The dogwoods are blooming.

The lilacs, the redbuds, cherry and apple blossoms have burst onto our scene. Spring is in a full bloom of color and I'm chasing it like it might never happen again . . . trying not to miss it.

It's important to think this way. I learned this lesson some years back when I woke up one hapless late November morning and realized I had missed Autumn. Completely missed it. I had been slogging through the annual education grind of data analysis and reading assessments and equitable grouping and the training of new teachers. Then one morning the trees were bare and I wondered, When did that happen?

I had missed the first cooling breezes of a balmy Michigan summer for the late hours of an air conditioned office in Detroit. I had missed the magenta morning skies against flaming trees and ignored the wind-blasted, sideways gusts of golden poplar leaves across highways as I phoned home my guilty ETA. I had missed the comforting hush of dusky, waning fireplace evenings and the glow of a harvest moon for the rush of unforgiving deadlines. I had missed everything between the first dazzle of color and up to the November guests. I had missed the thankful . . . the joy.

I hated that I missed it. It had been the simplest, most glorious gift to overlook . . . It was like my soul was choking and I simply forgot to breathe.

Since then I have vowed never to forget . . . to remember the gifts of every season . . . to chase leaves and chase a full moon with free abandon. I chase barns all red and rustic telling the history of the humble and hardworking . . . and I chase sweet, blue-eyed babies across the country. I chase morning glories and mountain paths, waterfalls, and the glinted edges of wine glasses . . . up-close flower faces in bold colored vases . . scarlet sunsets . . . falling snow against twilight sky . . . ocean waves . . . the winding of rivers . . . and the holiness of Words . . .

I chase these things . . . freeze them for a sacred second in the cruelty of time . . . and offer them back to the world. Have you noticed how I chase?

If you've forgotten how to do it . . . or don't remember ever doing it . . . have lost your childlike wonder to the ravages of time and later . . . Later was yesterday . . .

Find something beautiful . . . something that tugs at your soul . . . Intentionally, unabashedly, unapologetically chase it down. Wait for it. Look for it. Or just stop when you accidentally stumble upon it. But when you find it --you'll know it because it used to be yours - - give it your full attention. Now look at it . . . and learn to play . . . like a grown-up. Honor its curves and its lines and its energy. Find its name (that beautiful lavender bush is actually a dogwood tree;). Give your pursuit of it a name . . . Like moonchasing or barnstalking . . . Dogwooding? Celebrate it every time it comes around. Memorize how the light plays off its color at different hours of the day. Angle yourself just right above or below it . . . as close as you can or from a reverent distance . . . but build a relationship with it . . . and remember it . . . trade your own importance for it and lose yourself in it.

It helps to have a friend or two willing to indulge your crazy . . . As in the case of my barnstalking whimsy last summer . . . Someone needed to be driving the getaway car when I may . . . or may not;) . . . have trespassed on private property to get that perfect shot of the antique barn over the bridge with the billowing clouds reflecting in the water. Someone needed to be tied to my innertube when the river slowed to a crawl and the only thing left to do was squint into the sun and kick up our feet against the loveliness of blue-green . . . and simply remember . . . Someone needed to witness the rare in the bluebird flitting among the low branches . . . the fleeting wonders of the running path . . . the one that got away before we could snap the memory . . . But it's there . . .

Friends don't let friends chase alone.

Find your dogwood . . . and a little joy this week . . . before the bloom gets away and you have to wait til next year. Next year is not a promise. Have a simple adventure. Feed your soul.

​Chase the dogwood.

​

​​My first daughter is a busy, harried mother of two blonde, blue-eyed angels -- a precocious second grader and a mischievous pre-schooler -- and she is about to give birth to my third Viking grandchild (presumably) . . . any minute . . . Really. Any. Second. But she took the time to send me a series of ecstatic texts last week . . . Not because she was going into labor (she is now) but because she is just on the edge of her first paid writing gig.

Something deep in our genetic coding takes precedence and compels us to put our words, our hearts, our purpose to page . . . as I am doing now as I wait.

She is me but with a more fully developed sanguine heart and with an energy that defies logic and makes the world a better place . . . Always bubbling over with plans and thoughts and words and stories that must go somewhere. She is brilliant and compassionate, wickedly funny and tenacious in her pursuit of all things life. She has a genuine love for the elderly that also manifests in her life's paid work . . . And a love for the hearts of other mommies who have experienced the same struggles that she has -- post-partum depression, grief, deep insecurities, the pain of rejection and overlook, and just plain woman-tired -- she writes to these women, indiscriminately.

She is real, my little girl turned Little Mountain Momma . . . again and again . . . and again . . . who showed up as the biggest surprise of my life over 31 years ago and turned my life right side up . . . when she was barely a thought . . . 

But considered a choice.

She is real . . . and she is good. I could see it from the day she was born . . . too good for me and where I was in life . . . Just barely 19 and broken . . . With walls built of grief, deep insecurities, the pain of rejection and overlook, and just plain woman-tired already. She was too good for me and I wasn't ready for her. I wasn't ready to give up the dream of the life I imagined. I wasn't ready for the financial responsibility. I wasn't ready to look after  someone else -- indefinitely -- when still trying to find myself. I wasn't ready for the battle of wills that ensued from a seven pound human being and extended well into adulthood (hers and mine;). . . 

