P is for perseverance…and love…

People let me tell you ’bout my best friend
He’s a warm hearted person [cat] who’ll love me ’til the end
People let me tell you bout my best friend
He’s a one boy cuddly toy, my up, my down, my pride and joy
lyrics by Harry Nillson

(something about that pink nose…a much younger Percy/ Julie Cook)

If you’re anything like me… well…
you’ve probably had your fair share of four legged or even two winged pets
during your lifetime.

I counted it up today and Percy, the last of my cats during this 63 year run of a life,
actually totals number 7.

Let’s not count the dogs, one bird, one mouse, one hermit crab, a myriad of fish
and countless found wild little animals that needed tending too…
simply put, it was always the cats… and in particular, it was
always Percy who seemed to matter most.

Percy came into my life 13 years ago last month.
I wrote the following post about him after about two years in living with him–
because by this time, he’d completely stolen my heart–
the link is here:

My Best Friend

And I might add that I’ve actually written many posts about Percy…
posts about his life, his rescue, his surgeries, his endurance…
but most importantly and simply put, I’ve written about his perseverance.

For you see Percy is short for Perseverance.

When I found myself staring at the tiny maggot covered, broken, bruised and
bloodied mass that was actually a kitten barely clinging to existence—
a kitten who had been thrown from a car and smacked up against a fence post…
this tiny mess of a baby…I knew any name this animal would have,
would have to measure up to this wee one’s sheer will and determination
to survive.

A strong name for a seemingly helpless mangled mess.

But what you need to understand in all of this is that I didn’t,
my family didn’t, rescue Percy—it was Percy who found us to be his rescuers.
He found us, because as odd as it might sound, Percy sensed–
yes this tiny broken creature seemed to know that we’d give him that chance
that he needed and obviously desperately wanted…a chance to thrive.

And yet however…in the end, it was and will always be Percy who rescued me.

Time and time again, Percy rescued me.

Yes, it seems that I just wrote a post about losing my older cat Peaches…as she
had to be put down after battling jaw cancer.

We already had Peaches when Percy came into our lives.
And just like that, this older cat who had never had kittens of her own,
quickly accepted and took on Percy as hers.

(Percy and Peaches at this newest of homes / Julie Cook / 2023)

Yet Percy wasn’t like other cats; not like any I had ever had before.
Even vets would comment that Percy was not catlike but rather more doglike–more
intuitive, not dismissive or elusive but rather… just more of an old soul.

Percy was the most expensive pet I’ve ever owned.
No thoroughbred, no exclusive breed…just basically a mutt so to speak.

The costs came quickly…
there were the exams and meds and fluids just to see if he’d survive
his first week with us.

A cage, food, bedding, toys….

Then there were surgeries early on to repair the damage done to his face..
damage caused by humans who must have been void of their own humanity.

Then there was the metal rod installed by an orthopedic surgeon to repair a
torn achilles tendon.
The 12 weeks worth of rehab.
More cages.
Casts.
Meds.
The ensuing bone infection that required trips to the vets daily for injections and pills
for a good 7 weeks.

And most recently there was the emergency room trip.
The oxygen box.
More meds.
The IVs
The infections.
The X-rays.
The kidney failure.
The suspected congenital heart failure.

And yet…he overcame…once agin…or so it seemed.
For there was always the perseverance.

The desire to be.

The bond between us was (and will always be) inseparable.

13 years…with all the additions and subtractions in a family.
The retirements, the lives, the deaths, the moves, the ups, the downs, the divorce…
the one constant was always…Percy.

Well…yesterday…Mother’s Day…my best friend’s heart simply gave out.
It suddenly stopped beating and he stopped being…
just as a piece of me also stopped.

Percy was seemingly my only link to a life that was bridging a life that was and
a life that is…he was the last bit of brittle glue bonding two worlds…
and now… that last link, that brittle little glue… simply stopped breathing.

Do animals, our pets, go to Heaven?

Well, that’s been an age old theological conundrum for ages…
but I have always said that God knows how much our pets mean to us—
on all sorts of levels.
How much they do for us and how much we do for them.

