Soldier Boy

I have a prayer for our soldiers today, and I am grateful for the reminder to lift them up. I'm sorry that I needed the reminder, and for any offense I might cause in sharing this story.

It started with gas. I was filling up at the Valero in Temple, waiting for Lauren's sweetheart to finish at the hospital so I could take him home. The young man in the car next to me kept staring at me, and I was a little uncomfortable. I pumped my gas, put the handle back on the thingamajig, and got ready to return to my car.

He said, "Excuse me, Ma'am. Can I ask you to buy me a breakfast sandwich? I said, "Excuse me?" He said, "Can I ask you to buy me a sandwich? I'm hungry."

I said, "What's going on?" He had a pick-up truck full of suitcases, but he had a weird look on his face.

"I just got back from Iraq a few months ago, and I put the last of my money in my gas tank, and I'm hungry."

He was wearing civilian clothes, so I asked, "You're in the military?"

"Yes, Army, Ma'am."

I said, "Do you have an ID card?" Forgive me, Lord, for being so skeptical.

"I've got a VA card." He pulled an ID card out of his wallet, with his name and photo and the words, "Service related injury." I guess that's what the VA issues to injured soldiers. "I have PTSD and I'm not doing too well."

I went to my wallet, and all I had was $6.00. "You can have what I have."

"I'm just hungry. I swear. I'll go in this store right here and buy a sandwich."

I said, "Okay, I'll watch your truck." He went into the service station, and a lady got into the passenger seat. She was a good bit older than him. I asked her, "What's the matter?"

"He just got back from Iraq, he has PTSD, his wife left him, and I'm taking him to the VA but I just gave him what money I had to put in his gas tank. I'm his aunt, and my husband and I have given him all we have." She tried to hand me 11 cents. "You can have the change from the gas."

"No, I don't want that. I just wanted to make sure he really needed help." Please forgive me, Lord. For doubting this opportunity you've given me.

She said, "I don't blame you, people trick people all the time. But I know God will bless you and I thank you for helping him. He's tried to take his life twice and I'm going to try to get the VA to help him."

I said, "I know this has been a hard war on so many young people. I'm glad he has you."

She said, "Today I'm glad he has you. Thank you, Ma'am."

I feel like such a heel. Why should this soldier have to prove his need for help to me? For a whopping six bucks? I felt so angry with myself. I got into my truck and left, but pulled over a few blocks later, tears filling my eyes. Why Lord? Why must I doubt the opportunities you give me to be your hands, your feet, your heart?

I hope this soldier boy gets the help he needs. Sometimes the war feels so far away, but here he is, a young man, fighting for his life in the only way he knows how...trusting our health care system to help him make sense of his journey long after leaving foreign soil. And I treated him like a foreigner, a stranger.

I've got this boy on my heart now, and I will lift him up. And for all my military friends and family, I ask for forgiveness, and say thank you for your service, which is what I should have said first and foremost today to that soldier boy.

Time

When my children were little, time was not my friend. The clock was always ticking in my head, sometimes a whisper but other times a bomb, and I was aware of its control over my days. The early morning alarms for school and work, interrupting LaurenChristiCarlisleMichelleCharlotte deep in slumber to eatbreakfastgetdressedbrushteethgetbackpackcatchbus, or the tick-tock whiplash of rushing to doctordentist or even Bible study. I remember once admonishing my friends for being late to Protestant Women of the Chapel. Who in the hell did I think I was?

Time was a control freak and a thief. Time whipped me about, fraying my nerves and eating my peace. One of the things I loved about breastfeeding was the way we rose in the middle of the night, oblivious to time because I was so tired, but grateful for the stolen moments given to us when the rest of the house slept. It was our time to get to know each other, and I treasured it.

Even birthday parties were driven by time--Christi running to the door to greet her friends hit her head on the door frame and suffered a concussion. Only 4 years old, but I was teaching her to hurry. Time beat me up when I was a young mother. Time was relentless and unstoppable, consuming daysweeksmonthsyears and I was at a loss to figure out where it went.

I remember the painful agonizing passage of time, waiting for teenagers to come in the door, meeting or not meeting curfew, and the welcome or angry arms that greeted them. Time represented benchmarks-- kindergarten, middle school, high school, college.

