After

Let the King of my heart

Be the mountain where I run

The fountain I drink from

Oh, He is my song

And let the King of my heart

Be the shadow where I hide

The ransom for my life

Oh, He is my song

Yes You are good

You're good, oh-oh

You are good

You're good, oh-oh

You’re never gonna let, never gonna let me down.

This song was sung in churches all over the world last Sunday, including the one I attended. It builds from quiet petition in the verse to cry of proclamation in the chorus. As a lyricist myself, its easy to appreciate the artful marriage of words and music in this one. And yet, it has troubled me. 

My oldest children, a set of twin boys lived their toddler/preschool years in the age of VHS tapes. Like most moms I knew at the time,  I began building a library of Disney movies on VHS. Every day before nap time, they were allowed to pick out one to watch. I can still see the white plastic cases strewn across my living room as they came to a compromise on the day’s selection.

Because we were a twin boy house, more often than not we wound up watching either The Lion King or Tarzan. To this day, I can quote not only the words to every song, but the dialogue, complete with inflection, intonation and perfectly timed pauses in each of these movies. It is the soundtrack of their childhood and can instantly teleport me back to that treasured season of my life.

While Luke (my musical one) and Simba belted out that they just couldn’t wait to be king, Sean (the adventurer) liked to strip down to his skivvies and pretend he was swinging and sliding through the trees with Tarzan.

I lost my Earthly Father to Parkinson’s Disease on March 30th this year. It was a long battle, fought courageously over the last 20 years. I watched him face each loss of driving, golfing, fishing, walking, talking and eating with astonishing grace. And while the trajectory of decline had changed in the last 6 months, nothing as a daughter or a nurse could have prepared me for the final week of his life. 

He did not go quickly or easily and followed none of the usual patterns that tell nurses that the moment is close. He was too strong, too stubborn for that. As someone who sees the end of life with regularity, preparing and helping families through it, this was... well, insulting to me. After all, this was a primary reason I became a nurse, to help in this very moment. 

Grief, so far for me can best be described as endless falling. I keep waiting for a crash landing. To absorb the entire brunt of reality. An impact that stops all the whys and what ifs. A “this is the total sum of your pain: feel it, find the meaning in it, and move on” moment. It doesn’t come. 

Those twin boys I mentioned just finished their sophomore years in college. Their futures as well as that of their younger brother, Nolin were starting to take shape. Luke was to be married in May. Sean would graduate from the Air Force Academy in 2 short years and Nolin from high school. So much on the horizon for all of them. So much my dad would have loved to see. He adored them.  And he would not live to see any of it. We did not get the Disney ending.

And now we meander the path of “After.” Trying to strike a balance between keeping him here with shared memories and not triggering someone else’s despair. Wondering which phase (sometimes by the hour) of the Kubler-Ross model I’m in. 

And then there’s the theological elephant in the room. I am well-versed in the concepts of sovereignty, free will, the fallen world and could quote Job 1:21 as a memory verse before I could tie my shoes, so you can put your piety back in your pocket. That won’t be of any help to us here. I am just looking to find a safe place for my questions. Why now? Why this way? Did I miss something? As a nurse, should I have been a more aggressive health advocate? What is the lesson here? (Microphone tap) Is this thing on?? Because God seems so very quiet about now. And  as hard as it may be to hear, its even harder to sing, “You’re never gonna let me down.”

We had friends over this past weekend with a newborn. It has been too long since I’ve been in the presence of that purity. He was precious and perfect. The sweet little guy had  colic and was having an especially rough night. His tiny face grew red with discomfort, legs drawn up to his stomach, writhing and crying pitifully. All of us in attendance passed him around, hoping someone had the magical touch or soothing words of comfort to help. In the end, his father without speaking a word took him out into the warm night under an Alabama sky full of stars and held him close. 

And minutes later, he brought back a now quiet, still baby staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes and lips that formed a perfect “o.” I remember a scene in Tarzan where Jane discovers a troop of monkeys. Sensing the danger she is in, Tarzan swoops in and sweeps her off her feet. Independent-minded woman that she was, Jane begins yelling, “Put me down!” When the monkeys close in, and she recognizes her circumstance, she quickly yells, “Pick me up, pick me up, pick me uuuup!” 

Indeed. All the questions that cause me to writhe, the doubts that arise, the discomfort of not knowing what comes next may just have a remedy. A warm starlit night under an Alabama sky softly singing, “You’re never gonna let, you’re never gonna let me down” as my Father holds me close, without so much as speaking a word.

Enough

It never ceases to surprise me how the mundane can transform to memorable the moment we are quiet.  It's my day off, I've just left a doctors appointment and I'm treating myself to my favorite Thai place.  I am alone so I sneak in some people watching time. 

There is a young family that just walked in with their squirmy and hungry toddler. I watched as the mom walked over to pick up the restaurant standard wooden high chair in that awkward tripod shape and was instantly transported. 

It is 1999. I'm at Cici's pizza. There are 2 toddlers and I pick up the same wooden tripods, like a purse for each arm. I push chubby legs into slots they don't want to go in. I clear wrapped silverware, glasses, Parmesan cheese shakers and any other possible projectable objects out of toddler arm reach. They reach anyway. And then come the frustrated protests. Not my first rodeo, I grab for the sippy cups. God love sippy cups! They serve the dual purpose of occupying hands and stifling loud toddler cries.
 
This buys me time to find and secure bibs, while they attempt to pull them off with their free hand.  When Sean is done with his desperate gulping, he really is done. The cup goes directly from his mouth to hurtling sideways toward a nearby table.
 
It is then I can confirm we are being watched. Of course, we are. There are 2 of them and 1 of me and people are understandably curious how this will play out. They are in 1 of the umpteen sets of matching short overalls my mother has purchased. And I'm not gonna pretend here. They are stinkin' cute.
 
I reach for the cup on the floor but the elderly man at the neighboring table has beat me to it. His wrinkled face in a full smile as he hands me the cup, chuckling and says, "Quite an arm he has there." I apologize and he and his wife won't have it. "No," they tell me. They have 4 grandchildren and they understand.
 
But now I have one more thing to watch like a hawk. Once is understandable. More than once and I'm certain it's a pronouncement on my parenting skills. I make a big show of cleaning the sippy cup, something I wouldn't bother with at home.
 
I have come here because it is a buffet. There are multiple choices in case the first 3 don't meet with finicky toddler standards. It's cheap. Most importantly, it is immediate. I won't have to dig through a diaper bag offering everything from graham crackers to gummy bears while we sweat out the eternal wait for food. I have picked a table that is strategically close to the buffet, so this mama lion can watch her cubs while hunting and gathering breadsticks and other toddler friendly cuisine.
 
Between spooning in bites of pudding to alternating mouths, I steal a bite for myself. They get done before me but that's just the way it goes. When they are done, they are done. I look at the floor under the table, littered with Weathersby crumbs. I try to pick up the big pieces and tell myself we didn't destroy the place.
 