I think the God I know…knows.
He sees and He knows.
And he cares, even for the least of these.

Many will say that Percy was lucky to have found me…
but if the truth be told, I was and I am the one who was the luckiest of all
that Percy found me.

He taught me and continues to teach me what it means to Persevere.

Thank you my dear little friend….

The Lord is good to all;
he has compassion on all he has made
Psalm 145:9

Way back when:

Not a recent good look! Despite countless water bowls around the house, Percy always preferred drinking water from a recently finished shower…or remnants in a bath and most recently… something a bit more disturbing…

However the most content was simply to rest on a perch next to a warm fire…

love for 1000 years, the Bread Doctor, the happiest nations and Jesus wept…

“What it’s like to be a parent:
It’s one of the hardest things you’ll ever do but in exchange it teaches
you the meaning of unconditional love.”
Nicholas Sparks, The Wedding

Sometimes our attitude towards people with physical handicaps can be
both patronising and harmful.
Who are we to determine that someone’s life is not worth living?
David Robertson

A few years back I’d written a post…
and it just so happened that that particular post in question was written
in order to coincide with the International Day of Downs Syndrome Awareness…
that being March 21st.

Well, I’m a few day’s early of this year’s awareness day yet I’ve felt compelled
none the less to revisit that post and share a new story…

(click the link for that year’s full post)

for a thousand years….I have loved you for a thousand years

That previous post was not simply a story about kids living with Downs Syndrome but
rather it was a post about the need to look deeper into how our world actually looks
at such kids and their families—how they all live life with such a “disability.”

That previous post piggybacked off of an article that was written by our friend
the Wee Flea, Pastor David Robertson.
The article had first appeared in Christian Today and later, David included
it in his blog.

David pointed out that “In the UK 90 per cent of babies in the womb who are diagnosed with Down’s are aborted. In Iceland it is 100 per cent and Denmark is getting close to that as well. These countries boast that they will have got rid of Down’s – what they mean is that they will have got rid of any human beings who have Down’s.

The Definition of Happiness

Iceland and Denmark were recently listed as two of the top 10 happiest countries in the world. But it does depend on how you define happiness. The criteria used were ‘income, healthy life expectancy, social support, freedom, trust and generosity’. Perhaps other criteria could also be used? I would put a parent’s as pretty well near the top of the list. Watching this video there may not be some of the other ‘happiness’ factors, but the love is clearly there. Maybe our experts need to rethink how they define happiness?”

Fast forward to this week.

While recently flipping through a magazine, an interesting article jumped out at me.
It was a story entitled
The Bread Doctor: Why a small-town doctor opened a bakery for his daughter
with Down syndrome

As I read the story, I was immediately reminded of that previous post, David’s article
and of those nations who are proud to have “eradicated” Downs.
…and at what a cost that eradication has extracted…happiness? Really?!

I knew I needed to head over to the world wide web
in search of a sharable version of the story and low and behold I found one.

https://www.ldsliving.com/the-bread-doctor-why-a-small-town-doctor-opened-a-bakery-for-his-daughter-with-down-syndrome/s/93004

I also found a lovely YouTube video about this doctor from Wyoming, the baker from Oregon
and the daughter with Downs…

David’s final paragraph from that original article still pricks the soul.

Have not previous leaders and those who seem to know what is best for all
not thought they had “solutions” for a utopian society, a “happily perfect” society??
Eradication always seems to be the answer…quick, neat and emotionless…
and yet those of us who prefer to choose life, I believe, know otherwise.

