At some point in life, and for some of us, often, we trip.  I don’t mean a little stumble and recover that barely anyone notices but sends a flush to your face nonetheless, but an all out fall flat on your face or behind kind of trip.  In front of everyone.  When something important is happening.  And all eyes are on you. 

And sometimes it isn’t a standing up or walking or running trip, but a seated trip, as in I was just sitting there and suddenly….

Some recover with grace and quick comebacks, everyone laughs and the show goes on.  The trip doesn’t become the highlight but rather a funny moment.  I’m just not one of those people. 

One of my first trips that I can remember is bounding from the steps of our trailer (yep, we lived in a trailer in my grandparent’s front yard!) after walking inside and seeing someone standing there.  I was so afraid that I forgot to step down and tumbled to the ground…but I did get up running. 

I’m the kid who, during our promenade in our Easter bonnets (think deep South) around the school yard, tripped while trying to avoid the egg that had fallen off someone else’s bonnet and propelled myself in the backend of the music teacher whose name I have forgotten but who sternly and loudly reprimanded me for the remainder of our promenade. 

At the age of sixteen or seventeen I was a “beauty contestant” for a local contest.  Unbeknownst to me, every other girl in the contest was in it for real.  I brought one little bag with my clothing changes; they each had several bags, some had professional make up and hair people, most had moms or publicists.  By the time I realized I didn’t share their dreams, we were practicing for the show.  It seemed pretty simple – line up and go to the top of the stairs; when the girl in front of you gets to the exit stairs, follow the yellow line to the first square, stop and pose; follow the line to the microphone square and say your name and city; follow the line to the last square, turn and smile again for the photographer and crowd; take the arm of the attendant and go down the stairs and out.  This had to be cake!  What was all the fuss about?  We practiced twice through and then raced to get into our evening gowns.

We lined up for our turns and when I reached the top stair I realized they had NOT practiced this properly.  With a zillion ultra bright lights spotlighting the area I couldn’t even SEE the yellow lines on the stage, much less the itsy bitsy yellow box they called a square.  And then it happened.  My left eye started to twitch so that it looked like I was furiously batting my lashes.  Then my left upper lip took up the rhythm and now it looked like I was batting and semi-snarling.   I could see absolutely nothing but bright white light and grayish spots and had no idea which way the stage even went. 

“Next!” Hissed the reed-thin dragon woman who had counted us off several times, repositioned us for the photo shoots, lectured us about “authenticity”, and pinched everyone’s cheeks much too hard. 

As the words “I can’t…” were being formed the girl behind me pushed me onto the stage and I…tripped.  My right eye  joined my left eye but they twitched in disharmony and my left upper lip increased its spasm to a imitate a pretty serious snarl.  And I couldn’t see the line!  I couldn’t see the square!  I heard my name and blindly flailed in that direction running right into the microphone stand that I grabbed (oh, no, we never touch the microphone stand!) and said “I’m ….”  I have no idea who.  I finally said my name but I had no idea where I lived because the spots were getting bigger so the announcer guy added  that for me.  Loathe to let go of the microphone stand I caught movement between the flutters of the my left eye and headed in that direction blindly focused on the thought that somewhere, if I kept looking down, I’d see another square as my cue to turn and smile, er, snarl for the camera. 

Just before I hit the edge of the stage the attendant, a young man in military dress, grabbed my elbow and without further ado propelled me to the stairs where I was met by dragon lady who scolded me and told me I was done.  Thank God!  I then tripped the rest of the way down the stairs still seeing spots as the other girls stared at me in disdain and disbelief.  Where’d they get this one?

Walking on the sidewalk when about eight months pregnant I tripped over a rock so small that the police officers who were with me at the time (we were viewing the house abandoned in the middle of the night by neighbors) cast each other looks that said I may have been in on some of the stuff going down at that house.

My role in a wedding was to take the unity sand from the ceremony site and down the steps where it would be placed  on a table at the reception.  Good thing it was already blended because my feet wouldn’t work in sync and I did a crazy little five step number before falling face first, but sand jar held high and safe, just a little more mixed,  into the grass, my dress only halfway up my torso.   

Walking back from getting a soda at work one day I tripped and went flying forward in my brand new white bo-ho beachy skirt, landing in the pavement and putting an ugly layer of pavement deep into my knee and leg.  Everyone tried to find what I had tripped on and finally decided the levels were a bit uneven in that one place I walked.  That was after the laughter stopped.

Sitting in a chair at work one day I made a sudden expressive movement during a meeting and went sideways out it and onto the ground.  And once I actually went to sit in a car and missed, landing in the door frame.  And that was in the daylight…and no, I was not drinking.

Grace is not my middle name. 

I trip over tables at knee level, run into edges and corners, forget there are edges and corners to walls, back into door knobs or the ends of open doors.  And yes, I do have bad vision, thank you.

I think I come by this naturally, though.  Several years back my mother stepped out her front door onto the porch that was a bit damp from rain.  She was talking at the time and all of a sudden she seemed to go forward, then backward, then forward, then backward, her feet, legs, arms and hands swinging in every direction until she lifted entirely off the steps and propelled forward in mid-air to land sprawling.  If we had taped it we’d have surely won on that funny videos show. 

A lovely friend who managed to have her own trip over a glass-topped table in a hotel lobby a couple of years ago, leaving me dying of laughter and consumed with guilt for doing so as I attempted to assess her injuries, has the best answer to these moments in life when you’ve embarrassed yourself with a trip and can do nothing about it. 

She says, “That was some trip – should’ve followed the map.”

But it’s the scenic routes that are so much more memorable…ouch.