As I leave, I know my next challenge will be to keep 2 little boys awake for the 10 minute drive home. If they fall asleep, afternoon nap is ruined. They won't go back down. I want to sleep way more than I wanted to finish my pizza.
 
A month and a week and those toddlers will graduate and go meet the world. I'm so nervous they aren't ready and I'm certain that I am not. I'm that mother that feels on display all over again. Have I done a good job? Was it enough? What did I forget?
 
I have no diaper bag full of tricks to heal a broken heart. To keep my military-bound son out of harm's way. To help my enormously talented musical son meet the right people and reach his dreams. I've got some praying to do.
 
Back in 2016, I watch this anxious mom losing her struggle to keep him happy and reasonably quiet. The meal is over. Time to go. I wish I could tell her no one is judging her. That she is enough. And that my prayer is, she can make it home before he falls asleep.

'Tis A Gift To Be Simple

I’m sitting on my cozy bedroom loveseat reading in soft light, when my husband  walks in, flips on the harsh overhead light and says, “You gotta help me figure out what to wear.” As my eyes adjust, so does my mind and I recall that the big boss, the big, BIG boss will be in town tomorrow.  He begins throwing an array of shirts and ties across our bed and demands a verdict with his eyes. If I approach this with confidence, I might get off easy. “That blue one with the blue checked tie," I offer assuredly. His face immediately sours, “No! I always wear that.” (Not getting off easy.)

“I thought you’d never met him?”

“What? No, I haven’t met him. But I always wear that combination to important things.”  (If it ain’t broke…) And so, as I realize this will only be painful for the both of us, I decide to punt. “Luuuuke!!! Seeean!! Come here!!”

You see, my husband and I are kind of like the Gift of the Magi story on steroids. He is an amazing husband. He’s thoughtful, courteous, dare I say tidy, romantic, nostalgic and a whole host of other things I don’t have time to talk about. When we were newly married he found the most awesome bed and breakfast all by his little self, complete with antique everything. Of course, I was relieved that there was a tv in the room because those were the days of Captain Comeback Jim Harbaugh and the Colts making the playoffs for the first time. He finds great restaurants, surprises and never forgets the important things.

I on the other hand, love football, football jerseys, MMA, boxing movies and telling gross stories about hideous wounds I encounter. Suffice to say, I would trust him to dress me in a heartbeat. He is, how shall we say it, “particular.”

Luke and Sean can agree on a shirt. But they immediately disagree on the tie. I don’t like either one so I’m no help whatsoever. But guess who they all want to make this decision? I thought I got disqualified in the opening heat? How quickly these things go all kinds of Jerry Springer!

Luke: “That tie is seems shorter and emphasizes your stomach more.”

Sean: “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Its yellow. Everyone knows that redheads look terrible in yellow.”

Paul dismisses them and then asks me again. As if the Holy Spirit has bestowed new gifts in the last 3 minutes. He says, “You know, the purpose of a tie is to stand out, right?” (If this were a John Grisham movie, someone would stand up right now and yell, “Objection!! Leading the witness.”  “Overruled. Ms. Weathersby, you may answer the question.) “Well…’ I started slowly, ‘it seems like the.. y, y, yellow one would stand out more against the blue, than the blue.

And then confetti fell from the ceiling fan, bells and lights began going off and… ok. So that is slightly stretching it. But I did participate in helping my husband pick out clothes. Next up, quadratic equations. Come at me, bro.

The Perils of Liberty Run Amuck

Procrastination takes on new meaning as does the term “stay of execution” in the context of my choice to put off writing my thoughts on Brittany Maynard and her decision to end her life today. She has since decided that November 1st is not the right time and so, it becomes the right time for me.

My best guess is that this will not be well received and that is the least of my worries. Framing my position is where it gets sticky. Most, if not all of you know I’m a follower of Jesus, so of course that takes precedence. But there’s another concern that must be addressed. Its bigger than this moment, and yet this moment epitomizes what troubles me right now as a citizen of these United States. 

We are completely, fall down, shit-faced drunk with freedom. There, I said it. (Sorry, mom.) Freedom, that word will stop a politician dead in his or her tracks. NO one, in any walk of life wants to be in any way associated with the mere suggestion that they want to limit anyone’s freedom. It gets comical when watching the news. Would be public servants would rather appear ridiculous as they choose semantical verbage and turn themselves into pretzels in order to avoid speaking their truth and drawing a line in the sand. 

We’ve seen it with gay marriage, gun control, border issues, quarantines and of course, right to life issues. Its like a strange version of Password or Taboo where a message is supposed to be received, but certain words cannot be invoked. I suppose that’s why I was so amused the other day at Chris Christie’s response to a heckler. Oh, I knew it would go over like a led balloon, such a foreign concept to us these days. We hide behind terms like “civil discourse” and cry foul. Freedom of speech, first amendment, blah, blah, blah. Please explain to me what is civil about a man seeking attention and interrupting a ceremony commemorating superstorm Sandy and its subsequent recovery. No one’s rights were violated. Someone was told to sit down and shut up, something his mother apparently forgot to do long ago.

No, I don’t support physician-assisted suicide or any other kind for that matter.  My reasons are shaped by so many influences. Naturally, God and His will for my life is at the top. Its more than that though. There is an interconnectedness to life that makes less sense to me when we choose to live it disjointedly. NO, I’m not a communist. Or a socialist. Or a facist. Or a member of a cult. I am an individual. I’m an individual that is part of the body of Christ. I’m part of the human race.  I’m an individual that is a citizen of these United States. I’m part of a community in South Alabama. (Still getting used to that one.)

Its my interconnectedness, my belonging that brought me to this conclusion. I am thinking of my friend who has had 7 electro-convulsive shock therapy sessions to curb the debilitating depression she suffers from. Another friend who is estranged from her adult daughters due to a painful divorce and does not get to be in her grandchildren’s lives. I am thinking of my friend who just buried her baby boy who died tragically in a drowning accident last month. I had lunch last Sunday with a beautiful teenage girl who was diagnosed with a brain tumor roughly three years ago with a grim prognosis, not dissimilar to Brittany Maynard’s.

I am thinking of family friends whose patriarch is walking through the nightmare of Lewy Body dementia. I am thinking of Kent Brantly receiving the death sentence of an Ebola diagnosis, late this summer. I am thinking of my close friend who found herself pregnant with a bi-racial child, single and unsupported by her family some 21 years ago.  I am thinking as a nurse, who encourages daily the  ALS patient to fight, even as the disease ascends through her body and encroaches on her very ability to breathe. Even as I rush her in a wheelchair out of the therapy room to suction her when she cannot breathe. I am thinking of my father, as he enters the final stages of Parkinson’s Disease. How so long ago, he wanted to give up. How getting out of bed is a mountainous task most days. How the disease has not spared his faculties and as a result, dementia has caused him to say some very hurtful things to those he loves the most. 