​I wanted to sleep. She wanted me awake. I wanted to nurse her. She was diametrically opposed, preferring a bottle. I wanted her safe in a private school. She wanted to stay in public and hated me for a while. I said no boys. She found one from Indiana at summer camp when she was thirteen . . . and married him (not that day). She wanted me to get a flu shot and and a Whooping Cough vaccine before I held her new baby. I wanted . . . well . . . not to . . . 

But do you know what? Nobody is ever ready for the complete responsibility . . . the lifelong commitment . . . . of another human being. Babies have a way of making you while they're breaking you. She deserved better. I got better. She demanded it from the beginning. It was a formidable job for a newborn, but from the day she was born -- even before -- she began chipping away at those walls. On the day she was born, she blasted out a whole section . . . The one with the sign that said: It's all about me.

But in a second . . . in the time it takes to quell the flutter of a heartbeat . . . In a second it could have all been obliterated . . . And I would have never been changed . . . by the ocean blue of her newborn eyes . . . by the white-blonde tilt of her three year old head looking upward for Jesus in the clouds . . . by the compassion poured into the world in the wisdom of her words . . . by the Viking grandchildren she chases . . . the joy . . . the miracle of her  -- and them -- in the world . . .

because I had a choice in her.

And women march . . . not for what's real . . . but in righteous anger for fear of losing that choice. I should pray God forgive them for they know not what they do . . . but my own righteous anger flares because I don't really believe that. My human grace doesn't match God's . . . and maybe it shouldn't . . . maybe that's not my job here.  So here is what I want to tell them: 

March for what's real. March for equality. March for equal pay. March for family or freedom or better child care options. March for respect . . . for common sense . . . for choices that honor and protect all human life. March for open borders or stronger walls or healthcare that works. Save the rainforests. Save the whales. Save the dogs and cats to the melancholy beseeching of Sarah McLachlan . . . Shout til your hoarse and you're heard. Or fight in your own quiet way . . . On paper or on your knees in prayer.

But don't fight for your right to kill unborn children. 

To mature, discerning, educated minds, there are very few issues that don't have shades of gray complexities. This is not one of those issues.

For God's sake . . . For all that is decent and holy . . . Stop demanding . . . Stop celebrating . . . Your right to kill unborn babies. They are not a mass of cells. They have beating hearts and functioning brains with nerves that feel the pain of the needle . . . The knife . . . The machines . . . They hear voices from within the womb . . . And recognize and respond to their mother's . . . their father's . . . their big sister's and brother's . . the family dog's bark . . . after they are born. They turn to the light . . . And recoil from harsh sounds or pressure or pain. They move and roll beneath our seeking palms. They get hiccups. They are calmed and soothed by the same music played for them before they are born . . . and after. We can see them in us in ultrasound pictures They suck their thumbs and wiggle their toes . . . they are the same thumbs and toes before and after.

A hundred years ago . . . Or fifty . . . Or even a few decades ago, we didn't know a fraction of what we know now about how a baby develops. Now we have the technology to look into the womb months before they are born and study facial features to determine who they look like . . . To understand unequivocally that there's an actual person tucked safely within protective layers of maternal flesh and membrane . . . a separate and equal human being. It should bring a sense of shame to all complicit that we've actually been killing babies increasingly indiscriminately and in increasing numbers since Roe vs. Wade . . . Just because we can. . . Because someone told us we had a choice. Instead of feeling shame, though, we choose to ignore what we know -- yes, we know we're killing babies . . . It's long past the point of rational, reasonable argument -- we just call it something else . . . argue from a different podium. It's a woman's body. It's a woman's choice. Oppression. Injustice. Unfair! Inconvenient! Not "viable" 

No, it's not. It's a baby. A child. A person. I know it. You know it. We all know it.

February 1, 2017 .  . .

The photo on the left was taken of my brother and me last month high on a mountain in Colorado. There's no mistaking we're family. It's there in our cheekbones, the curve of our jaws, in the set of our mouths . . . and there's something in our eyes . . . But knowing who we look like has never stopped us from obsessing over who we are.  Our Southern grandmother was always quick and proud to tell us about our Cherokee Indian great-great grandmother . . . but we've checked all the Ancestry.com census records . . . and we can't find her anywhere. So for his birthday on the mountain, I gave my brother an Ancestry.com DNA test kit. He spit and now we're just waiting. It'll be fun to find out for sure. But while we're waiting to find out just exactly how that spit will define us, we're waiting on something else so much more important . . . something else . . . or someone else who will show us who we are . . . and more importantly, who we've become . . .

Any day now . . . any minute . . . my oldest daughter will give birth to her third child . . . my third grandchild. We don't know exactly who this child will be yet. We're not even sure if it's a boy or a girl. Collectively, we have a lot of conjecture, a lot of hopes, a lot of probablies . . . But the absolute certainty is that this child . . . along with its older sister and brother . . . represents a legacy of love.  He or she will be adored . . . safe . . . allowed the freedom to grow and thrive . . . with all the hopes and dreams of a family hanging on their every smile, every heartsong, every unique and God given gift they bring to this world. Those of us who have fought hardest for these simple things -- the way things should be -- feel the profoundest joy . . . and that is reflected in the words of this memory about a family come full circle . . 

