The Truth About Socializing Kittens

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His official name is Optimus Prime since he came to us when the first Transformers movie was all the rage and my house was filled with junior high school boys who could talk of nothing else.  Somehow we shortened that mouthful of a name to Bop.  He and his two sisters and brothers were feral rescue kittens, brought into the cat clinic where Hannah volunteered one summer.  I must have been crazy, tired, dull-minded or somehow not thinking straight that day I picked her up after getting off work. 

“They need to be socialized, Mom.  Just come see them,” she said, “and after we socialize them, they’ll be ready to go to their own homes.  Don’t worry, we aren’t keeping them.”

And thus, four homeless kittens were bundled into the car and brought home.  It was safe to do this because 1) we could enjoy kittens knowing they’d go to homes in a few weeks, 2) we knew they weren’t ours to keep, and 3) we knew they were NOT, under ANY circumstances, going to stay in our house and become our own pets…absolutely not, no, no, no.  They’d be with us eight weeks tops and then whisked away by happily deluded new kitten owners.  We would get these itsy, bitsy bits of cuddly furballs with the most adorable little feral hisses to like people and then, after enjoying their kittenhood antics, eagerly pass them on to their permanent homes for spaying, neutering, and all the other wonderful things that come with cat ownership.  We fed them kitten milk and kitten kibble and after eating their fill, four tiny, full-bellied fluffs would settle around and on top of us for naps.  Sigh.  The cuteness factor was way above a ten. Within days the hissing was replaced by purring when they snuggled against us.  More sighs. 

Kota, our mutt, a cross between a shephard, a lab, and who knows what all was there but whatever it was, it was huge, was fascinated by the kittens.  We’d sternly warn him to leave them alone only to find them sopping wet from being carried around by him.  Whenever our backs were turned, he’d grab a kitten and toss it into the air and catch it, gently, but wetly.  He bathed their little faces after they ate and had a few licks at the other ends, too.  He would cradle them between his paws and they’d go to sleep there.  Never afraid of him, they seemed to adore him as much as he adored them, but Bop was by far his favorite.  Bop’s fur would be so matted with slimy dog slobber that it would take the grown up cats an hour to get him cleaned and presentable again. 

The grown up cats despised the kittens but couldn’t resist cleaning them on occasion, especially after they’d been dog-handled.  After taking care of business, they’d smack and hiss the kittens away as if saying, “there, I’ve done my cat duty by you and you’re on your own now.” 

As the tiny furballs grew, they learned to climb…the couch, the curtains, our pant legs, and anything they could get their sharp little claws dug into.  They would race, sideways, hippity-hop, back-flipping and skidding through the length of the house.  The grown up cats would watch with disgusting looks and seem to ask, “when are they going away?” while we would be rolling with laughter at their antics.  The four included Bop who not only has the whitest white and blackest black asymmetrical fur line but has what the vet dubbed a French tipped tail – all black except for a tip of white.  There were two short-hairs, Gizmo, wearing a cream colored coat with black tips so that he appears solid black, and Mimi, a dainty little black female with the tiniest patch of white on her chest. And Bett, the runt of the litter, a miniature gray long hair with a white face, chest and short socks, and a baby pink rosebud nose rocking the cuteness scale over the top. 

When are they going to new homes became the question asked again and again as the weeks turned to more weeks and then months turned to more months.  Soon it was time to have them neutered and spayed so our reasoning was that we’d get that done for their future owners.  Shots, spaying, and neutering are rough on foster kitten families and we all had to hold and love them after they came home from their surgeries.  Because they recovered quicker than we wanted, we let their “recovery” be the tacit reason they didn’t go to homes yet. Every week there was another reason…too busy to place an ad, Gizmo’s leg was hurt and we just couldn’t let them be separated from each other, Bett was so small and it would be better if we could let her grow a bit, Mimi was the daintiest boned kitty and she would have to have people who would understand her delicacy.  And then there was Bop. 

Bop outgrew his brother and sisters in size very quickly.  He was double the size of Bett within the first three months.  When the kittens ate, Bop would take his spot in the middle of the food dish.  He didn’t mew like the others.  He chirupped or gave long drawn out mewls, insisted we brush him, and made the edge of the bar counter “Bop’s spot” from where he could grab at our arms and shirts as we passed by.  Although not the cuteness factor of Bett, Bop’s personality drew people to him.  When the boys, Sam’s group of friends that participated in naming the kittens, would come over, they’d all go first to Bop, pick him up, talk to him, and give him bits of whatever they were snacking on at the time.  The question when someone came over became, “Where’s Bop?”  No one could enter without visiting with Bop lounging regally in his spot, snagging anyone within reach to pet him, brush him, or give him a treat.  