My friend who has endured the shock therapy had a baby girl not long ago after having five boys! (I’m so jealous.) My friend who is estranged from her daughters has a new grandbaby through her husband whom she adores and spoils rotten. My friend who lost her sweet baby boy last month posted pictures of her daughter in her Halloween costume last night. The girl in that costume has an amazing mother who will love her in a way most of us cannot truly appreciate. The girl I had lunch with had to learn to walk, talk and do everything all over again. She has since become a spokesperson for the Childrens Miracle Network and is such a joy to be around.  

My family friends whose patriarch is fighting LBD now cherish every moment, every good day that they have with him, even as those become fewer and farther between. They show gratitude to overworked, underpaid nursing staff that care for him and that love exponentiates. And who can forget the moment the world came together and prayed for Kent Brantly. And just as Kent asked, God was glorified in his life and  miraculous healing occurred. And as a result, science advanced. Serums were developed and released. Kent’s antibodies went on to assist in saving other lives. 

My best friend who found herself pregnant with a bi-racial child some 21 years ago, rose to the occasion, kept her baby, raised an amazing, beautiful daughter always being the room mom and girl scout leader and has become a personal hero, example and profile in courage for me. My ALS patient inspires me daily to be a better nurse and person. 

My dad will tell you he has had a great life. And a good portion of the highlight reel would include the years since he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. He watched me become a nurse and then we took a trip of a lifetime to California, covering everything from the redwoods to San Francisco, Monterey and the majestic Yosemite. His grandchildren have been accepted to grammy camp, been ranked first in their class, won state fair baking contests, lego contests, been to West Point math and science seminars, swim meets, wrestling matches, band contests, dances, first loves and he has heard more hilarious Nolin stories than he can count. And I’m praying there will be more. That he will see graduations, weddings, Sean go to the Air Force Academy and work for NASA and all of their dreams materialize. But even if that doesn’t happen, God is glorified in his choice to go on. 

The buzz phrase that is pitched to us is death with dignity. I do not agree. Brittany Maynard tells us she doesn’t want to put her family through what happens at the end. That she wants them to remember her with youth, vibrance, and happiness. This is where the choice IS. That is not death with dignity. That is death with vanity. Left to my own thinking, apart from the context of community, I might reach the same conclusion. But life is lived and purpose is found in community. She has said the time is not right for her, there are still too many good days. My question is, how can you possibly know when life has given you all it has to offer, all you are purposed to do?

People often tell me I must be a special person to work in this area of nursing and what a blessing I must be. The truth is, I am the blessed one. Families at their most vulnerable moments let me in their lives. They allow me to  be present during a sacred passage from this life to the next. When goodbyes and forgiveness burst out in sobs. When the meaning of real love is manifested - I want what’s best for you more than I want what you give to me. 

If we interfere and try to choose that holy moment, (and it is holy to be sure,  and CAN BE so incredibly beautiful and fear free), we miss out on what only God can reveal to us. But, I’ve slipped up here, gotten far too preachy, crossed the line and spoke MY truth. Even if, as an American you don’t share my belief in life beyond this body, you must know that sometimes the best surprises of a movie come during the rolling of the credits. And lest we forget, our inalienable rights were listed in the following order: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Praying for you, Brittany.

My First Day Here

"It's my first day here." She says this to me, eyes twinkling, wringing her hands.
"Is that right? Well, welcome! We are are so glad to have you."

Her mouth spreads into a wide grin. She says, "Thank you," nods her head and moves on.
This exchange with one of my favorite residents (ssshhh) never fails to amuse me and usually happens a couple of times a week. She of course, has been there for years.
I tell Paul she reminds me of when we were visiting churches a few years back. We would receive the first time visitors pack of bread or cookies. Sometimes they were just yummy enough that we would joke about how we could pull off being first time visitors again just to get the free loot.

This has to be one of life's greatest mysteries for me. One of my favorite movie scenes is of 
Mr. Diggery telling Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy that he expects they will probably return to Narnia again - but not through the wardrobe. No, he himself had already tried that. This scene always produces a mixture of excitement and anxiety in me. How the heck are they going to get there? It would devastate me to find such an amazing place and not know how to get back.

The truth is we rarely, if ever, return to wonderment in the same way. There is a uniqueness in experiencing something for the first time that is undeniably intoxicating and unrepeatable. It's why so many people look back on their first love through rose colored glasses. Its unlikely that things were really all that perfect or you'd probably still be together. No, a more realistic perspective is that it was all wonderfully new to you. Feeling this level of intense regard for someone else and having it reciprocated. And you miss the thrill of discovery.

Every day around 2:30, another resident comes to the desk. Her face is wrought with worry. She wants us to call her husband immediately. He got there early that morning, just left about 30 minutes ago and will be back before supper to eat with her and put her to bed. Exactly what he does 7 days a week without fail. He is not well, exhausted with the kind of fatigue that can only be understood by a caregiver and we are all worried about him. The next 2 hours become an exercise in patience. Her anxiety heightens, she accuses him of not caring about her. She cries and sometimes screams terrible things.  We try everything to redirect, explain, comfort, alleviate fears, and walk with her through this perceived crisis. She cannot trust, cannot wait. We hold our ground. When he returns, he is always so gentle, responding to her anger with love and kindness. 

I know all too well that this is a result of the disease process. This is not a judgement of her character. The truth is, I love her too. But its different. She does not trust the relationship.  She does not let me meet her needs as I see them. It saddens me as a nurse that she won't let me care for her. I hate to see her anguish, so unnecessary. What troubles me most is how much I'm like her. 

We recently learned that the renter of  our house for two years has decided to move on. He has been a great tenant. The circumstances that led him to rent our house in the first place are both comical and completely providential. Not my plan. It happened in the very last days before we moved, with no idea how we would pay rent and mortgage since I had not yet secured a job. To this day, I have no idea what we were thinking. God handled the matter seamlessly and we never lost a cent. 

Fast forward two years. We both have great, secure jobs and love where we live. So guess what happened when I learned our renter was moving out? Sheer panic. Certain doom. We may have to eat out less. How could God step out like this? I told him that I wanted our renter to buy our house and it looked like that was going to happen for awhile. Why would He do this to me? Why would he change the plans? I had it all worked out. We would have saved money on realtor fees. I have a bad back. I have two teenagers.  Why am I being persecuted?

And so I asked people to pray (aka I demanded that someone call God and tell Him to get back here stat.) I did my research, got a realtor, made the calls, planned, planned, planned and worried without ceasing. And guess what? He did show up. With a completely different plan. The moment my husband was beginning to fax our signed contract to the realtor, he got a call from an old neighbor. A colleague of his called, was moving back to Indy and needed immediate housing. He wanted to rent a house for a year in our school district. Ours was perfect. After some fast and furious texting, we have new renters. Again, with the seamless thing. Again, not my plan. 

