Monthly Archives: March 2008

In Her Place

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“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him…”  Psalm 37:7 NIV

          She’s there.  Always.  Out of sight, yet in my mind.  Her actions have touched my life significantly, and I feel an intimate connection with her.  Sometimes I search her name on the internet, and wonder if it’s really her, or just someone who shares her name.  She holds a part of my heart that none other can, and she’s an absolute necessity to my life’s happiness.  The odds of meeting her are slim to none, yet she’s occupied a portion of my thoughts from the moment I first saw his face eighteen years ago. 

Just two days after we sat in a parking lot on our seventh anniversary listening with yearning hearts to Wayne Watson sing Watercolor Ponies and praying for the Lord’s guidance as we began our search to adopt, her son was born six weeks premature with a myriad of health problems.  It would take eighteen months of medical care, hospitalizations, foster care, and legal machinations before we’d even know he existed. 

We were called on a Friday to see if we were still interested in adopting.  Up for grabs was an eighteen-month old boy.  It had taken nine months to become certified and another nine had passed before that call.  Yes, we said, absolutely yes!

So sure were we that we’d be chosen, we spent the entire weekend stalking babies in shopping carts to inquire their ages.  We had no idea what an eighteen-month old would be like

We were competing with two other couples for this child and I wanted an edge.  I called the state agency and was amazingly put through to the director.   “The squeaky wheel gets the grease,” she said, “so give us your best squeak!”  And we did, providing a picture storybook of our immediate family, home, and pets plus a pan of brownies for the selection committee, and a large floral bouquet for the director.  Squeak!

It worked.  Our grease came in the form of a “Congratulations, you’re a new mommy and daddy!” call the following Thursday, and the next day we were taken to the foster home to meet our son.  The caseworker warned it would take six weeks for him to adapt, trust and bond enough to come home with us.  She said he was shy of strangers and not to feel bad if he didn’t come near us for a while.  She said we should be patient and not expect him to go anyplace with us for at least two weeks of daily visits so he could get used to us.

She was wrong.

The first day he crawled into our laps and laughed with us.  The second day he pushed his face to the screen door of his foster home and sobbed as we left.  The third day he readily left with us to meet his grandparents and cried piteously when we left.  Both foster mother and caseworker wrung their hands and asked how quickly we could have our pool fence completed.  It was the longest ten days of our lives!

Pure joy filled our home.  We’d smile in the mornings as we lay in bed listening to him playing with his busy box before bringing him in to cuddle with us.  Sleeping beside us, we would trace the outline of his chubby little face, smile at the cowlick on the right side of his forehead and stubborn whorl in the center of his head.  Did she have a cowlick, too?   Where did that whorl come from?

Every milestone brought her to mind and I’d journal my thoughts to her, capturing the amazement of the moment to share or questions to ask, if not in person, at least in my heart. 

Did she think about his first words or first steps?  Would she have laughed to hear him call semi trucks La-las?  Wasn’t it funny that he went to sleep when someone threw a blanket over his head?

Did anything smell better than a freshly bathed baby still damp and with water sparklets on eyelashes?  Would she ever hear the patter of a toddler in a footed sleeper?  Did she know the sheer terror of seeing an egg sized bump appear when he smacked into the edge of the chair? 

Did she have a father who would make him giggle and tumble over with laughter, like the grandpa he had now?  Would her sisters and brothers have been as doting as the aunts and uncles he had now? 

 Would she have shared his love of dinosaurs and seen the humor in heaving his stuffed pterodactyl out the window to see if it could fly when traveling 60 mph on the freeway?    Would her heart have flip-flopped joyously when he gave her the globe- shaped card proclaiming “World’s Best Mother Ever”? 

Would she have cried when the teachers reported something was different about him and gone to no less than five different physicians before agreeing to a diagnosis and treatment?  Did he get his handwriting from her?  Was rainbow sherbet also her favorite ice cream? 