Jesus wept…

I sometimes wonder what Jesus would think of a society which is so
determined to get rid of what it perceives as the weak,
the disabled and those who don’t quite fit the ‘perfect’ mould.
But then I don’t need to wonder.
Jesus wept – and he still does.
David Roberston

thankfulness intertwines with hopefulness

“In giving us this regular hunger for food,
we are also given opportunity to sacrifice for each other and for God
and to discipline our appetites.
Always cognizant of our nature, the liturgical year is rife
with periods of both fasting and feast.
In order to feast, we must also know sacrifice;
in fact, it’s only in sacrifice that we understand what a feast really is.
Our lives can contain an ever-repeating rhythm of each in its proper time.
In the same way that it would be profane to feast on Good Friday,
so would it be improper to fast on Easter.
This rhythm is a reminder of both a need to be filled as well
as a need to strengthen our resolve so that we might long first
and foremost for the feast that has no end.”
Carrie Gress and Noelle Mering, p. 88

(turkey season in Georgia 2017/ Julie Cook)

Ok, so just maybe the above image is not necessarily an image of what we might consider
to be one of thankfulness and gratitude—
well certainly not for this particular creature being photographed that is…

…but oh isn’t it such a beautiful and magnificent bird?

We know Ben Franklin thought as much as he wanted the wild turkey to be our
Nation’s national symbol.
However, I must admit, I suppose wiser heads prevailed allowing for
the eagle to take center stage…

So maybe beautiful, or even pretty, isn’t exactly the right word or words
to describe the turkey.

Let’s just go with, say…colorful, textural, unusual, sublime, prehistoric,
and yes, how about even mysterious.

Mysterious, much like this time of year…
a time of year when we find ourselves entering into that which
reminds us that there is something much bigger and truly greater than
ourselves—even greater than any black Friday sale.

And it is a time that begins with today’s kickoff of the
annual advent of thankfulness.

I’ve always been one to give Thanksgiving day its due…
as in I believe it is a day that should indeed have its own time
in the spotlight.

A set day to remind each of us of all things full of
both gratitude and thankfulness.

Yet far too many of us seem unable or even willing to keep our thoughts
on such notions as we find it difficult keeping our Christmas spirit
of childlike glee at bay.

Many of us have already decked the halls with our Christmas decorations…
having done so well before the final candle of the jack-o-lantern
was even extinguished.

That lingering pumpkin spice scented candle’s smoke still lingers
in the air as Christmas trees, what with their glistening baubles and balls,
now come racing past to take center stage.

Thanksgiving Day, for many, receives only a cursory nod as folks have set their
sights on all things such as sales and bargains laced with the taste of
peppermint and gingerbread.

For me, I think this year in particular reminds me that…no, wait…
I think “reminds me” is the wrong phrase…I think that my soul has
actually been pricked to remember, perhaps actually even prodded with
a red hot cattle iron….
that for me, particularly this year, it is a time to be thankful
and such thankfulness must be paramount…especially this year of all years.

In the midst of a year that has seen its full bait of both loss and heartache,
the sense, that palpable feeling of both gratitude and thankfulness,
must still exist. They must still be allowed to manifest themselves
despite a seemingly insurmountable wall of all things contrary.

Because if we cannot find, if I cannot find or if we cannot
find our ability to give thanks even in the midst of our pain and suffering…
if we cannot cling to a sense of gratefulness despite our heaviness…then
we have lost all ability to hope.

And it is in that hope…that deep down sense of hopefulness,
that we actually find our ability to move forward…
even if that forward motion is simply one step at a time or simply
one more minute in a lifetime full of minutes..
one more breath at a time…

Thanksgiving reminds us of hope.

The notion that things will get better…not simply that they must get better
but rather that they WILL get better—
no matter what that getting better might look like.

It might not be what we imagined, it might not be what we expected…
but it will be hope none the less.

So I wish each of you not merely a happy Thanksgiving day but rather I
wish you each a renewed sense of hope—
for in that hope rests our real sense of thankfulness and gratitude…

“Prayer is an aspiration of the heart.
It is a simple glance directed to Heaven.
It is a cry of gratitude and love in the midst of trial as well as joy.”
St. Therese Lisieux

“Remember the past with gratitude.
Live the present with enthusiasm.
Look forward to the future with confidence.”
St. John Paul II

Good-bye my dear old friend…

Love takes up where knowledge leaves off.
Saint Thomas Aquinas

Animals are such agreeable friends –
they ask no questions; they pass no criticisms.
George Eliot

(Peaches in her beautiful prime / Julie Cook/ 2017)

How do you pick a day, a time or even the place for the death of another?
The death of someone you love dearly?

