When the Lights are Low

Posted on November 16, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

As I was messing with the dimmer switch to get the lights at just the right level I wanted – not too bright and yet not as if they are almost off – I noticed the intensity of light through the globes revealed more or less of the actual bulb. Okay, I’m not an electrician or scientist so I’m probably not putting it properly, but the brighter the light thrown from the bulbs, the less I could actually see the bulbs. And that made me think of something in the crazy way things like that make me think…when the lights are low, I can better see them.

Hmm.

Bright is a word we use when we’re happy, when things seem to be going our way, when we’re expecting something wonderful or when we’ve done something pretty clever. I think most of us associate brightness with positive and uplifting moments in our life. Its spotlight time and it highlights those things that make us laugh and grin and sing and do the happy dance. We praise God for these bright times!

Low is a word we think of relating to when we are sad, blue, depressed, broke, lonely, etc. We say we are feeling low and the message it carries tells the listener that something is bothering us, something is wrong, something hurts. Many times we cry, or choke back the tears when we’re low, try to hide that feeling from others. People want happy people around them…not frowny, sad faces. But low denotes sadness, sorrow, hurt, pain. And when I’m lowest, my heart hungers for and actively seeks God.

We all have raw feelings. We all hurt and cry whether we admit it or not. We all have prayers that aren’t answered in the way we want them to be answered, and we have dreams that have been shattered. We’ve all felt the brokenness, the despondency, and the ache that takes up residence when something happens that takes everything we’ve known and loved and turned it ugly. We know pain. We know sorrow. We know what its like to cry ourselves to sleep at night.

You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book. Psalm 56:8

I’ve tried to imagine those bottles; I think mine is the size of Texas. I wonder sometimes why God wants to keep those tears. Is it because when I’m low he’s with me, because I’m broken and he works through me then? Is it because he cares so much that every tear matters? I can’t stand when someone cries; it hurts me seeing someone’s pain. I want their tears to go away; I certainly don’t want to keep them. But God does and because of that, they must be precious to him in a way I can’t yet understand.

There’s another promise I hold onto, and that is that the dimness won’t last. I know I’m not the only person feeling low right now; I know so many who are hurting, and the holidays are especially hard. I remind myself that I won’t stay here…that what I feel now will change later. Today a friend shared her own story and how she couldn’t see “later” during her lowest time, but she did seek God and found something more amazing than she’d ever dreamed. It’s her “later” now and she glows with happiness.

Though the lights are low, if I look for Him, God will provide the healing and in time I’ll shine.

Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily; your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard. Isaiah 58:8

Shelved

Posted on November 10, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

Books on Shelf

I’m a reader of fiction, contemporary, historical, science fiction, action adventure, and mystery. I’m avid. Have a book going constantly…can’t stand to be without one. I have one entire set of books by the same author I’ve reread umpteen times over the past thirty plus years. Have another set from an author I’ve reread dozens of time over twenty years. I’m always looking for new authors and when I find those I like, I collect all of their books to read, and reread. These books live on one of the many sets of bookshelves in my home. They are shelved for a reason…I know I will go back and revisit them, not just once but again and again. And each time I will find something I missed, see something from a different perspective, have an aha moment or two, and appreciate even more that after the first reading it was shelved for another time and a new revelation.

I know some who can’t bear to read the same book again. There are many I can’t even get through. If I’m not there by page 1, I’m not going further. For that reason, I read page 1 at the bookstore. The back cover tells me what the story is about…page 1 tells me if I’m going to like how the writer tells the story. I need to know the author’s voice from the beginning to see if I’m going to have buy-in. Without that, the book won’t be shelved. It’ll be bagged and out of my house.

Right the middle of my bookshelf is a book written by someone near and dear to me…my nephew. He has the gift of capturing the reader from the first sentence, and one is compelled to read on. His The Path to Destiny (Alex, I’m still waiting for the sequel!) was one of those books I could not put down…not because he wrote it but because it really was that good! Every sentence pulled the reader deeper into the characters, into their problems, their world, their choices and decisions, joys and sorrows. It was an incredible read and I am in awe that my sister’s son wrote it! And, he wrote it while still in high school and finished it just afterward! His gift is writing, and I hope he will finish that sequel and take us back to that time and place soon!

Flanking The Path To Destiny are some of my favorite authors. Francine Rivers’ Scarlet Thread helped me see that even in the worst of times when I don’t feel his presence, God is there. I have all of her books and each one affirms my faith. Cindy Martinusen’s Orchid House let me escape my own problems to be involved in someone else’s and have hope in God bringing things together for good. Julie Carobini gives me a light, fun read with a deep sense of purpose. My daughter has the Justice collection by Karen Ball on her bookshelves; she claimed them the moment she read them and because they are that good, that heart warming, and that real when it comes to life, I let her. Lisa Wingate gives me honest reasons to cry, and mourn, and grieve, and then subtly puts it all into God’s perspective. Kristin Hannah takes me on relationship adventures. Dr. Camuti makes the cat-lover me giggle with his All My Patients Are Under the Bed. Cliver Cussler is my favorite action-adventure author because he knows how to write cliff-hanging action combined with old-fashioned romance and not a dirty word used, and I’m totally in love with the honest chivalry of Dirk Pitt. Dick Frances gives me chills with his race-horse mysteries and after one of them I’ve never been able to look at kidney beans the same. Ann McCaffrey takes me far away to the world of Pern where I can live with dragons and wherries and other make-believe creatures. Georgette Heyer takes me into the haute ton of Regency London, laughing and hopeful that the hero and heroine in a chaste love-hate relationship will become true love forever.

These books are my well-worn friends that I turn to over and over. Old or new, their messages speak to my heart, tickle my funny bone, allow me to run away for a time from the worries of my own world. In their characters I seem to find some part of myself, a thought, a perspective, a solution, or a deeper faith to deal with my own issues.

When I find that in a book, it’s immediately shelved after reading. I pray my house never catches fire because after getting my daughter and cats out, I’d probably try to make a run for my books. I feel I’d be a little lost without them.

The Power of a Card

Posted on November 3, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

At my workplace last year I headed a “card campaign” resulting in close to a thousand hand-made cards going to various recipients: an orphanage, a crisis shelter for pregnant moms and new moms with newborns, a mentally disabled center, several senior centers, and the military. Though we weren’t able to personally deliver the military cards, we did personally deliver the cards to the recipients within our community. And, wow! I think as adults we often forget the power of something as simple as a piece of paper, stickers, glue, glitter, and a hand-written message signed with a first name.

One of the senior centers we visited included an area inhabited by residents with memory loss. As we gave each person a card, however, it seemed to strike a memory chord. Stories of their past came to life as we patiently sat, listening, waiting, loving the telling of these stories that evoked smiles and laughter from the teller, and created a warm feeling for us. One gentleman called the young man with us “son” as he recounted his days in the military. An elderly couple, newly met and married, shared adventures from their childhoods. A lady whom workers say hadn’t smiled in a very long time grew misty-eyed while holding the hand of a young lady and telling her how loved she was. Many commented on the fact that the cards were made rather than purchased. All read the sentiments as they were meant…especially for the recipient from the heart of the giver. We later returned with baked goods and some signed on to volunteer periodically at the centers.

Several of the crisis shelter moms were overwhelmed that anyone would find them worthy or deserving of a card. How heartbreaking that was to hear! With hugs, tears, and thanks that someone would look past their circumstance and care just for them, these precious moms shared they wanted only something better, some hope, some acceptance, someone to acknowledge them and really see their hearts and how much they loved their babies. In a world where so many feel they are worthless, these young women were committed to making their children feel valued, and for some, that meant walking away from their past lives, connections and even family. One said the card was the first thing going in her new life scrapbook. We later returned with items to meet physical needs like diapers and clothing and toiletry packs.

We visited the mental facilities for adults on a day when they were serving a holiday meal. The patients were cautious, some fearful, some suspicious as we walked through and allowed each one to pick out a card. Tentative hands looked at us to make certain it was okay to reach out. Some expressed a desire for a specific color card. A few questioned if they could keep the card and were delighted to hear it was theirs to keep. One kissed his card after reading it and tucked it inside his shirt. Most sat their cards in front of their plates and some shared their cards with others nearby. One man asked why we did this and we told him we wanted to wish him a Merry Christmas. His eyes became wet and he said no one had done that in a long time. Another man told us he couldn’t say when was the last time he had a card because his family didn’t want him anymore. An older woman with long gray hair said she knew who had made the card for her and that made her feel loved, and pointed to the first name signature on the card. It meant much for them to know the name of the card maker. One person later returned to volunteer at the center.

We weren’t able to interact with the children at the orphanage but we did receive a letter telling us about the joy it brought the children to have hand-made cards just for them.

Because we saw the power of the card last year, we’re doing it again this year and hope to reach out to more people than ever. I’m not sure if there is more joy for the adults to be kids and make cards using glitter and glue and scissors and colored paper and stickers and their own imagination, or if the most joy comes when they are given to the recipients of their labor. Or perhaps the most joy is felt by the recipient who has been singled out and honored by a stranger who took the time to make something from the heart and pass it on.

Though the card is the vehicle, the motion, the power of the card comes from the intention of kindness and the act of sharing a little piece of yourself with someone else. And that’s pretty powerful stuff that equals joy all around.

Let me hear from you if you decide to do something like this at your workplace…the cost is minimal but the results are priceless!

Seeds or Stones?

Posted on October 29, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

Sunflowers

Jill’s new neighbor had the most glorious sunflowers growing so tall that she could see them over the fence. When her neighbor caught her peeping, Jill blushed and said she wished she could grow sunflowers.

“I’ll give you some seeds,” her neighbor said. “Water and they’ll grow!”

The next day Jill found a tiny plastic bag that had been stapled shut lying on her walkway leading to the door. She went right into her backyard garden area and planted each pebble-like seed about a foot apart and generously watered it. She watered and weeded the area every day but after two weeks there was still no sign of anything growing except the occasional weed. She added plant food and nutrients but a week more passed and still nothing.

At the end of the next week she ran into her neighbor as they were both leaving home.

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry! Just a minute…,” said her neighbor and a moment later she came running from her house with a small cup and gave it to Jill. “Here’s the seeds I promised. I’m sorry I forgot to bring them sooner.”

When her neighbor left Jill ran back into her own house and grabbed the tiny bag with the seeds she had planted, the ones that looked like gravel. She realized she had planted these tiny stones, the kind businesses use to weigh down the business card they staple to the bag. She assumed they were the seeds. No wonder nothing grew!