Would she have taken him to church and wept for joy when he received Jesus?   Would she have thought he glowed after being baptized and sitting proudly beside the pastor on the church’s first pew?   Would she understand his need for Brown Bear when he went away from home?

Would she have jumped from the bleachers and cheered when it was his turn to bat?  Would she have smiled when he went through his first puppy love?  Would she have been shocked to find stubble growing on his chin and notice his voice getting deeper?   Did she know he could happily consume a gallon of milk a day?

Did she try drugs in high school and get caught by the dean of students hiding in the bushes across the street from the high school, too high to care that he was caught?  Had she ever struggled with schoolwork and the stigma of being in special education classes?   Would she have yelled at him and grounded him and had her heart torn in two trying to figure out a way to get through to him? 

Could she have had a better solution than agreeing with him that school wasn’t working and he should get on with his life after five years of trying to pass?  Would she have been amazed and pleased as we were when he succeeded in finding and keeping a job for almost two years?  Would she look up to him, not just for his height, but because his heart is in the right place and he’s become the fine young man that every mother wishes for?

Would she long to have him three again, or five, or even ten, but at the same time appreciate the extraordinary man he is?  Would she take every moment she could to hug and kiss him, and tell him how wonderful he is?   Would she stare at him through misty eyes and thank God for the precious gift he is in her life?

I think if things had been different for her, she would.  But because they weren’t, I’m more than thankful; I’m blessed to be the one in her place.

My story, Real, appears in Chicken Soup for the Adopted Soul, March 2008.

Pup’s Mouse Caper

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“Oh Lord my God, I take refuge in you; save and deliver me from all who pursue me…” Psalm 7:1   

          I could have avoided all that trouble if only I had remembered to keep the cat in.

Five little noses, three belonging to me, pressed curiously against the window of the arcadia door, each vying for the best view as our loyal old mutt, Pup, squeezed in beside them.

            “MOM!  There’s something out here!”

            Recalling the bank robber chased down in our back yard last summer, I hurdled the sofa, pushed past the kids, and peered through the locked glass door, ready to defend my young.  Following five little pointing fingers, I saw it.  The rear half of a mouse laid neatly on the patio; no blood, no gore, neat kill.  Sassy, our dainty gray and white cat, sat smugly near her gift.  I sighed in relief.  A rodent carcass I can handle.

“Okay, kids, stay here.”  I grabbed a couple of paper towels, scooped up the remains and headed to the dumpster, Sassy trailing behind me, yowling her protest. 

“Thank you for sharing, Sass, but you’re welcome to both halves.”

“Mrroowph!”  Sassy snorted.  

            Excitement over, we all went back to whatever we were doing.

“MOM!  There’s another one!” 

Five minutes couldn’t have passed.  I silently resolved to bring in the cat as I grabbed another paper towel and stepped through the door to the patio, but as I reached down for this one that was still, thankfully, intact, it leaped.

            “EEEEEEK!”

            Five screaming kids and our suddenly alert old mutt shot through the glass door, much to the disgust of Sassy who marched slowly amidst the pandemonium, tail high, through the open door.  She had clearly washed her whiskers of us.

            Flabbergasted, I watched our old hound take the mouse between his jaws so that all that could be seen of the tiny creature was a dangling tail that waved up and down while Pup raced in circles to avoid the kids’ attempts to catch him.  Ugh!  The last thing I wanted was for them to see a mouse chewed alive!  I ordered my oldest son to get a paper bag while I joined the chase.

            “Pup!  Drop that!” 

            Pup’s frisking days were long gone, but something about this adventure had set him off.  There was a twinkle in his eyes and a look of pure mischief as he easily avoided the little bodies that hurled themselves at him and kept the long tail that bounced in his soft-mouthed jaws just out of their reach.  Sticky, warm dog slobber drooled down the tip of the critter’s tail and flung everywhere as Pup romped with his prize.