It occurs to me that being lost, clueless or needy doesn't bother God in the least. He longs to meet our needs where we are. He doesn't care if we come to the throne without a business plan. He actually prefers that. "Come just as you are," he said. We are His beloved. And He positively loves it when we realize its our first day here. We have never been in this moment before. How do we presume to know what is best?

 I'm not sure I know how to let go of this. I'm the girl with a plan. Flying feels an awful lot like falling and I have no intention of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. The truth of course is that airplane is fated to crash, I just don't know it yet. After all the ways He has provided and made our paths straight, how can worry still be my knee-jerk instinct? I don't know. I'm still working on this. I am so very grateful that His mercies are new every morning.  I do know that I want to please God. I want Him to smile when He sees me coming. And I want to go back to Narnia. 

My Apology

One of the most memorable interview moments I ever saw was that of Maria Shriver Kennedy Schwarzenegger.This time, she was not in the interviewer chair but instead on the receiving end of her good friend Oprah's questions. She was talking about her parents, specifically  her father, Sargent Shriver. She was telling about one of her most valued possessions, a crumpled piece of paper, she kept with her at all times at the insistence of her father.  In it was a love letter, not the kind you and I typically think of when we hear the words "love letter", but instead words of affirmation from her parents about her attributes, her identity,  what was good and lovable about her. She kept it with her always because, in the paraphrased words of her father, 'The world will tell you every day what you have done wrong, where your faults lie, and that you are not enough. It will beat you down and try to get you to focus on what you are not.' He wanted her to have something to redirect her attention, to keep her on a course of hopeful truth about her purpose and her true identity, a beloved child.

This week, dignitaries, heads of state and miners in Soweto alike will pause to remember the life of Nelson Mandela. Media will cover events live and streaming and inundate the waves with facts and perhaps some folklore about this storied individual. What we choose to believe and receive about his life and contribution is no doubt, slanted by our own experience, values, politics and choices. In the days since his passing I have seen many lovely tributes to this man, pictures and quotes, stories and news reel from  the pre-apartheid era. It didnt take long however, for the cynics to emerge, at first glance, respectful and objective but before long came the prickly questioning, followed by outright accusatory character assassinations. Over the years I have seen a number of pieces on this man and his life's remarkable journey and yes, these have been peppered with reports of adultery, political gain and missteps of one nature or another. 

Never once in all of that footage do I recall the term "perfect" being associated with this man. Good yes, revolutionary certainly, perfect, no. And so, when the news came last Thursday that he was no longer with us, I paused along with the rest of the world to reflect on what impact, if any his being here had on my life. I'm still processing that.

My parents arrived, coincidentally last Thursday to spend the winter with us on the Gulf Coast. Last night after working the previous 3, I woke up and walked into my living room to see my mom, Luke, and Nolin cuddling on the couch watching some made for tv movie and eating all sorts of bad things. I did the eye rolling smile and silently thanked God for this scene. I am so grateful that my kids are getting this amazing opportunity to share dinner conversation,  dish washing, a bathroom, cheesy movies and precious, precious time with their grandparents. They are being rooted and nurtured in the bosom of their family,  largely unware of the rare and resounding opportunity before them. I also like when my mom hugs me before I walk out the door and into God knows what at work. She is there when I come home too, after I'm beat up and sitting still long enough to question my mettle as a nurse after a frenzied shift. Was I enough? And she tells me I was, without ever uttering a word and hands me a cup of coffee. 

I have to believe I'm not alone in still needing this affirmation at age 44, or I'm as crazy as we have all always suspected.  The world is supposed to hurl fiery darts, I get that. However, when harsh criticism comes whizzing by my head, into my inbox, onto my fb page from the hand of fellow believers, I have to stop and scratch my head. Is this the business I'm supposed to be about? The best use of my time and energy? Its in those moments that I get it. I get why my unbelieving friends stand off, arms crossed with a look that says, "And ...exactly how is this any different from the rest of the world? THIS is what you call good news?"  Let me an offer an apology. Of course, I'm the pope, senator and executive director of exactly nothing so I cannot really speak for everyone. What I AM charged with, is defending the gospel and so I shall try. 

I pray that something, anything in my life bears witness to the fact that I know Jesus. In the timely words of Buddy the Elf, "I know him!!!" And I know what he wants me to do on this historic occasion. "Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever can be admired... think on these things." Philippians 4:8. In my humble estimation, walking out of prison after being wrongfully held and abused for 27 long years and speaking forgiveness and reconciliation to my captors is pretty doggone lovely.  It also just happens to be the essence of the gospel I am charged with defending.

If you'll permit me an evangelical moment here, there is good news. Your father left you a crumpled note to keep in your wallet. He wanted you to know how very much you are loved and thought of.  "The Lord your God is with you. He is mighty enough to save you. He willtake great delight in you. The quietness of his love will calm you down. He will sing with joy because of you." Zephaniah 3:17. Talk about a love letter, that's a keeper. And thank you, Nelson Mandela for an imperfect and impactful life. One worth pausing to celebrate.

Oh Deer

There once was a girl who lived deep in the forest. Ok, so "girl" might be a bit of a stretch when you're closing in on 44, but it sounds better than "broad" or "this fed's old lady."  What I'm not exaggerating about is living in a forest.  The subdivision is called Lake Forest, it is Alabama's largest by far and with over 3000 homeowners, one of the largest in the country.  I have already been lost in my own neighborhood multiple times. I implemented a strict policy of no Lake Forest pick ups or drop offs with the kids after dark, shortly after moving to Daphne last year.  Leaving crumbs would do you no good. And now? I live here.

It would be impossible to characterize Lake Forest in any short summation and give you a true picture of what you might see. Every possible style of architecture from the past five decades is represented. Cape Cods, brick ranches, Georgians, Mediterranean stuccos, 80's Bavarian style homes, Spanish haciendas, Colonials, coastal retreats, and a host of what can only be categorized as "what were you thinking?!?" homes.  Together, somehow it works.  Like the messy art student's apartment.  It has an unnamed charm.

When we initially started looking for houses to rent, (we still own our house in Indy) I wasn't considering the area.  It just seemed a little dated.  But then I found the little black dress house.  You know the one, it fits you perfectly and it was destined to be yours.  Five bedrooms, gourmet kitchen I could literally see myself baking in, hardwoods throughout, wrap around porch, hot tub, massive deck, built on two lots complete with tangerine trees, grape arbor and hammock.  There was just one problem.  It wasn't for rent, it was for sale.

I have this husband though, who would walk over coals if he thought it would make me smile, so he called the realtor and started playing lets make a deal.  After a year on the market, the owner was game.  Or so we thought.  We were open to "lease to own" while we sold our house, but as it would turn out, the owner wanted the moon and we had to walk away.

I was truly devastated.  And if that sounds shallow, it was.  I had justified it in my mind though.  Great property, room enough for aging parents, great space to host youth group activities, and the listing sales price was a steal.  Good stewardship, right?  I really couldn't understand why God couldn't see how perfect this was for us.