“Got tuna?”

When my brother-in-law called to say he’d found a kitten on the roof of his apartment unit, we, like the suckers we are, said, “Bring it over.  We’ll find a home for it.” 

And so we did…at our house.  We were going through the trial homeschooling phase and had set up a bedroom as the “classroom”.  We immediately brought the snarling, hissing tiny ink black kitten into the classroom with us and he immediately streaked behind a filing cabinet.  When I reached for him he growled a warning and then bit me, hard, drawing blood.  This feral kitten did not like its new circumstances but the kids were enthralled with the new kitten and named him Midnight.  I’m not sure how it happened, but at some point the kitten ran from the room and right into the boy’s room where he hid under the bed.  No food touched, no water touched, no litter touched.  Hmmm.  We figured we’d let him alone to adjust on his own.  And he did.

Sometime in the night he found Sam and thus began the Sam/Midnight adventure that spanned the next eight years. 

Continuing to hold me in aversion, something I’d never experienced from a cat, Midnight let it be known that he preferred Sam and only Sam.  “Mom, what’s he doing?” asked Sam one night as he lay in bed, tiny kitten kneading his chest and sucking vigorously on a piece of his pajama shirt at Sam’s shoulder.  “He’s nipping, Sam, like babies do.”  (Nipping is our word for nursing – another story, another time.)  Sam didn’t know whether to be appalled or feel special but as the kitten began to purr, the look of angst on Sam’s face turned soft.  “Poor kitty, you miss your mother.”  Daily through the years Sam endured little kitten claws that became giant cat claws digging into his flesh as Midnight nipped his t-shirts. Midnight’s affection for and bond with Sam could have been somewhat of an embarrassment to him as he entered the preteen years but his attitude of acceptance and compassion toward his cat seemed never to bother him or become an issue with his group of friends.  It was accepted and common knowledge that Midnight belonged to Sam, and Sam belonged to Midnight.  

Midnight would not, as our other cats did, stay inside.  He would run to the door and sit, crying loudly, “Me-out!  Me-out!”  I would scold, cajole, and we would do our best to distract and tempt him away from the door, but he would persist and whenever the door was opened, he would race outdoors, breaking through our blocks and attempts to stop him.  At one point because I worried so much, we would have someone on “Midnight guard duty” whenever the door was opened but still, he would manage to make a bolt for it, returning soon to scratch at the door and let us know he was ready to come in.  After fighting his attempts to be an indoor/outdoor cat for a couple of years, I gave up – if he wanted out, we’d let him out…and I would be the one who worried.  When he’d come in the other cats would gather round and sniff, sniff, sniff, in awe of the one with the privilege of coming and going.

Long after we’d given up on the homeschooling phase, something I am not cut out to do, and the boys had their own bedrooms again, Midnight returned home one night after the kids were in bed.  One of us let him inside in answer to the scritch-scratch on the door and he raced immediately into Sam’s room.  We went on to bed then and were awakened a short time later to “Mom!!!!  Mom!!!!” 

Racing into Sam’s room and flipping on the light, we were surprised to see him jumping out of his bed and tossing the covers anxiously while Midnight sat in a corner of the room watching us.  “There’s a roach in my bed!  It was crawling on me!”  We all searched and found a giant roach which was killed and flushed.  Sam was settled back down as was everyone else in the house.  Midnight, however, decided it was too much commotion and raced to the front door and begged to go out.   Before we got back into bed he was scratching to come back in so after letting him in, we went to settle back to bed but once more heard, “Mom!!!!!  Mom!!!!  There’s another one!”

Stunned, and wondering where in the world they were coming from, this roach, too, was hunted down and killed and we spent thirty minutes inspecting the walls, floors, windows, closets, moved every piece of furniture, poured bleach down the sinks, and assured Sam that they were now all gone.  Midnight once more trotted to the door and was let out.  Once more we answered when he scratched to come back in.  Once more we let him back in and he raced to Sam’s room.  Once more we settled back into bed and once more Sam hollered and we went running.

By now I was highly suspicious and as the roach was caught and killed I watched the cat’s reaction.  He was interested in the hunt and seemed disgusted by the kill and disposal, and raced to the door again.  Hmmm.  

“I wonder if Midnight is bringing you gift roaches to show you he loves you, Sam.”   

Sam looked horrified.  “I don’t like roaches!” 

I explained that cats sometimes love us so much that they want to share special things with us.  I told him about a kitty in Alabama that I had befriended and fed who greeted me one day with a mrow, mrow, mrow and dropped a bloody dead rat on my white tennis shoes.  All of my instincts said run, but I swallowed my fear and thanked the kitty for her gift.  She ran off to play and we disposed of the horrid and thankfully dead  rat. 

“I don’t like rats either, but I’d rather have a rat than a roach,” he told us. 

“Let’s test this.  Let’s let Middy out and when he tries to come back in, your dad will check to see if he has any “gifts”.  Then we’ll know if he is the one who has been bringing in the roaches.”

Sam reluctantly agreed so we let Midnight out and waited.  Within minutes he was scratching on the door and before letting him dash in, he was caught, live roach in mouth.  After being de-roached, we let him in.  We had our answer!  Our house wasn’t being overrun with roaches but roaches were being run into the house by the cat!  No matter how Midnight begged, we wouldn’t let him go back out for more and Sam carried him to his room where he finally settled down and nipped and they both fell asleep.  