            “PUP!  Come here!”  Tail wagging waves of happiness, Pup approached me coyly and sat, eyes rolling toward the kids who for once obeyed my outstretched hand that told them to stay. 

            “Good dog,” I patted his head and motioned Aaron to bring the bag as one of the younger boys asked in a pathetic voice if the mouse was dead.

            “It’s wet and slobbery.  Might be dead.  Stay back.”   I eyed our dog appreciatively and he looked proudly back.  “Pup, you have to give it to me.”  I held the bag open just under his mouth and said in my sternest command voice,  “Drop!”

            To my surprise, he did, and the wet little vermin plopped right into the bag where it lay very still for approximately 1.3 seconds, not long enough for me to close the bag, before leaping with great vigor onto my shoulder causing me to do a crazy screaming wiggle-dance, and the chase, along with the cries of encouragement from the kids, was on again.

            “Run, Mousie!  Get away!”  (My daughter)

            “Save yourself, Mouse!” (My nephew)

            “Poor little mouse!” (My younger son)

            But it was Pup who stole the show.  Jumping sideways he followed the bounding leaps of the mouse until it settled near a bush and to further impress us, lifted his forepaw, pushed his nose out and actually pointed!   Silence reigned as we took in the spectacle of our mellow old mutt behaving just like a spry hunting dog before the wretched rodent chose that moment to make good its escape.  Quick as lightening, Pup stuck out his head, opened his jaws, adjusted for the angle, and the hapless mouse went right back into his mouth as if pulled by an invisible cord!  Squeals of delight surrounded me as the kids whooped it up and praised Pup who started his serpentine trail through the yard again, mouse tail flapping.  I retrieved the dropped paper bag and once more issued the sit and drop commands.  Pup obeyed, beaming, proud and as alive as I’d ever seen him.  This time I closed the bag fast, mouse intact, dead or alive. 

“Good dog!  Okay kids, we got ‘im!”

            Pup’s youthful glow remained as he basked in the praises of the kids who lavished him with treats and super-hero attributes, even fashioning a cape for him that he quickly gnawed off.   This was clearly a crowning moment in his life we would remember forever.

            It was at that moment my six-year old son, Sam, asked the question that has lead to the increase in our family by sixteen hamsters and two mice in the past several years. 

“Mom, what are we going to name Pup’s mouse?” 

           

 

Hats

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     “For it is God who works in you to will and to act according to His good purpose.”  Philippians 2:13 

     Our heads are tilted toward one another, hat brim to hat brim, each with an arm around the other, both of us offering our most photogenic smiles.  Then something happened.  Probably our mother couldn’t find the button to push on the camera or perhaps a gust a wind disturbed her.  I can no longer remember, but whatever it was, we looked at each other and grinned, and what was captured was a unguarded moment of joy between sisters.  We called it our hat picture, and when my sister died at the age of thirty-seven, my mother and I framed it for the memorial service. 

     Though we seemed to have little in common, Rosie and I shared an immense love of hats and often wished ourselves born in an era when a lady’s ensemble was not complete without a matching hat.  Therefore, every Easter was marked by a new hat, bought or borrowed from one another.  The dress, though of utmost importance, was secondary to the sensation created by the effect of the hat set at just the right angle atop tresses specifically groomed to compliment the Easter bonnet.  We would no more miss an Easter sunrise or church service than we would go hatless for this most sacred of days.  The hat signified more than a wistful nod to fashion of the past, however.  It was a pure and glorious celebration of being a woman created by God’s own design to enjoy and immerse herself in femininity.   It was a voluntary admission of being a lady of quality and worth, not to be mistaken with fame and wealth.  For the quality of womanhood comes directly from God’s creation of the very first woman and the worth is that He gave His son to die on the cross, rescuing every man and woman who accept Him from infinite death.   Our hats became symbols that reminded us we were cherished, we were loved, and we were made perfectly just as we were by a loving God who knew us before we were even born.   And wearing them was an acknowledgement of His love, an acceptance of His sacrifice and an act of submission to His absolute authority in our lives. 