Everything we looked at paled woefully in comparison in the following weeks.  Our lease was coming due very shortly.  And then, the rental market seemed to dry up.  Nothing was coming available.  When this property blipped on the radar, I was quick to make an appointment.  It was a rainy day and our walk-thru could not have been more than five minutes.  My impressions - it is sizeable, this carpet reeks of dog, that yard is too scary to even let my dog out, which is probably why this carpet reeks of dog.  And with that, we put down a deposit, with the assurance that yard and carpet would be addressed.

The night we got the keys, it was pouring down rain again.  The water had not been turned on.  The carpet odor seemed worse than ever and the yard was still a Brazilian jungle.  The rain stopped and they finally chopped down the jungle, sort of.  But what remained was worse.  Two deer.  No, not real ones.  The cheesy, fake ones that strange people put in their yards.  Only these apparently hadn't been weatherized and now looked like they had leprosy.

I was scheduled to work a few nights later and as I was walking through the dining room running late, I looked up and there was a winged monkey on my wall. Ok, they are actually called palmetto bugs but they are as big as winged monkeys.  I heard someone shriek (it was me) and all four menfolk came a-runnin' and managed to slay the beast.  A week or so ago, I ran over an albino armadillo.  The very next night I had to swerve heroically to miss a crossing possum.  The boys told me the shed is a haven for lizards.  I never plan to find out.  It seems there will be a new critter encounter almost daily.

It's funny though, we seem to have found our rhythm here.  We are actually eating dinner together and the neighborhood kids have already found us.  I have had two "I Love Lucy" sized disasters in my new non-gourmet kitchen, complete with billowing smoke, fire alarms and belly laughter.  Everyone gets nervous now when I start talking about a new recipe I found.

Yesterday our pastor was speaking about Abraham, and God telling him to go to a "land that I will show you."  That had to be pretty disconcerting.  Can you at least tell me how many bedrooms, Lord?  What about a hammock?

Now that I am here, it is so very clear to me.  He really does know best.  We are very happy in our new home.  I look back on what I thought was best in the little black dress house.  The yard was not fenced for our dog.  The hot tub didn't even work.  Too many steps to maneuver for my aging parents.  And worst of all, no leprous deer to gaze upon out the kitchen window.

The Other Side of Mothers Day

My first job out of college was at the Indiana Women's Prison. And this was by choice.  I had a lucrative offer at Merrill Lynch waiting on me, but I was desperate to save the world to the tune of $15k less a year.  My orientation included a day with the chaplain, a short but very large Puerto Rican woman with a thick accent and even thicker facial hair, dressed head to toe in black, complete with priest collar.  She gave me the nickel tour of the chapel where I was sure all these women would find Jesus, told me about all of the programs and various visiting prison ministries and then started poking around to see just how green I really was.

"What do you think is the hardest day of the year for these offenders?"

"Well, it has to be Christmas.  I can't imagine what it must be like for these women to be away from their families on that day," said the know-it-all world savior.

"Not even close," replied the pudgy faced woman.  "Christmas has always been a disappointment for most of these women.  Poverty, abuse, alcoholic fathers, nothing under the tree.  They got used to that real quick. Mother's Day.  That's the day I'm here all weekend, all hours.  Just trying to stop the bleeding. Just trying to get to Monday."

I've thought about that conversation numerous times in the 20 years since I had it.  Why Mother's Day?  It always seemed like such a benign holiday to me on both sides. Construction paper cards, hugs and then we get to go out to eat.  Until 2001.

The year the face of the world changed, happened to also be when one of my own pillars came crashing down.  I lost a baby in late January and by May, no one still seemed to see that the world had stopped turning.  I started looking around and it was the darnedest thing.  Apparently, I wasn't the only person to ever be wounded by the institution of motherhood. The unbelievably insensitive comments were not exclusively headed my direction.  Who knew? So much of our identity as women is tied up in who we mother.

This is my weekend to work but because I work nights, I got home just in time to eat the annual Mother's Day breakfast attempt of my 3 sweet boys.  As fate would have it, we lost 2 patients yesterday, both women, both mothers.

I have of course, witnessed this scene before.  The daughters sit close by, holding their hands, stroking their hair.  The sons stand in the threshold of the door, afraid of the vulnerability of death but drawn to do something, so they guard the door.

I tried to picture what this would look like on my deathbed. Maybe I'm naive, but my boys are cuddlers.  They give me whacky hairdos and invade my space with regularity.  I think they will hold my hand and stroke my hair in that moment.

My life is filled with those who squirm when this holiday draws near.  I have friends who were never able to have children.  Those who have lost them.  Those enduring the grueling adoption process.  Those who are estranged from adult children.  Those going through the devastation of divorce.  Those with children with disabilities they must overcome daily.  Those who  live on another continent from mother or child.  Those whose children are in prison.  Those with children in addiction.  Those who will visit their mother in a nursing home and feel helpless guilt.  Those with a mother with Alzheimer's who no longer recognizes them.  Those who were in the foster care system.  Those whose pain is not eased by the years that have passed since they held their mothers hand.

Where should they all turn?  The glib answer is to their Heavenly Father and i know its true, but sometimes you want your mother.  And since I'm secretly Catholic, I envy the sentiment, "when I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be."

Let it be.  Let it be so, that we open our eyes and see who is just trying to stop the bleeding. Just trying to get to Monday.  Happy Mothers Day, to all who nurture.

 

Turn In Your Hymnals...

A few Sundays back, the church we attend departed from the Chris Tomlin catalog and actually sang a hymn.  I found myself filled with nostalgia and a trace of regret.  It occurred to me that my children would not follow in my liturgical footsteps.  They would not know the first, second and fourth verses of 700 plus songs.  The hymns are rich with colorful language that you don't hear every day.  And I love them, to this day, so please don't be offended when I mention them here in an unconventional way.  Its just that sometimes the intended message woven in such heady vocabulary can get lost in the tender mind of a child.

Wouldn't you know it, the messages scrambled early for me.  Let's take a stroll down memory lane, shall we?  Remember the old Sunday School favorite that went like this, "He invites us into His banquet table, His banner over us is love"?  Loved that one.  Belted it to the rafters.  I was probably well into the third grade before I realized I wasn't being invited into His "baked potato."  It never dawned on me to question why we needed to enter a spud; I had the faith of a child.  Or perhaps I was overly preoccupied with anticipation of  the post-service potluck.

In any case, I know I was not alone in my confusion.  A friend recently told me how she came to be baptized.  Her beloved pastor was named Art.  It was years before she realized "How Great Thou Art" was not a tip of the hat to him.

Some songs could be downright frightening, if we're being truthful.  Take for instance this gem: "Watching you, watching you; there's an all-seeing eye watching you."  Just the one?  Try going to sleep on a Sunday night with a picture of a Holy Cyclops lurking in your head and see how easy it is.