How can you be the master of another’s right to live or die?

Or perhaps more simply, how can one be given the tremendous responsibility
to glibly turn the hand with a thumbs up or a thumbs down?

…just like those various Roman emperors,
those long ago bloodthirsty leaders who were burdened, or perhaps gifted,
with such decisions— never seemingly having any internal
moral turmoil…none like I have had…

How in the world can one balance both mind and heart in
such everlasting ending sorts of decisions?

Oh there are those out there who seem to give such thoughts no never mind…
Those who have little if any regard for the living or the sanctity of
their, or anyone elses for that matter, life.

The phrase moral responsibility has been tossed at me like a
dead weight over the past several weeks.
As in…. it is my moral obligation to do the “right thing” by my
cat…my pet, my tender responsibility.

That being Peaches, the older of my current two cats.

She is/was 15 years old…
diagnosed with aggressive and advanced bone cancer in her jaw
just a few short weeks ago….

I’ve had a cat in my life ever since I was 6 years old.

Oh there was the occasional bird, fish, mouse, along with several dogs
over the years, but cats have been the constant.

So I did a little counting….
during the course of 57 years… that being from age 6 to 63, I have had a total
of 7 cats.
7 cats spread out over 57 years.

Some of them were more cat-like, while two of them were more dog-like.
(Yes even a vet once told me one of my cats was more dog-like than cat-like…
meaning they had a deeply bonding personality…not aloof and independent like
most typical cats.)

Peaches, who was more cat-like, came into my life in 2007.
She came as a lonely, lost and starving 8 month old kitten.

Our son had just graduated high school and had left for college when Peaches showed
up—it was as if on cue she came into my life when there was a drastic void.
She readily filled that void.
She was tenacious, street wise and determined to live.
And yet faithfully, throughout both the good and bad, Peaches stood by my side.

So fast forward to a recent divorce, upheaval and obvious loss…
all multiplied by a major move—
and suddenly, and oh so sadly, it came time for her to leave her post…leaving me.

So having overseen me resettled, I suppose she believed her job was complete.

It’s just that I wasn’t ready to make that decision for her, for me, or…for us…
not yet…
but whoever said life would be fair…

And so I thank you Peaches, my dear tenacious friend,
Mommy will always love you!!!

(sporting her “Mimi” hat)

(holding on to Percy’s tail, her surrogate child)

(Wednesday at the Vet’s when we said our good-byes)

“The Lord manifests Himself to those who stop for some time in
peace and humility of heart.
If you look in murky and turbulent waters,
you cannot see the reflection of your face.
If you want to see the face of Christ,
stop and collect your thoughts in silence,
and close the door of your soul to the noise of external things.”
St. Anthony of Padua

finding peace…in and with the world

Be at peace with your own soul,
then heaven and earth will be at peace with you.
Saint Jerome

Who except God can give you peace?
Has the world ever been able to satisfy the heart?
St. Gerard Majella

(an apple gourd—who knew??? / Julie Cook / 2022)

Ten some odd years ago when I started this little blog…when I began taking up
a tiny bit of residence in this endless space known as the blogosphere,
my desire was to share my personal ramblings of that of both journey
and transition…I was a teacher for heaven’s sake…we share by the sheer
nature of our trade!

And at that time, it just so happened that my life was one big journey
of transition…

There was the new transition and journey into retirement.

While at the same time there was the sorrowful transition of walking
from that of life to that of death’s door with both my dad and my aunt.

There was the journey of handing a child’s hand, turned that of a
man, to that of another woman’s hand…the passing of a torch so to speak
from one to another.

There was the discovery of a real biological past…complete with names and faces.
Yet there was the renewed rejection of a birth mother to that of her adopted child.
Again.

There was the eventual addition of two new joyous lives into my own.
The filling up of one’s heart…a heart that had just shortly before felt so
sorrowfully full of loss.

There was a pandemic.

There was a new retirement.
There was moving.
There was divorce.
There was loss.
There was unfamiliar.