     Ah, but, you say, submission?  Absolute authority? 

     Yes, to both.  And here’s an example of how that looked the last few weeks of my sister’s life.

      She knew she was dying and though loathe to admit it, so did we.  After five major heart surgeries and many follow up surgical procedures, after several pacemakers, after repeated intubations, repeated coding and defibrillations, enough medications to let a pharmaceutical executive retire, oxygen tanks that she named since they had to dog along with her everywhere, and ten months in and out of the hospital, her frail little body was tired, weak and starved for rest.   

      She and her eleven year old son, along with our mother, had moved in with us for what we had thought would be a several week recovery, but turned into a ten month blessing that often resembled a nightmare with midnight runs to the emergency room or living for days at the hospital, all the while trying to maintain a ration of normalcy for four children who accepted this time of pain and hardship as simply how we lived.   Rosie wanted to go home, to see her son in his own yard again, to see our grandmother, to see the rose bushes she had planted a year ago, to burn the memory of the place she had created to raise her son in her mind once more. 

     We all protested.  She was too weak.  The medical care wasn’t the same, wasn’t good enough.  The risk was too great to fly, in fact, they wouldn’t let her.  But her resolve was greater than our protests and with a gentle spirit we barely recognized in one who had been a virtual whirlwind of spunk, she insisted we let her go.

     When all was arranged and it was time to say goodbye, I pulled her into the house, into a private area, and threw my hefty arms around her thin, bony body.  

     “Don’t leave,” I begged, “stay, because I’m terrified I will never see you again if you go.”

     She put her hands on my shoulder and pushed me back until we were eye to eye.  Her blue-green eyes held mine steadily, as if trying to transfer her thoughts to my mind.  We both had tears.  “I have to go,” she whispered.

     I fell to my knees and placed my arms around her legs, looked at her and sobbed my fear, “But if you go, I’m afraid you’ll die there, Rosie, and I’ll never see you again.”

     My baby sister put her hands around my face and a sad little smile played around her mouth.  “You’ll see me in Heaven.”           

        I clung to her as I cried, but there were no more words.  She knew, I knew, and God knew.  She was finished with her fight for life, her struggle to live long enough to see her son graduate high school, the painful procedures to sustain her body.  And so she was embracing her future, submitting to the authority of Jesus who both numbered her days on earth and waited to take her to Heaven.   She was a woman of quality, of worth, and more courage than I’ve ever seen in any human.   

    Years earlier when we had one of our many discussions about what Heaven would be like, she had quipped that she hoped we’d have something to go with those white robes everyone talked about. 

     “Like what?”  I asked.

     “Like a really cute hat and some matching sandals with a kitten heel,”  she laughed.

     Besides her beautific smile, I picture my sister greeting me when I arrive in Heaven wearing a pink hat festooned with ribbon rosettes and seed pearl trim set at just the right angle to frame a heart shaped face and glossy brown hair.   She’ll have one for me, and one for our mother, and at the same time we’ll take them, like crowns, and lay them lovingly at the feet of the One who gave us life, and life again.  Our Jesus.                 

     

     

Sophie

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    “To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul;” Psalm 25:1

     Sleek, silver with gray upholstery and woodgrain dash, I knew she was the one I wanted from the moment I saw her on the showroom floor, spotlighted and tattooed with “buy me now” stickers. 

     Until the wreck and the subsequent rental, I’d never imagined myself behind the wheel of an SUV.   After years of driving a full-size conversion van, something I could easily slide into a parking space sounded perfectly lovely.  But the rental company was fresh out of economy cars and for the same rate they’d let me have a brand new Dodge Durango SLT, fire engine red.  I balked.  It was one thing driving the lumbering beast I knew but quite another driving a flame colored tank with a Hemi.  Oh, yes, a Hemi.  My husband’s eyes glazed.  I snatched the keys and loaded the kids.