I will rise above myself . . . my pain and my fear, my indignance and indulgence . . . to love myself and to love you through our fallen world. . . I will leave behind negativity and words that cultivate it . . . It’s not fair, I can’t, Who did this? and Why me?  will not be a part of my vocabulary. . . and I won’t listen if you say them to me. I will undo what happened to you by making something different happen . . . I’ll weigh the facts against your feelings . . . and then I’ll feel every bit of it and hold your hand while you cry. I will forgive you when you hurt me . . . and strive to understand the reasons . . . I promise not to be the reason and I will ask your forgiveness if I break that promise. I will understand if you can’t forgive me. Forgiveness only comes after grieving and some of us never stop. I will always love you. Never and Always are a set-up for failure and disappointment . . . I will add them to my possibility and make adjustments as needed. I apologize in advance . . . I will try, I will listen, I will rage, and I will die daily . . . and then I will give it to God and begin to love again. 

I was halfway down the mountain and on the very edge of a brand new year when the writer’s panic began to set in. Like a child holding too tight to a handful of sand that is slipping away. . . blowing back to the ocean on a breeze . . . I needed to hold onto the memories.  

But these are not grains of sand that wisp away . . . and not the blue expanse of ocean where waves of grief are carried back to shore over and over. These are bold stars over purple-black peaks with bursts of glory that I want to remember. I want to stay on the mountain this time. And so I write. . .
​
December 29, 2016:
​
Some traversed in quick infinitesimal flashes . . . some fizzled downward like wayward fireworks. . . Some hovered over an arc quickly and just long enough to evoke a sense of wonder. And then . . . there was the one . . .

Not unlike the last one when I wrote,

 “If I never see another one like it, it will be enough” . . .

This one was different, though.  We can never be out-surprised by God. This one hurtled from left to right . . . like words on a page hurtled through the cosmos in a straight line . . . like a declaration.  And there was no arc . . . and there were no resting places.  It hurtled forward . . . burning and glowing and taking my breath . . . and taking me with it.

And I knew this would be another one of those years.  Like 42 years ago to the day . . . and like 31 years ago . . . I would give birth to something beautiful and irrepressible to carry me in this new year . . . Not to a person this time, but to my soul and my destiny.

And I will not rest until -- with all the passion and intention of a divine comet -- I have burned myself out on the pain and the glory of my story . . .

This year.

​The human psyche is a funny, fractured thing. This morning, I couldn't remember where I put my car keys when I was holding them in my hand . . . but I can remember with scary accuracy the exact place I left my red hippity hop ball in the park in 1971 (I was four) and that it was gone when when I came back to get it. A boulder could come crashing through my living room window, shattering it into a thousand pieces and changing the course of my day without shaking my confidence . . . but an ill-timed, but well meaning comment can reduce me to a weepy, frumpy mess for three days.

Actually, a boulder did come crashing through my double paned, plate glass window a week ago last Saturday.  And my feelings were hurt in a strangely inordinate way, right around that same time . . . strange because I'm generally pretty emotionally resilient. But still, I walked around in a fog for days, tears coming unbidden and wrestling with the images . . . and the angst . . . of the boulder and the words and the shattered window . . . the red brick of shadowy apartment building, a paint can, a big red ball . . . a haunting, aching disapproval. 

And when the convoluted images came together, falling into place like pieces of a dusty puzzle, they began to make more sense. And so did the words.

A few weeks ago I passed a story on my way to work. It's not likely that I'll ever learn the beginning . . . And I could only pray fervently for the ending as I went whizzing by at 75mph on the fast lane of a windy highway. But arguably I glimpsed a page of someone's joy . . . or heartache . . . just beginning . . .

That afternoon as I was driving east, I spied the unlikely sight of a large, caramel colored dog trotting steadily toward me, hugging the median. Alarmed, I had just enough time to note it's slightly emaciated condition, ears flopping, tail flagging, in the millisecond before I saw a middle aged woman bearing down on the dog from about three hundred yards behind. I wouldn't call her heavy, but by the way she was moving, or lumbering, determinedly forward, she was definitely not accustomed to chasing dogs down busy highways against traffic on weekday afternoons (who is?). As I passed her, I swear, even with my window rolled up, I thought I heard her scream "Roxy!" Or maybe it was "Outfoxed me!" Or even more likely, it was "Oh, God, please!" which is the equivalent of what I was praying for them even as I passed the third anomaly of a parked car, driver's side door hanging open at an angle against the median. All three were in line and precariously close to the buzzing noonday traffic . . . and as the space that we -- the dog, the lady, and me - had all occupied for just a few agonizing seconds stretched wider between us . . . as the scene flashed across my rear view mirror, I felt uncertainty. What would happen back there? What could I do? But the distance widened into a mile, two . . . and I couldn't find a place to turn around. I offered up one more plea for a happy ending . . . and jumped back into my own story.

But stumbling into someone else's story that afternoon, even for the three and a half seconds it took me to drive through it, had some impact on me -- other than just reminding me that we are all a part of each other's journeys in this great big world . . . even for just a passing prayer . . .

It pulled me out of the reverie of my own false story -- a lie -- that had been forming in my mind.