I came home from work one day to find Bop not in his spot but laying on the floor with his leg splayed oddly.  The vet said it was a broken femur cap, probably happened when Bop, who, the vet said as if I didn’t know this, was bigger than most kittens his age, tried to leap from someplace high and his legs couldn’t hold his weight.  The surgery was roughly the same amount as a house payment but there was no way we could not do it.  Over the next several weeks all thoughts of the kittens leaving were suspended by Bop’s painful recovery which required a team effort to give him the required medicine twice a day.  His siblings were overjoyed at having a food dish to themselves.   

The kittens had come home to us in July and we had discussed that they would be safely ensconced in their new homes long before Christmas.  When the Christmas tree went up, so did the now seven month old kittens.  Up the center, onto the branches, batting down the ornaments to chase.  They would hide stealthily under the low branches and ambush one another, including the grown up cats who would act as if they hadn’t jumped three feet backwards when a ball of fur suddenly hurled through the tree at them. 

The four homeless kittens rang in the New Year with us, pouncing the hats and noisemakers before settling down beside us on the couch.  They watched one of our grown up cats become giddy with delight when the Valentine’s Day box of chocolates were left open and she, the only cat we’ve ever had with a chocolate addiction, could steal a few licks.  They managed to free a colored Easter egg from the basket on the dining room table and leave shards of bubble gum pink to show their chase trail.  And when summer rolled around again, someone called to see if we could foster a mama cat and four kittens who were rescued in the 111 degree heat that day.  “They are the most adorable kittens and you won’t have any trouble finding homes for them” we were brightly assured.

Years later, Bop, Gizmo, Mimi and Bett have yet to be socialied enough to leave us.  Bop still perches on his spot and chirrups, reaching a giant paw at everyone who passes by, and begs to be brushed.  Gizmo inserts himself into every conversation, head butts anyone who will let him, and generally makes a nuisance of himself.  Bett and Mimi have team “mothered” the latest kitten orphans in between running from their mean brothers who chase them just because they run and screech.  The grown up cats have passed on and the kittens brought home to be socialized are now the seniors.  

Every now and then someone asks whatever happened with those feral kittens. Without a blink, I grab Bop’s brush, run it over his coat as he chirrups his pleasure, and glance at the contented felines in various cushiony spots throughout the house.  

“They were socialized.” 

Tossing the Bucket

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“…so that your faith might not rest on men’s wisdom, but on God’s power.” 1 Corinthians 2:5 (NIV)

There’s a crisis, actually a series of them, going on in our lives.  In the midst of these, daily things happen that seem to augment the circumstances.  For example, today the refrigerator broke down again and we had to scramble to work it out without the usual tools.  And then the washer ran for two hours before I realized something was wrong; it wasn’t draining which meant wringing out the clothes and taking them to a friend’s to spin out the excess water before putting them in my dryer.  This week alone it’s been one thing after another that has caused strife and grief and anger and uncertainty and pain and more emotions than I can name, all jumbled one upon another, never getting to a point a peace before the next something jumps in and lays claim to my thoughts, or actions, or intentions.  The actual crises are not little things; they are life altering.  It’s the little things, however, that seem to take charge, probably because those are things that have to be dealt with immediately.  What’s interesting is that in both the crises and the annoyances, my faith is tested.  Not my faith in Jesus as Lord and Savior, but my faith in  getting myself through these things, big and small.  I wonder how I will I breathe through one more minute, how I will take the next step, how will I solve this issue or that one.  I run the gamut of self-doubt,  self-condemnation, and become for a moment paralyzed by my fears.  Then I run around like crazy trying to do whatever I can to resolve whatever is happening.  It’s exhausting. 

As I was writing a note for my son to take with him when he deploys, one of the life altering events, I was scrolling through devotionals and caught where someone had written that the difference between troubles encountered by Christians and non-Christians is that our hope rests in the Lord.  Our trust is that nothing comes to us unless it is filtered first through His loving, all knowing, purposeful hand, and that whatever the circumstances, He is sovereign, He is good, and He will deliver us in His way, in His time, and by His grace when we surrender and turn to Him. And sometimes the deliverance isn’t what we expect it to be.  Sometimes its far removed from our own plans, or wants. Sometimes it brings joy, sometimes it brings sorrow.  Our hope is He will see us through it, no matter what it is.  But how that can test us!  I think it takes more courage to surrender control of our lives to the Lord than to keep putting out the fires in our lives.  I think it takes more strength to say “I have no idea where this will end, but I know You do, Lord” than to do our best to manipulate things, and people, in order to get what we want.  We’re told to go toward the goal, but the goal that aligns with His word is the one we are to focus on.  Sometimes I think our fears cloud the vision of the goal, or the path to take to get us there.  Letting go of self is hard, letting go of fears is hard, and learning to trust both the big and small to Jesus tests us, tests our faith