     I took great pains clearing the parking lot and upon entering the freeway proceeded to accelerate as usual to merge into oncoming traffic.  And that’s when it happened.  The Hemi kicked in and before you could say “snot” I had slid neatly between two rocketing vehicles without as much as a cough or hesitation from the engine.  My eyes glazed.  

     Red, as I started calling the rental, remained with us for the three months it took to repair our own vehicle’s damage and by then there was no turning back.  I had never owned a brand new vehicle because not one had ever captured my heart to the extent that a used version wouldn’t do.  I suppose at some point new car fever infects everyone.  At forty-five, I was burning with it, but only for that particular type.  And I knew my limits – I had to forgo the Hemi.  The taste of instant speed was too intoxicating for trips back and forth to the elementary school.  Grinning like he’d done something special, my husband took me car shopping.

     Let me say here and now that buying a vehicle is not new to me.  I’ve bought all the vehicles in our family and I’ve sold all the vehicles in our family.  One of my husband’s favorite stories is sending me to buy a 26 foot 1976 U-haul truck, which I did after talking the sellers into the price I was willing to pay, and then selling it for $50.00 more than I’d paid after we used it to move 2,200 miles across the country.  Somewhere between the subtle Southern accent and blonde hair, salesmen see me as a pushover.  My husband sits back and watches, and we’ve never paid more for a car than what we’ve agreed upon ahead of time.

      So when her shiny silver paint momentarily dazzled me I knew I had to look both disinterested and unfazed.  The sticker in the window quoted a price $6,000 more than our budget.  I squeezed my husband’s hand.  He winked at me and whispered, “Get ’em.”

     The manager himself reduced the price to what I was willing to pay, shaking his head as he walked away.   After the paperwork was signed and her fenders were polished, I parked my bottom on the seat of my very own silver Dodge Durange SLT.  She purred.  I purred.  And I named her Sophie. 

     From then on, we went everywhere in Sophie.  

     “What are we taking, Mom?” the kids would ask. 

     “Sophie,” I’d answer. 

     My teenagers would groan.  “It’s a Durango, Mom.  THE DURANGO.” 

     I’d grin and shake my head, “Nope, it’s Sophie, who happens to BE a Durango.”  

     They continued to make fun of her name, my nephew attempting for a time to call her Bilbo.   Since none of the kids were old enough to drive yet, I was one of several moms who drove from four to six boys from Point A to Point B and back every weekend.   Sam, my then fourteen year old, tried relentlessly to get me to give up her name, begging me to not to mention it when his friends were in the car.  But I suppose boys find perverse pleasure in embarrassing one another because soon his friends were saying as we walked out the door to the car, “We’re taking Sophie, right,” or, on their cell phones to other friends to be picked up, “We’ll be coming in Sophie to get you,” or, when calling to be picked up from the mall, “We’ll come out when we see Sophie.”  Sophie is so well known that one day driving through the neighborhood a group of boys leaned out their car window and yelled, “Hi Sam’s mom!  Hi Sophie!” 

     Sophie has just turned over 36,000 miles.  One of her best features is a DVD player.  The drive from Phoenix to Santa Barbara is a three-movie trip with pit stops as we learned last summer.  She purrs her way to school and back during the week and can unerringly drive my daughter and I to the mall.  She’s everything I wanted and no other car has even tempted me to stray.

     Lately, my husband’s been ogling a hot little Mustang GT, bright yellow with black racing stripes.  Hmmm.  We’re thinking Fred, or maybe Monty.  We’ll have to see what Sophie thinks.       

Boris & Bluebell

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 “…for every animal of the forest is mine,  and the cattle on a thousand hills.  I know every bird in the mountains, and the creatures of the field are mine.”  Psalm 50:10-12 

             He invited himself onto our apartment patio late one summer evening as we braved the hundred-degree heat to grill steaks.