You see, it was a Wednesday, and the first day of that week that I felt well enough to venture out to work. I do contract work, and if I don't work, I don't get paid.It was a trade off I had been willing to make a year ago in order to write, choosing a degree of independence and freedom over a steady, salaried gig with paid summer vacations and sick days and health insurance. But getting sick hadn't really been open for consideration -- I haven't been sick in years -- yet, here I was, headed to an important, first impression admin meeting, sucking down cough drops like they were lemon skittles and praying I could go an hour without hacking germs all over my new colleagues. But that was only part of the story - the lie:

I won't get better. It's chronic whooping cough-ititis. I'll begin to miss too much work. Lose jobs. I'll get behind on my bills. My husband will lose his job (this really happened a year ago - just after I quit my job - stay with me). We won't be able to afford health insurance. We'll get a penalty. We won't be able to pay our taxes. The IRS will start calling. We'll have to find a cheaper place to live . . . foster out our dogs . . . my nails will be become weak, dry, and brittle from lack of shellac and general nutrition . . . Grilled cheese on white bread will become our staple . . . my wine rack will diminish to the single bottle of Barefoot Shiraz that I keep around just for the funky orange label. . . We'll have to go to government issued flip phones . . . One at a time, the cable will be cut off, the utilities . . . and we'll be forced to wander the mall to keep warm, stumbling into the electronic section of Sears just at the eight o'clock hour on a Monday night to watch the season premier of Survivor for a little life inspiration. . . Why . . .Oh, WHY did I ever quit that job? . . .

So now my dirty little secret is out. Yes, I am a doomsdayer. I look (and generally act) normal enough on the outside. But if you catch me in a moment of uncertainty, when life is spinning out of control, you might catch a glimpse of my soul, haunted by the former shadows of poverty, betrayal, sickness, abandonment . . . whatever calamities I've encountered in life . . . You might witness an ugly lack of faith derived from the "waiting for the other shoe to drop syndrome".

So what does all of that have to do with a stray dog on the side of the road and a woman intent, against all odds, on catching him?

Stories.

We all have them. As a matter of fact, each one of us a living, breathing story that has already happened, is happening now, is about to happen . . . and all three at once . . .

There are the inevitable trials and tribulations of everyday life, setbacks, the mundane and the lifechanging . . . There is debt and divorce, dentist appointments and dairy allergies. There is sibling rivalry and sibilant lisps. There are loss of jobs and loss of security, broken relationships and betrayals, personal failures and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. There are unexpected pregnancies and mean people. There is faulty wiring and househunting, identity theft and neighbors from Hell. There are corrupt politicians and scheming co-workers, lice, GMOs and the Zika Virus. There are bad genes, bad backs, bad choices that ripple through generations . . . and bad dogs that won't come back.

And then there are things that separate us from the truly unfortunate, until we realize (it's always a shock the first time) that we are all on an equal playing field.

There are natural catastrophes -- fires and floods and monster storms -- that take our breath away and leave us feeling small and insignificant. There is true evil -- people that violate us and those we love - that take away our faith in humanity and keep us peering fearfully from behind closed doors . . . and closed countries. Even people we love break our hearts. . . our spirits . . . our bodies. People don't come home. There is homelessness . . . mental illness, birth defects, handicaps . . . broken dreams. There are horrific accidents and horrendous illnesses. Phone calls. Parents get sick. Children die. Children are longed for . . . children are unwanted. There is profound, paralyzing grief and debilitating pain and loneliness. There are moments that bring us to our knees in the knowledge that our world, or the whole world, will never be the same.

Now that you've found yourself in there somewhere (I know you were looking;). . . did you notice I only included the "bad" stories? If not, don't be too hard on yourself. I'm not. I've come to understand that defining ourselves by our challenges seems to be our default mode. It's part of the human condition, and it can even drive us forward to do better, be better. There is wisdom in owning our stories and using them to connect with others, to build one another up in our common tragedy.

If we're not careful, though, our hardships can become our comfort zone . . . even a place to hide that feels "normal" because it's all we know . . . a convenient excuse for staying who we are when God intended us to be so much more..

Nowhere is this illustrated better than in the Holy Bible. I love the old testament stories because they are about ordinary people that God used for great things. In fact, they were extraordinarily flawed . . . like you and me. They doubted a God who would stay faithful to them and make promises in spite of their sins . . . pride and envy, adultery and treachery, murder and deceit. They disobeyed Him. They laughed at Him . . . ran away from Him . . . wrestled with Him. They even cursed Him.

​I am always particularly amazed -- and a little skeptical -- by the story of the Israelites, who grumbled and complained the whole of their journey out of Egyptian slavery, even between the miracles God provided for their protection and provision. Even after witnessing the plagues in Egypt that led to Pharaoh's final capitulation to let God's people go, the parting of the Red Sea and the cloud of fire that separated them from the pursuing Egyptian armies after Pharaoh changed his mind . . . even after God sent Manna from Heaven and provided fresh water in the desert. They Israelites FORGOT these things, and wished themselves back in Egypt. They were willing to trade their freedom for the security of knowing that even meager rations of food and water were readily available from the enemy. They lost faith over and over. Every time I read this, I'm a little skeptical . . . until I realize how easily I forget.

A year ago, I was expending every ounce of energy and God given ability I had into a job -- an institution -- that my efforts were lost upon. A few weeks ago, a handful of beautiful people, a small group of like-minded supporters who had shared that same space and circumstance of journey, sat in my living room celebrating with me (to a person) dream jobs that we could not have acquired or accomplished without that harsh bridge. It was not lost on me that I got to take the heart of that place with me . . . and leave the heartbreak behind. A year ago, my husband suddenly lost his job and we, the home that we had raised our children in. He never missed a day of work . . . and I'm writing this from the loveliest little rental home. I can see that glow of fuzzy duckling yellow kitchen from where I'm sitting. God and true friendship provided. A year ago I wrote a blog to celebrate small journeys in lieu of the big ones that temporary circumstances were forcing me to give up. Next week, I'll be on a beach one day and celebrating life with all of my favorite people in (one of) the happiest places on earth on another.