Time screamed at me when Bo died, the past and the future wailing.

But today time has a different place. It is a gift, a treasure. I have this moment I am in right now, the moments in front of me. What will I do with this moment? How will it count? Will I waste time or squander it? Will I notice it? Will I make it matter- this moment? This gift?

I have choices...time is mine and I am His.

Opportunities

Christi and Ryan planned a trip to Vegas so she could attend her Uppercase Living convention, so I volunteered to watch the kids. Pretty nice of me, huh? Here's the thing...right when we think we're being the nice guy, we find out that the tables are completely turned on their heads. I arrived Monday afternoon, and Christi gave me the schedule for the week. I've raised 5 children, I kind of know how to do this. But homemaking as a grandma is quite different from homemaking as a momma, because you have to do things the way momma does them. That's what makes kids feel secure when their little world changes. I'm proud of Christi as a momma, and it was such a blessing to experience the great parenting she and Ryan have done for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year, for 10 years.

I prayed for safety first and foremost, because I sure didn't want anything to happen to these children on my watch (or any other watch). God was so merciful...He protected us in all ways.

Then I prayed that Christi and Ryan could relax, trusting that all was well at home so they could truly have some rest in spite of their busy Vegas schedule. I wanted them to have a little respite from parenthood. And I think God answered that prayer in spades.

I prayed for peace and joy and patience and kindness, and He multiplied all of these things through the course of the week. I took the girls to VBS each day, and Jackson and I had our own kind of fun. I had forgotten a little about the rituals of parenting, how you do the same things over and over every day in order to create stability and security. If I deviated from the routine, the kids were sure to tell me. On the other hand, we were partners in crime a few times, doing things "momma doesn't allow." Jigsaw puzzles, baby dolls, guitar recitals, puppet shows, arts and crafts, library visits, ice cream cones, scooters, bicycles, hula hoops, kitchen chores, laundry, bandaids, car seats, play dates, matinees...our week was full.

Michelle was with me each evening when she got off work at 9 or 10, and helped me get everyone dressed in fashionable outfits each morning before she left for school. Although Michelle doesn't have children of her own, she is completely invested in the happiness and well-being of her nieces and nephews, and that's no small commitment. My week was full, and God blessed me by giving me this awesome opportunity to "grandma" my grandkids throughout the week.

I get to see Carlisle's family in just a few days, so I will get to "grandma" the twins some more as well! It's so hard to live so far away from Shayleigh and Carlisle. But, I won't lie, it was a relief to see Christi and Ryan come home, so I could hand off all the responsibility.

I think I remember it was Charles Dickens who said, "Children are a heritage of the Lord, and it is not a slight thing when those who are so fresh from God love us." I got to experience that love all week long, and I am so grateful for the opportunity...wouldn't have missed it for the world.

When they wrapped their little arms around me as we kissed good night, it reminded me all over again of my own children, and how I loved that time of day. The sweet, clean smell of their bathtub-fresh skin, the tenderness of their bedtime whispers, the stubborn refusal to call it quits for the day, the time-tested bed time stories, the gentle surrender to sleep. Memories of my children and my grandchildren blend together, and I am happy, truly happy.