Another one that threw me for a loop went something like this: "There's a stranger at the door..." Wait for it..."Let him in!"  Your mom and dad sang this directive in different octaves.  This flew in the face of everything being taught at school about stranger danger.  And to make it worse, "He has been there oft before."  What?!  Now I have a stalker??  Is this still the Holy Cyclops or someone else?  Geeze, its a wonder I slept at all.

There was one that stood out among the rest though, avid reader that I was.  I was completely unfamiliar with many of the words but to my young ears it bore a strong resemblance to every Edgar Allen Poe story I had ever heard.  "Night with eb'en pinion, brooded o'er the vale, all around was silence, save the night wind's wale."  Gulp.  I would inevitably glance over my shoulder fully expecting the Headless Horseman to come galloping up the red-carpeted center aisle.

Of course if you don't take the time to deliver your words effectively, anything can be misconstrued.  When we chose to homeschool the twins in second grade, I began to worry about Luke's spiritual future.  He seemed to be developing a strange fixation with sin-ridden cities at such a young age.  One of the first things we chose to tackle was learning the books of the bible.  Contrary to what most of us learned as the Pentateuch, my son instead, acknowledged the following five books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Las Vegas, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.  No, it is not lost on me that Las Vegas and Numbers are right next to each other.  I'm just well aware that Deuteronomy and Gin Rummy sound alike and so I am grateful things didn't turn out worse.  It was when we began working on The Lord's Prayer that my eyebrows truly raised in concern.  On recitation day, he looked me square in the eye and stated, " Our Father who art in heaven, Hollywood be thy name."

The moral of the story is this: some people shouldn't homeschool.  I'm kidding.  Kind of.  The lesson here is, be aware of how impressionable young minds can be.  And for crying out loud, ANNUNCIATE.

Year of the Snake

We ordered takeout Chinese a couple of weeks ago when Paul was out of town and I was down with a migraine.  Sean answered the door, completed the transaction and the next thing I knew, he had flung my door open and flipped on the light.  "Mom, look what they gave us!"  He dropped the scrolled calendar before my face.  "2013 is the Year of the Snake."

Fabulous.  My deepest, darkest fear gets its own entire year.  According to Ancient Chinese wisdom, a snake in the house is a good omen.  It means the family will not starve.  Of course they won't, they've already died of snakebites.  The value of the year of the snake is material wealth.  As I write this, my mother is in my small apartment kitchen parboiling cabbage, as is the custom on New Year's Day to ensure such fortune.

Well when in Rome ... if this is the year to get what I want then I will outline my 2013 wish list here.  Let's not beat around the bush.

1. My Irish will shock everyone (myself included) and roll the tide back to Tuscaloosa.  I realize the odds are not in our favor, but it IS the year of the snake and all.
2. No need to waste your time entering.  I'm winning the HGTV Dream Home this year.  Of course I have no idea what I'll do with it once I win since I have no desire to live in South Carolina.
3. Should by some strange twist of fate, this not occur, I hope to move into a modest house with a fenced yard by May so this mangy mutt can roam in his natural habitat.
4. I want my bathtub back.  Yes, I have a tub but its not mine.  The oasis where my calgon moments occur.  It's what I miss the most about home ownership.

I really can't think of much else I want.  Oh sure I have the occasional aches and pains that everyone else does but I am healthy by the world's standard.  I have an amazing husband who adores me for some strange reason.  I am the mother of three boys who are going to change the world for the better.  I live near the ocean.  My parents are visiting me for three whole months.  I am part of a terrific church, live in an adorable town and have the best friends anyone could ask for.

So let's make a deal - if I surrender the bathtub and the fenced yard, can January 7th be my day?  Let's go IRISH!!!

My Inner Heidi

It was a strong brew, thank goodness, that fateful morning earlier this week when I sat down with my cup of joe and dialed my mother for our morning chat. She didn't soften the blow or sugarcoat it when she dealt me my own personal Maury Povich moment. No, there are no baby-daddy issues here. One needs to witness me angry exactly one time, to be certain I am Omar's daughter. Its far worse than that, I'm afraid. "I had lunch with your cousin Dan, yesterday." Cousin Dan is the nicest man you will ever meet, a partner in a prestigious Indianapolis law firm and the expert on all things pertaining to "that branch of the family." She continued, "Upon further investigation, it turns out that we are not actually German at all. We are Swiss."

And just like that, a built-in identity crisis was formed. I opened the pantry door, not unlike the way Lot's wife looked back, and there stood the false witnesses. Three lying cans of sauer kraut acting as if they belonged there. Mom was mumbling on about farmers and being a peaceful people, blah, blah blah. Peaceful? This frau with the furrowed brow was anything but at peace. Swiss? I had no idea how to be Swiss. This was a game changer.

I have spent the last week immersing myself in Swiss culture trying to make up for lost time with my true heritage. The following report is what I have learned thus far. To begin, I am the first stop on the bell curve. If I had learned German, it wouldn't have been quite as daunting, but now I must master French and Italian as well if I hope to move seamlessly through the homeland.

I started with what I knew: cheese, watches, knives and banks. I enjoy a mushroom and swiss burger when I am at Hardee's as much as the next guy. I would be less than truthful if I didn't admit I would prefer to hail from the land of Philadelphia cream, but I digress. So cheese, check. Watches. This is going to be a problem. You see, I never wear a watch and I'm supposed to; I'm a nurse, after all. No check. Knives. Oh, good heavens. Any of you who have served time in my kitchen are familiar with my knives and would know to grab a spoon first if an intruder broke in. No check. Banks. Math and technology. Need we go further? I didn't think so. I am one for four on Swiss things I know about. On an up note, my son Luke who is fascinated with all things militant will be thrilled to learn he is genetically predisposed to guard the Pope as a member of the elite Swiss guard. Not everyone can pull off striped knickers and a red-plumed helmet, but I plan to be a supportive parent.

When you consider the typical, physical characteristics of the Swiss, a portrait of repression begins to emerge. Think about it. I just went deeply brunette, I use a self tanner daily, and remember that little surgery I had about three years ago? Uh huh. Its like I was trying to hide the Inner Heidi. The first Bond girl, Ursula Andress was Swiss. I know. The resemblance is uncanny, especially the abs, but we have more to uncover here, so we must move on.

From here on out it only gets more difficult to assume my assigned destiny. First we have a dog problem. There is no way that Lincoln is going to pass for a Saint Bernard. Let me go ahead and take this opportunity to utilize some free advertising space: Free schnauzer to a good, German home. Doesn't like children, demands full reign of the house, barks at leaves, enjoys Corn Chex, answers to no one.

The last hill is the hardest to climb, as we Swiss like to say. Come July, when we all sit down with our strawberries and cream, tune in to McEnroe and the lady with the man voice as they bore us to tears through inevitable rain delays, I will be forced to forsake Mi Amore, Rafael Nadal. Naturally, I will be expected to cheer for cousin Roger and my love of country will be brutally tested. There is only one thing that could make this less painful, more palatable. This Swiss miss is off to have some hot chocolate.