Because we had all reacted badly to the roaches, Midnight next turned to birds.  We scolded him for hurting the birds and refused to let him bring them inside.  He finally learned to drop them at the front door on his way in, but we hated that he killed birds.  Then one summer a perfectly white dove just walked right up to me in our courtyard and I simply picked it up.  This was a tame bird, obviously had been a pet that someone had turned out.  I knew this bird would become an easy “gift” if left outdoors so I brought it inside with the intention of calling a friend who knew someone with a bird sanctuary.  I called the dove Pearl and learned that she loved to lay like a baby in my arms or perch on the back of my neck covered by my hair with just her head poking out.  She loved to have her head and neck scratched.  She was used to people and loved the attention.  We housed her in a cat carrier for the several days she spent with us, placing her high on a shelf the kitties couldn’t reach.  Midnight, being an indoor/outdoor cat was oblivious to her presence until he walked inside one day and saw me cradling her in my arms.  As he approached curiously, she flew straight up to the ceiling fan, thankfully off, scaring the heebie-jeebies out of the Midnight.  Long after Pearl went to a safe haven, Midnight eyed that ceiling fan suspiciously every time he walked past it, sometimes ducking as he’d hurry past.  Years passed before he tried to catch another bird.

Midnight had a love for wandering around the neighborhood and making friends.  When I’d step out back and call for him, he’d sometimes dash over from a neighbor’s  yard.  One day a neighbor told me he used her doggy door to come in and visit.  Another neighbor said he was lounging in his kitchen and invited us in to see.  Sure enough, Midnight was sprawled on his kitchen counter as if he owned it.  When we asked about his own cat, referring to the food and water dish on the floor, the neighbor reddened and told us, “Well, I don’t have a cat, but when my buddy comes to visit I have to offer him something.” 

When new neighbors moved in behind us we met one afternoon when I was calling for Midnight.  When he came shooting over their fence into our yard, the lady of the house asked me, “Is that your cat?”  I told her it was and she laughed.  “Well, I guess I’ll have to get a cat for my kids, then, because for the past several weeks we thought it was ours.  He’s been inside making himself right at home!” 

As Sam grew and began going out more, Midnight’s evening treks turned into two and three-day excursions which would send us all calling for him.  I was surprised when someone several streets away asked me what we were looking for.  When I told her she laughed and said to come on over.  Sitting as happy as you please on her sofa was Midnight.  “I thought he was a stray so he’s been staying here.  He asks to go out every couple of days and then he comes back.  I didn’t know he was living a double life!” 

As these kind people moved on and Sam’s time at home became less and less, Middy’s wanderings became limited to the cul-de-sac with few visits inside the house.  In the heat of our Arizona summers he sometimes wants to come in but mostly he lives in the lantana bushes, on the top of the car, on the outdoor loveseat, under the neighbor’s ficus tree, or sprawled on our little courtyard wall.  A few months ago a stray kitten, feral and terribly fearful of humans, showed up.  Midnight has taken her under his paw, shown her where to get fresh water, where to eat, and where to find cool spots.  I’ll be putting out the kitty beds as soon as the nights start cooling down and I’m sure Middy will show  her where to find that warm spot to sleep, too.  So far, the kitten won’t let any of us near her even though the girls next door spend hours trying to coax her to be petted.  We’d like to get her spayed before “something” happens.

At fourteen, Midnight still begs to be picked up every now and then and digs his claws into our t-shirts, takes a nip or two, purring loudly.   He’s known by everyone in the neighborhood and is both a character and fixture.  Today I noticed out the window he was stalking a bird who was stealing from his food dish.  He hunkered down real low and stealthily eased closer until he seemed to be in striking distance.  As I raced to the door the bird looked his way and when it did, Midnight sat up and began washing his forepaw.  The bird continued to plunder in the catfood dish as Middy wandered to the courtyard wall.  I walked out and petted him, telling him what a fine cat he was.  He blinked at me and looked over at Sam’s car.  Guess he figured there was no one here to give a gift to just now.  When Sam comes home, though, both birds and roaches better watch out – Midnight will certainly want to give his Marine a gift.

In the summer of 2000 I entered Writers Weekly’s 24 hour short story contest.  You are given a theme, a word count, and 24 hours to submit your best shot.  The topic was “They pledged to keep the inevitable a secret.”  I won second place with this story that came from an incident my sister and I vividly recalled no matter how the adults refuted the logic and possibly.  Dealing with traumatic events and death is difficult for young children and we had already experienced several that year.  This is one of my favorite stories because it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling. 

Scrambled Eggs

Uncle Jack sure didn’t look dead.  His eyes were closed, but with the thick, gold wire-rimmed glasses in place, he may as well have been napping.

His body lay in a plain oak box in front of Granny’s living room window where wisps of white lace curtains danced in the breeze from the floor fan.   Daddy stood across the room talking to Aunt Hester, laughing every now and then.  Mama sat on the sofa, turned sideways with a hint of a frown marring her pretty face.  Zoe sprawled on the floor at Mama’s feet, her brown hair pulling out of the ponytail.  Granny rocked, a hanky to her face, gently sobbing every now and then.  A few dozen friends and relatives gathered in groups, eating from the spread of homemade food on the table, talking in carefully monitored tones, laughing, catching themselves and relapsing into whispers for several minutes.

Uncle Jack was my favorite person.  He laughed a lot and gave me presents.  He was a terrific cook and we loved to watch him in the kitchen.  Of course, that made Aunt Hester crazy.  She said a man didn’t belong in the kitchen and when he was done, she’d work for hours scrubbing every little thing until the kitchen shined.  Not that the kitchen was ever a mess.  Aunt Hester’s kitchen was her most prized possession.