Black Man

It's kind of a funny story. I told my girls a couple of years ago that I really missed having a warm body in bed next to me (now that the dog was gone) and I wished they would invent a pillow that had a kind of man shape. And wouldn't it be nice if they went ahead and had it look like Robert Redford or Tom Cruise? Well, little did I know Lauren stored that idea in her memory banks, and I got quite a surprise on Christmas morning. When it was my turn to open a gift, out comes a large, life-sized "man-shaped" pillow. He was quite a handsome fellow, but Lauren explained that Wal-Mart was out of flesh-colored felt, so he was actually a dark brown man, dressed in snazzy navy blue moose pajamas. He had some extra flashy features, like a thick bush of chest hair she'd sewn on using fabric from the fur department, and he actually had quite a piece of equipment down below if you know what I mean. She explained the meaning of the words "happy trail" and showed me how she'd gone to the trouble to provide this endowment. Well, needless to say I was quite shocked. I don't know if it was the anatomical correctness of the man or his sheer size, but I was a bit afraid of him, to tell you the truth. So, I had a little trip to take to Florida to visit Carlisle and his family, and I left from Christi's house instead of going back to my house with all my Christmas gifts. I decided to park "the Dude" as we affectionately called him, on Christi's elliptical bike in her bedroom, until I returned. I guess he kind of freaked Christi out on that bike, so she told me in no uncertain terms that I was to pick up the dude on my way back from Florida and take him to my house. In the meantime, she stuffed him under Avery's bed. Well, I guess I came back from Florida, life got busy, and I forgot to pick up the dude. Christi called me a few weeks later, explaining a scary scenario. Avery had a little friend spend the night, and during the slumber party, somehow the dude under the bed got jostled, and Avery's friend called her momma, screaming that there was a black man under Avery's bed and she wanted her mom to pick her up in the middle of the night. Christi was able to reassure the mom that there was no black man under the bed, only a large pillow of a black man, and then called me screaming that I better pick up the dude or he was going to the dumpster. Well, I've been raised with pretty good manners, I knew I couldn't throw my Christmas gift in the dumpster, so I told her I would pick him up. The next time I was in Houston, Christi stuffed the dude in the back of my truck. I have a cover on the truck bed, so he would remain unseen in the back, although I did offer to loan him to Ryan so he could commute in the HOV lane with his passenger. Ryan declined my kind offer. So, the dude rode back home to Fort Hood with me, hidden away in the back of the truck. Life got busy again, and because he was out of sight, he was out of mind. Forgot all about the dude in the back of the truck. Until I was driving through College Station a few weeks later and had a blow-out on the highway. I was sitting on the side of the the road, waiting for USAA to send a roadside assistance driver to help me change the tire. A nice driver came to rescue me, and we prepared to get the front tire changed. It was on the driver's side, and there was a lot of traffic, so I was not going to attempt to do it myself. As we got the jack, etc, set up, a nice Highway Patrol officer pulls up on the frontage road, and walks across the grass to see if we need any help. He was a nice looking African American, tall and brawny, and had that cool Stetson. He told the roadside assistance man that he would get the damaged tire stored out of the way, so he began to roll the bad tire to the back of the truck. Omg. I forgot about the dude back there. Right as he opened the tailgate, I began to try to explain. Officer, please understand, I got this Christmas gift from my daughter, etc, etc....and it just went downhill from there as he looked at the dude, looked at me, and then stored the tire in the bed of the truck. If looks could kill. Then he said, "Uh, ma'am, can I see your driver's license?" Now who needs a driver's license for a flat tire? Omg.omg. He takes my license, goes back across the ditch to his vehicle, and gets onto his computer. Luckily I had no outstanding warrants, parking tickets, etc, so he returns to my vehicle, gives me my license without a word, and ignored my repeated thank you's for his roadside assistance. I drove under 50 mph back to Killeen, praying the spare would not fail me. Well, lucky for me the tire place man did not seem to notice the dude when he pulled my blown tire out of the bed of the truck and replaced it with a new tire, and I got home safely. I had an early morning meeting the next day with a bunch of my librarian friends, and told them my story. Like most librarians, they are all about research, so they really wanted to see the dude to appreciate whether or not he was truly anatomically correct. So there we were in the front parking lot of Peebles Elementary, a bunch of librarians, checking out the dude's happy trail. They were quite impressed, but we all had to run inside before we peed in our pants from the laughter. So, the dude remained in the bed of the truck, and I pondered how to tell Lauren that I'd decided I had to get rid of the dude. Well, I was driving to work a couple of weeks later, and I work at Fort Hood, where we have to drive through a security gate and checkpoint to enter the post. Each day, a nice security guard checks your identification card, gives you a friendly greeting, and you go your merry way. But every once in a while, they do random security inspections of your vehicle, just to keep the post safe and sound from terrorists, thugs, etc. Well, the gate guard surprised me one day by telling me I'd been selected for a random security screening. I was running a little late, and thought, darn, I'm going to be late, but I pulled over into the little overhang to get checked when I realized I still had the dude in the back of my truck. Now what? He was going to scare them to death, and I really respect the job those gate guards do every day. So, I got ready to get out of my truck to explain it to them. They said I was to open the hood of my truck, the back gate, all doors and the glove compartment. When I got to the back of the truck, I said, "Guys, you're not going to believe this..." and it went downhill from there. They gave my vehicle a thorough search, laid the dude on the ground and did a full body search, then held him up in the air for the world to see before they stuffed him back where he came from. I was so humiliated. Got to work late, explained my tardiness to my coworkers, and naturally they all needed to see the dude to appreciate the seriousness of my situation. I decided the dude had to go. That night when I got home, under cover of darkness, I took the dude out of the back of my truck and stuffed him in the garage. There he sits, in between the boxes of old books and pots and pans, standing guard over the house and all its' contents. If ever a burglar ventures in, I'm pretty sure the dude will scare them to death. He's large and menacing in his moose pajamas, and he makes a really good watch dude. Lauren doesn't understand why on earth I don't sleep with him, but I've told her I sleep like a baby knowing he's out there. Someday I'll part with him for good, but in the meantime, he gives me a good chuckle, and you never know when you might need a tall black man to come to your aid. Happy trails!