And so now, as I stop for a bit of introspection and reflection,
I think my thoughts have shifted just a tad.
As in my axis has tilted just a wee bit off from its normal rotation.

I’m finding the notion of Peace…be that peace within, as well as peace outward,
to be a more immediate focus.

I think that’s why the following observation by Thomas á Kempis
has resonated so deeply within this restless soul of mine this evening.

I don’t believe that our dear brethren Thomas is inferring, as so many observers
quickly and most falsely assume of our Christian faith….
that being that we must suffer in order to eventually acquire peace…
but rather I find it all to be quite to the contrary…

It is the notion that we should seek peace amidst the chaos of
this life…a feat short of the miraculous given our current day and times..

We mere mortals will all eventually endure some sort of suffering in this
life—some, more it may appear, than most.
Fair or unfair as it may be….yet suffering, be it just or unjust, there
it will be.

And so therefore, it should be our task to seek peace within such times
and within such circumstances as we may be currently finding ourselves.

For it will only be in that Peace…that we may find rest amidst the storm.
For if we do not seek we will never find nor know that there is indeed a
Peace far greater than any turmoil life can throw at us…

And so now we begin a new journey of transition…that of Peace…

Will you come walk this path with me?

“You must first have peace in your own soul before you can make
peace between other people.
Peaceable people accomplish more good than learned people do.
Those who are passionate often can turn good into evil and
readily believe the worst.
But those who are honest and peaceful turn all things to good
and are suspicious of no one….
It is no test of virtue to be on good terms with easy-going people,
for they are always well liked.
And, of course, all of us want to live in peace and prefer those
who agree with us.
But the real test of virtue and deserving of praise is to live
at peace with the perverse, or the aggressive and those who contradict us,
for this needs a great grace…
in this mortal life, our peace consists in the humble bearing
of suffering and contradictions,
not in being free of them, for we cannot live in this world without adversity.
Those who can best suffer will enjoy the most peace,
for such persons are masters of themselves,
lords of the world, with Christ for their friend,
and heaven as their reward.”
Thomas á Kempis, p.72-73

God’s glorious sense of timing and humor

God does not give us everything we want, but He does fulfill His promises,
leading us along the best and straightest paths to Himself.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer

As I continue to walk this very new and most foreign life of mine, I find that
some days are easier than others…and as is the nature of life,
the ying and yang of it all, some days are much harder than others.

In reality and if I’m being honest, some days are really…simply put–
very dark and difficult.
And it is within those darker days, life can seem down right scary and dreadful.

I think major life transitions are like that.

I can tick off 4 of the top 5 major causes of stress very readily.
Those things found on the forms in doctor’s offices that ask
if you have had a significant life change regarding relationships,
finances, moving etc…
Check, check and check again.

So there are definitely days that include a lot more heavy lamentations versus
the desired uplifting jubilations.

Wednesday seemed to be such a day.

I found myself in the midst of my morning prayer time imploring God
to please draw ever near…as in I needed Him something fierce.
Tears streaked cheeks have become the norm..
And so ode to yearning to have that loving embrace offered by an ever loving Father…

Jolted back to the present, suddenly I heard the familiar whistle from
my phone indicating an incoming text message.

“Oh great” I heard myself muttering, “now even God is texting….”

I stopped mid imploring and reached for my phone.
I am more than accustomed to my days now seemingly being dictated by a simple text…
be it good or be it bad.
And that’s when I found the above little inspiration being offered by my cousin.

I felt new warm tears forming in my eyes as I read the words.

“Wow” I thought…”God’s timing really is something isn’t it?!”
A virtual otherworldly and most needed hug just as I prayed for Him
to please, oh please, draw near…and remember…despite the last 7 months
of hell, I still believe that there is no such thing as coincidence.

So following my prayer time and my typical morning cry, I
remembered that I had already taken the trash and recycling out,
putting it all by my car as I was needing to head to the dump.

I quickly re-grouped and grabbed my purse and keys, heading out to the car.
I needed to hurry up and get everything loaded into the back of my car…
hurrying up before…before somebody else found the trash.