We’ve all been a bit silly at times, and we’ve all been impatient to see something happen, see something grow, or see something we’ve started come to fruition.

My prayer in blogging is twofold: plant seeds to grow faith in God by writing and writing to earn my living. To avoid dropping stones that won’t sprout – I know I’m a wordy bird writer – I’m cutting back the blogs to twice a week for now. Any feedback is greatly appreciated and I thank you all for your support!

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1 (ESV)

The Blessings of Other Women

Posted on October 27, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

: Blessed by Other Women

Found a blog by a young woman named Emily, here’s the link (http://primitiveroads.wordpress.com/2012/10/26/titus/) and it’s about older women discipling the younger women. Made me think about the blessings of Christian women, old and young, in my life during for all of life or just for seasons.

I recall vividly one of my grandmothers doing her daily Bible reading every night before going to bed. She was the one who would hold the hand of my sister and I when we stayed with them and pray with us before bed. The most compelling imprint of her faith upon my life, however, is that while undergoing the horrors of rape she witnessed and gave her testimony to the man committing these atrocities while protecting my sister and I from his evil intentions. From that I’ve realized that no matter what happens in our lives, God will give us the strength to endure it. She believed that and because she did, I do, too. And so did my sister. She’s with my sister now in Heaven…and so many more of our loved ones are gathered with them.

My other grandmother taught me the joy of enjoying people! Despite whatever was going on she seemed to find the bright side, to find the joy, to find something happy and share it. She welcomed everyone, didn’t worry if her house was clean or dirty, didn’t worry if we tracked dirt or mud inside, just loved people for people. Her house was always filled with those who felt comfortable enough to just drop by, knowing they would be welcome, knowing they receive a smile and kind word. Her faith was lived in loving people, all people, no distinctions, and tolerating whatever was thrown at her with a gentle, pleasing spirit. Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes and I imagine that’s the look I’ll see on her face in Heaven, pure joy!

A pastor’s wife who smiled through a most difficult time in her family’s life helped me see that even if we didn’t know why something happened, we could trust that God did. Such a hard concept when we want explanations and to understand the whys of the heartbreaks of life. She taught me that we may not know the answer in this lifetime and it was okay to hurt, okay to question, okay to cry, and okay to feel all the feelings that go with heartbreak because Jesus knew them, too, and because he created us with those feelings and emotions and it was certainly okay to have them. The difference for those of us who love the Lord is not letting those feelings and emotions keep us from going forward and accepting that somehow beyond our comprehension, God was working. I think of her standing before the Lord someday and hearing, “well done, good and faithful servant, well done!” and I see the shining smile that is always there grow even bigger!

One lovely woman who led a Bible study always spoke our names aloud in prayer and thanked God for the day we were born! I cried the first time she said my name aloud and thanked God for blessing others with my birth. One woman was especially affected because her own mother had always cursed the day she was born, saying that her daughter’s birth ruined her life. What a blessing for her to hear the truth! The impact of hearing this strengthened my identity in Christ and did so for many others in that Bible study group. Her heart for other women oozes from her every fiber and God certainly has special rewards for this most beautiful woman!

The gift of service was given to me by a younger woman who did not have children when I had my hands full with three! Her beautiful sacrifice of free time to come and help me when there was no reason whatsoever she had to do so helped me understand what it meant to have a servant’s heart. To give and expect nothing in return. It’s almost twenty years later now and I see this woman still giving her time sacrificially despite her busyness with her own huge family. I think God has a zillion crowns for her when I think of all those she has blessed with being physically being there.

My sister’s acceptance of her own body’s fragility and how she prepared to go be with the Lord even though she wanted desperately to live to see her son grown taught me about submission and grace. Submission to God’s will, to his plan, to his purpose. Grace in accepting that there are some things we cannot change, but we can walk through them in holiness with God’s grace. Her fearlessness and courage through dying touched many, many lives. Her faith soared in the last year of her life, reaching and teaching and living in humility and at God’s mercy moment by moment. How I miss my “snisser”…and how I long to be with her, dancing with Jesus. One of my delights is how like her my daughter is (how did that happen?)!

A dear friend who seemed to have the perfect life struggled with how others viewed her. The jealousies and gossip and criticism that came her way as a public figure could have crushed her spirit. At times she was so low she could do nothing but weep, wondering why people had to be so mean, why other women had to be so hateful toward another woman. One day she told me she realized that every person who hurt her needed something she could give and she began giving it, generously. She found in each woman who sniped at her something to praise, something to encourage, something to point out as their own gift. Once she said she had to think very hard to discover what she could praise in one woman who seemed bent on always being negative. Ephesians 4:25 seemed to resonate: Therefore each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor, for we are all members of one body. My friend cringed but asked the woman why she felt she had to find the bad and speak it about everyone. The woman burst into tears and told her she’d been told her whole life how horrible she was and told she was told these things “for her own good”. That was her way of showing love! My dear friend helped this woman learn who God said she was and the difference once she got it was amazing! She will see this other woman in Heaven and I can just imagine how they will praise Him together.

Another woman taught me to wait, to be still and listen to God. She did this from a distance because she is not a close friend but I watched her go through trials from afar, praying for her as one of my church family members. She would share how she would have no words for prayer but would just lay face down and ask the Lord to fill her. With what, I’d ask? “With Him,” she’d answer. What a concept! I started digging into understanding the character of God and listening for him, asking him to fill me, too. I know God will reward her gentle, quiet spirit that showed others how he works in those who trust him.

My own daughter blesses me as I watch her grow in the Lord, as I watch her character change and shape as a Christian young lady. I am fascinated by her mind, her actions, her compassion, and her desire to make a difference in the lives of others. She loves children, has worked in children’s ministry for the past couple of years, and to see how God lays his plans and purposes on her heart melts mine. “Oh, how He loves me, oh…” she sang as we were in the car, listening to Christian radio. What a privilege to see, know, hear, and feel this in her life! A greater privilege to know we will spend eternity together in Heaven someday!

There aren’t enough words for the blessings of a mother’s love, for the ups and downs that mothers and daughters experience, for the agreements and disagreements, for the range of emotions, and for the joys and disappointments that come with that relationship. What’s most important is through them all, God is there, we are there, and we know that nothing changes the love, nothing can come close to breaking the bond that exists between us no matter how difficult things may be at times, no matter how heated, no matter how misunderstood, no matter what. It’s a true blessing to have that unconditional, steadfast love of a mother. We may not always be on the same page, and our paragraphs may get a little mucked up, but we’re bound together in the same book for all of life here and all of life in eternity with Jesus…and that is a most wonderful blessing that I wish every daughter could have with her mother as I have with mine.

God gives us each other for a reason, for a season, for a lifetime, and forever after. Our part is to open our hearts to the blessings found in other Christian women and receive their gift in our lives.

The Bandersnatch, Feline Version

Posted on October 26, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

We’re blaming it on Johnny Depp because if he hadn’t been the Mad Hatter we wouldn’t have seen Alice in Wonderland at the theater. And if we hadn’t fallen madly in love with the ferocious Bandersnatch who, beneath his ferociousness, really had a good, kind heart, Hannah wouldn’t have chosen that name for the liveliest of the four kittens we were “socializing”. But we had and then she did so Bandersnatch is his name, like it or not.

Bandersnatch is one of four who came in a laundry basket complete with mama cat and three siblings. He was actually adopted by a young lady at about 12 weeks old who came back the following day for a refund – her roommate, who wasn’t allergic to all cats, was allergic to this one. Hannah danced in circles at the time and was happy to have her “special kitty” back. We groaned.

Bandersnatch is indeed a special kitty but that’s not quite what she meant at the time. Sometimes we have these kinds of cats that are a bit odd, different, nuts, whatever, and we call them special. Bander’s mama is also a special kitty. Mona lives in my office, hisses crazily at the others, and wants only to be in her own little space all alone. No other cat can resist the temptation of getting near enough to send her into a hissy fit. Bander’s sister, Chiclet, is also a special kitty. She’s as skitterish as anything, staying just out of reach of most humans; I think I’m the only one who can actually hold her. And then there’s Bander who wants to be the one and only cat in the whole house and that’s just not a SMART goal in this household. He chases the others, runs over the others, lies on top of the others, walks over the others, and generally acts as if he actually is the only cat in the house. He’s only several times acknowledged the existence of Gizmo and Ninja and that’s when he was younger. For the most part, he reigns in the world that he lives in his little kitty-cat mind. And he’s somewhat spastic about that.

Yesterday he leaped off the windowsill as I was passing by and almost took me out. I spun into the cedar chest and landed partly on the bed, partly on the cedar chest, feet dangling on the floor. When leaping up to his food area, a high area that Mac the dog can’t reach, he’s crashed headlong into another cat making its exit. Racing down the hall he’s crashed into the wall and flipped upwards before sliding down sideways. He missed the cat door opening to the garage and hit the door instead, shaking his head afterward and pawing the cat door open before easing slowly through. I watched him take a flying leap onto the counter only to go flying off the other end 0.4 seconds later. He’s a klutz.

Every morning I give my cat menagerie a kitty tidbit treat and I can’t count the number of times I’ve put his right in front of him and he looks at me as if waiting for me to put one down. I have to then point it out to him and he acts like “Oh, yeah, I saw that.” I rolled the ball with the bell in it and all the other cats came running to chase it. Bander looked up from his perch on the end of the couch as if saying “what did I miss?” and I threw another one and his eyes widened, ears pulled back, as if I’ve thrown a snarling little yippy dog on the floor. One of the cats carried a live locust in from the garage and in the midst of the others rushing to get in on the fun, Bander jumped high up on the china cabinet and warily viewed the proceedings; this was truly his only action that made sense to me, a human, and I would have joined him if I could have figured out how to get on top of the china cabinet.

Bandersnatch has a complete disregard for people parts. He finds it just as convenient to walk across my face as my belly or legs. And if I smack him away or holler, something that stops this action from any others who dare to walk on my face, he plops down and sits where he is, not in the least fazed by the hand that is pushing him away. Not a pretty picture.

On the other hand, he craves human attention. Everyone who comes over meets him because he goes right into their lap and makes himself at home. He purrs when he sees someone and he likes to talk now and then, but not always – he does let someone else get a word in edgewise.

Because of his gorgeous gray-blue color he looks much like a Russian Blue and his coat is silky and very fine. He’s a good groomer so he always looks sharp.