When night came, somebody decided we should stay at Granny’s.  Mama and Daddy kissed us goodnight and we were bundled by Aunt Hester into the extra bedroom.  Zoe, at five, was terrified.  That extra bedroom gave off right into the living room where Uncle Jack lay.  Of course, I wasn’t much braver, but I couldn’t tell Zoe that.  I was nine now and nine-year olds don’t get as scared as babies.

“Sis?” Zoe whispered.  We lay in the dark in the middle of the mahogany four-poster, a light quilt pulled up to our chins.

“What is it?” I just sounded gruff.  Really, I was relieved to hear her awake.

“I can’t sleep.  I’m scared.”  She snuggled closer to me.

“I know.  I can’t either.”  I put an arm around her.  “Do you want me to tell you a story?”

“Okay, but not a scary one.”

I shivered.  “‘Course not!  How about one with puppies and kittens?”

Zoe clapped her hands.  “Goody!  I love kittens best.”

So I told her a story, one Daddy had told me about kittens helping in the kitchen.  Somewhere in the story we both fell asleep because then I dreamed about something else in the kitchen.

In my dream, Uncle Jack had gotten up out of the coffin and come into our bedroom.  We, Zoe and I, had come awake at the same time and looked up to see his smiling face asking if we were hungry.  He was still wearing the black suit and white shirt same as he had in the coffin.  His glasses sat at a tilt on the bridge of his nose and his eyes looked larger through their thick lenses.  He must’ve seen we were scared of him because he reached out a hand to reassure us and when we took it, he was as warm as you and me.

“I thought you were gone,” I told him, hanging on to his warm hand.

He laughed lightly.  “Well, I got a little reprieve.  That means I get a few more minutes with my favorite girls.”

“We’re your only girls!”  I grinned.  This WAS him.

“Can’t help that, now, can you?  Now, are you two hungry or not?”

“Hungry!”

Uncle Jack scooped each of us into his arms and we headed out of the bedroom.  I hid my face as we passed the coffin and Zoe did, too.  Right out of the living room was the kitchen and Uncle Jack dropped us smack onto the kitchen counter.

“How about my specialty, girls?”

“Yay!  Scrambled eggs!”  Uncle Jack’s eggs could turn your stomach so happy it’d purr.

“Shh!  Can’t wake everyone up, now, can we?”  He winked and we plopped our hands over our mouths.

His movements in the kitchen were, as ever, smooth, fluid and graceful.  He pulled out the frying pan and dropped in a few mounds of butter.

“We’ll let that heat up now.”

He found a half-dozen eggs in the refrigerator and neatly cracked them into a small bowl.  Adding just a smidgen of water, he whisked them with a fork until they were a creamy yellow.  After testing to see if the pan was sizzling enough by dropping the mixture from the fork into it, he poured the whole mess into the pan.

“Remember the secret to fluffy eggs, girls?”

“It’s in the stir,” Zoe answered, “You have to know when and where and how to stir.”

Uncle Jack nodded.  “That’s right.”  He then proceeded to stir and cook until the eggs were fluffy light mounds of yellow.  “Sis, grab forks.” 

I passed forks to Zoe and Uncle Jack and took one for myself.  This was our favorite part of scrambled eggs with Uncle Jack.  We ate them straight from the pan!

“What’s gonna happen to you now, Uncle Jack?”  I asked through a mouthful of warm egg.

“I’ll be fine, darlin’.  I’ll be away, but I’ll be fine.”

Zoe said she was thirsty and we all drank milk right from the jar.  “No mess,” said Uncle Jack, “you know that makes Hester crazy!”

He carried us back to bed where he tucked us in and held our hands until we fell back into sleep. 

It was the greatest dream!  When I woke up, I couldn’t wait to tell Zoe.

“Zoe, I dreamed that Uncle Jack got up last night,” I said.

She nodded, “Yeah, and he carried us to the kitchen.”

I stared at her, “That’s right, and we made scrambled eggs.”

“And drank milk!  It was so much fun!”

She looked so happy, but it was my dream, not hers.  “Zoe, that was my dream!”

Zoe nodded, “It was mine, too!  It didn’t make me scared anymore.”

“But it was a dream, Zoe!”

He chin jutted.  “No it was real.”  She sounded so sure I began to believe her.

“We can never tell a soul you know,” I held out my hand and Zoe took it.

“About all this, I seal my lips,” we said together.  Then, as one, Zoe and I leaped from the bed and raced to the coffin.  She wasn’t tall enough to see in, but I was.

“Is he there, Sis?”

I sadly nodded, “He’s there.”

Granny’s gentle hands on our backs startled us.  “You girls all right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Zoe said, shoulders drooping.

“Go on into the kitchen.  Hester’s about to fix breakfast.”

Aunt Hester’s holler sent all three of us running in her direction.

“What’s the matter?” Granny asked.

“I’m about half crazy,” Aunt Hester held up the frying pan in her hand.  “I surely don’t remember anyone cooking eggs.  Looks like Jack’s mess, too.”  She wiped a tear with the back of her hand.  “How I missed this pan when I cleaned up last night I’ll never know.”

Grinning, Zoe and I knew, but our lips were sealed.

I clearly remember the faces and names:  Melody and Mark Thomas, George, Greg and Gary Jones, Stephan Hubbel, Ronald Kirby and Kim Sessions.  We were, except for Kim, military kids living in the enlisted housing on Redstone Arsenal in the summer of 1971.    Melody and I played secretly with our Barbie’s and paper dolls while the Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose’s Treat Her Like A Lady had Kim and I practising swing dance steps in front of the mirror.  George, Gary and Greg were the brothers who occupied the other half of the duplex where my dad, mom, sister, Rosie, and I lived.  George was the oldest, about 16 or 17.  I think Gary was 14 and Greg was like the rest of us, 11 or 12 years old.  Stephan lived across the street.  His parents were German, very strict, and I remember he had piano lessons.  I also remember the delicious smell of cooking that wafted from the house when the front door was opened.  Melody and Mark occupied the house at end of a street butting the mountain and Ronald Kirby lived down the street and around the corner, a bike ride away.  Kim, the only civilian, lived in the city.  These are the names and faces that have stayed in my heart through the years.  