Whittling

We are sitting in Lauren's backyard about midnight, looking out over about 100 acres, the sky navy blue and studded with stars. And we are talking about life, but it strikes me that we are really talking about whittling. A woodcarver starts with a chunk of wood and a vision. There have been lots of events in her life and in mine that have pared us down, made us sharper and brought focus and uniqueness to bear in making us who we are. A lot of that has involved hard work, and some of it has even been painful. But the journey's in the process, not the finished product. And I think that's where God calls to us, in his age-old whisper...He calls us to recognize the path. The twists and turns are His way of honing us and creating us in His image. I was wondering if God has anything to say about woodcarving, and He does! In Exodus 35:30, he tells us that His spirit brings us wisdom, understanding, and ability in every kind of craft, to include carving wood. Wisdom has been a study I've worked on for some time, and Lauren shared with me some insights from her childhood that gave her wisdom beyond her years. Perhaps more than any other gift she's shown me since we celebrated her birth 32 years ago has been her uncanny understanding that exceeds her age. At birth, she understood my need for her and her need for me...when she entered school, she understood the need to succeed...when she welcomed each younger sibling into the family, she understood the added responsibility of being the oldest. Today she understands how to let go of the past and live in the present. She's teaching me how to do that as well. She has the woodcarver's vision; she's able to see beneath the rustic exterior of a chunk of wood what it is capable of becoming...she can see the wood's future...and it's something I love about who she is. What a gift it is to give someone understanding, and what a present it is to be understood. We sit in the silence of the time just past midnight, and listen to the far-off cries of coyotes and their pups. In the distance, you can hear the lazy yawns of cattle as they settle into the grass, hay ready to be cut. There is a light breeze, and it scoots a few leaves around our feet. We laugh at her lab, crunching on beetles and pecans he's discovered in the yard. A star shoots across the sky and I whisper my simple wish for my firstborn...happy birthday.