If we could learn to look at adversity as a bridge or a stepping stone to our destiny, maybe we wouldn't so keenly feel the fear of the unknown, the devastation of loss, or let the paralysis that comes with the pain stop us from living life to the fullest. Are there things that we . . . I . . . would choose to strike from my life if I had the choice? Absolutely, there are. If I had a button for personal do overs and if only resets, I'd be clicking that thing like a ski accident with a morphine drip. But at what cost . . . what compromise to who God intended me to be?

I think that I've come to a place where I realize that the only way we can truly fail is if we're not willing to grow. . . to move forward . . . to take risks even, for the task that God puts before us. As a matter of fact, the more we hope and the harder we live, the more risks we take, the more likely it is that LIFE will happen to us. Think of it this way: If we never jump in the ocean, we'll have absolutely zero risk of a shark attack . . . but do we really want to miss the ocean?

I want to have faith that the same God who parted the Red Sea . . . who sent daily bread from Heaven . . . who created clouds of fire for the protection of His people . . . has the power to create beauty from the ashes of my life. I want to be among the people who took risks, dared to hope . . . the Joshuas and Calebs of the Israelite story . . . who stepped out of their comfort zone . . . believed . . . fought giants to change their circumstances.

In the end, we'll all have a story . . . What will you do with yours? Will you walk in circles in the wilderness for years, robbing yourself of the blessings of life by refusing to move . . . for the fear of the unknown? . . . for regret or shame? . . . worry over the past or fear of the future? Or will you press onward to tell your story with dignity and grace?

Me? While I'm basking in the sun . . . washed in waves of gratitude and joy for the chance to be with my favorite people . . . I'm going to be praying for that lady . . . and the dog. No matter how the story ended . . . I'm hearing the echoes of her voice . . . wishing her to be telling someone "So there I was . . . chasing that dog down the highway . . . risking my life . . . giving it everything I had . . . "

And I'll still be chasing my dreams . . . crossing bridges and fighting giants to tell my own stories. It's all we can do.

I have dogs. Big dogs. Boxer dogs named Merlot and Riesling after my favorite wines (it's an empty nester thing). . . incredibly sweet, but sometimes naughty . . . sometimes very naughty. Riesling has a paper fetish so I know that I have to be careful not to leave any important documents or favorite books laying around when I leave the house . . .even Kleenex boxes aren't safe. Merlot has a little leash aggression. We have earnest talks before we leave the house to go for a walk. They will both sleep on the couch when we're not looking . . . even though they have perfectly lovely Sealy Posturepedic pet beds. Yes, really. Don't judge. 

But this isn't a story about dog behavior . . . not really . . . although it factors in mightily, because I'm completely convinced that God uses my naughty dogs to teach me life lessons. . . about faith and mercy. . . and last summer, about Grace . . . and her little dog, too.

One afternoon, I decided to take the dogs for a walk. Not a little walk, but a bold, adventurous walk. Adventurous because we'd go down a wooded trail that paralleled the Rouge River (they'd love the earthy smells and the occasional foolish squirrel or rabbit that might cross our path) and then swing by the local Dairy Queen for a doggy cone before taking the long way home. And bold because we usually only did this with my husband because of the leash aggression. Long walks were easier when he handled that. But I was feeling ambitious.

​Things went well until we got to Dairy Queen. I had stuffed three dollars into my pocket before leaving the house, but a single doggy cone with a cute bone-shaped treat sticking out the top was $2.89. Ridiculous. But not to be deterred, I bought one for them to split. 

Dumb. Really dumb. Dumb love.

I let Merlot have a few licks (the alpha dog) and gave him the treat before shifting the cone a foot to the left for Riesling to have a go. Merlot was too busy chewing and licking his droopy chops to notice. But when I swung it back for his second turn, Riesling followed, snout first. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. People that had been watching the charming scene with their children began backing away in fear as my dogs swirled and snarled like a pack of wolverines fighting over . . . an ice-cream cone.

I was embarrassed and MAD. You know that feeling you get when you've planned a great vacation for your kids, and all they can do is fight in the back seat the whole way there? That's where I was. I jerked them apart, tossed the ice-cream cone into the nearest trash can, and marched them in the direction of home. I was turning that car around, baby.

I was still huffing and puffing and muttering under my breath as we approached the last block before home. And that's when the REALLY horrible thing happened.

Up ahead I spied an old lady walking towards us with a fluffy, little dog. For some reason, that's the exact kind that makes Merlot crazy. I saw before he did, and anticipating his reaction, tightened my grip on the leash, swung wide into the street, and stopped. We'd give them the right of way. Except that they didn't seem to be moving. She was just kind of lingering with the dog and smiling in our direction. Come on, lady! Do something! I waited . . . and waited . . . and finally decided she must be standing in her own front yard. I couldn't just stay there. So I signaled the dogs to begin walking again, determined to plow through with as little incident as possible. But Merlot immediately began lunging toward the little dog, and maddeningly, gentle Riesling followed her leader. 