I can’t recall how we all started talking but I think George would be the one responsible for it.  George was the best teenaged boy I’d ever met outside of my little hometown of Webb, Alabama.  He was nice to everyone, spoke to everyone, included everyone, was fair to everyone and took on the responsibility of keeping all of us younger kids both safe and occupied during the long summer days.  I think his dad was in Vietnam because only his mom was there.  When my dad left for a school in Maryland, it was just us kids and the two moms in our duplex.  George assumed an unofficial role of protector and helper for our mothers, his brothers, my sister and I. When my mom’s car broke down ferrying us to an outing at the post pool, George drove each of us, one at a time, slowly and carefully, on his motorcycle until the entire group was safely deposited in my mother’s care, and then brought us all back in the same way.   I truly thought of him as an older brother, something I never had but always wanted.   

Most military kids during that time moved quite a bit.  In my case, I attended 13 different schools by the 6th grade.  Though others may have been stationed someplace for a year or so, there was always the feeling of being transient.  Unlike kids such as Kim who had lived in the same house all of her life and had never moved, we military kids knew that orders could come at any time, or perhaps family changes would cause us to have to move.  I’ve always wondered about people who knew someone their whole lives and how history of shared memories  cemented their friendship.  For us, however, friendship held no guarantees and when the opportunity to feel connected to a group of friends came along, you took it.  That’s what happened that summer and I was affected by the intensity of  friendships like I’d never before known.   

During the days we would all gather on the lawn out front, usually in front of our house, to talk, ride bikes, go for walks, or play ball.  We talked about everything and anything.  We understood one another better than we had ever been understood before.  We patiently explained military slang and culture to Kim who wasn’t familiar with military ID card, MP, PX, orders, overseas, MIA, POW, post, base, RHIP, enlisted, officer, rank, and AWOL.  We explained our understanding of the Vietnam war and why our fathers were there or why they were other places.  We talked about the Beatles, the hippies, the Space and Rocket Center, places our dads had been stationed, rank, school, our fears, and our dreams.  We were good kids, each of us wanting to belong, each of us wanting to feel we were a part of something more important, and each us craving the lasting friendship of years of shared memories.

The most trouble we got into was for yelling when an MP passed.   We’d hide and holler “What’s a penny made of?” and then answer loudly “Copper!”  We thought that was so very dangerous and bad!  We had been raised to obey authority, to stand when the National Anthem played, to give honor to God, country, and flag, and that military service sometimes meant the ultimate sacrifice.   

As dusk approached, we would gather in Stephan’s front yard, the biggest grassy area, and form two lines, each facing the other.  Someone would be the bulldog in the middle and yell “British Bulldog!”  Those of us in line would run from our side to the other side as quick as we could to avoid getting caught by the bulldog.  George would make sure no one was hurt and would warn that everyone had to be careful with the girls.  We, the girls, loved this game!  It was thrilling to get “caught”, especially by Stephan since each of us thought he was cutest boy we’d ever seen.  After we had worn ourselves out and just before the streetlights came on, the universal signal to go inside for dinner, we’d lay in a heap and bask in the familiarity of friendship, knowing that each of us accepted the other, knowing that each of us truly cared for the other, and knowing that no matter what happened in the future, this moment in time was the best ever.

When I was told we were moving I thought my world had ended.  I cried for days and as the time to leave drew near I became hurt and suspicious.  My friends seemed to be avoiding me. I felt ostracized.  I was jealous that they were staying together and I had to move.  I had never had friends like this and felt I never would again.  I wanted to die, but instead, I cried and snapped at everyone. 

The day before we left my mom took me with her to the store and when we came back I walked inside to see George, Gary, Greg, Kim, Melody, Stephan, Mark, and Rosie.  Ronald wasn’t there, they said, but I can’t recall the reason.  They had thrown me a surprise goodbye party!  Kim had brought records so we could dance, Melody and George and others had decorated with crepe paper and balloons, and they had an autograph book signed by everyone with their names and addresses.  George gave me a wallet photo of himself in his ROTC uniform.  We all promised to write.  I was overwhelmed, making the parting even worse. 

The morning of our departure greeted us with rain, Alabama rain that darkens the sky and falls in heavy sheets with thunder and lightning.  As we were backing out of the driveway I saw him, a small figure on a bike with a banana seat, pedaling hard and fast and furiously toward us.  My dad stopped the car as he approached, hands waving, wetness dripping from him unheeded.  I can’t remember if I got out of the car or not but I do remember looking into his eyes and seeing that he, too, was sad, possibly crying.  He explained he couldn’t get here yesterday, that he had just finished it this morning and extended his closed hand.  I put out mine and accepted his gift, amazed to see a chain with trinkets, like a charm bracelet.  Because we needed to go, I think I hugged him and thanked him and told him I would never forget him. 

I’m not sure anymore if any of us ever wrote to one another.  Like I said, military kids understand the transience of friendship and don’t expect anything more than the gift of that time, that place, those people.  I have never forgotten those special people who shared that moment in my life.   I never played British Bulldog again; no one knew what it was. 