And that’s when I saw it.
I stopped dead in my tracks.

The cat was sitting on the front porch watching what she must have perceived to be
the regular neighborhood dog…
a big black 400 pound “dog” helping himself to his very own private lunch bag.

I felt my blood pressure rising as I grabbed two long piece of cardboard.

“THAT’S IT BEAR!!!!
“YOU GET YOUR LAZY A%& UP THIS MINUTE AND MOVE!!!!

I was so mad I couldn’t see straight.

Yet there he sat… resting quite comfortably licking clean the discarded cans of
cat food while savoring the past its prime watermelon.
Never mind the scooped up cat litter, the discarded egg shells, the dirty paper towels
etc, etc, etc….

I continued ranting…walking within arms length waving my cardboard.

“I SAID GET UP!!!!!!”

And just like a scolded dog…he sheepishly looked down and away…
cutting sorrowful eyes back and forth.

“I’M NOT GOING TO SAY IT AGAIN, GET UP AND MOVE!!!”

I began whacking two cardboard sticks together in his face as he reluctantly
got up and moved back a few feet.
I could tell he wanted the empty cans of cat food.

“MOVE IT BEAR!”

I got louder and stood taller whacking my cardboard sticks together.
Finally, yet very reluctantly, my lazy dinner guest, scooted down the bank and
sat where he could see me…as I could see him.

I was ranting the entire time as I picked up the remnants of trash trailing
the driveway..stepping in a torn bag of nasty cat litter and nearly slipping on a couple
of peach pits.

I was yelling and lecturing at this young hooligan just I would any juvenile delinquent
caught doing something that was wrong…
trouble with my particular hooligan was that he was being an opportunist–
a hungry lazy opportunist.

And so as I finally shoved all the trash into a new bag and pushed it into
the back of my car, all the while still lecturing a lazy bear, I thought
of how my mood was prior to this latest bear encounter.

I was sad.
Going from sad to mad.
And that’s when I thought of God and His humor.

First He reminds me He does hear me and He does still love me…
just as He certainly thinks a good diversion is often a much needed cure.

The best way to pull oneself up and out of one’s own self…

“Know, dearest daughter, how, by humble, continual, and faithful prayer,
the soul acquires, with time and perseverance, every virtue.
Wherefore should she persevere and never abandon prayer…
The soul should advance by degrees, and I know well that,
just as the soul is at first imperfect and afterwards perfect,
so also is it with her prayer.
She should nevertheless continue in vocal prayer,
while she is yet imperfect, so as not to fall into idleness.
But she should not say her vocal prayers without joining them to mental prayer,
that is to say, that while she is reciting,
she should endeavor to elevate her mind in My love,
with the consideration of her own defects and of the
Blood of My only-begotten Son,
wherein she finds the breadth of My charity and the
remission of her sins.”
—St. Catherine Of Siena, p. 92

reporting in

“The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”
Mark Twain

“If you are suffering from a bad man’s injustice,
forgive him—lest there be two bad men.”
St. Augustine

(a healing view in NC/ Julie Cook / 2022)

I know there are a great number of questions regarding the sudden and now
lengthy absence of this blogger.

Some of you know the answers, some of you do not.

However for the sake of all involved…for this particular day,
I’ll simply stick with Mark Twain…
I am not dead.

I will say however that it has often felt like a thousand deaths over these
past many months.

In a nutshell life, my life, has turned upside down and
I will simply leave it at that.

What I would like for us all to remember however is that being turned upside down
is truly not an uncommon occurrence in the fabric of our humanness.
Most all of us, at some point or other, will experience a life that
often flips and flops.

Yet what we all need to remember is that the flipping and flopping isn’t the true nor
real story found in the turmoil…
The actual true grit of the matter is found in how we manage
through all the flipping and flopping.

I’ll just say that my family’s dynamics have changed.
No details are necessary…just the knowledge of flux and change is sufficient.

There has been both sorrow and anger.
Upheaval and tumult.
Pain and suffering.
Frustration and maybe…just maybe I can feel a bit of resolve.