I’d love for him to have his own home, his own I’m the only cat who lives here kind of home. With a name like Bandersnatch you know he has to be a little out there, but his heart is good and kind in the end. The eerie part is his eyes are the same green as the eyes of the Bandersnatch in the movie and I can never get the picture of the eyeball on the little mouse’s sword out of my mind or that when it was given back, the Bandersnatch just popped it back into place. Insert creepy shiver here.

He isn’t watching me type this but when I went into the living room I found him staring at the front door with that “is it a mouse or an ax murderer” wide-eyed but otherwise blank look. He’d probably be afraid of the mouse and I’m hoping he’d walk across the face, claws out, of the ax murderer. Good thing we have the dog.

Tides

Posted on October 24, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

Tides

The thing about tides is they come in and they go out, rise and fall, flood and ebb. According to Marine Bio, “the ocean’s surface rises and falls predictably due to changes in gravitational forces originating from the Moon and the Sun. These changes in ocean surface level are known as tides and are evidence of the influence celestial bodies have on our planet.” (http://marinebio.org/oceans/currents-tides.asp) Another thing about tides is that they bring change…in beach surface, in fishing, and in the treasures we find. It’s fascinating to hit the beach after high tide and search for treasures. I found sea glass on my last trip, first time ever. And who can resist the sound of the tide rushing in, that mesmerizing rumble-roar-crash-whoosh that speaks to us in so many ways? Most of us talk about the tides but we rarely to never talk about the complete stoppage of the water movement that has to happen so that reversal of tide can take place. It’s also referred to as slack since the time of stoppage can vary which is why the ebb and flow each day are slightly off in timing. What would happen if the tide didn’t reverse, if it just stopped? According to Marine Bio, it would become a geopotential surface, or a surface along which a parcel of air could move without undergoing any changes in its potential energy. Void of movement, stuck in place, going nowhere. I can’t imagine the ocean without tides, the beauty we would miss, the mysteries that wouldn’t be revealed, the goodness that wouldn’t come, all because it stopped, got stuck in one place, just slacked. People can do that sometimes, get into a place emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and just get stuck there. All motion, backward or forward, stops. There may be ways to get some help, to begin momentum, but until we choose to go toward it, we stay at stoppage. Sometimes we hold ourselves there out of fear. The thought of what’s ahead, of the unknown, unfamiliar and even unwanted because we can’t imagine it could be good or better, holds us in place. Sometimes we hold ourselves there out of denial. We can’t acknowledge reality and any movement would force us to confirm or conforn to what we don’t want to know, don’t want to face, don’t want to accept. Sometimes we hold ourselves there out of guilt and shame. It’s so much easier to hold onto hurt and anger and bitterness and divert the blame for feelings and circumstances rather than own our own choices and actions, our part in being where we are. Sometimes we hold ourselves there out of unforgiveness. How much easier it is to hold onto a grudge than let it go. As long as we can hold onto it, we don’t have to deal with the what’s next in the relationship. But when we stay in that stoppage, when we dig in our heels and refuse to budge, deliberately make the choice to stew there, we miss the opportunity for something good, for something we didn’t know or experience or imagine to be revealed, for change. And not wanting things to change can be another reason we stay in stoppage. But change is part of life whether we want it or not, and when we approach it right, change can be beautiful, and joyful, and fulfilling, and more wonderful than we ever imagined. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28, ASV) Our lives are so like that tide, rising, falling, ebbing, flooding, highs, lows. It’s sometimes impossible for us to see the good in the bad, to see a reason for overwhelming, terrible feelings, to see hope in a hopeless situation, to see purpose in tragedy, to see light in the tunnel, or dream when we are oppressed. Those hard things can put us in our own geopotential surface. It’s when we decide to move, flutter, wave the white flag, reach out, grasp, grab, or in some way act to stir the current around our stagnation in that place that we can begin to turn the tide of where we are, our condition, our thoughts, our attitudes, our circumstances, our perspectives. It has to start with our own choice, however. We have to think and then do and then keep at it, even when it’s like going through the motions and the feelings don’t follow right away, but at least we are going through the motions because doing so is the start of turning the tide. And if we keep up that motion, if we persevere, if we make a little ripple at first that little ripple will expand, become a wave that grows and brings up from the bottom all the old feelings, all the old yuckiness, all that is holding us in that bad place, and starts the roll of the tide. Rumble-roar-crash-whoosh! The sound of the tide changing…the start of something changing in us. “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 8:38-39 NIV

Cover

Posted on October 23, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

As the new Marines celebrated their graduation day with family and friends, we noticed the subtle and overt changes in each of the young men and women. An obvious change was that each wore a “cover”, a hat in civilian terms, and each was meticulous in being correct about when and where it was okay to wear their cover. Wear the cover outdoors but don’t wear the cover when sitting to eat outdoors. The cover was slipped on and off at, pun intended, the drop of a hat. As I watched these shiny young faces beneath their shiny new covers doing their best to be mindful of protocol I was struck by the thought that these are our protectors, these are our military, these are the latest group of men and women committed to serve and cover us.

And because my son was one of them, my mommy-heart did a flip and I prayed, silently, fervently, for each one on the grounds that day.

I watched them with their families, proud, some uncertain in their new roles, some yearning for recognition, some humble, some confident, some cocky, some just so happy to be a part of something bigger. But each one wore their cover as a badge of honor and I kept noticing these and thinking what it meant to me, to my life, my country.

I put out a mass email asking for people to send me their Thanksgiving thoughts to send on to my son. It’s a tradition of ours to share what we are thankful for by writing on slips of paper, folding them and placing in a basket, and then later passing the basket around, picking one and reading it aloud. The idea is that since he can’t be here and we can’t be there, I can mail these for him to see. I know it’s important to him as he sent his home last year when he couldn’t be here for Thanksgiving – he wanted to make sure we had his to share. This year, I want him to have not just ours, but many others to share.

I’ve heard from people I really don’t know except as business contacts. I’ve heard from dear ones who have sent a quick blurb to share. Each has shared a piece of their heart in telling what they are thankful for. One hit the very essence of why and how our military covers us, why my son and others are there, and how they impact lives and futures of others.

“My wife and her family owe their life’s to the USAF of WWII, who liberated her and her family from 5 years of German occupation in the Netherlands and I and my family from 3 ½ years of prisons and concentration camps under the Japanese in Indonesia. It is people like us, who have experienced oppression, who realize, that we can’t sit back and (we) have to stop terrorism and fight for freedom.”

Wow. I am so thankful for this note. And I desperately needed to hear this. I know my son will value this as even I cannot.

How proud I am to be a military service family, to have grown up as a military brat, and now to be a Marine mom. I have always been aware of the military’s purpose in covering us, protecting us; I haven’t always heard the personal stories like this one.

Cover. Shield. Protect.

I pray for those who serve, those who have chosen to cover us, who have sworn to be the shield between us and oppression and terror, those who offer their own lives to protect us from an evil that most of us will never know thanks to them. While they’re covering us, God is covering them.

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

What I learned from Hannah’s story

Posted on October 22, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

One of our pastors told us he had done a character study about Hannah recently and came away with a renewed admiration for this woman whose story is found in 1 Samuel chapters 1 and 2 in the Bible. My daughter was named Hannah which means “grace of God” in Hebrew because of the Biblical Hannah, a woman who struggled with infertility. I identified with Hannah because I, too, struggled for years with infertility. There was a time when doctors said we would never be able to have children. A sympathetic friend said “no little girl grows up thinking she won’t be able to have children.” How true for most of us who want desperately to be mothers. We don’t just want to have children; we want to be moms with all that comes with that most important role.

Back then, before I was a mother, I had to read Hannah’s story several times before things starting jumping out at me. One of the first things that hit me was her vulnerability to ridicule from Peninnah, her husband Elkanah’s other wife who had birthed sons and daughters. I remember the feeling that something was wrong with me when someone would say they were pregnant and though I was happy for them, I felt as if I were deformed or lacking because I wasn’t pregnant and couldn’t seem to get pregnant. It hurt terribly when people made comments that included words like, “you’re not a mother, …”, “when you have children of your own…”, or those who misused God’s own words by saying something about Him withholding this blessing because of sin in my life. I cried buckets asking God to reveal to me what I was doing wrong. One wonderful pastor’s wife, however, would tell me “when nothing makes sense, trust Him anyway.” (Thank you, Jan!) Because Hannah hurt in her infertility and God showed that hurt to me in her story, I felt better through my own pain. Somebody did know what I felt, and that somebody was mentioned in the Bible. I was so thankful that her story, my story, was there and that God felt it was important enough, that the pain of being different from other women in that so very important way, was acknowledged. I didn’t feel so alone in my hurt.

I was then struck by Hannah’s absolute assurance that her prayer would be answered. When Eli mistook her for a drunken woman because he saw her lips moving as she was silently praying in the temple and she then told him she was praying, he said, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him.” What’s amazing to me is that Hannah did! She went in peace…stopped fasting, stopped looking sad…because she believed with her whole heart that God would answer her prayer. She didn’t know how or when or even if his answer was going to be exactly as she imagined it would be in her prayer, but she believed it would be answered and that was enough for her, immediately. I remember thinking how in the world did you let go of something like your desire to have a child in an instant. And then I looked deeper and realized that she, like I, needed that reminder…the reminder that God is powerful. Why else would she pray to God if she did not believe he wanted to hear her prayer? And if she believed he wanted to hear her prayer, she had to believe he was willing to answer it. And if she believed he was willing to answer it, she had to believe he was able to answer it. And the only way he would be able to do that is if he is powerful to do anything, including opening the womb of a barren woman so that she could bear a child. I started thinking big then. I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, God had a plan for me to be a mother. As much as I wanted to be pregnant and go through the feelings and physical experience of growing a child inside me and giving birth, I accepted that may not be his plan; I would be grateful to be an adoptive mom.

The third thing about Hannah’s story was the scariest. As she prayed for God to give her a son, she said, “I will give him to the Lord for all the days of his life” and then when he was weaned, probably about the age of four or five, she took him to Eli and left him to be raised for God by the priest. Now wait a minute here, I thought. How does a mother do that? Not the give to the Lord or be raised for God part, but the physically separating yourself from your child and only seeing him one time a year the rest of his growing up years? Would I be able to keep that promise? Wouldn’t I say I didn’t really mean that part, God? Wouldn’t I want to hold my baby every chance I could get until he was a man and I knew with all my heart I had given him everything I could for eighteen years to prepare him to be a man? How could I kiss a four or five-year old goodbye and go home, knowing I wouldn’t see him for a year? How could I let my little one go live with someone else? How would I be able to explain that to him as he cried when I left, or how would I be able to live with myself as I lay in my own bed and cried thinking of him missing his mama? Lord, I prayed, I don’t understand this.