I was now wrestling with a hundred pounds of dog who had left what little sensibilities they had back at the Dairy Queen. This was turning into a very bad walk. But I was determined. Home was within sight. I pressed on . . . and then, inexplicably, felt my load lighten. I looked down at an empty blue collar. To my horror, Merlot had lunged backwards out of it and was rocketing towards the little dog faster than I could fathom how it happened. And before I even had a chance to scream a warning, Riesling copied the trick to perfection. An empty pink collar lay inert on the sidewalk next to the blue one.

Oh, God, what was I thinking not getting the choke chains? I'm not blaspheming. I really asked God this question as I hurled myself forward after my horribly ungrateful dogs as 
they took turns pommeling the ragged little dog at the old lady's feet. As quickly as I threw one off, the other jumped in. I barked commands at them in a language that they could understand, and against all odds they backed off sufficiently enough for me to wrestle them back into the errant collars still attached to the leashes I had dragged along behind me as I ran toward the mayhem. 

And still, the old lady stood there, ineffectually looking on. But her little dog, appearing unscathed, but trembling, got up and calmly walked over to her and huddled against her ankles. Which seemed to anger my little canine bullies all over again. They commenced their lunging  even as I moved to put some distance between them . . . and the old lady and her dog. Do something, I thought at her . . . pick up the dog! Instead, she began to wail. Oooooh! I hope he's okay, she lamented, barely looking down. I hope he's not hurt.

And I thought, What is WRONG with you? 

Ma'am, I said, Can you pick up your dog and take him into the house?

But what if he's hurt? she asked.

Let me take my dogs home and I'll come back and check on you.

She looked dubious, but I did come back. I could see her through the window, pacing and talking to someone on the phone with that hunched something horrible has happened demeanor. And to my relief, I could see the little brown, wiry-furred dog padding around at her feet. I knocked on the door and she answered as she was hanging up, a stricken look on her face. She was visibly shaking and the odd plastered smile was gone, replaced with watery eyes and a quivering bottom lip. 

Are you okay? I asked.

I don't know. She was wailing again.

Is your dog okay?

I think so. She looked down, as if remembering why I was there.

Do you need a hug?

I don't know. She kept her distance.

I'm really sorry that happened. I said.

Why don't you keep your dogs on a leash?! she half wailed - half demanded.

I wanted to laugh, but I stifled it. And then I thought that maybe the watery, vacant eyes were cataracts. I did, I said, regretfully, somberly. They got off. And I asked again, deep compassion welling up, Can I give you a hug? She let me hug her. And I asked her name. Grace, she said. And I began to cry because that was my grandmother's name. Grace. And then she said it. Wailed it in half-choked words. 

And I just buried my husband this morning.

AND. I. JUST. BURIED. MY. HUSBAND. THIS. MORNING.

I stayed for over an hour, the little dog leaning against my ankles this time. I imagined a slight limp, but Grace insisted he was okay. Her eyes stayed clouded, but her face morphed through half a dozen emotions as she began to tell me her about her five children. One son had died years earlier. Another had filed a lawsuit against his parents claiming ownership to their home several years before, and they were estranged. A daughter lived in Florida . . . one Up North couldn't get away from work. One of her grandsons lived with her, she told me, and it was evidenced by the men's tennis shoes I could see laying by the door. It wasn't clear who he belonged to, though, or where he was now. I thought I detected a spot of blood in the rusty brown fur around the dog's neck. I couldn't be sure, but surreptitiously tried to rub it in with my thumb.

I expressed regret that she was alone, and I listened, watching her struggle to contain shades of anger and grief. And then her face changed, softened.

You came back, she said. I didn't think you'd come back. Who would do that?

Who wouldn't? I thought. And then remembered her children.

Before I left, I asked her if she needed anything . . . Groceries? Can I run any errands for you? No, she said. I'm just so glad you came back.

Later, emotionally drained and feeling guilty, I told my husband everything that had happened. It was a God thing, he said. She needed someone. I was skeptical. She didn't need my dogs beating up her dog on the worst day of her life. God works things out in ways we can't understand, he reminded me. But I vowed that I would never make that mistake again.

I went out and bought choke chain collars. But I was jaded, afraid to walk them alone again. I took them to an isolated field near our house to run, but never beyond. And then in the fall, we moved away, into a great little house, but closer to the city and busy streets, on a charming little, unassuming sidestreet . . .  where half a dozen fluffy little neighbor dogs lived. My fear grew, and Merlot and Riesling spent a lot of time playing in the backyard.

On a warm, winter afternoon, I gathered my courage, busted out the choke chains, checked to make sure the coast was clear, and marched my dogs confidently down to the end of my little dead end street . . . to the busy road where the cars whizzed and whooshed by in both directions. So far, so good. I turned them left, and we all came face to face with . . . would you believe it? . . . an old man and his little fluffy dog.

You can't make these things up (as I'm fond of saying).

No worries. Armed with my choke chains, I guided them off to the embankment of the busy road. We'd just simply wait for traffic to clear and cross to the other side. We'd wait. And we waited. And two of us lunged as the old man passed by with his fluffy dog. And wait. And lunge. And wait. And lunge. The cars kept whizzing by without a break, forcing me to face my fears and keep my resolve. Then the old man and his dog had reached what I thought was a safe enough distance for us to move back over to the sidewalk. 