Maybe that’s part of faith building, though.  Our pastor has been teaching about Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego’s faith, confidence, calmness and choices in not compromising their loyalty to the Lord through the most difficult, and absolutely terrifying, situations with King Nebuchanezzar. How they put their faith in God with small things at first and built upon that so that when the fire came, they were prepared.  I turned on the radio a few nights ago and listened to a different pastor talk about their incredible faith. I don’t believe this is a coincidence – I believe God is trying to tell me something in the examples of these four young men.  I covet that kind of faith.  What would it be like to trust God so explicitly with every large and small and terrifying thing?  What would it be like to have so much confidence in God’s sovereignty that even when thrown, bound, into the fire, they calmly surrendered to it?  Then I wonder about the different fires we all face.  How many of us go in confidence, calmly, and choose to not compromise our faith by trying so hard, of our own will, to get ourselves out of that fire?  Are we defeated by the heat, or do we look up, as they did, and keep our eyes on the Master?  Do we always believe that His power is greater than our troubles, our doubts, our fears, our circumstances, and even our feelings?  

Do we really put our faith to the test, or to the side while we work our way out of the fire, one sloshing bucket of water at a time? Often the fires are things beyond our control yet we seek to control them.  How silly is that?  I wonder if God looks down and says, “Patti, are you serious?  This is me, God.  That little bucket is nothing!  I created whole oceans!”   What we really need to do is stand still in the midst of the fire and look up.  I fight fires on my knees, sending prayers up.  Often with tears and I wonder how God can keep count of them.  I pray for that confidence, that calmness, that strength and discernment to make choices that don’t compromise my faith.  I pray to have the courage to surrender even though it hurts.  I pray to have the trust of a child in knowing that no matter where my Father in Heaven takes me, it is good.  And I pray for my son who goes to face the fires of war, that he is covered by the righteous right hand of the all powerful Lord Jesus who called Sam to be a Marine.  Jesus, I pray to trust you more and more in all these fires.  I’m tossing in the bucket, Lord.  Help me to stand still and keep my eyes on You.   

Butterbeans and Cornbread

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A friend was recently telling me how hard it is to talk to her dad.  Like me, she’s 50 ish and she relates that her father was always…not there.  She recalls when chosen to be on the cheer squad in high school rushing home to tell her parents and her dad said, “You think that makes you special or something?”   She relates that when she married and they had their first fight, she made the mistake of crying to her parents and her dad said, “I don’t know why he married you in the first place.”  She remembers when her mother passed that her heart was broken and she turned to her dad for solace, he said, “Crying won’t change a thing”, and to this day remains distant toward her.  She says, “I never felt like he really claimed me as his daughter.”

My heart bleeds for her pain.

My Daddy is a retired military man so there was always travel, always moving, always distance.  Some of my earliest memories are of the smell of his aftershave, the crispness of his uniform, and driving him to the edge of town where he’d hitch a ride to his duty station (think 60’s).  He always had silly stories to tell, would sing crazy songs, and tease us every which way he could to get a belly laugh from us.  When home, he cooked and the smell of pot roast or scrambled eggs and sausage sent us in dizzy delights.  My parents divorced, and though I didn’t have the day to day time with him, I have two boxes full of letters as testament to his love for us.  A younger me didn’t understand what was written between the lines.  The older me reads those letters and aches with pain for the younger dad.  There was never a doubt that we were loved.  Never a doubt that he was there…and that I was, indeed, loved.

In 1982 as a married young woman, Mike and I lived near the same city as my dad, his wife and two children.  At that time, I had not lived near my dad or had much contact with him in over ten years.  It was a terrible time financially for Mike and I, but I wanted to be near my dad so we moved to Huntsville.  We were so very poor and lived in a roach-infested apartment.  We had a an outdoor picnic table for furniture.  Life was hard.  On Valentine’s day he dropped by on his way home from work and walked in with a vase of three roses and sat them on my counter.  We talked a few minutes and as he left I reminded him that he’d left his wife’s flowers on the counter.  He looked at me, smiled and said, “Those are for my darling daughter.” 

I cherish those words to this day.  I still have the vase!  Those words were claiming words!  Just as God claims us, my Daddy claimed me with those words!   With those words, the past was the past, and a fresh day had begun. 