A couple at church lost their three-year old daughter in a drowning accident at about that time. As the mother spoke during the funeral she said something that made it clearer than clear to me. She said something like “God gave us our baby girl and she was always his. I’m thankful for the time we had her with us.”

And also at about that time, we were looking into adopting and I was reading the stories of birth mothers who selflessly chose to place their children with others because they cared more about the life of their child being better than what they could offer than their own desires to keep that child in hardship circumstances.

And I realized that Hannah not only kept her word to God, but she believed in his sovereignty. She believed with every fiber of her being that the God who had given her this son was the Almighty. How can you not trust the Almighty to take better care of your child than even you can? She trusted him to do just that. That more than amazed me…I coveted that trust.

As a Christian, I believe God breathes life into every child from the moment of conception because that’s the very start of that child’s life. Human life doesn’t begin any other way and it doesn’t start before then and though the first breath is taken after birth, the growth and development, the changes, the miracle that makes that first breath possible starts at that point. God says every child is a gift from him and the wonderful thing about a gift is that it is from a giver. God is the giver of our children through birth or adoption, he is powerfully able to fulfill his purpose, and his sovereignty can be trusted because he is God.

As each child came into my life, one by adoption, two by birth, I thanked God for the gift of their little lives. I also acknowledged that they were his and have lived knowing that they are his, only mine for the season he determines. In all stages in their lives, from infants to now as Hannah is driving herself around town, as Sam is in the midst of war overseas, and as Aaron is living with risk and danger, I try to trust God with my children as Hannah did. I pray for my babies, grown up as they are, and I thank God for the privilege of adopting, the privilege of experiencing pregnancy, the privilege of giving birth, the privilege of their very being. And daily I give thanks for the marvelous privilege of God answering my prayers and making me their mother.

The Other Role a Teacher Plays

Posted on October 19, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

I think when we’re in high school we see our teachers as those who push, shove, and do whatever they can to get whatever subject they are teaching into our hormone-driven, impatient, angsty, even hostile at times, teenage brains. We protest the homework, complain about the boring class, bemoan the tests, fuss about the teachers, and gripe in general because we are teenagers. At that age, I’m not sure we see individuals who are dedicated to fostering our future success. At that age we may not realize they have personal lives, families, interests, friends, and history separate from that they share with us. Many of us miss actually getting to know the person behind the desk. We see bits and pieces of who they are through the lens of how they affect us as our teacher, whether they are a tough grader or enforce the policies, whether we can sneak in late without repercussion or talk our way into leaving early. The agenda is ours at that age and its rare that we look further.

Later, however, when we look back, we might recognize the other role played by our teachers.

Our teachers model the adult world for us and how they interact with us as teens often impacts not only how we see ourselves later, but may impact our direction, behavior, and expectations. Some teachers seem to be teens in adult clothing and beyond learning the material we see that its okay to goof around and be silly on the job. Others are dictators within their sphere of influence and we resent their imposing what seem to be unreasonable demands on us. Some are able to easily interact with us and yet still earn our respect. And some burn impressions upon our minds, hearts, and lives that help us grow and reach and even soar.

ThreeSixtyJournalism describes today’s good teacher in this way:

• A sense of humor is great, but teachers still need to keep the class focused and learning.
• Be committed to your school and students. Come early and stay late.
• Be fair, and work with every student.
• Don’t let students waste time texting or listening to music in class.
• Don’t drone on in a monotone.
• Be enthusiastic, and get students up, moving and doing things.
• Take time to develop presentations and materials that really engage students in learning.
• Be friendly, but put learning ahead of popularity.
• Have many ways to teach a subject. If one approach isn’t working, try others.

I think something is missing though. I think a good teacher has to reveal something of him or herself to the class that says, “I care.” It’s not just an I care about this job, or I care about this subject, but I care about you, my student.

We’ve all had at least one teacher who stood out as that person that cared, and no matter the subject, that teacher is the one who in some way shaped our perspective.

It was recently revealed that a certain teacher at my high school was a veteran, something unknown to many including those he worked with. This teacher has been described as both quiet and modest. It’s also obvious from comments that this unassuming man impacted lives as he taught a class many whined about having to take. The overall consensus seems to be that he acted with integrity. He wasn’t out to win a popularity contest; he was there to do the right thing.

I think many teachers want only to do the right thing, but because there is so much to-do made over receiving recognition through awards and metrics and satisfaction surveys that the quiet, unassuming, and subtle teacher is often not acknowledged as being the one who teaches skills that have a greater impact on lives that learning the subject. These are the teachers who care enough about their students to do what is right, to model integrity, and to impart character traits to their students. These are the teachers who truly care and the ones we remember for being upstanding individuals. These are the teachers who have played the other roles in our lives – they have shown us how to be good citizens and make good choices even when they aren’t popular. These teachers are more than teachers, they are our best adult role models.

Hats off to all the teachers who focus on doing what’s right, who quietly and with dignity show us how to be good people. Thanks, Mr. Gustafson. It was an honor to be your student. It is a privilege to pay tribute to you.

http://www.threesixtyjournalism.org/GradingTeachers

http://azmoaa.org/chapter-history/past-presidents/1971-1972-major-gerald-a-gustafson/

From the Mouths of Cats

Posted on October 17, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

This is Morgen. Don’t let his innocuous kittenish looks fool you for a second, though. He’s a piranha. All teeth. All the time. And tonight those adorably sharp little pearly whites bit right smack through my electrical cord for my blood pressure monitor!

Unlike Mac who has eaten everything except a book – wait, he did, take that back – only a couple of our cats have ever used their teeth to make us a bit crazy.

It seems to have started with Popcorn, a solid black medium haired cat who became ours when she reached her paws through the cage at the pet shop. One Thanksgiving when I wasn’t feeling well I had brought home a sweet potato to eat later. Being a Southern girl, a sweet potato on Thanksgiving is not just desired but required. It was wrapped in foil and left on the stove so I could take a nap. When I awoke feeling both better and hungry, I wanted that sweet potato more than anything and headed straight to the kitchen where I found an entirely empty piece of foil on the stove. Hmm. I looked on the counter, on the floor, in the stove, in the refrigerator, in the cabinets…moved to the living room and searched under the couch, behind the couch, under the tables, and just about anywhere I could think a sweet potato may have somehow gone if it rolled out of the foil and onto the floor. Hmm. Retracing the steps to the car, out the door, into the car, meticulously looking all through the car, back into the house. Where on earth would a sweet potato have gone? And then I saw her. Popcorn had just a little bit of the red-maroon skin of the sweet potato stuck to the bottom of her chin. I was equally incredulous and devastated and I wanted a sweet potato. Back then the only thing open on Thanksgiving was Circle K or Seven-Eleven and neither carried sweet potatoes – my Southern pride was indeed wounded as I was not able to have a Thanksgiving sweet potato. I still can’t figure out how she got it off the stove, ate the whole thing, and left the foil intact. From that moment on, no sweet potato went unguarded in my house.

Tiger, a medium to long-haired tabby with a white chest and enough white splotches around his mouth to look like he’d had a drink of milk and it stuck, couldn’t resist sinking his teeth into a piece of paper. It was the canines he used and every paper in the house had Tiger’s seal of approval – two perfect holes in the corner of every page. One bite and he moved on to the next one. No need in our house for a paper punch. Just wave the paper around and Tiger would get up from whatever he was doing, most likely napping, and eagerly put two cat tooth-sized punches into whatever you held out to him. This was fine for most things but occasionally a word or number was right where he had bitten, a picture was the marked object, or it was something official that shouldn’t have cat bites on it. When we open old boxes we occasionally find something with tell-tale marks and fondly remember Tiger’s seal of approval.

Pumpkin was a homely, short-haired tabbyish calico with a cantaloupe fetish. It didn’t matter where she was in the house, the moment we would cut into a cantaloupe she would appear and launch herself onto the counter and begin the process of convincing us she wanted some. If we took precut portions from the fridge, the moment we’d unseal the bowl she’d be there, pulling on our hands to direct the bite into her own mouth. If she wasn’t quickly given a piece she would howl-meow insistently until we gave in, and we always gave in.

Gizmo actually chewed, like a dog, the straps off my favorite pair of dress sandals. I had no idea that a cat would chew on shoes until I went to put them on and the strap wasn’t attached but laying separately beside the shoe. A closer look revealed the strap wasn’t broken but actually gnawed in several places until the strap has just fallen off. I know it was Gizmo because a few weeks later when I kicked off another pair of strappy heels he dashed over and started working on the straps right in front of me! I learned to quickly get my shoes in the closet and away from feline fangs. Gizmo is also known for reducing straws still in the cups that you are using to useless sieves.

We’ve had cats steal and carry our things with their teeth such as hair bands and receipts and occasionally small clothing items. Butter stole garments straight from the laundry basket and was particularly fond of anything with lace. Pumpkin, the same one who loved cantaloupe, consistently stole baby caps and socks, making a “mrrrrm, mrrrrm” sound as she slunk away from us with her prize.

Midnight’s fetish for roaches is covered in “Midnight” and Sassy’s mouse hunt is covered in “Pup’s Mouse Caper”.

Morgen is another story. From before he could balance well he opened his mouth to bite at whatever came at him. We’d hold him up and he’d nip at our noses and because he was cute and cuddly and an itty-bitty kitty we oohed and aahed over his trick. Not so cute as he got older, however, and those teeth got sharper so we had to stop it. That’s how our comforter game was started so he would have something to chase and bite. We’ve given him toys to pounce and bite but he still prefers whatever he bites into to be something that screeches and squeals, like his sister or one of the other cats, or human, like us. He doesn’t bite hard but just enough for us to feel some teeth.

I’ve never, ever had a cat chew through a cord before and I guess he’s pretty lucky the current was low and I guess I’m pretty lucky I’m not driving to the emergency animal clinic with a cat with the side of his face electrically burned because I know from past experience that a trip there is about the same as a mortgage payment.