            His head was boxy, his body short and taunt, and he sported scars and oil slicks around his face, neck and back.  We called him Boris and he purred his approval as he rubbed our hands.  He made no move to leave, but rather courted us, freely sharing his affection before perching atop the picnic table, tabby tail curled politely around him, blinking golden-green eyes.

            We melted. 

Bites of steak were offered and he graciously accepted.  We offered water and, again, he accepted with purrs of thanks.  His social skills extended through dinner and beyond, as he stayed just long enough to show his appreciation, and left before the conversation stalled.  We adapted our schedule to meet his, eating on the patio in anticipation of his nightly visits.

Inside our tiny apartment lived our three pampered felines, never exposed to the dangers outdoors.  They jealously watched our visitor and inhaled his scent as we moved in and out the door.  Once he left and we settled back inside, they’d come sniffling, mouths open, ears flat, eyes squinting and breathe in as much information as their noses could hold. They’d rub where he had rubbed, reclaiming us with their own familiar scent. 

            Ours weren’t the only heads that turned the day he followed us in, neatly sidestepping the gawking, hissing creatures confounded by this brazen transgression.  We watched, wondering, waiting.  His movements seemed determined, planned, as if he knew what he was doing and meant to do it, willy-nilly.

The housecats fled to lick away their disgust in places of safety – the open closet, the bookcase headboard, and as far back on the bathroom vanity as possible.  Snarling as he approached, they hunkered in horror.

He ignored them.  He didn’t care for their approval or acceptance.  He was on a mission padding grandly from room to room, sniffing, seeking, golden-green eyes taking in everything before returning without a word to the glass door where he asked with a startlingly high-pitched mew to go back out. Amused, both by the improbable sound from this street-wise tom and by his inspection of our home, we wondered how we measured up and what would happen next.

She sailed with him, side by side, over the patio wall, landing with as much grace as her swollen belly allowed.  Blue-green eyes watched us warily, but he took his place beside her, rubbing against her then rubbing against us.  It’s okay, he seemed to say, blinking at her. 

Obviously, this was his lady.

We hastily responded, offering a can of cat food to the mother to be, not even surprised when he allowed her to eat her fill before finishing the treat.  She was loathe to have us touch her, yet submitted to a quick pet, lowering her body as close to the table as possible to avoid our hand.  Boris, however, was grateful.  A rub, a weave, a tiny mew of thanks, and they were off, over the fence, leaving us speechless and the inside cats in a frenzy of excitement. 

            We called her Bluebell.  There was something beautiful yet sorrowful about this homely white cat with gray tabby patches.

            From then, they came together each day over the patio fence, Bluebell struggling as her body grew larger.  There wasn’t a gate or we would’ve opened it, and when we offered the front door, she backed away.  The patio was the only acceptable entry, so we prepared a birthing box and left it there, not sure if she would use it, but hopeful she would.

            As we fed them one evening we were surprised when Boris pushed his paws against the glass door and began a scratch, scratch, scratch motion.  He had only been inside once and that had seemed enough.  He’d never asked to go in again. 

We opened the door and he trotted in, Bluebell wobbling beside him.  He led her to the food dish and water bowl then the litter box while we watched, open mouthed, shushing our indoor kitties that backed into corners and hissed their disdain at this new intruder. 

Bluebell sat plump in the middle of the living room with Boris beside her, his golden-green eyes finding ours and holding them steady.

We brought the birthing box inside.

Blinking his approval, rubbing through our legs, Boris went to the door, but Bluebell remained, turning her head toward him as if saying good-bye.  We let him out, stood by the door to see if she’d follow.  She stood and looked hard toward the door before waddling to the birthing box, oblivious to the protests of our own cats.   Boris leapt the patio fence, leaving his beloved safely in our care.