My dad had a triple bypass this  year.  It was harrowing to get an emergency call while at a conference in California, work my way back to Phoenix on stand-by, and then fly back praying he would be alive for me to see him.  He’s there…we’re here…but love knows no distance.  How blessed I am that he  not only got through that rough spot, but has recovered wonderfully. 

Our relationship is email after email of updates, jokes and tidbits of information.  I treasure each one.  I have come to rely on my Daddy’s wisdom, wit, and easy-going, laid-back approach to whatever is happening more and more through the years.  I love that he doesn’t judge, but he does support, encourage, give advice when asked, and turns my thoughts to the Lord.  Every email proclaims that I am his daughter.  Every email says I love you.  I never thought I would have what I have with my Daddy, but I am thankful that I do and I can’t imagine being without it.  

I am doubly blessed in that with both my Daddy and my Bob I have experienced two incredible father-daughter relationships.  Because of this, I believe, I have tremendous faith that continues to grow as I continue to grow my relationship with my Lord.  

Fathers, Dads, love your children and accept them for who they are.  Don’t let the circumstances of life keep you from letting your little boys and girls, and big boys and girls, know that you claim them as dear, that you cherish them for who they are, yours.  So many things don’t matter but somehow we have a way of making them a matter of contention, hurt and pain.  We use them as walls that stand between what the relationship should be and could be if we’d just reach over and pull the other one close.  Love heals.  Love shouts “YOU ARE MINE!” and there’s nothing that can change that. 

Thank you, my Daddy, for who you are and what you are in my life.   Thank you for your unconditional love.  Thank you for our most precious relationship that I value more than I could ever say.   Thank you for your love of butterbeans and cornbread that can turn a sour day into something mighty sweet after all!

Merry Christmas.  I love you.

Fourteen Day Gift

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After taking Sam to the airport, after writing yesterday’s blog, after crying until I fell asleep, waking to cry again…

My husband, daughter and I were in Sam’s room, a 3rd garage conversion, watching his TV because the family TV went kaplooey and it was the season premier of NCIS LA!  Bang, bang, bang on the door at the same time my husband’s phone rang.  “It’s Sam!” he hollered as I opened the door to Sam’s friends.  In they came and suddenly I saw Sam in a t-shirt and jeans with the phone to his ear telling his Dad, “Not quite.” 

We all screamed, of course, and hugged him, beat on him a little to make sure it was him, and asked, “What happened?”

He got to San Diego airport and was told his school was full and if he could, turn around and get a ticket home, or be placed on work detail for two weeks until the school had an opening.  He bought the ticket home.

“For how long?” we all asked.  “Fourteen days!!!!”

After learning that he’d called his girlfriend to get him at the airport at 3:30 p.m. and told her she couldn’t tell me, hearing that his friends who had seen me crying at 4:30 p.m. knew he was back and kept it from me, and knowing he had spent two hours at the gym before letting us in on this, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or smack him!  But what a gift!  Fourteen days!!!!  That’s four more than we originally had with him!   I feel like I’ve won the lottery, only better!  

I’m not sure what all this means for his future, but I know that right at this moment, I’m going to enjoy the gift of his presence.  Praise God for this blessing!    I wish every mom could have this.

Boy to Marine

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When they’re small, we tend to think of them as staying little boys, even though somewhere in our minds we may have dreams for their futures.   Sam just graduated Marine Boot Camp and is now on his way to schooling that, when done, will send him to an active unit.  He’s eighteen.  He’s my son.  He’s a United States Marine. 

Other than proud of who and what he is, I’m not sure how I feel about all this. 

We were riding in the car last week, he’s home for his ten day leave following boot camp, and I asked him how he felt about being a Marine.  “Good, mom, it’s what I’ve always wanted.”  I know and he has, since he was seven or eight or nine.  I found a nine-year birthday card I’d given him that starts “To my future Marine”.  Did I really think about what that meant when I wrote it?  I’m sure I didn’t.  At the time, he was a blond-haired, green-eyed kid who collected socks for the homeless men, fed stray cats at hotels where we stayed on vacation, and prayed earnestly for policemen, firemen and the military.  He was busy getting straight A’s and getting into trouble with his posse of friends that seemed to terrorize our household every summer.  He was inhaling every food in sight and we were up to buying four gallons of milk a week.   He was still throwing his arms around me in private and sticking his pinky out as our signal of “I love you” as I dropped him off at school. 

His ten day leave has been not only quick, but enlightening.  We sent a young man who was full of energy, often uncontrolled, and filled with all the angst of a young man whose had his fair share of life’s hardships already.  We got back someone who looks like our son, smells like our son, even feels like our son as we throw our arms around him, but there is a subtle difference that I’m not sure how to handle. 