I think my favorite thing from a kitty’s mouth, however, is what we call a kitten kiss – an oh-so-gentle nip on the nose followed by a sandpapery lick and accompanied by much purring and eye contact with slow blinking. Popcorn was the only cat who did that and when Blaise joined us, she started it also. In fact, after Morgen and I have our chase the hand under the comforter game, Blaise pops into bed and gives me a goodnight kiss before settling in on my pillow. And throughout the night if she thinks of it, she reminds me how grateful she is to have a home here and that she really, truly loves me. And when she does that too much and awakens him, Morgen plants his teeth in her tail.

Can’t imagine a world without kitties…especially mine.

Weirdly Wired and Jumping

Posted on October 16, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

When your sixteen year old daughter gets her driver’s license, a few jitters and nerves are somewhat expected. After all, we are giving the green light to our beloved little girl operating a vehicle on the road WITHOUT US there to help her watch out for the complete lunatics who drive as if they own the road and make up their own rules doing so…and they don’t care a jot about the precious one that we’ve nurtured and protected for the past sixteen years. So after she passed the driving test with flying colors, it was my duty to bring her down to earth.

“We’re taking this slow,” I told her using my firm mommy voice, “You’re limited to school and back this next week and then we’ll start slowly stretching out.”

She was disappointed that I wouldn’t let her drive herself and her two friends to the football game less than a mile from home but my mind spun when I considered how rowdy football game fans can be both before and especially after a game. I wasn’t ready for her to solo at night with friends in that kind of crazy teenage traffic.

Her friends were staying over after the game so after a pit stop at the grocery store for some all-night goodies, we headed home and I realized I was incredibly tired. Odd for me because it wasn’t even ten and I’m a night owl. I got ready for bed, too tired to even shower, and kissed them all goodnight because each of them are my special girls.

Morgen, my 5 month old kitty, and I have a special game we play every night at bedtime and though he got into position to pounce on my hand as I moved it under the comforter, I was just too tired to play for long. I settled in and almost felt asleep but suddenly felt something very wrong. It was as if I were fading and the not the good kind where you fade into sleep but the kind that made me wonder if I were dying. I felt my pulse and instead of a steady beat I felt a beat, a long pause, a couple of beats, a long pause, a beat, a very long pause, three fast beats, a long pause, and then a steady drumming followed by beats with long pauses. Knowing that wasn’t right, I located my wonderful little Omron BP machine that measures BP and pulse, and alerts to irregular heartbeats. I forced myself to sit still for a full five minutes before taking the first reading and it showed 158/87 for BP, 47 for pulse and the little heart thing was vibrating like mad to tell me I had an irregular heartbeat.

Hmmm.

Not wanting to panic, I made myself wait and took it again. On the third reading with the little heart symbol wigging out the entire time I called for Hannah and told her to get me a couple of aspirin (I have no idea why), and I took them. Several more readings and the stupid little heart thing was almost bouncing off the machine so I called for Hannah and told her I was calling 911.

When you call the fire department/paramedics, you just never know what you’re going to get. One of the three who came into the house asked what was wrong and after I calmly told them he said, “So you called us to make sure your machine was calibrated?”

Hmmm. That wasn’t nice.

“Run a 12 channel strip,” I said. Amazingly, and maybe because the tone of my voice indicated I’m used to calling for those types of orders and having them followed, he did.

By the time the first part of the EKG strip was printing out he was backtracking and telling me I was definitely having irregular heartbeats and needed to go to the hospital immediately. And by that time I would have had to be unconscious to go with his crew in a bus to the hospital. I looked at Hannah and asked if she could drive me. She nodded confidently and said she could.

We dismissed the nice firemen and headed to the hospital with Hannah’s special girlfriends along for moral support.

During the next twenty hours my heart continued its dance, hop, skip and jump on the wild side. A Fib, PACs, PVCs, V-tach, V-tach with bigeminy, and repeat, again, and again, and again. The alarms sounded steadily until they moved me to a room without the monitor but with a portable unit that sent signals to some private area where “someone” was always monitoring. But I felt it anyway. I didn’t need a monitor sounding its alarm to tell me my rhythm was seriously off. And I knew enough about that to know it meant my heart’s electrical pathway, or wiring, was weird.

Sometime around 1:30 or 2:30 in the morning Hannah’s friend who had an event at 7 a.m. the next day needed to go home. Hannah asked if she could drive her and I was in no condition to protest so off they went, three girls, and two returned. Sometime around 4 or 5:30 in the morning Hannah took her other friend and they went home to let our dog out and then on to her friend’s house to sleep. Sometime around 8 in the morning Hannah came back to our house to let the dog out again, feed the kitties, and sleep some more. And on it went. Hannah driving back and forth from home to the hospital, stopping at Circle K for a soda, going through McDonald’s for something to eat, stopping at Safeway to get me some gummy bears. On Saturday she took care of the cats and dog and then came back to the hospital to spend the night with me. On Sunday morning she drove home to get dressed, went to church to teach Sunday school, then came to the hospital to get me to go home, then back to church and later back home to sleep.

Around 5:30 I realized I had to get the prescription filled to take the heart medication they had prescribed and because I was feeling as if I were moving through mud I asked Hannah to drive us. As I watched her confidence in backing out of the driveway and then turning from our street left into traffic, I asked her how she felt about driving.

“It’s really weird, mom. It’s like I got on a plane to go to Hawaii because that’s something you really look forward to doing someday like getting your license, and halfway over the ocean they opened the doors and said ‘okay, now jump!'”

“My poor girl, we were going to take it slow, weren’t we?”

She grinned, “So much for that.”

“So, how do you feel about driving?” I persisted.

“I’m comfortable driving. I’m cautious and I watch everything. I’ve had a lot of responsibility these last few days, but I think I’ve done well.”

And she had. She had jumped suddenly from being excited about being allowed to drive to school and back to being the one who had to drive for reasons beyond her control or mine. There was no time for second thoughts or hesitation – it had to be done and she did it.

As we started errands tonight I asked her if she wanted to drive.

“No, I’ve been driving so much I’m kind of over it. You can drive, mom.”

How proud I am of her. How thankful I am for her. How I’ve prayed for her safety. And God has answered those prayers with every text message.

“Leaving, love you.”

“Home, love you.”

One more milestone of growing up and she didn’t just pass, she jumped. And God provided the parachute just in time for her safe landing.

PDPHD…this one is for you. You continue to be more than I ever imagined.

Waiting…Somewhat Patiently

Posted on October 12, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

Thursday 10/11/2012

Be still in the presence of the Lord, and wait patiently for him to act.

~ Psalm 37:7, NLT

Are you ever restless? Anxious? Antsy? There’s something occupying your thoughts and though you suppress it and go through your day doing the things that have to be done like going to work and functioning effectively, it sits there, heavily, in your heart and mind. If you’re like me, you pray and give it to the Lord, but that doesn’t mean it goes out of your thoughts. If you’re like me, your day is filled with prayers about whatever it is that’s in your heart and mind. You’re trusting God, but you’re still thinking about it, still worrying a bit, and so you keep on praying because that’s what God says to do.

It had been over a week and I hadn’t heard from him but he said he’d try to call every week, and I’m a bit OCD so I expect a call when someone says they will call. Even though I know it might not be possible. But that call, that voice, is so important to me and I need to hear it. I mentioned to my daughter that it had me fidgety and she reminded me that sometimes no news is good news and I needed to trust God. Boom – right smack in the middle of the head by my own child! I am so blessed! Of course, of course!

Still, throughout the next few days I prayed. I prayed for him to have God’s armor on, to be surrounded by the angels of the Lord to protect him and his unit. I prayed for them to walk in the safety of God’s presence with them every step. I prayed for the Lord to bind the enemy and deflect all harm. And I prayed and prayed…just let me hear he’s okay. And I also prayed…in your will, Lord, in your time, I know, I know. Help me to feel it, Lord.

Feelings are sometimes our worst enemy and Satan uses them to deflect our thoughts, our trust, and our faith in the One we call Lord. We have so many of them from joy to grief to pain to worry to love to hate and a plethora in between. When our feelings override what we know, they can hijack our thoughts, our actions. Sometimes it’s hard to separate feelings from truth, and when we are there, we have God’s word to help us do the sifting. Of course, we read have to read our Bible to know what He says. Sometimes people are sent our way to help us sort it out, sometimes it’s the words to a song, sometimes it’s a dream or thought that persists, and sometimes we seem to hear God’s voice loud and clear. When feelings pull us further from Jesus, our response should be to consider the source of those feelings, and if those feelings are yanking us, we need to yank back, and run like crazy to God.

My life verse, given to me years ago, is Psalm 37:7 and I learned it from the American King James version “Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently upon Him…” The NIV version says “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him…” I have to remind myself of this over and over and over in my life. And each time I do, I move closer to the Lord, and grow stronger in His strength.

I went to bed praying, literally speaking God’s word in my prayer, reciting Scripture, His promises, and while doing this I fell asleep. I had charged my phone earlier and had it beside my pillow, just in case. I didn’t want to miss that call if it came.

I awakened to my phone chirping and saw that an email had come from K-LOVE’s Encouraging Word to which I subscribe for a daily Bible verse. When I opened it and saw Psalm 37:7, I laughed out loud. Okay, God, I get it! You’ve got this…I’ll rest, I’ll wait, I’ll be patient, even it makes me crazy! And because I was taking the day off, I slept well past my usual get up time, something rare for me.

So many times that verse, God’s promise, has been my stronghold. It was especially so when I was trying to have babies and had given up and then it happened. It was there through teenage boy issues that required more of us than we had, but God provided the other part. It was there through job losses, when starting a new business that flourished in a recession. It was there when we were looking for a house, the right house at the right price in the right area and we were led to this one. It was there through buying, not renting, a privately owned U-haul truck one year and then selling it at the end for more than I’d bought it. It was there when we had more needs than means, yet the provision came at just the right time. It was there when my personal pain became beyond bearing yet I clearly heard “Be still”. How can I not trust the God who has been with me, carried me, held me, and provided for me through so many different things in my life?

When I woke up, it was the first thing on my mind and I checked my email to be certain I had read the daily verse correctly and hadn’t just thought it. It was there. I went about my day a little lighter. I thanked God for the reminder. When I told my daughter about it, she hugged me and said, “Way to go, God!”

I got the call I’d been longing for shortly after and heard my son’s voice. I love that voice with every fiber of my being and am so thankful for hearing it today. Thank you, Lord!

Lord, help me to rest, help me to be patient, help me to wait and trust that in your time and your way, you always answer.