And that's when it happened. AGAIN. 

Choke chains only work if you attach the leash to the  correct link -- the one that pulls the collar tighter as the dog pulls against it - not the one that renders it a loose noose that the dog can back out of . . . AGAIN.

Riesling had discovered this "loophole" in the plan, and I watched in horror as she went bounding down the sidewalk towards the old man with the fluffy dog. Even Merlot seemed surprised by her defection, and stopped lunging, secure on his correctly linked leash, to see what would happen. I called to her, frantically, incessantly, but she ignored me, bouncing around the old man as if she was attached to an invisible pogo stick. But he had picked up his dog (sensibly) and kept walking, shooing her away. Sensing their disinterest, and appearing somewhat disappointed, she was bouncing her way back to us . . . when to my fresh horror, Riesling suddenly discovered FREEDOM. It was obviously intoxicating, and it would have been funny, if the situation wasn't so alarming. She bounced ever higher, with a look of pure, jubilant exhilaration on her face, and began a delightful bounce-run dance of increasingly concentric circles that was taking her closer and closer to the road and the heavy noon-day traffic. My calling turned frantic, but it was futile. She was completely, happily oblivious.

And in that final desperate moment, I knew exactly what to do. Right there, in the broad daylight of the afternoon sun, in view of the throngs of east west traffic drivers, on a public sidewalk in November . . . I hit my knees and began to pray. Oh, God! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please bring her back! Please don't let her die! ! begged (I think Merlot bowed his head complicitly).

And Riesling came back. Just trotted back over as if it had been her plan all along, sat down in front of me obediently, and let me put her leash back on. Correctly. 

And in spite of my beating heart . . . my self-recrimination . . . that told me to just go home . . . just give it up . . . we finished our walk that afternoon.

Mercy. Faith. Perseverance. Grace.

I know what you're thinking . . . but she was just trying to walk her dogs. She made a mistake. . . and another. It was an accident. She didn't mean to. Okay, that was stupid, but . . . this is about WALKING DOGS.

No, it's not.

You see, I'll tell you my dog story, but I'm not going to give you the more intimate details of my life. I won't elaborate on the time I lied to extract information from someone, never imagining that lie would go any further and hurt someone else. But it did. 

I'm not going to tell you about the flaw in my character I stumbled upon recently that I now understand has caused a rift in my marriage for thirty years. Now THAT'S a stubborn heart.

I'm not going explain how I confidently I could have told you at one time that I had mastered the art of forgiveness . . . and since then have had to acknowledge half a dozen situations where I've simply cut people out of my life.

And I won't go on about my daily struggles to use my God given strengths and talents for good, and not evil.

But I can tell you about grace that I've experienced up close and personal. I can tell you that whether I'm knee deep in mistakes . . . carelessness . . . callousness . . . or blatantly steeped in sin . . . that I've experienced more of God's grace and mercy and love than I'll ever deserve. I've seen that God can bring you to the exact place that he needs you, even on your worst days, and no matter what you've done. I've learned that you can call on God at the twelfth hour, and he'll stop traffic for you . . . or bring your dog back. I've learned to depend on second chances and serendipity no matter how many mistakes I make. And I've learned to just keep walking. Getting to a place of grace can sometimes be hard and scary and messy, but it's always worth the journey. Sometimes you get to witness the mystical, merciful, full power of God in all His strange glory. 

I'm going to go walk my dogs now, and see what else I might learn.



​

It happens every year around this time. Not Christmas. Yes, Christmas, but that's too obvious. I mean the Christmas buzz kill. It's in the collective voice of the cynics who preach that commercialism has stolen the wonder. It's in the eyes of the weary who worry that they won't measure up they don't do things just right. It's in the uneasiness of the unbeliever who secretly just  wishes it would all go away. It's even become culturally personified in the characters of Ebenezer Scrooge and The Grinch whose skepticism elicits the response of the beloved blanket-toting Linus Van Pelt (Charles Schultz) quoting Luke 2: 8-14.


In a nutshell, it's the perpetual search for the real meaning of Christmas . . . even when the meaning has long since been established. Why is that?

Yes, it's true that the pendulum of human nature will often swing Christmas into something seemingly dark and sinister masqueraded beneath sparkly paper and bows . . . reduce it to the gifts we receive. To the cynics, Christmas has become nothing more than a metaphor for greed, materialism, and elitism. The annual Black Friday debacle with the tragic trampling of fellow shoppers is shameful evidence. And it's true that Santa Clause often seems to usurp Jesus as the central character in our reason for the season. To the former, I would assert: people are crazy. To the latter, let's understand that people crave what is most tangible. Traditions and customs and ceremony are created from a deep desire to connect with something GOOD . . . something holy. And if we can't touch it, can't quite feel it on the visceral level we desire, we'll create a bridge.

Christmas trees and candy canes and spirit of Christmas manifested into Santa Clause are symbols of our deepest desire for something REAL to reflect on that gives our lives meaning. Nativity scenes and tree-topping stars and ethereal choirs are a yearning for something sacred. And no matter where we fall on the spectrum of our visions, we're all reaching for some magic.

Sometimes we perceive it in the little things. 