He’s a man now.  And he’s a Marine.

I see it in how he walks – taller, more graceful, more confident and assured.  It’s there when he talks to you.  He makes eye contact and listens.  It’s in the quickness to open the door for me, the “take your time” instead of “hurry up” during lunch or dinner.  It’s the immediate reply of “I love you, too, Mom”.  And it’s the paperwork in his safe that he handed over to me this morning that holds letters and information should anything happen to him. 

He’s always been Sam.  He still is Sam, but he’s not the boy Sam anymore.  He’s a fine young man who is responsible and dependable.  He told us this in one of his letters:  “Thank you for raising me the way you did.  I’m able to take care of myself and I understand what work is.  I have good values and I have grown spiritually.  It takes leaving home to realize how good you had it, and I thank you and Dad for all you’ve done for me.  You are great parents, and I love you.” 

We can ask for no more than that.   We did our job, my husband tells me as he wipes the tears that fall and fall and fall.  Yes, we did our job, but does it have to be over now?  I love my Marine and I’m terribly proud of him, but somewhere in my heart, in that place of wishes and what ifs, I want my boy back.  I couldn’t hold him enough while he was here.  I couldn’t look at him enough while he was here.   I couldn’t listen or be amazed by him enough while he was here. 

As I walk into his room with clean laundry I washed for him yesterday, I see a t-shirt in the bottom of a perfectly clean hamper.  The smell is still there, his smell, and it’s a mixed one – part my boy, part my Marine.   I breathe it in and the tears are there again.  

Once more, I give my son to the Lord because, as he told me his first sargeant said to them, “The Marines belong God, Mom.  Jesus leads us.”   And, as always, He does.

Reflections of Thankfulness

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I am thankful for family.  The loss of our loved ones are still so keenly felt despite the time that has passed.  We have learned through the years to live with our grief…we are never without it. 

I am thankful for food in my pantry to feed my family and others.  I will never forget being a hungry child, one who grew adept at begging, swiping, and hiding food to take home to my mother and sister.  I will never forget the goodness of the man who allowed my sister and I to sneakily rummage his own pantry and refrigerator, and never mention the food that was missing.  The food moved from the highest cupboards over the counters to the lowest ones within our reach.  The things we loved magically appeared again and again without a word being spoken.  Bob became our hero and our ministering angel.  Later, he became our dad.

I am thankful that my memory of Bob remains untarnished and pure.  He loved us as if we were his own daughters, and in my heart, and I think his, too, we were. 

I am thankful to have a job that allows me to make a house payment, pay for electricity, water, gasoline, groceries, and necessary items.  Though my husband was laid off in March 2009, God has been faithful in His provision.  I am thankful we still have our home amidst so many foreclosures.  There but for the grace of God…. 

I am thankful that Mike has the gifts and talents to work with his hands and do such a wonderful job for his clients from rebuilding block walls to creating entirely new bathrooms or kitchens.  His clients love him and I know why.  You should see my kitchen backsplash!

I am thankful for those I work with, their dedication to the success of our students, their committment to helping others and each other succeed.  I am thankful that, through work, I have the privilege of meeting people who become dear.

I am thankful that my job allows us to have health insurance coverage for my family. 

I am thankful for the privilege of being a mother.  There was a time when I knew the sorrow and heartache of not being able to conceive.   The Lord gave us Aaron, an eighteen month old child who became our Sunshine.  Five years later, He allowed me the joy of giving birth to Sam, my heartbeat.  Four years after that as we contemplated another adoption, He gave me Hannah, my heart’s desire.  I am richly blessed to know the joy of motherhood.

I am thankful that Aaron knows he is loved.  This twenty-three year old will bend down low and let me kiss the side of his neck or lean against me as I tell him he is loved.  For all the heartaches of having am adult son with mental illness, there are quick moments of contentment, like knowing that a package of American cheese slices brings a smile to his otherwise immobile, set face.   Or that this year, after decorating the Christmas tree, he asked us to take his picture beside it, and then proceeded to ask us to take six more photos of himself beside the tree in six different changes of clothing.  And he trusts that we will not laugh, we will not make fun of him, and we will not say no.  He knows he is loved just as he is.  There is safety for him in our love.  Despite the extra effort, and the annoyances and the worry, we are blessed to call him ours.