Anticipation…

Posted on October 11, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

I walked into a store this weekend and saw the Christmas aisle, right next to the Thanksgiving table decoration aisle, and bordered by the over-large Halloween decorations aisle flanked by mounds and mounds of bags of snack sized candies. First weekend in October and there it was, a huge aisle with Christmas wrapped boxes, pre-lit trees, inflatable Santa’s and skating penguins. And chocolates, lots and lots of boxes of assorted chocolates. And it made me think…I better start my Christmas shopping or everything will be gone!

No, not really, but it did make me wonder how the years keep getting shorter because it seems like about six weeks ago I was putting away Christmas decorations.

I’m waiting for the store to open that is an All-Holiday-All-Year-Round shop. They won’t have to move things from front to back and they won’t have to cart out the last holiday stuff to make way for the new holiday stuff and it would be perfectly natural to find chocolate bunnies next to chocolate snowmen. But if they did that, there would be no anticipation. Shoppers wouldn’t have a reason to say “Are they nuts? Christmas decorations in October” or “Oh, joy, 75 more shopping days until Christmas”. It would sort of taint the feelings that come when we see the reminders that Christmas is, once again, sailing our way rather quickly.

And, oh, those feelings! Starting with the lists we make for ourselves of things to do, we anticipate all the work involved in getting prepared for Christmas. Some can’t stand it; others live for it. The guy down the street starts on his Christmas lights this month every year. They begin their merry glow on Thanksgiving and thrill us until well past the New Year. Each year we anticipate what he’ll do to add to the display or make it different.

The “Holiday Shopping Guides” will come in the mail, paper or electronic, and woo us with their must-have offerings. Some of us flip through and daydream, some will buy, and some will just drop it into the recycling bin. For those of us who actively participate in Christmas shopping on any level, we will budget and plan and make or purchase and wrap to delight our loved ones because we anticipate the look on their faces when they know whatever we have given them is given as a token of our love.

And the food! Out come the tortes, and the elegant frosted brownies, and the assortment of sugar decorated cookies. The standing rib roasts, wild smoked salmon, baked hams, and imported cheese trays. Can’t forget the platters of dried fruits or bags of whole nuts. Peppermint flavored hot chocolate with mini marshmallows that expand in hot water. Many of us will buy things we would not normally buy because we anticipate how it will look, how it will smell, how it will taste, and how it will be savored by those who gather to feast with us.

Some of us will anticipate that we are ahead of it all and will buy Christmas cards that we can’t find once we get home and send email greetings instead – or late cards. Many of us will say no more cards, thank you, and send messages via Facebook or email or text messages. But I do love getting those cards and letters; wish I could be better at sending them.

And somewhere miles from where most of us are, our troops, our loved ones, our sons and daughters, will get the boxes we send to them. And neither of our Christmases will be the same. And some of our Christmases will be forever changed. But we will anticipate the Christmas we will have when they come home. And maybe even consider leaving the tree up.

So back down the aisle I went after gathering the items I needed, slowly, thoughtfully, tearfully. Browsing, wishing, hoping, praying. Time is passing…too slow for some, too fast for others.

I’m so glad I have Jesus and know that He is our refuge because sometimes the anticipation is just too much.

I’m counting still. Come home.

What’s in a Cake?

Posted on October 9, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

Cake. The word alone can mean so many things. “That’s a piece of cake” means it’s easy. Talking about someone who wants to “have their cake and eat it, too” implies greed or unfairness. Saying something is a “cakewalk” tells you it’s an easy win…you do nothing but walk in circles, and voila, you win! If something “takes the cake” its better than the rest. When we “cake it on” it means we lay it on thick. In the world of illegal drugs, a cakes refer to amount of cocaine.

But the ones we bake, buy, or order from our favorite bakeries, have special places in our hearts, rituals, memories, taste buds, and bellies. And these cakes in and of themselves have special meanings and evoke specific emotions.

Take the birthday cake. Many of us grew up having homemade birthday cakes, two or three layers held together with thick spread homemade frosting. If we were lucky, we were there to lick the bowl and no one said we couldn’t because there wasn’t a warning about raw eggs in those days. I never met anyone who knew or heard about anyone who keeled over from licking the bowl, but once the warning went out, all bowl licking came to a screeching halt. Sigh. Or, you just took your chances and scraped the gooey batter out anyway because cake batter is so irresistible that a particular ice cream company actually makes cake batter flavored ice cream.

And I know of no one whosoever who could ever resist licking the beaters after homemade frosting was whipped into its creamy heights of yumminess.

Birthday cakes were made with the birthday person’s favorite flavors in mind and topped with candles enough to let them know they were either very young or very old. Somewhere around the age of 21 or so the numeral candles went on and that, my friend, signified that one was too old to have more candles jammed into the frosting. Of course, none of us had smoke alarms in our homes back then, either.

Flavors ranged from chocolate to strawberry to vanilla and then blossomed into a smorgasboard of interesting flavors. Peanut butter caramel white chocolate cake with dark chocolate frosting topped by roasted peanuts. Decadent carrot cake with thick cream cheese frosting, no raisins please. Texas sheet cake with fudge frosting and hundreds of pecan chips. Rocky road cake with marshmallows and chocolate pieces in the cake and more in the chocolate frosting with a few drizzles of fudge for good measure. Pristine white cake with flaked coconut frosting. Lemon cake with tart lemon frosting and thin slices of sugared lemon twisted on top. Deep dark chocolate cake and bright white marshmallow frosting decorated with chocolate curls. Red velvet cake with real cream cheese frosting and pecan pieces both between the layers and on the sides. Southern Lane cake made thick with nuts and dried fruits and drenched in bourbon whiskey or rum. Tomato soup cake with dark and golden raisins and creamy cream cheese frosting topped with nuts. Even a simple yellow cake with milk chocolate frosting said Happy Birthday, you are special, you are loved, and I made this especially for you.

The bakery cakes never tasted as good as mom’s or grandma’s but they were fascinating in their decor. Little plastic figures played across the top of a sheet cake with smoothed, flat frosting. Decorative frosting roses, tulips, and lilies danced across the edges and corners, sometimes up the sides. Or pressed and molded sugar shapes that formed flowers, characters, words or numbers were used. The inscription was perfection itself, written in neat, even hand and, hopefully, the name spelled correctly. Little plastic candle holder picks held the candles upright and left smaller holes in the cake top. Everyone wanted to lick the plastic candle holder picks. Everyone wanted a frosting rose, even it was made with red dye.

Somehow, a birthday just doesn’t seem like a birthday without a cake if you were raised with having a birthday cake. No matter how many cupcakes, how many cookie “cakes”, or how many candy bars with a candle stuck in the middle come our way, they don’t scream and shout and do flips that say “It’s Your Birthday!” Only a cake can do that.

When couples get married, one of their most important tasks is selecting the cake that symbolizes…well, everything. It has to say romance and it has to say “them” and it has to say tradition and it has to say “unique” and it has to match the style of the dress and the theme of the reception and be all things to all people who are there at the wedding. Oh, and it has to taste absolutely, positively divine! This cake can have no flaws, visible or otherwise. It can’t be crumbly and it can’t be dry and it can’t have a little smear somewhere on the cake board and that flower must be positioned at just that angle to create that affect, or it’s a….disaster. While doing all these things, the cake has to hold the topper, that little something that best represents the newlyweds. And no one goes home until the cake is cut, sliced, diced and passed. Only after the cake has had its moment of glory in sealing the deal is it acceptable to leave.

Cakes mark other celebrations as well. Baby showers, business promotions, grand openings, graduations, holidays and just about any time there is a reason to serve up something sweet to a crowd.

But, truly, what’s in a cake?

The first thing we find in a cake is thought. Somebody had to think of it, and somebody had to think it was important enough to either bake it or order it. So not only is the cake important to the one who bakes or orders, but the one who it is for is important to them and others.

The second thing we find in a cake is familiarity. Knowledge of the recipient’s likes and dislikes along with the reason behind the cake being needed in the first place says somebody pays attention and that’s significant.

The third thing we find in a cake is opportunity to share. Very few people toss a cake at someone and say “Here’s your cake…see ya!” Oh, no, no. The little plates come out along with plastic forks and tiny napkins. Someone produces a knife and within seconds people gather as if a gong has sounded that calls them to gather around the cake. Dieters can’t resist “just a little sliver”. Young and old and in between want to partake of both the cake and the sharing of good wishes.

The fourth thing in the cake is joy. It doesn’t matter if it tastes like cardboard with a little sugar sprinkled on top, everyone eating a piece of cake seems happy. Stories, jokes, chit-chat and trivia mingle with laughter and smiles. There’s just something about enjoying cake with others that brings out the best, even its only until the last crumb is consumed.

Finally, memories of the moments that shape our lives are found in cakes. Many are captured in snapshots or videos, some zoom around the earth thanks to iPhones and Facebook before the last piece is served. Cakes mark that time, that place, that event, those people, those feelings, those sights, those sounds, those smells, and that taste. The next time that kind of cake comes your way, your mind does a little happy dance of remembering.

A cake is more than its ingredients, more than its flavors, more than the decorations and more than the inscriptions or candles. It’s love with frosting and sprinkles. And when you get one, remember it isn’t a gift, but it says you are. And that is pretty sweet.

Co-Conspirators

Posted on October 4, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

“You and I shared a secret that moved our relationship from being classmates to co-conspirators…”

It’s odd how friendships start and I cannot recall anything about how it was begun; I do know that you became a trusted one, treasured, dear. Funny how certain people pass through our lives, each one adding a piece to our puzzle, helping us shape who we are, how we see ourselves, building on where we are at that time in our lives. Even if the relationship wanes, the substance that it created remains – sometimes as photographs and memorabilia that marks what was, sometimes as a base for our future relationships, perhaps it impacts our character, gives us a skill, hobby, interest, habit, or just a warm and fuzzy feeling that we revisit now and then.

When I reflect on the gifts that have come from certain friendships, I see their impact on who I am today.