I’ve never lost Ronald’s gift of love and friendship.  That bracelet is one of my treasures.  It is a thick, masculine chain link bracelet with trinket charms that look hand drilled and connected by loops of the same chain.  There is a stainless steel ID tag engraved with Ronald on the front and “From Ronald Kirby” scratched into the back, a small plastic dice, an emerald cut green plastic gem,  and a 1934 World’s Fair commemorative coin.  I often wonder where and how he accumulated those charms, and when he decided to part with his ID bracelet to create this special gift.  It and George’s photo are the only mementos I have from the deep but fleeting friendships of 1971.  Those and the sweet memories of my British Bulldog summer.

He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection. Psalm 91:4 (NLT)

With an “I’m fine, mom, love you”, I felt comfort and thanks to God for allowing me that brief but powerful message to know my son was okay after the attacks this weekend.  

At the same time, my heart goes out to those families who are being visited by  the men and women in the black sedan, bearing the fatal news about their loved one.  I can’t imagine having that job.  I wonder how one deals with the immense sorrow that must come from delivering those messages.  I have confidence that the right people are chosen to do this. 

I hope I never meet one, but I know I met a great one a decade ago.

When my sister, Rosie, was in Good Samaritan/Phoenix Children’s after her final open heart surgery, we were visited by a chaplain named Sharlene who had come to meet with the family of the little girl next to us.  Sharlene was curious to see an adult in the Pediatric CICU and wandered over to introduce herself.  Both of our parents and I were in the room with Rosie and Sharlene adroitly ferreted out who was who and the history of Rosie’s medical condition.  She was easy to talk with and seemed impressed with the Scriptures and drawings from the kids that  we had hung on the walls of the room.  We talked about our beliefs and Sharlene commented, as did most who entered Rosie’s room, that the feeling amongst the family seemed to be joyful despite the dire situation.  After handing us her card, she easily passed to another room and began again with another family.

Rosie was the only adult on the unit.  Most of the patients were babies awaiting recovery from their own heart surgeries.  The little girl next to us was about seven or eight and had been brought to the United States by a benevolent group of physicians to have heart surgery.  None of her family spoke English and Sharlene was, at times, their interpreter.  Whenever she passed our room she’d drop in and say hi and read the day’s Scripture. 

One day we heard the sounds of a code from the room next door, bells, dings, running, controlled orders given.  This was followed by silence and then the keening of the little girl’s parents as they grieved her loss.  Sharlene came running into their room and as the door closed I saw her take the parents in her arms and hold them.  

We cried silently in Rosie’s room for the little girl, for her family.  There but for the grace of God…

After awhile Sharlene made her way over to us and plopped into the only chair.  Her face was streaked with tears and I put my arms around her.  This precious woman who ministered to so many so often in her job was in need and she held on to me as she regained her emotions.  She told us she had never had to do that, never had to run into someone’s room like she had come into Rosie’s.  She said the felt the Holy Spirit there and knew she had no more to give until she could be filled again.  She told us this was the third death that day. 

I can’t imagine how hard this would be.

As the weeks and months passed I saw Sharlene every day she worked at the hospital.  She shared how she had become a chaplain and why.  Her story was amazing…from a school teacher to chaplain because she wanted to be able to share more of her faith with others in a time of crisis.  She had her own crisis years earlier and knew the impact of having the right person with the family.  Her care and concern for others, her easy conversation and simple way of sharing her faith did have great impact.  Everywhere she went someone reached for her, asked her to pray with them, gave her pictures children had drawn of Jesus or angels or Heaven.  She knew the story behind every one that lined her office wall and as she shared those stories, her earnest love for each and every one came through.

A few minutes with this lady was like a drink of cool water…refreshing, sustaining, comforting, and hopeful.   Every hospital chaplain should be like Sharlene. 

When Rosie passed on to be with the Lord, she was in Alabama but Sharlene called us and coordinated with the doctor’s and nurse’s to prepare a service for her at Good Samaritan/Phoenix Children’s.   We were told that after someone had been there as long as Rosie (ten months), they, the staff, needed closure, too.  Working with the nurse’s and doctor’s, they put together a beautiful memorial service that we attended. 

The doctor’s, nurse’s, therapists, meal service providers, technicians, janitors, other healthcare workers, and Sharlene were there to stand beside us as they had done during the months and months of Rosie’s many hospitalizations.  One of the nurse’s sang Amazing Grace.  Everyone, including the doctor’s and technician’s, wept.  And Sharlene was there, giving comfort to her co-workers and to us. 

Even through the worst for us, she and the others offered comfort…in sharing the loss, in sharing the memories, in sharing her faith, and in sharing herself.

Comfort comes in many forms…sometimes through the heart of a hospital chaplain, sometimes through five short words.  And for some, it’s a long time coming.  I lift those people to you, Lord. Keep me focused on the comfort of your promises.  Give me your grace in providing comfort to others.   Cover our troops with Your righteous right hand and give them the comfort of You.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, whohave been called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28

I remember counting the months before my babies were born, and counting the months before my adopted baby became legally ours.  As parents, we spend quite a bit of time counting, and so do our children. 

We count fingers and toes, cries from our babies, the number of times we are awakened in the middle of the night, the smiles, the chortles, the spit ups, the diapers.  They count on us to answer every cry and provide every need.

We count the words they form,  the teeth that have come in, the number of diapers it takes to get through a day, and then the number of underwear changes when they are potty training, and the number of times they want a drink or one more story or one more hug or to crawl into our beds and be cuddled.  They count on us to show them how they should be, how they should act, and what is acceptable.  They count on our unconditional love and attention.

We count to make sure there are an equal number of gifts around the Christmas tree for all the kids.   They count on us to be there, to be fair, and love them unconditionally. 