I am thankful that Sam is returning to Greenway High School because he wants to be a Marine, though my heart weeps at the dangers ahead.  He wants to serve his country, following the footsteps of all three of his grandfathers.   Where is the little boy who wanted me to teach him how to make cookies so that one day, when he married, he could teach is wife?  Where is the little boy who collected socks for the men’s shelter because he worried that their feet may be cold?  Where is the little boy who prayed earnestly for the policemen and military and firefighters to come home safe to their children at night?  Where is the little boy who begged for catfood to feed a stray in the woods behind the hotel where we stayed?   My little boy is a young man now, soon to be a warrior.  I pray for my warrior to have the same strong faith in God as David when he meets his own “Goliath” .  I pray for his protection, and more importantly, his heart.  He is on the road to becoming a “good man”.  I pray for him to also become a “godly man”.

I am thankful for my thirteen year old daughter, Hannah.  I recall the angst of those years, trapped in a changing body with multiple personalities, an opinion about everything, and turbulent emotions that overflow without warning.  We have no idea who will greet us in the morning – our adorable princess or the witch of the west?  Desipte all this, she is smart, witty, and creative.  Her growing beauty is much more than skin deep and her heart, when she allows us a peek, is tender.  She champions the underdog, literally, in adopting a misbegotten mutt who howls by night and shreds trash by day.  Stubborn, strong-willed (Hannah AND the dog), she is blossoming into a young woman with solid values and high expectations for herself and her future.  And every day I look at her and see the sister I miss with all my heart.  I see the same set of her jaw that says I WILL SUCCEED.  I see the same rolling eyes that say OH BROTHER!  I see the thought that goes into everything she does and her absolute desire to do well, to exceed standards set by others.  Rosie would be as proud of our Hannah as we are, seeing herself in the academic achievements, the gestures, the quick wit, the compassion, the observation of etiquette, and the quest for that classic look in fashion. 

I am thankful that my husband is here, as my husband, as the father of our children.  Thirty plus years has created a comfortable familiarity and predictability.  I’m not always easy to be with; neither is he!  We are at opposite ends of the “maintenance” spectrum – he is low, I’m high.   Somehow, though, we meet in the middle, reaching and juggling and balancing, giving, taking, offering, compromising, forgiving.  By God’s grace, it works.  By God’s grace, it will continue to work. 

I am thankful that I have a mother who, though we both feel a third of us is missing since the death of Rosie, she is my “other” third.  Since July 8th, 2001, when Rosie passed from this world to God’s arms, we have talked every day either in person or by phone.  That is a gift.  I’m sure I drive her as nutsy as she sometimes drives me, but despite that, she completes who I am.  My mother is my confidante, my cheerleader, my shoulder to cry on, and my co-conspirator.  She will be in Arizona soon.  Garage sales, beware! 

I am thankful for my email relationship with my father.  For the past fifteen years we have used the email to create and build the relationship lost when my parents divorced almost forty years ago.  Through email, we have said things we cannot say in person.  Through email, we have shared laughs, sorrows, jokes, wisdom, and the day to day activities that each of us has missed.  Through email, we have become father and daughter.  This is another gift.

I am thankful that my husband’s family accepts me as one of their own.  I am thankful for my mother in law, Pat, who taught me to make pie dough, taught me to listen, taught me to craft, and taught me that I actually could bear impossible things in my life.  She is missed greatly by all. 

I am thankful for the furry creatures in my life (and if you are not a cat or pet lover, just don’t read this paragraph – it won’t make a bit of sense to you!)  I said goodbye to my dearest friend in the world this year, my Peach, an eighteen year old Maine Coon cat that came into my life after the relinquishment of an adoptive child and during my pregnancy with Sam.  She/He (the first vet said Female, the one who neutered said Male, but the “she” stuck) captured my heart to the point that I broke the law and smuggled her, as a kitten, under my shirt onto an airplane.  She was my focal point for giving birth.  She awakened me with urgent meows and led me to Sam’s baby crib where he was struggling to breathe and, if it were not for her, may have died at six weeks old with RSV since he spent two weeks in the hospital with the hospital chaplain visiting me daily to make burial plans.  She awakened me again when an electrical socket had caused a fire and the kitchen had filled with smoke.  She stayed with Rosie when, at my home after being released from the hospital months after an open heart surgery, Rosie’s lungs were filling with fluid and causing her labored breathing.  Rosie told me Peach helped her breathe through the fear.  She curled in my arms whenever I cried, placed her large paws on my head when I suffered migraines, and listened without condemnation to every rant and rave and sorrow I ever had.  In my mind, Peach was a precious gift from God, an angel-kitty, and I miss her with all my heart.  (And no, one cat is not the same as another!)

I am thankful that I have friends who, despite the desert times, the times when we do no more than think about one another, love me and accept me and are there for me.  They minister to my heart and soul with their gift of friendship.  I need them more than they need me and I am eternally grateful for their friendship. 