One of my earliest friendships was with girl I met in school and because we were the smartest girls in the class because we tied in the Spelling Bee, we became the best of friends. I went to her house and she went to mine. We did everything together and our parents said we were two peas in a pod. We loved paper dolls and spent hours cutting out the clothes for them and using shoe boxes to make rooms and houses for them. We’d use construction paper and fabric and trims, cut and glue them to create beautiful places for our paper dolls to live and play. At some point she went with us someplace and as soon as we got out of the car I sensed trouble, and so did she. People stared and frowned and the whispered started. I saw my father arguing with someone and they kept looking at my friend and I. My friend seemed sad and quiet, even somewhat fearful. I had no idea why but suddenly my parents came over and got us and my sister, bundled us in the car and we left. Until we moved away, my friend and I remained the best of friends. Years later I realized the issue – my friend was African-American but that was the 1960’s in the South. Back then, African-American was not the term used. My gift from this friendship, and truly it was also a gift from my parents, was that we care about the person, not the color, not the race. When we see only one thing about someone and choose to let that be a wall, we may miss the best part of them, and ourselves.

One of my dearest friends became pregnant in the eighth grade. She was thirteen. It was the 1970’s but at that time teen pregnancy was not as prevalent as it is now. And at that time many families were still held together by secrets. And this beautiful, smart, funny, gentle girl who tried to dress and act tough and pretend nothing bothered her did so even when everyone whispered, and everyone talked, and everyone walked in giant arcs to avoid her as if her pregnancy was in some way contagious. She even avoided me. Her sad eyes would sometimes flick a challenge as she passed groups of girls giggling too loudly and making derogatory remarks about her. She came to my window one night when she was about six months pregnant and on the floor of my bedroom she told me her story. And broke my heart. We cried together often after that and I’ll never forget when her little girl was born, and she placed her for adoption, and then ran away from home, and then later committed suicide. My gift from this friendship was learning to listen, because listening brought revelation and revelation brought understanding and understanding brought compassion. My D-Girl, I am so sorry and I wish I had known at that age what I know now.

Another friend I can’t recall exactly how we met has given me the gift of consistency; every Friday night for years we watched Love Boat while sitting on the floor of my parent’s home. If I went for a date, he still came and watched Love Boat with my folks. We ditched our high school graduation together. Through the years as we’ve lost touch, found each other, lost touch, found each other but one thing has remained – we are friends. He and his wife are dear to me because they are consistent. I am confident that any time I can call and they are there, to listen, to care, to help. They are the beautiful people of this world because they have hearts that are open and there’s always room for someone else.

Years ago a lovely lady took me under her wing at work and introduced me to a world I didn’t know existed and that was the world created by Georgette Heyer, author of Victorian and Regency era humorous, G-rated romance novels. This world of the haute ton predictably but wittily written were the first non-steamy yet oh-so-much better romances because they were smart and funny yet blended beautifully with historical events and facts. I was enthralled by the Duke of Wellington, the 56th Foot, and the Seventh Hussars. I could have picked Prinny out of a crowd so well did I know his description. When, years later, she passed away I was privileged to be at the memorial and her sister gave a me several books by Georgette Heyer that had been in my friend’s collection. My gift from this friendship was not only the pleasure of reading but discovering my love for English history. I’ve reread my Georgette Heyer novels dozens of times through the years and each time I find something funny, something new, and something else that inspires about this author’s gift for writing. I was thrilled to find that these novels are being reprinted as many of mine are held together by a rubber band around loose pages.

Some people just bubble over with laughter and passion and compassion and faith, and my friend Kim was like that. I miss her and look forward to seeing her in Heaven. She gave me the gift of courage to step out of my comfort zone time and time again. She gave me the gift of confidence in who I am as a woman of God. She gave…and gave…and gave…and her work at With Child continues because she did so. And her beautiful children are who they are because of her.

Several years ago a friend gave me the gift of boldness – not in a brash way, but having the nerve to stand up for what I believe is right. He would always ask “Is that the right thing to do?” and if it was, he’d tell me to do it. Such power! But because of him, I am able to stand up and do the right thing; because of him, I am able to withstand the blows when doing the right thing comes with consequences that hurt. Because of him, I understand that choices matter, a lot. And I’d like to think because of him, I make better, more thoughtful and thought out choices.

And I have the sweetest of friends who has given me the gift of her encouragement, even when I’ve fallen, even when I can’t see my way. She is a dear gift to me – someone God has specifically put into my life to build me up and shore up the leaks.

And my co-conspirator…I, too, have no idea specifically what we talked about but I do know we talked about everything and anything, and I trusted you with my secrets, whatever they were. I never felt I fit in anyplace but you seemed to accept me anyway. You were, in my eyes, older and wiser, and as you spouted words of wisdom that in retrospect probably weren’t, I sensed in you something tender and kind despite the snarky words and projection of tough-guy-nothing-bothers-me persona. You were giving and you were caring and you were loyal to a fault. You gave me the gift of looking inside, to the heart, of others and myself, to discover the treasure within.

And that, my friend, is priceless – both then and now.

Breakfast Brownies

Posted on October 2, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

We’ve started a thing, Hannah and I. Brownies for breakfast. Not just plain chocolate brownies but brownies with walnuts and peanut butter. Yum. It came about because she ate my last cherry turnover one night – my favorite breakfast treat. Looking in the cupboard I came across a walnut brownie mix that I have no idea how it got into my cupboard and told her to make them after school the next day. And she did. I came home after working late to the oh-so-decadent fragrance of warm, gooey, chocolatey brownies still sitting on top of the stove. More yum.

I got busy and forgot about them (I think the smell had me mesmerized into thinking I’d actually consumed one) but when I went to make the coffee I noticed them, still perfectly uncut in the brownie pan. I quickly cut them and placed them under the glass covered cake pedestal that had housed a bundt cake a few weeks ago. Hannah trailed out of her room (the cave), saw them and had one.

“Breakfast,” she said.

And that started it. We’ve since made walnut brownies each week and cut them into cute little squares and placed them prettily on display, the perfect morning sweet.

My kids have always loved brownies. One of my favorite memories of brownie baking is of Sam at around four. He would sit up on the counter as we made brownies. He’d pour in the mix, crack and add the egg, pour in the measured oil and water, and stir. Oh, it was messy and it wasn’t perfect but it was absolutely, perfectly wonderful. One day as we chatted while we went through our process he got really quiet and looked at me seriously.

“Mommy?” (How I miss those days of being Mommy! I cried for a week when I became Mom.)

“Yes, Sam?” A speck of chocolate flour was on his nose and the goopy brownie mix had traveled from his hands to up his arms with a little tale-tell bit around his mouth where he’d licked the stirring spoon.

“Will my wife know how to make brownies?”

Be still my heart! Where is this coming from? Ah, yes. Often when we prayed together at night I would ask God to bless the girls that would someday be the wives of our boys. I would pray for them to have good homes, with parents who loved them, and to know safety. I would pray for them to know Jesus…for them to come to know Him. I would pray for God to prepare these little girls to be the women He had planned for them to be so that they could be the best wives for these little boys. And then I’d pray for the boys to be good men. And Sam had listened.

“I don’t know, my Sammie Lamb, but I hope so. Not all girls are raised to know how to cook, but if she wants, we can teach her. ”

His face frowned in concentration as he contemplated something so foreign to what he himself knew. I was blessed to be able to be at home part of the day, to be able to cook and bake and savor the fleeting, precious moments while my babies were young. Every day brought something new and warm and amazing to discover about my children, and every moment brought them closer to growing up.

He gave the mix a vigorous stir and handed it to me to pour into the pan and hung his head sadly, “Okay… but she needs to be able to make brownies.”

I tried to hide the giggle that bubbled at his seriousness. “Well, son, if she can’t, you can. You know how to make brownies.”

His gaze shot to mine and a slow grin spread along with a decisive nod. “Yes, I can. I can make the brownies.” And with that he was off the counter, racing to find Aaron and get back to their Star Wars Battle Station Galactica play set. I knew that as soon as they heard the timer buzz they’d both be there, ready for milk and warm brownies.

Brownies aren’t just for breakfast; they’re an offering, a delicious prayer that my grown up babies will find that safe, sure, and giving love with a special someone God has prepared for them.

Someone who will take the time to go into the kitchen of life with them, open a box of brownie mix, and together add the ingredients that are as necessary for brownies as for marriage. Faith in God like eggs to hold it all together; purpose like water that converts sucrose to glucose and maltose to glucose, to make committed decisions and thoughtful choices that lead them toward their shared goals; and ardor like oil to moisten their lives with laughter, adventures, and memories. Maybe they’ll throw in some nuts for fun, or some peanut butter for whimsy. And as the years go by, they will stir and stir, pour and bake, and create something more wonderful than they could ever imagine, just because all the right things were added.

Because without those key ingredients, a brownie is just not a brownie.

It’s only Monday and the walnut-peanut butter-brownie pile has dwindled noticeably. I admit nothing. Hmmm. Better get the brownie mixing bowl out again. Can’t start the day without a good breakfast brownie!

Who’s Talking Now?

Posted on October 1, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

“Do you think they have them there?” I asked my daughter as we pulled out of the driveway, going to find a little sock like thingy that attachs to the key ring and holds the car remote with the broken plastic piece that allows you to normally attach it to the key ring.

Hannah, texting while answering me, “I don’t know everything in their inventory. We’ll have to see.”

“Ah,” I said, “but we expect you to know these things as you are the only one of us who has been there.”

She put down her phone and stared at me suspiciously, “And who is this “we” who expects me to know this?”

“Just me, myself and I,” I countered, thrilled to have that comeback.

She smiled and picked back up her phone that had buzzed. “That would be the trio that has the crazy conversations.”

She knows me too well. I am notorious for talking to myself, arguing with myself, questioning myself, answering myself, and maintaining a running conversation with just me, myself and I. When I drive, I constantly talk to cars and streetlights. I talk to the computer when it doesn’t do what I want it to do or when I’m trying to figure out what to do when I hit something I shouldn’t and the screen does its own thing. I talk to the cats, but they listen and sometimes meow back.

When my office was a cubicle in a large room with others, my poor coworkers were constantly saying “What?” or “Are you talking to me or you?” When one was moved to another area he told me he had picked up my habit and now others were always asking him those questions. When I told him I was sorry to have passed that on, he said, “Actually, I’m not, because it’s helped me sometimes.”

I think, seriously, that I am ADD and self-talk helps me focus on what I need to do, my thought process, my action plan one step at a time. If I don’t talk myself through my tasks, I get lost as my mind flits, runs, flirts and wrestles with dozens of unrelated and irrelevant thoughts and I find myself off task, off track, out of focus and floundering to get back to whatever it was I was supposed to be doing, or thinking. I seem to only be focused when I am writing or talking – only at those times do the flighty trio of me, myself and I somewhat collaborate and stay, if not on the same line, at least on the same page.