Counting the days until the first school day starts and then the hours until we get to pick them back up and hold them, our grown up babes in kindergarten.  We count with them, proud of their efforts, jubilant when they have it memorized, certain we have the smartest little ones ever born. We count the days until their birthday, the number of candles, the people who will celebrate with us.  They count on us to model what is expected, to keep our promises, and to continue to teach them by our actions what they need to know including our unconditional love.

We count the coughs or fevers or illness before we know we have to go to the doctor’s office or hospital.  We count the days until they play again.  We count the monsters in the closet and the ones under the bed.  They count on us to make it better and to banish or calm fears.

We count throughout their childhood, the days before school starts, the days until the breaks, the days until summer, and repeat it again.  We count their hurts, their failures, their mistakes, and do our best to make it so that these don’t count when it comes to how they feel about themselves or see themselves or allow it to impact them in a negative way.  They count on us to show them how to overcome the hurts, to learn from the failures, to forgive their mistakes, and love them unconditionally.

We count the number of seatbelts in the car so we’ll know how many of their friends we can take with us, and we do this because we know that those moments definitely count as important for them, for their social well-being.  They count on us to set boundaries, to be consistent, fair, and honest.  And always, to love them unconditionally.

When they drive, we count the minutes until they return home.  When they date, we count the minutes until they return home.  When they take a job, we count the minutes until they return home.  They count on us to let them go, to let them grow, and love them unconditionally even when they make costly mistakes, explode with teenaged drama and angst, and because they aren’t adults yet but want to be, they count on us to know that and give them an extra measure of grace.

I think we do so much counting because we realize that, as parents, what we do counts in the lives of our children.  That’s why choices matter so much.  The choices we make , the actions we take, the words we speak, and the decisions we reach count to them.  We may not always see or think what we do has an impact, but it does.  They, our children, count on us to do right, to choose good, and to act with them in mind.  And, yes, we make oodles of mistakes along the way.  They count on us to own them and right them, just as we count on them to forgive us and accept their parents are, indeed, human. 

Sometimes the things we count as important aren’t as important to them though we want them to see from our perspective.  Someday maybe they will when they are parents.  Sometimes what we think isn’t as important is vital to them; when we know that, we need to re-evaluate our own thinking and sometimes see through their eyes so that we will know how to make it right, how to either lessen their perceived relevance or understand its significance to them.   

I don’t  think the counting ever ends. 

It’s been exactly 48 hours since I’ve heard that he’s okay.  The news of the green on blue attacks is terrifying.  The resurgence of them defies comprehension.  So I’m counting.  Counting on God’s promises, counting on God’s sovereignty, counting on He who breathed life to this child twenty something years ago to hold him in the palm of His hand.  I’m counting on peace that passes understanding because though I have the information, it doesn’t bring peace.  Every son and daughter, mother and father, brother and sister who is there, however, counts.  And they are counting on our support and our prayers. 

Count with me. 

Lord, let these lives that are serving and those sacrified count for your glory, your purpose, your will.   And give us the courage, strength and integrity at home to make what we do here count for them, count for those here, and count for You.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”  Jeremiah 29:11

From Chip Ingram’s Walk Thru the Bible about God’s sovereignty:

• God is above all things and before all things. He is the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. He is immortal, and He is present everywhere so that everyone can know Him (Revelation 21:6).
• God created all things and holds all things together, both in heaven and on earth, both visible and invisible (Colossians 1:16).
• God knows all things past, present, and future. There is no limit to His knowledge, for God knows everything completely before it even happens (Romans 11:33).
• God can do all things and accomplish all things. Nothing is too difficult for Him, and He orchestrates and determines everything that is going to happen in your life, in my life, in America, and throughout the world. Whatever He wants to do in the universe, He does, for nothing is impossible with Him (Jeremiah 32:17).
• God is in control of all things and rules over all things. He has power and authority over nature, earthly kings, history, angels, and demons. Even Satan himself has to ask God’s permission before he can act (Psalm 103:19).

http://www.christianity.com/Christian%20Foundations/Theological%20FAQ/11555729/

“Outwardly you look like righteous people, but inwardly your hearts are filled with hypocrisy and lawlessness.”  Matthew 23:28 (NIV)

Behold, Here’s Poison is the title of a mystery book by Georgette Heyer in which the murderer is discovered to be the one person so cloaked in outward goodness that there is shocked disbelief when he is exposed as the villain by the one discerning person who sees through the deception.  Mysteries are often that way; it’s the guy next door, the best friend, or the one person who appeared most innocent.  Sadly, those mystery books mirror real life. 

In his book People of the Lie, M. Scott Peck explores and exposes the evils of narcissism, often one of the personality disorders of the perpetrator.  Just as often, however, these people are entwined in our own daily lives and we fail to recognize their destructiveness because it is covered so beautifully with pseudo goodness, charm, and flattery.  There is usually nothing glaringly visible like the skull and cross-bones used on chemical bottles to indicate the poison within and warn of the hurt, harm, and destruction they can cause.    The narcissist has the proverbial heart of stone though few would realize it by their public behavior. 

These are summary points from People of the Lie about narcissists:      

1.  Narcissists don’t consider themselves to be wrong.  When their wrong is revealed, they deny, justify, or minimize its impact.  A narcissist is adamant in denial. 

2.  They are highly concerned about what others think of them and want their outward lives to be seen as normal and moral.  So concerned are they about their image that they will fabricate to maintain it and involve others to do so for them.  