I am thankful to have known the loveliest of women, Kim Schmidt, before she went home suddenly to be with the Lord.  Words can never describe Kim – Kim had to be experienced.  Tornado, spitfire, heart of gold, champion of babies, dancing queen, precious wife and mother, and Queen of Giggles.  It is my joy that I spent time on earth with this beautiful woman of God.  I pray for her family often.

I am thankful that at this time, we live a country where we can freely share our faith and gather to worship.  I pray we will always have this privilege. 

I am thankful for the men and women who offer their lives for us, for our freedoms; for their families who support them; for the vision of something bigger than I can’t always see; for the courage to face what we most fear.

I am thankful for those of you who really know me, those who think you know me, or just share a little part of your world with mine.  This life is not easy, as we all know, but there is joy to be found if we just look for it. 

May 2010 be a blessed year…one that fulfills God’s plan for each of us, one that opens doors and windows and escape hatches, one that provides for our needs and allows laughter to be freely shared, hearts to be warmed, and everyone to enjoy an Aaron-style American cheese slice smile. 

“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

Blessings,

Patti Zint

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. 

Something New

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“For I am about to do something new.  See, I have already begun!  Do you not see it?  I will make a pathway through the wilderness.  I will create rivers in the dry wasteland!”  Isaiah 42:9

Do you know that wilderness?  Confusion, hopelessness, despair, and even pain?  From where you stand, there’s not a hint of a way out, much less a road sign.   Everywhere you turn you find more questions than answers and every step you take seems to lead you further and further from a solution.  You pray and pray, yet the answers don’t seem to come.  There’s no text messages, no mapquest, not even a ribbon around a twig to let you know what to do next.  You feel utterly lost and you flounder, miserable, with no clue of what do to get out of the mess you find yourself in.  Are you there, Lord?  Can you hear me now, because I surely can’t hear you!       

Guess what?  You may not realize it but your GPS tracking device is ON!   Jesus is indeed there and He also knows where you are!  What’s more, He sees the pathway that will lead you out of the wilderness and has already begun clearing the way!  While you are wandering and wondering, while you are biting your nails and building SOS fires, He’s already knocking down the forest that stands between you and your next great adventure. 

My husband and I refer to life’s changes, challenges, and hardships as wilderness adventures.  During our twenty eight years of marriage, we’ve had some adventures we’d rather have skipped at the time, but what we learned from them has strengthened us and bolstered our trust in the Lord to bring us through the next one.  Because we know there will always be a next one!

It’s amazing that no two wildernesses look alike yet the solution for each is the same.  That’s where faith comes in.  That’s where you have to know that no matter how bad it hurts, how awful it seems, how much is at stake, or how horrible you feel, Jesus will not desert you, will not leave you, will not hide from you, and will not ever give up on you.  Your role is to keep praying, keep looking for His solution and the clearing of the pathway that will lead you out.  You can’t just hide in a closet and hope when you come out it’ll all be gone.  You have to physically, emotionally and spiritually present your heart, your motives, your dependence entirely to the Lord.  And that can hurt, because maybe He lets you go ever deeper into the wilderness before He knows you’re ready to come out.  Ouch!  Sometimes our pride, our need to be in control, our physical image, our business relations, our desire for material things or recognition, or to have our own way even if it means compromising our beliefs or allowing harm to come to others, is greater than our faith in God.  Aaak!  We’re aren’t perfect…just saved!

When Sam was four years old, we vacationed in Laguna Beach while my husband attended a seminar.  One day after enjoying the sand, sun and surf, I gathered our gear, diaper bag, and baby daughter then called to Sam that we were going.  We three started toward the path leading up to our hotel when Sam suddenly broke away making a beeline across the beach toward a stranger yelling, “Daddy!  Daddy!”  My heart froze!  I was burdened with a baby and bags that kept me from running after him, so I screamed, “Sam, Sam! That’s not Daddy!” My voice was carried away by the loud roar of the oean waves crashing.  In his excitement of what he perceived to be true, Sam ignored me and grasped the legs of the stranger who looked absolutely appalled.  As I struggled to get within hollering distance, Sam recoiled in confusion, looking blindly around while the stranger went back to whatever he was doing.  Before I could get near enough for Sam to see me, Mike came from nowhere, racing toward Sam, scooping him up and cradling him as our frightened, disillusioned son sobbed uncontrollably.   Safe at last in our room, Sam told us, “I thought it was my Daddy and I wanted to see Daddy, but it was only someone I didn’t want to see at all!” 

None of us want to see the wilderness.  We’d all rather have detailed maps that lead us uneventfully through our crises.  But, like Sam, we sometimes rush toward a solution before really considering its wisdom, we go for a goal without weighing the consequences, and when we do, we find ourselves in the midst of a wilderness where we don’t want to be at all.  Or perhaps we are tumbled into circumstances not of our making, but nonetheless involved and unable to find our way out, and no place at all we want to be. 