Christmas 1993 marked the beginning of an end of a long journey for my family. Our youngest daughter, Brooke, 5, had just a few more months of her chemotherapy protocol for the Leukemia she had been diagnosed with two years before. Her prognosis was good, and every milestone . . . every birthday, every holiday, every lab report . . . was a bittersweet celebration of joy and hope. But the years had taken a toll on our little family. I had initially had to quit my job in home day care to fully focus on caring for Brookie, so money was tight on just my husband's military pay. And her illness had had a particular impact on her older sister, Brittany. Deeply sensitive, Britty seemed to absorb every anxiety in our home. And although we were short on emotional reserve and energy to give her the extra attention we knew she needed, we tried to offset that with other things . . . a locket with a pictures of her family, art therapy, a kitten. In 1993, American Girl Dolls were a new phenomenon, all the rage. . . and ridiculously expensive. But Brittany's birthday was just four days after Christmas, and I was determined that we would present her with the newest one, an Addie doll. I shared this plan with Brooke while Brittany was at school one afternoon as we pored over the catalogue that featured doll clothes more expensive than clothes for real children. Brookie had always been more of a stuffed animal kind of kid, and even the few dolls that she had sat primly on a shelf most of the time. So I was completely befuddled to look up from the catalogue to see quiet crocodile tears coursing down my little girl's face. "Honey, what's the matter?!" I asked alarmed and clueless, frantically scanning her little body for anything that I thought might be causing her pain. She stared at me solemnly, in her stoic Cancer kid way, but her little lip quivered when she said, "I wanted a doll, too." and she pointed to one of the five dolls featured in the catalogue, Felicity, that she had secretly had her eye on. My heart broke just a little, but I had already placed the order, and it was so near to Christmas that even if we did have the money to order another doll, it would never arrive in time. Later, I shared the incident with Stephen, and we both agreed to leave things as they were. As hard as it was, even for a Cancer kid, we simply couldn't afford to give in to every whim. . . and maybe she'd forget about it . . . we hoped.  A few days later, a package arrived with the elite packaging and logo of the American Girl Doll Company. And when I opened it, there was a Felicity doll . . . NOT the Addie doll that I had ordered . . . staring up at me. I couldn't send her back. Could you? I called the company, and since it was their mistake, they expedited the right doll to arrive by Christmas morning so that both of my girls could open their doll packages at the same time. We chose a less expensive gift for Brittany's birthday . . . and yes, we did receive a Christmas check for the exact amount that that extra doll cost. You can't make these things up. Well, okay, Hallmark does it all the time . . . but I swear I'm not. I will always choose to believe that that was the Christmas that God assured us of healing for both of our daughters . . . and loved them both enough to fulfill their most fervent little Christmas wishes. Christmas IS about presents. Not convincing enough? Here's another one that I challenge you to argue with . . . 

Something bigger . . . 

In early fall of 2014, my very dear friend lost her husband, a beloved pastor, suddenly and tragically. He died just as the leaves were beginning to turn, and waves after wave of fresh grief carried her and her five sons into the bitter cold of the that winter's holiday season. To make things worse, her second son, who for years had battled drug addiction with the added complication of Type I Diabetes, was sent into a tailspin. She and Larry had many years before established an understanding that any help that they could offer him would have to be away from their home. Even after Larry's death, Sandy held firm to this necessity. But when she heard that their son had been rushed to the hospital, battered and bruised with multiple concussions, she went to him, as any mother would, and sat with him in the hospital where it was determined that he had experienced what may have been multiple seizures alone on the cold, concrete streets of their city, and had been found near death himself. So Sandy spent the weeks leading up to Christmas grieving her husband and caring for their son in the hospital. It was more than anyone could be expected to bear, and her sons encouraged her to fly out to New York to be with her brother and his family just in time for Christmas. The plan fulfilled its desired effect. She felt comforted in her brother's home, cocooned and safe for the first time in months, even in her haze of grief and pain. And she wished for one thing . . . a present.

She shared with me that, "like a little kid" she thought about. . . and wished fervently . . . for just ONE present from somebody, anybody. Nobody had been in a state of mind to think about presents at home . . . and nobody in New York could have known she was coming in time to get her a present. Even so, she kept thinking how nice it would be to have just one present, and then further wished she had something to give. Her thoughts inexplicably drifted to a DVD that Larry had loved. It was a Christmas DVD that he had watched and marveled over even in the summer just before he died. It's called the Star of Bethlehem, and they had both been so impressed with the documentary that astronomically and historically proved the existence of the star that led wise men to Jesus, that they had "lent out" multiple copies that they kept replacing, and then finally just began giving out copies as Christmas gifts in years past.  She knew she wasn't getting a present, but thought that that would be the most perfect gift to get and to share.

And as happens at Christmas, rounds of visitors came by, and one, an old friend of the family who heard Sandy would be there, presented her with a package that held the DVD inside. "How did you know?" she asked astonished, and he said, equally astonished by her enthusiasm, "​God laid it on my heart to give it to you . . . and the guy who created it and narrates it is actually my cousin. . . "  Of course He did . . . and of course it is.

Magic.

Just before Thanksgiving, I called to check in on Sandy, and she told me this story . . . and told me about this DVD. Here is my gift to you. Get it. Buy it. Watch it. Or wait, and see if you get it for a gift:) You know how the skeptic will tell you that December 25th is a fabricated date for Christmas?. A little "magic" proves it's not . . . 

Just listen to the story . . . and believe.

​Merry Christmas.