3.  They are extremely intolerant of criticism.  Accepting criticism for most is an opportunity to make a positive change, but the narcissist doesn’t believe there is a need for change and thus finds the criticism offensive.  It is bitterly rejected and they will put forth numerous rebuttals. 

4.  They don’t truly accept responsibility for their actions but find something or someone else to point at as being responsible.  Because there is a great need to maintain their own image, they attack others and justify their actions by pointing to how others impacted what they chose to do.  

5.  They are great actors and convincing liars, and invest belief if their lies.  Even when confronted by evidence of their lies, they doggedly stick to them. The truth is too difficult as it will mar their self-image. 

6.  They are very clever deceivers, able to confuse others with lie upon lie, prevarication upon prevarication, and are quite adept at using diversionary tactics.  They lie by omission, or easily spin a believable tale to cover their tracks.  Because their lie may be entwined with some truth, they are able to deliver it quite convincingly.   

7.  They are greedy in that their needs, wants and desires must be met, even at cost to others. They dismiss the hurt they cause by blocking or ignoring it, pretending it has nothing to do with them.  

 8.  They are consistently determined to have their own way and do not acknowledge their need to submit to a higher authority, particularly if it is in conflict with what they want. They are often at odds with authority and do not like to conform. 

9.  They like to be in the driver’s seat, having power, control, and influence over others. They crave affirmation and admiration, and call attention to themselves or inflate themselves in seeking it. 

10.  Though they may express empathy, the plight of another doesn’t really touch them.  Help or assistance given by the narcissist meets their own need first, including the opportunity to be admired or affirmed in the image they strive to maintain.

11.  They create a symbiotic relationship that is “mutually parasitic and destructive”.  Despite consequences, both parties refuse to end it, feeling drawn to one another no matter the cost or loss.  Neither cares enough about the other to separate; both consider their own desires first despite professions of concern for one another. 

12.  Narcissistic tendencies seem to run in families and create familial destruction and harm.

Hope for the narcissist is when their behaviors are owned and named for what they are, and they earnestly seek to make changes. 

‘I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh’.  Ezekiel 36:26 

Driving north, I noticed the dark, dense clouds that had been scuttling towards me started to gather and balloon, their volume quadrupling as I watched. A virga trail dipped low from an outer edge, curving downward but not quite touching the ground from my vantage point. My goal was to pick up my friend and get to the burger joint before it rained, and we made it inside but just as we sat down the rain pelted the windows, sending the outdoor umbrella waving and flapping, twisting in their holders. It seemed as the cloud itself had descended with the rain.
Dry and well fed, we ignored the weather and enjoyed our time together until her phone rang. Her daughter said as she was driving home the electrical wires came down, trees were uprooted and lights went black. She said her mother’s neighborhood was hit hard.
Driving her back home, we saw huge trees lying in the streets and yards of the houses. One had blown over right into her yard from a neighbor’s yard. Along her street people stood outside and gaped at the fallen tree that used to provide so much shade until half an hour ago. Powerful winds had yanked, twisted and jerked it up, leaving the roots exposed.
About a mile after I left her neighborhood there was no indication other than wetness that anything had occurred. One small, isolated neighborhood was brutalized by the microburst while the rest were simply rained upon, providing plants and creatures with life-giving water. The impact of this event was felt by all, but more heavily by a few.
Yesterday, 9/11, was remembrance day for Americans. A time to recall those who perished at the hands of terrorists, those who gave their lives in their duty to save, and those who lost their lives in heroic acts in answer to the cries of fellow human beings in anguish. A time to mourn anew, recalling the many families affected, the children, the wives, the husbands, the parents, the siblings, and the many loved ones and acquaintances, including those we’d never met but who, by their stories or actions, touched our lives and ingrained their plights upon our hearts. The Twin Towers was America’s heart that day, the devastation isolated to some city blocks while nearby other buildings were impacted only by the dust, the smoke, and debris that blinded vision and blanketed the area with macabre layer of loss. Across the USA we watched in disbelief and entered the first stages of grief. We talked through the denial that this could happen in our great land. We rallied in anger and outrage at those who did it.
Patriotism roared from us in the days and weeks that followed. Homes and business sported flags, flag lapel pins and red, white and ribbons were worn by all, and even cars were draped with miniature versions of Old Glory flapping as they sped by. Patriotic songs were wedged into the mix on the radio. Public prayer was accepted, and the news stationed jockeyed for the best “God Bless America” story. The song to call the children in at the elementary school my kids attended rotated between Queen’s We Are the Champions. and Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the USA. We thanked our soldiers for their service.
And as young boys and girls joined their parents at the television to watch the war on terrorism unfolding on CNN, some of them felt the call to arms in their hearts. Some made a commitment to grow up to fight against terrorism, stand in the breach against the terrorist acts committed on our soil, and do their best to ensure the world would be a safer place. Some vowed that they would sacrifice their very lives to hold on to the freedom we all enjoy. To date, about 2,000 have done so.
Like the microburst, the war’s impact is, for the most part, isolated to the families left behind, yet across our land we live with, travel with, and adjust to heightened security measures and ignore the monotone announcements at the airport about suspicious baggage. We visit CNN when something else takes the spotlight.
To those who perished at the hands of the 9/11 attackers, to those who have buried their loved ones who answered the call of duty to save lives, or put others before themselves, and those who now hug a tri-folded flag instead of their hero or heroine who gave their all to stand for freedom, I salute you, I grieve with you, and I pray for those who are still and now immersed in the war against terror.
I pray for peace to rain down on all of us, and the Prince of Peace to reign through it all. May God have mercy on our troops, grant them protection, and fortify them with strength, power, and victory over evil.
I long for the day of homecoming, for my son, for all.