Stay put, my friend.  Though it’s hard to rest in the wilderness, just try to stop thinking of solutions, stop looking for ways out and stop getting yourself into a deeper mire by spinning circles around your problems.   Instead, get on your knees and pray.  Praise Him for what He is already doing.  Praise Him for what you will take from this.  Praise Him for being with you, holding you, strengthening you.  You will not languish there indefinitely no matter how it seems at this moment.  

He has promised to create rivers in the wasteland and that means you will be nourished, you will be refreshed and you will be clean, able to start anew!  How awesome is our God!

See, He has already begun!

Two a.m. Cat Attack

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The thundering thud of sixteen kitten paws, our latest rescue litter, chasing gleefully on hardwood floors is louder than you’d expect, and when in the throes of a semi-deep sleep, rather shocking.   Who knew cute, furry kittens could be so loud?    They easily challenge the sleep deranged mind to think, “Wild horses? In my house?!”

Being awakened by felines in the middle of night, or as in this case, the wee hours of the morning, is nothing new.

Shortly after we were married, Mike and I adopted two kittens.  We had set out to find one, a perfectly white piece of purring fluff, but our first encounter at a pet shop was a tiny, black, hyperactive dustball that swiped our fingers and mewed shamelessly until we plopped down the ten dollars and walked out with her nestled in my arms, now quiet and content as if to say, “HA!”  We named her Popcorn because once home, she bounded up and down the sofa, up and down the bed, up and down the curtains, and up and down our legs.

Surmising our adorable little romp would allow the drapes to live and our legs to heal if given the opportunity to pounce someone her own size, we began anew to find a solid white kitten and happened upon the sweetest looking pink and white face we’d ever seen.  Awwwww.  We named her Butter and brought her home to meet her new sister. 

Whatever Butter may have been before, her new mission was to fervently follow Popcorn’s lead as top cat.  We would hear them winding up down the hallway in the middle of the night, two race cars, burning rubber in their attempt to be first up onto the bed and create claw-baring havoc as they did brodies on the bedspread with us underneath.  It became second nature to subconsciously hear them coming and pull the covers over our heads as they leapt with feline abandon and accuracy into the center of our stomachs. 

Now, my husband is a dreamer, and I mean that in the most literal sense.  He wakes up every morning and tells me the wildest dreams imaginable, like being captain of a submarine transporting cattle to another island, or having to put the addresses of an entire city’s newspaper route in alpha-numeric order before sunrise, or saving the world from a mutant tea bag that absorbed people into it’s little paper sack to be steeped into oblivion.  Strange things no one would expect from a mild-mannered, mellow introvert, yet I did wonder at times if I’d married a spy or a televison producer when the stories reached epic proportions.

Thus it was that one night I was awakened not to the clatter of kitty paws but the feel of struggling fur emitting terrified yowls while being smacked against my head!  As I opened my eyes to see what was attacking me, I encountered a look of utter confusion and horror on my white kitten’s precious face.

“Michael!!!  Wake up, you idiot! You’re beating me with Butter!”

After a few slaps at his own head with my bare  hand, he let go of Butter who darted off to the safety of anywhere away from the mad, mad man who had the audacity to scruff and use her against the head of the hand that fed her.  Mike immediately fell back into what I assumed was a dreamless state of sleep since I incurred no more cat attacks that night.

“Just what did you dream last night?”  I asked over coffee the next morning.

“Oh.  I had found a treasure map and it led to a cave somewhere in the Himalayas and as soon as I figured out where to start digging a group of monkeys came in with banana splits.  We sat at the bar that lined the wall of the cave and ate while we listened to the jukebox and then suddenly the music stopped.  The monkeys deserted me and I heard this rumbling noise so I picked up a big rock that was on the cave floor and as I did, a giant spider, like the one in Star Wars, tried to get me.  I smashed at it again and again with the rock and I don’t remember any more because something woke me up.”  He rubbed Popcorn’s chin and nodded to Butter who maintained a room’s-length distance from him while she simultaneously bathed her spotless coat and threw disgusting looks at him.  “What’s the matter with Butter?”

I pushed my bangs aside to reveal the slight claw marks across my brow.  “You’re the matter with Butter.  She was your rock and I was your Spider.”

His face underwent several colorations from pale to red to gray to pale.  He put a hand to my forehead and closely surveyed the measly damage before turning a look of remorse upon our angel kitten who promptly turned her back and commenced washing.  “Poor Butter!”