Seven Wonders

I talk to these dogs, and I think they know exactly what I'm saying. I have been accused of hiding cookies in my pocket to insure I have their full attention, but I'm not ashamed of that. I think dogs are among the 7 Wonders of the World. As it turns out, there's a lot of disagreement about what the seven wonders are anyways. I think Chichen Itza in the Yucatan is pretty amazing as pyramids go, but dogs stack up higher in my opinion. I can't argue with Christ the Redeemer in Rio; there is really no other icon like it on earth. The Colosseum in Rome is pretty hard to beat, too, but it's manmade, unlike a labrador retriever, so the dog is just naturally more miraculous. The Great Wall is amazing, so they say, but I'll take a long path with a good dog any day. Machu Pichu is not a bad name for a dog, if you ask me. And Petra in Jordan is beautiful, but again, man-made, and there's just no contest. The Taj Mahal will probably always rank on the short list of wonders, so I concede that it probably won't get bumped off the list. I've had my share of wonder dogs. I had a dog when I was a kid: Tuffy. He was a dachshund, with more torso than tuffness, and he lived a very long life. It was one of my mom's recurring nightmares, the day she backed the car into the garage to unload groceries and ran him over. We had nursed him through broken bones, spinal troubles, seizures, innoculations, and heartworms but he bit the dust in the darn driveway. When I worked at Graves Mountain Lodge in high school, my friends gave me a little Beagle pup as a going-away gift. I'll never forget telling my mom when I flew into Dallas from Virginia that we had to pick up my luggage in the cargo area. She met Otto and fell in love, just like I did. Otto got bitten by a rattlesnake in our backyard, and Dr. Jimmie Aycock, God love him, nursed him for 3 days before little Otto succumbed to the venom's damage. When I got married, our first dog was an Irish Setter, Rusty, who tried to dig his way out of the house during thunderstorms. He drank from a puddle when he was 8 years old, but as it turned out, the puddle was run-off from grass that had just been watered and he was poisoned by the arsenic in the lawn chemicals. It only cost a couple hundred dollars for the autopsy to figure that out. I carried him into the emergency vet office in Savannah on Bo's shelter-half, and he was buried in that little pup tent. We bought Hobo for Carlisle when we were in Indianapolis, and a boy never loved a dog more. The memory of that golden retriever chasing my golden-haired boy across the cornfield will always make me smile. We lost Hobo in a car accident and the whole family bawled like babies for days. God how we loved that dog. It took a while, but we got another golden retriever, Tramp, and she filled that gaping hole that Hobo left in our lives. Tramp was a jewel. Loyal, lazy, joyful. She gave us a litter of 9 puppies, and we still get Christmas cards from some of them. When we got the call from the cemetery that Bo's gravestone had been installed, we made a family trip to Bushnell National Cemetery. Tramp walked way ahead of the kids, and laid down on Bo's grave, marking the place for us. She died shortly after that visit. None of us handled her loss very well. We waited a year, and a neighbor asked for our help. Buddy was an older dog who needed a home and we welcomed him with open arms. A big, fluffy Golden, he thought he was a lap dog. Loved to sleep on the couch, could eat a whole tray of chocolate chip cookies off the kitchen counter, and liked to talk. He would cross his legs before he'd ever have an accident in the house. He slept beside me every night until he was too old and infirm to climb the stairs, and I spread his ashes over the lake he loved to swim in. Now I'm dogless. I have two loyal friends at Christi's house, Cookie and Emma, who stay with me when Christi and Ryan are on the road. Cookie's a rescue, a great big white shepherd who is very attached to her people, and Emma, the little schitzpoo who adores her peeps as well. They feel secure at Grandma's house. Sometimes I borrow Lauren's labs, waiting for the day when I get another dog of my own. I'm being a little cautious because those attachments are so strong and so tough to handle when they're broken. But I know my Wonder boy is out there, just waiting for me to claim him.

All Ribbit and No Relationship

I've heard it said that you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you meet your Prince, and if that's true, then my girls have smooched a few toads. Ever since they were little little girls, I prayed that God would start to prepare the hearts of the boys that would grow up to be the great men that they would each marry. We are still on the hunt for those guys. Perhaps the thing each girl has in common is their uncanny ability to see all the wonderful attributes each frog has to offer...he can hop really far, he has very few warts, his skin is the most beautiful shade of chartreuse...you get the picture. I am going to change my prayer...that God would make those frogs the kindest, most generous, most respectful amphibians out there, so we can quit wasting those sweet kisses on the wrong kind of frogs. Frogs are cold-blooded, and we really don't want that kind of man. Frogs move about on their bellies, and we don't want a man who does that either. Frogs lack scales, and excrete mucous through their skin, and that's just plain disgusting. Did you know that a frog sheds his skin all the time, just yanks it off his head like a sweater and then eats it? That's just gross. In order to eat, a frog squashes his eyeballs down so he can swallow his food. We've actually seen a few men eat like that, and it's not appealing in frogs or menfolk. Most frogs are all ribbit and no relationship, they move from mate to mate. Did you know frogs have top teeth, and no bottoms? We met a suitor like that, and no teeth is a red flag, for sure. Not the right match for any of my girls. I'm ready to call in a herpetoculturist to get some help for these 3, but in the meantime, if you see these beauties, go ahead and give 'em a kiss. They're actually the finest lillies in the pond.