I have had people tell me this should make me a quick comeback person, but that is so not true for me. I rarely, as in never, have quick comebacks. I’m the person who thinks of the comeback at 4 in the morning three weeks later. And by then it is so good that I could kick myself for not having it when it could have been useful! I wonder if talking to myself so much makes it difficult for me to respond in a timely manner to others? I seem to fail miserably at sparkly social interaction outside my very own trio. Someone gave me a magnet one time that said, “I live in my own little world, but it’s okay – they know me there.” I can identify with that one.

I also talk aloud to the Lord – Jesus Christ – and I know with all my heart He listens.

I don’t buy into the positive self-talk stuff but I do buy into what God says about who we are and His promises. When I googled talking to oneself aloud, however, this little tidbit came up. “When you talk out loud to yourself you cause yourself to focus intently on the challenge, situation, or circumstance. This activity increases the likelihood of obtaining a desirable solution more quickly. It is easy to daydream nonproductively for an hour or two, but it only wastes time and doesn’t give you the results you’d like to have. It is incredibly powerful hearing your own voice emotionally proclaiming what you intend and expect to accomplish. Talking out loud to yourself can go a long way in helping you to move on.”
— Bill Wayne (from The Power of Talking Out Loud to Yourself)

I actually like that because to me it makes sense.

As Hannah, who is a student driver, was driving the other day a car seemed as if it were going to pull out in front of her.

“No, car, don’t you do that!” she said and then glanced at me, grinning. “Don’t say anything.”

I couldn’t because I was laughing.

When we came to the stoplight she looked over at me and laughed. “Oh my gosh, I’m going to be just like you, aren’t I? I’m already talking to cars and I don’t even have my license.”

And the trio approves.

Lily

Posted on September 27, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

Lily

She first came to me in dreams that sent me driving around looking for a white kitty beside a curb. In my dream I saw the kitty just sitting there as cars rushed by and I could see pavement. I remember being fearful that someone would run over the kitty. As I would drive around town I kept my eyes peeled for a kitty and I asked my family to do so. They were used to me doing this so they didn’t think my request was that odd. Almost always I’ve dreamed about the kitties that have joined our family before it happened, and crazy cat lady that I am, instead of dreaming about the baby I’d give birth to during my pregnancies, I dreamt about having a kitten. The dream about the white kitty persisted over weeks that led to months. There were days I would drive around with Hannah and we’d look carefully beside the roadways. I was certain I would find this kitty but as the months passed I gave up and stopped being as watchful. Then, coming back from picking up Hannah at a friend’s house about ten miles from ours, I noticed something in the road ahead that didn’t move as the cars flew by about 35 or 40 mph. Sure we’d see a dead animal in the road, I stared at the spot as we, too, sped past. “Stop! Go back!” I yelled, “It’s the white kitty!” We turned around and went back as cars continued to race past. I jumped from the car and approached the kitty who lay with its back toward me about a foot into the roadway that gave off from a slight dirt embankment that had only a rounded corner curb at the edge of the property. As I approached I spoke to the cat who made no movement whatsoever. Thinking it may be dead, I reached down with both hands and when I touched it, huge blue eyes looked up at me. I tightened my grip, scooped up the cat and headed to the car with it. “It’s deaf,” I said, sitting the unusually calm cat on my lap. I clapped and the ears didn’t twitch. I shook my keys and nothing. “This kitty is definitely deaf. Who in the world would let a deaf kitty outside near the street?” She looked up at me and seemed to say, “No matter. I’m yours.” We brought her home to join our menagerie and as the days passed we learned some things about her. Not only was she deaf but she had never learned how to bathe herself. She didn’t understand purring, either, but she did make a screechy meow sound when she was irritated. We named her Lily. The other cats were fascinated by her and tried every intimidating growl and hiss they had in their bag of tricks to no avail. She supremely and sublimely ignored them. When the vacuum cleaner came on and they all ran, Lily stayed put. When any heavy equipment such as the table saw was used, Lily slept through it. And the blow dryer that sent all cats running for cover held no fear over her to their confusion; they’d peep from under the bed to see her laying, placid and serene on the counter. Thus, Lily established herself as a force to be reckoned with and a separate entity from the kitty cliques that live with us. No one takes her food, no one takes her napping spot, no one messes with her because if they do she screeches a sound that sends shivers up even their backs. They’ve learned to leave her be. So Lily lives in her own silent world, in peace and harmony with her surroundings. She bothers no one and no one bothers her. She is the most serene of cats and the mattiest since she doesn’t bathe and hates to be brushed. Her favorite thing is to drink running water and when thus occupied I’m able to snip a mat here and there but if she catches on to it, woe to my hands as her lightning paw streaks back and scratches me. She detests the scissors. Into our household cats and kittens come and go, some make friends and others try to bully. Lily, however, ignores it all and goes about her business with quiet, silent grace. She is, indeed, my dream kitty.

Big Mac

Posted on September 26, 2012 by Patti Wade, Author

Most people seem to be dog people to some degree and some are dog ONLY people. We aren’t those people. We are cat people first, but we don’t shun, harm, poison, kick, set fire to, shoot at, drive down, or otherwise do mean and cruel things to dogs. In fact, we’ve almost always had a dog in the house, albeit one who wished, wished, wished he was a cat. We have one right now. His name is Mac.

When Hannah begged for this dog, he was an older puppy with all the horrible habits of a big dog older puppy. His portfolio of items chewed and mangled beyond salvage include garden hoses, shoes, numerous towels and rugs left laying over something out back to dry, various and sundry parts to various and sundry tools and equipment, several weed whackers, a pop up tent and its case, my brand new cushions for my brand new outdoor wicker sofa set, bits and pieces of my brand new outdoor wicker sofa set, a couple of those metal folding lawn chairs, two – count them – two bamboo tiki torches, somebody’s cell phone left here but we don’t know whose, an unrecognizable wallet possibly belonging to the mysterious cell phone owner, a wall plug for supposedly the cell phone that was left here that we can’t identify, and a camera complete with case and SD cards. I’m sure there are more items but I’ve done my best to put them from memory. My threats to get rid of him resulted in dramatic protests and then he seemed to just stop chewing. I guess after you’ve tasted a tiki torch and such nothing else holds much interest. For that, we are thankful.

Though he is a big dog, Mac thinks he is cat sized. This came to our attention the first time he was boarded while we were on vacation. I received a call from the Pet Smart Hotel telling me he was doing well and asking if he was used to playing with small dogs. Wondering if Mac had a secret life while we were away during the day at school and work, I answered that he wasn’t. He then asked me if we had a cat and I said we did and asked why. “Well, you’ve set up playdates for him and since he’s a big dog, we put him with the big dogs but he was afraid of them. So we put him with the medium-sized dogs and he was still afraid. He went in next with the small dogs and he seemed comfortable with the chihuahuas. He still acts like they are bigger than him, though. It’s probably because he thinks he’s the size of a cat. We just wanted to make sure of what we were dealing with here.” And on our return, Mac’s playdate report card showed an A in behavior and said “I like to play with little dogs!” I threatened to trade him in for a real little dog.

Though he sees himself as cat sized, that doesn’t keep him from chasing the outside cats. We are indoor cat people but one lives in the backyard and a neighbor’s cat is her dining companion every night at feeding time. When Mac’s kitty-senses start tingling, he has an arfy fit to go outside and chase them both back to their places; our cat to the top of my worn out ’67 Mustang that sits dilapidated awaiting someone to love it, and the neighbor cat to the top of the fence. He then springs, not jumps, but springs like Tigger while making a pitiful whining sound and emitting high-pitched tiny barks while maintaining eye contact with the cats until we drag him in. I consistently tell him if he doesn’t stop, he goes.

Dragging Mac around is what we do a lot. This is our only dog that hasn’t learned to come when called. He is stubborn, mulish and fifty other synonyms that all mean pig-headed. In the mornings before we leave, Hannah pulls him from the couch after making him a delicious breakfast sans tiki torches and holding his front paws in her hands, walks him on two legs as she leads him out the door. Her conversations with him as this is happening go something like, “It’s time, Mac, come on, you know the routine, put one foot in front of the other, there you go, see you can do this, if you’d walk out on all four this wouldn’t be so hard, and out the door we go….” This is much more effective, and quiet, than if I’m left to get him out the door. On those days, I’d like to really get rid of him.

We thought he was a dingo of some kind because he doesn’t howl like most dogs and it’s not the howl of a husky but rather has a howl-trill that mimics an old-fashioned siren and goes Woo-ah-woo-ah-woo-ah Wooooooooo! The first time we heard it we all ran to the window to see where it was coming from. That mutt.

More recently we conceded to Mac’s heretofore “secret” excursions on the couches. Only the cats had been allowed the privilege of resting on the couches with us, but the minute we’d walk out of the room he’d jump on the couch and get cozy. He’d stealthily slide off when he heard us coming down the hall and look everywhere but at us when we’d ask if he’d been on that couch. After noting more dog hair than cat hair on the couches, I decided to throw a sheet over them. It’s as if he knew, instantly, that meant he could get up there openly to enjoy his naps. He’s almost convinced he’s a cat.

Mild to a fault, Mac has always been the dog that we were sure would both welcome and help intruders to the best cat food on the shelves. Several weeks ago, however, he showed he actually did have value as a dog. My mom was over and someone came to the door. As she went to open it Mac, who normally just lays there wagging his tail or stands there wagging his tail, sprang between her and the door so that she had difficulty opening it. Confused by behavior she’d never seen, she cracked the door slightly knowing the security screen was locked and closed. Two men were there but Mac was growling fiercely, showing teeth we didn’t know he had, and acting as if he’d do to those men what he’d done to the tiki torches. They left in a hurry.

I snapped these pictures of him the other day as I was asking him if he was a cat or dog, and then asking him if he was a big dog or a little dog. Whatever he is, or whatever he thinks he is, I no longer threaten to get rid of him. Just look at that face! Mac is, finally, one of us.

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Patti Wade

Immovable Faith

Tag Archives: Patti Wade Zint

When the Lights are Low

Shelved

The Power of a Card

Seeds or Stones?

The Blessings of Other Women

The Bandersnatch, Feline Version

Tides

Cover

What I learned from Hannah’s story

The Other Role a Teacher Plays

From the Mouths of Cats

Weirdly Wired and Jumping

Waiting…Somewhat Patiently

Anticipation…

What’s in a Cake?

Co-Conspirators

Breakfast Brownies

Who’s Talking Now?

Lily

Big Mac

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