Welcome to Our World

Words fail me. I have nothing to say about the events of last Friday that hasn't already been said. As we drove home last night in the rain after celebrating the fifteenth birthday of our twin boys, I remembered that in another corner of the country, two other boys were being mourned and buried. Noah Pozner and Jack Pinto, both age six were laid to rest and welcomed into heaven. And now, perhaps more than ever before, I am mindful of how very much we needed that baby boy in the manger. This Chris Rice song came on the radio as we drove home and says more than I could hope to say.

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking
How we need to hear from God
You've been promised, we've been waiting

Welcome, Holy Child
Welcome, Holy Child

Hope that you don't mind our manger
How I wish we would have known
But long-awaited Holy Stranger
Make Yourself at home
Please make yourself at home
Bring Your peace into our violence
Bid our hungry souls be filled
Word now breaking Heaven's silence

Welcome to our world
Welcome to our world

Fragile finger sent to heal us
Tender brow prepared for thorn
Tiny heart whose blood will save us
Unto us is born
Unto us is born

So wrap our injured flesh around You
Breathe our air and walk our sod
Rob our sin and make us holy
Perfect Son of God
Perfect Son of God
Welcome to our world

Brown Santa

If you live in Indianapolis, you know that one of the must-do highlights of the Christmas season is a trip to the Children's Museum. A winter wonderland on crack, it is, with blaring carols, cocoa and cookies, the magnetic ice fishing pond, the fabulous yule-slide that I used to race my best friend Jenni down annually as an over eager adult, and of course, the big guy. He awaits in a hidden, corner room at the back of his workshop. You can't really see him until its time to "see" him.

The line, lengthy and meandering is the price you pay for a picture to pacify the grandparents. Jenni is one of those no nonsense moms you wish you could be, whose kids actually listen to her and she had chosen not to peddle the Santa story. Ever the dutiful friend though, she waited in the hour plus line with me and my kindergarten twins. We were deep in conversation when we made that last fateful bend in the road.

"Hey! We're in the wrong line! That isn't Santa. He's brown. Santa isn't brown." I tried to look around for the confused child in the room who had said this, instead of the one vehemently tugging at my sleeve. "Mom, look! That Santa is brown." If you have visited the Children's Museum this time of year, you know the place is packed and excruciatingly loud. Almost instantly however, it was devoid of sound except for the nauseating Christmas music piping through the speakers. All eyes were on me, including the mischievous ones of my BFF, who unsuccessfully contained a giggle as she threw another yule log on the proverbial fire. "Yeah momma, Santa isn't brown, right?" I bent down to Sean's level, not so much for his benefit but to get out of the line of fire. The folly and oversight of my ways was now flying through my head like a slideshow. Every movie, commercial, storybook, had indeed depicted a Kris Kringle of Anglo descent.

Move over Santa. I'm gonna need some space on that throne of lies and I'm not a smallish woman. "Honey, remember how we talked about how Santa has helpers at different places because he is so very busy this time of year?"

"Yeah," he replied slowly. "But is the real Santa brown or peach?" Think fast, Dawn. Jenni is bent over in laughter as a good, supportive friend should be."Well, I've never actually seen him personally, so I don't know." The first time I had uttered truth all day. Crisis averted. Brown Santa was fantastic with my slightly autistic, painfully honest child. He listened, acknowledged, and delivered a happy Sean back to me. It's worth mentioning, my son doesn't have a discriminating bone in his body and some of his best friends and favorite influences have been African-American.

We have been discussing in our small group how God shows up in unexpected ways. When we ask for help, we get an idea fixed in our head of just exactly what the SWAT team will look like, what direction it will come from and what time we would like for it to arrive. Funny, that's never worked out all that well for me. It's just not SOP from GOD. Here's a picture for you - an unwed girl probably 13 or 14, riding into town on a donkey. She will deliver Him in a barn among the animals, and the Prince of Peace shall be wrapped in cloths and laid in a manger. "Hey! We followed the wrong star! That isn't the Messiah. He's in a manger. The  Messiah doesn't lie in a manger."

I certainly never expected to call South Alabama home. When we uprooted our kids, moving them from all they knew and loved, into an apartment in a small town where we didn't know a soul, it was a sickening feeling. I knew I was breaking their hearts to say nothing of my own. But seven months later, a funny thing has happened. They are smiling again. Of course they still miss and keep in touch with their Indiana peeps, but they laugh, tell stories about new friends, teachers and "you won't believe what happened at school." There is band, Friday night football, Cub Scouts, ROTC, youth group (with pretty girls), babysitting for small group, trips to the beach, fried banana pudding excursions, happiness restored and an intimacy I'm not quite sure we had as a family before. Oh, and I'm writing again. Thanks, brown Santa. And thank you, Jesus.

I Am The One

I have an announcement to make. Some might call it a confession, even. I wasn't deliberately trying to be secretive, I simply chose to ignore the truth developing around me. And so, here is the announcement: I Am The One. Yes, you read that correctly. I am the one. Now before you take offense, allow me to clarify. This statement in no way stands in opposition to the Judeo-Christian faith or anything you may have come to accept in watching the Matrix trilogy. I am the one person who could own an iphone and still does not want one.

To better understand this strange viewpoint, it would be helpful to get a little background history. Remember, opposites attract. It just so happens that my beloved is a computer forensics expert for a federal agency that will go unnamed, but hereafter be referred to as "Phoebe." I don't like cars, computers, dvrs, iPods, iPads, video games, remote controls, programmable anything, Star Wars, Star Trek, On Demand, anything with the adjective virtual in front of it, or the food processor and bread machine that have occupied space in a kitchen cabinet for ten plus years, unused. In case you're wondering, of course there is a word for this and naturally, I have looked it up. Its called "technophobia." Unimpressive, I know.

How does one acquire this condition? No one knows with certainty but according to the highly respected, always reliable Wikipedia (wink, wink), its just like everything else wrong with Dawn - its hormonal. Here's the facts: "According to Dr. Mark Bronson, leader of Bath University's research department, it is possible that pre-natal testosterone exposure has the capacity to render one's understanding of technology easier, or more challenging due to its effect on the brain." Let's back up just a doggone second. Why am I just now hearing about this Bath University and why wasn't this tub-lovin' girl offered a full ride scholarship?? But I digress. Apparently it is my extreme femininity that is to blame. "Who knew?" asked the girl who couldn't live without football and is on course to belch her way into urban legend.

Those who have worked with me are well versed in my deep hatred for all things technical and chuckling as they read this. As a nurse, if you are my patient, you are free to choke, stroke, infarct, seize, code, catch on fire, vagal down, hemorrhage, have a c diff explosion, or go postal on me and I Will Come Save You. I will, or at least I will die trying. But for the love of all that is holy, don't you go kinking that IV. That machine smells my fear and its beep haunts my sleep.

