lead me slowly back down the hallway of my youth.  I'm baffled by the way this happened, at the way my heart was suddenly open to reading the blog of a born again Christian Evangelist (Ann's own description of herself), at how my friends from High School were suddenly on their computers encouraging me forward. I'd feared rejection when I told one of said friends where I'd been, but she gently moved me forward, guiding me toward books that might help me to grow stronger in my rediscovered faith, words that encouraged rather than ones that berated.  Berating words seldom help.  What a blessing that she knew this and didn't say anything that would turn me back around.  We returnees can be quite fragile in a spiritual sense.  Some days the idea of going back to my old spiritual wandering feels familiar and comfortable and I need to work hard to keep my feet where they are.  I don't have any true desire to get lost again, but the lure of other ways can be strong. That said, only the Word nourishes me so fully, so deeply.  His words are the sweetest.

Anyway...the desire in my heart to return home to New England is powerful.  I miss my family.  I long for the old streets of Concord, the woods of Henry David Thoreau, Boston's old cobblestone streets (as well as the more modern places), gargoyles staring down at me from the lofty heights of old buildings downtown.  I pine for the rolling hills of New England, the mountainous places that so captured my heart when I was younger, the roads I spent years traveling to reach various places.  I miss the Irish names and the accent that actors in movies always seem to butcher when they try to emulate us.  I want my daughter to grow up knowing my mother better, and I want to raise her in a place different from where we live now.  Our home is beautiful; it rests toward the end of a dead end street, with a huge tree standing at the end of our driveway.  South Florida, however, is rife with crime, drugs, pedophiles and other sex offenders. Our schools (please forgive me, but this is my sincere opinion and one backed by many of my friends and acquaintances) are terrible. The lifestyle here caters largely to boaters (I'm not even that fond of the water) and beachers (I have sun allergies that only seem to manifest here, where the sun is unbearably oppressive), and party types.  In my hometown, one needed to drive far to find a place like a strip joint.  Here, all one needs to do is drive a few miles up the street, and then a few more miles after that to find another one. I've heard young women talking about working in these places as if stripping was a normal profession.  I've also spoken with women who bear the emotional and mental scars of engaging in this type of work.  It isn't pretty and, in spite of what some people claim, it isn't empowering.  As I sit in my kitchen typing this, a crew of scary looking people wanders up the road, heading toward a halfway house located at the farthest end of the street.  They have the hollowed out appearance of zombies, eyes vacant, feet shuffling just a bit.  I feel sad that they're sick, but also just a bit frightened that people who aren't well mentally are living in such close proximity to our children, who run back and forth between our houses.  We watch our children well, but it takes but a quick moment for someone to snatch a child up, and some days I'm frustrated that a Florida Sex Offender search brings up hundred and hundreds of offenders in our immediate area, many charged with harming children.  There's something about Florida that attracts people like this, and transients and people who like to swing.  I want to go home.

And yet....I know I'm here right now for a reason.   Our neighbors on one side were largely responsible for attracting me back toward Christianity by showing me the peace it brings to their own lives.  Our children play together, and their support of my husband and I homeschooling our daughter (they homeschool through their church) has provided me with much needed encouragement.  Another sweet little girl lives on the other side of us, and she and my little one play as well; they're close in age and enjoy similar interests.  A dear friend of mine is struggling with addiction, and she and I have been sharing time together, talking about the disease of alcoholism and drug addiction, sharing hope, reminding one another about the importance of staying spiritually fit and of discovering the joy in every day, even when it tries to hide itself.  I know my friend, who has spent years battling this demon, does not have many more fights left in her.  If I can help walk her back toward a place of sustained sobriety, if I can be one person of a few with whom she can relate and confide in and share her own experiences with (because we all help each other-none of us stands above), this is a gift  valuable beyond all of the treasures lying  beneath the waves of our Florida oceans.  Within our hearts reside jewels to beat the glory of any Spanish galleons, and God wants us to share that treasure with others.  We aren't given these valuables to hoard, but to spread around.  The struggles I've walked (and crawled, and stumbled) through exist in my memory to help others walk through their own difficulties.  The words I read and the clarities I achieve and the epiphanies that help me make it through another day here on earth are given to me not just for me but for the other person who needs to hear those truths.

And so.....I paste pictures on my vision board, pictures of New England vistas, lakes, mountains, farmland, thick woodlands, pumpkin patches and autumn foliage, urban scenes of the downtown streets I used to wander, Cape Cod beaches (I can almost smell the salty, marshy air so unique to that area of the country) and I wonder if we'll ever go back there to stay.  I still talk with God about it and I know He knows how I feel, grateful but tired, grateful but still full of a longing that isn't being willed away.  I often think He must be tired of listening to me. And today, I'm trying to do my part, to take up the work I'm called to do over these next few hours, and, I hope, to do that work gratefully, gladly, and wholly.     

Forgiveness

Yesterday, Casey Anthony, a young mother accused of murdering her small child, was acquitted of the more serious charges she was facing (murder, child neglect, manslaughter). It's possible that soon she will be free, and while many of the facts of the case are troubling to me, I don't agree with the people who are condemning her to hell and making comments that she should be killed, etc. It occured to me yesterday that we're supposed to behave in a better manner than that. While it's okay to rebuke (and Jesus tells us to do this when a wrong has happened) I don't believe it's okay to then pick up stones and begin hurling them at the accused. Tempting as this might be to some, the Bible clearly tells us that this is not the way to go. Most of us have never been accused of murder, but are we all really innocent of wrongdoing entirely? And who of us is in a position to state what's God's stance in all of this is?

As I engaged in my workout this morning, the news programs flashed pictures of Casey, of her tears upon being acquitted, the smiles of her attorneys, her parents silently exiting the courtroom without approaching their daughter. I began thinking about what God's hand in all of this might be, how He could take a bad situation such as this and turn it around. I was struck with an idea that will probably be unpopular, but seems plausible in light of the idea that God is great and has a plan for each of us. Assuming that Casey is, in some way, guilty of her daughter's death (she was deemed not guilty by a jury of her peers, and maybe Caylee's death was an accident of some kind, but something seems fishy to me), could it be that God gave her another chance because there is something in this life that she needs to do? I'd like to think so. I'd love to believe that in the midst of tragedy, God has an option for her, one that will lead her to forgiveness and into a life of meaning. Looking at the images of Casey's past life flashed across the television, it's not difficult to understand that her former life was one of emptiness: drunken parties and meaningless sexual encounters, shopping sprees and careless afternoons and many many lies told to cover up the person she really was inside. It seems this woman has tried nearly every vice possible attempting to fill that void within her which can only be filled to satisfaction by God.

I pray for Casey that when she leaves the cold, sad jail she's called home for the past three years she will lift her eyes to the heavens and plead for God's help and direction. I pray that her main focus will be to shift her hurtful life into one of service to others, to be open to what God has planned for her. Being released from jail does not mean she's absolved of sin. But it might mean she's been given a chance at absolution, that her life can take on new meaning, that she's been saved to do the work she was supposed to be beginning when she embarked on a life of partying and nothingness.

Maybe, as we're lifting up prayers for little Caylee's spirit to be at peace with God, we should also raise a few for her misguided mother. Those prayers, combined with a faith that God knows what He is doing and will find a way to right this situation, might be the ones that actually help to prevent future tragedy.