Four tiny kittens were born the next day.  Bluebell serenely lay back and suckled them, bathing each in turn, leaving them only to eat, drink or use the litter.  We admonished our own cats to leave them alone, but there was no need.  Bluebell was a protective mother, snarling her threats when one wandered too near.  With us, however, she was tolerant, allowing us to cuddle and stroke, pet and hold the squirming fur balls in her box.  She accepted our affection, our food, and our shelter, but her heart wasn’t in it. 

Her blue-green orbs lit only in the evenings when Boris sailed clear of the fence and landed smartly on the patio table.  She’d abandon her babies and race to the door, insisting with a shrill meow to be let out.  At first we were afraid she’d leave and never return, but her distress and agitation at seeing Boris and being unable to get to him was real, as was his.  We opened the door and were treated to the sight of lovers reunited.

They touched noses, rubbed against each other, bathed one another, shared the dish of food set out.  After fifteen minutes or so, he cleanly leapt the fence and she sat beside the door looking in.  We quickly opened it and she returned to her kittens.

Bluebell was a firm mother, not over warm, yet never nasty to her growing, rowdy children with teeth that bit nipples and claws that dug into the soft flesh of her belly.  She played with them, showed them how to lap the baby food oatmeal mixed with water and milk that we set out for them to try.  Little curtain climbers, the babies were strong, healthy, remarkably beautiful, and unlike their mother, entirely tame, seeking us out for a romp or falling asleep nestled on our shoulders or laps.  When she wanted them back in the box, she’d mmmrrrruuuppph and they’d run to her, or she’d leap upon them and grab them by their napes, dragging protesting kittens back to the box. 

Boris and Bluebell continued their nightly trysts and when the kittens were three weeks old, she began to go with him when he left, returning within the hour and asking to come back in.  It wasn’t our affection that held her, and we sensed that though we had fallen in love with her, she was merely doing what was best for her kittens.  We had been chosen to act as temporary shelter and provision in this play of life orchestrated by an urbane tom smattered with car grease and war wounds.  In a way, it was surreal.

Eyes open, eating kitten chow and spending more and more time away from their mom, the kittens prospered, blending with our cats, even enticing them into play at times.  Bluebell observed without joining in, ever maintaining her aloofness.  She spent more time with Boris now, he coming earlier, both staying away longer. We’d rub his chin and neck and he purr his gratitude for all we did, sometimes squeaking a word of thanks.  Bluebell once or twice offered a brief rub.  Her heart belonged to Boris and we knew it. Certain she’d never desert her babies, we remained comfortable letting her go, watchful for her return.

Then it happened.   

We scoured the apartment complex, put out food that remained untouched, and asked everyone if they’d seen “our” two strays.  Some recalled seeing them heading towards an empty field but couldn’t remember for certain.  We checked the animal shelters, the pound, the pet notices, and even the dead animal pick up to no avail.  As the weeks passed without a sight or hint of them, and the food was clearly uneaten, we realized the truth.

Boris and Bluebell had left by choice, and they left the kittens to us. 

We found homes for all except the one, Pumpkin, who remained a precious reminder of her parents with a loving, giving, graceful, gentle spirit housed in a plain, homely, package. 

Twenty-three years have passed yet the memory and mystery of Boris and Bluebell lingers along with a question. Did these cats truly plan their own form of open adoption? 

We do believe by their deliberate actions they chose us for their offspring.  They sought something better, safer than they could offer.  They weren’t looking for personal gain, but rather they offered us the sweetest portion of their love.  And it may sound silly, but we believe they trusted us to honor their gift and understand the sacrifice they made wasn’t selfish or neglectful, but thoughtful and loving. 

I like to think they listened to the voice of their Creator and allowed us a bittersweet glimpse of God’s care for all creatures, great, small, scaled, feathered, or furry.  And I like to think He chose us for them as much as He chose them for us because two years later, our lives were touched by the adoption of our oldest son.