I know what you're thinking. "Dawn, all you need is a little patient instruction." Let me just say, braver warriors than you have trod this path. All of my close friends and neighbors have tried to talk or shame me into change. My hairdresser tried to stage an intervention. Think of my poor husband; he spends all day with Phoebe and then comes home to this. My son Sean has had the most success with me and that is because he takes no prisoners. He is as patient a teacher as his father but as stubborn as me. When he decides its time that I learn something, he is relentless. I try to pull the parent card but he doesn't flinch. I yell for him to just fix it already, but he stands his ground. And now, I can record Intervention all by myself, access Amazon Prime, and set my alarm clock.

I am well aware that this fear is irrational. I could have my coffee already made and waiting on me when I arise in the morning, but I'm certain if I push the wrong button, we're all going straight to defcon 4. This very blog is always crafted first in a spiral notebook, then typed. When its time to post, the tension is like the war room during the Cuban missile crisis. Watching Paul and I do the budget every paycheck is comical to say the least. We sit, side by side, he with his laptop, me with my yellow steno pad and trusty #2 pencil.

It has come to this. I am the lone hold out. The last sticky note to fall. I am the one. The one who has finally succumbed to the pressure of progress. The one whose long-handed protests have gone unheard. The package is due to arrive tomorrow. So if you see anything on the news tomorrow about a change in our nation's security threat level, don't be alarmed. Sean will see to it that I don't blow anything up.

Lincoln

To be clear, I didn't choose him. HE chose ME. I will admit, I visited him twice while he was locked up. The first time, I took my son and then in an audacious move, my husband. That was a fateful meeting. My husband watched our interaction carefully, took a deep breath and conceded, "You two belong together." And so, when we walked through the bell-clanging door for the third time at Uncle Bill's Pet Store, he was waiting. No, waiting is not an accurate description. He was splayed, all four pounds of him, up against the front bars of the cage, much like the starfish to the aquarium in Finding Nemo. And howling, good gravy was he ever howling. This did not cease until we had paid the ridiculous fee and he was in my arms, tucked safely inside my coat.

The name was already picked. He was stately with his contemplative brow, he had a beard, he was my favorite and so he shall be called "Lincoln," I announced. In retrospect, I should have given this more thought. I am unaware of any record of our sixteenth president splaying or howling. Of course, to be forthright, I haven't yet seen, Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Slayer. The biggest challenge, early on was keeping him alive. He was not as big as Paul's foot. Schnauzers are exceptionally intelligent, but notoriously curious. This combination is what led to "the incident."

The menfolk were in the garage, piling into the car, headed for work and school. Lincoln was in potty training boot camp and things were going swell. He and I were in the front yard on this cool, spring morning; I, barefoot in my pale, pink nightgown, sipping a freshly brewed cup of French Vanilla Gevalia.   Without warning, the garage door lifted and out backed the silver vehicle at an alarming pace. The next sequence of events is rather murky, probably due to the PTSD, but I will do my best to chronicle them for you.

As it turns out, weighing four pounds puts you at a significant, aerodynamic velocity advantage. As I watched the furry blur dart toward the shiny car, I knew this would be a defining moment for me. Its difficult to comprehend, but time moved at warp speed and in slow motion simultaneously. I can vividly see my face, my mouth contorting into the word, "NO!!!!" My leg lunges forward, bulging and determined like Arian Foster on first and goal. The right arm flails outward, upward sending coffee and cup hurling through the air, different trajectories. Lincoln is nearly to the driveway and Paul clearly doesn't see him. There is no other choice. I dive headlong for the save, all undisclosed number of pounds landing squarely on the tiny creature.

His cry was otherworldly. "I've killed him," I thought. "I have crushed every one of his internal organs and I have killed him." The dive ended in a forward roll out, in the yard, complete with a panty flash salute and freshly mowed, wet grass clinging to my bare legs. The coffee mug laid on its side at the foot of tree, yards away. Paul and the boys emerged from the now-stopped car, wide-eyed in disbelief. "Are you okay?" Paul finally managed. Lincoln was now chasing a butterfly and the boys were unsuccessful at stifling laughter as I spoke softly, "I thought I killed him." Our neighbors to this day deny witnessing any of this, but I have my suspicions.

He was certainly no worse for the wear. Soon he was taking on frogs, squirrels, chipmunks and even birds, leaping and swiping them clean out of the air. I will never forget the look on my youngest son's face when he came in from the backyard, terrified and paler than usual on the Saturday morning of Easter weekend. "Mom, Lincoln just bit the tail off of the Easter Bunny. What does that mean for us tomorrow?" Sure enough, I found the poor, little guy trapped in the corner of our yard, now relieved of his tail. Later that day we colored Easter eggs.The boys marked their names with a crayon on them. My son asked if he could make one for Lincoln. As I was putting them away, I couldn't help but notice a blue one, with the name "Killer" inscribed on it.

We tried to lay down the law. No going upstairs. No sleeping in anyone's bed. Absolutely NEVER to be on the leather furniture. He is sprawled next to me, taking up most of the scratched, worn leather couch as I write this. I'm not sure who he slept with last night, but I can promise you it was in a bed.

Last Christmas season, when Paul was still working and living in another city, I noticed I wasn't sleeping all that well. I had recently started doing yoga in the mornings, limiting my caffeine and sugar intake and then it occurred to me, the dog in the bed might be contributing to the insomnia. That night, I got my breakfast prepped for the following morning, laid out my raspberry yoga mat in front of the television, put a sturdy board up in front of the stairwell and commenced up to bed without my faithful companion.

Wouldn't you know it? It was a fabulous night of sleep. I slipped into my yoga clothes and headed downstairs. Behold, Christmas had come early. My dog had left me a present. Two "turtledoves" right there, smack dab in the center of the yoga mat. "That'll teach ya, lady. Mess with the bull, you'll get the horns," smirked his scruffy face.

Upon moving to an apartment in Alabama, letting him out to do his business became less simple than just opening a sliding glass door. There was a leash and child labor involved. The twins take turns every other day performing these duties. Half of the time I cannot remember whose day it is. But Lincoln knows. Oh, does he know. At the beginning of the week, Luke came down with a sore throat and fever. When Monday morning rolled around, he was in no shape for school and so he stayed in bed. Of course, I didn't remember it was his day. Not until I heard "Mom!" bellowed from his room. Christmas came early for Luke. There, right beside his bed, atop the clothes he had cast off the previous evening were five, not so golden rings.

Lincoln is not a fan of other children, which is sad because he's so darn cute. I think he views them as midget infiltrators trying to breach the kingdom walls. His reflection of his name contrasts sharply with the peace broker image portrayed by Daniel Day Lewis. So if not Lincoln, then what should we have named him? He is an avid hunter; perhaps Roosevelt or Reagan. Nah, too much of a rascal. He does sleep around a lot. Maybe Clinton. I don't know. I should think outside the box. Could it be, he's not American at all? He is deeply tenacious. My husband works for the federal government so I can't very well go around yelling Stalin or Mussolini in public. Hey, wait. Now that's not half bad.... Netanyahu has a nice ring to it, don't you think?