So within all of the flipping and flopping, I have moved to a new state.
I am mending as I pick up my scattered pieces.

When one is attempting to put one’s life back together…routine becomes important.
And so I look forward to resuming my time spent here…a once cherished routine.
I want to be here with you—my blogging family and friends.

So with all that being said, it’s time we get reacquainted.
Please know I have missed you all.

“My God, you know infinitely better than I how little I love you.
I would not love you at all except for your grace.
It is your grace that has opened the eyes of my mind and enabled them to see your glory.
It is your grace that has touched my heart and brought upon it the influence of what is so wonderfully beautiful and fair…
O my God, whatever is nearer to me than you, things of this earth,
and things more naturally pleasing to me,
will be sure to interrupt the sight of you, unless your grace interferes.
Keep my eyes, my ears, my heart from any such miserable tyranny.
Break my bonds—raise my heart. Keep my whole being fixed on you.
Let me never lose sight of you; and, while I gaze on you,
let my love of you grow more and more everyday.”
St. John Henry Cardinal Newman, p. 44-45

Home

The key to perseverance is keeping your eyes on the goal.
For every Christian, that goal lies just beyond the gates of death.
Our true citizenship is in the only place where we will truly feel at home:
Heaven.
Fr. J. Augustine Wetta, OSB
from his book Humility Rules

Thinking of the notion of home…I’ve thought back to a post I wrote back in 2013..
a post about a simple back door.
Here’s the link…

If a door could talk

I’m coming home
I’m coming home
Tell the world I’m coming home
Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday
I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes
I’m coming home, I’m coming home
Tell the world that I’m coming
I’m back where I belong, yeah I never felt so strong (yeah)
(I’m back baby)
I feel like there’s nothing that I can’t try
Skylar Grey

the mystery in misty memories

“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved
and where all your yesteryears are buried deep,
leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can.
Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour
because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones,
vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud,
formidable from a distance.”
Beryl Markham

(a misty rising of the superman / Julie Cook / 2017)

(a timely tweaked re-post from 2017)

Whispers slip out from scented branches…
all while caught lingering between twinkling lights.

Each bauble, each ball, each special tangible memory calls out from ages past…
transporting the now to the then.

Broken, chipped, bent or faded…it matters not–
the flood of what once was cascades down upon the unexpected.

Voices long since silenced are suddenly as clear as a bell…
as a clock chimes upon a stocking draped mantle.

Each box, now reopened once again…
as each unearthed trinket is removed…
dusty and now worse for the wear from the years of in and out,
dangles precariously on a needle encrusted branch…
bridging both space and time…yet caught between a sea of red and green.

A story line begins to unravel….as a tale of love, loss and even hope sits
arranged, ever just so, inviting all to come behold.

For better or worse, we begin again…
Carrying on with and without…
and if we’re lucky, year in and year out…
a Mystery breaks through the barriers of both life and death.

And we are the better for that Mystery…

“The lack of mystery in our modern life is our downfall and our poverty.
A human life is worth as much as the respect it holds for the mystery.
We retain the child in us to the extent that we honor the mystery.
Therefore, children have open, wide-awake eyes,
because they know that they are surrounded by the mystery.
They are not yet finished with this world;
they still don’t know how to struggle along and avoid the mystery, as we do.
We destroy the mystery because we sense that here we reach the boundary
of our being,
because we want to be lord over everything and have it at our disposal,
and that’s just what we cannot do with the mystery…
Living without mystery means knowing nothing of the mystery of our own life,
nothing of the mystery of another person,
nothing of the mystery of the world;
it means passing over our own hidden qualities and those of others and the world.
It means remaining on the surface,
taking the world seriously only to the extent that it can be calculated
and exploited, and not going beyond the world of calculation and exploitation.
Living without mystery means not seeing the crucial processes of
life at all and even denying them.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
God Is in the Manger: Reflections on Advent and Christmas

A short story

The greatest legacy one can pass on to one’s children and grandchildren
is not money or other material things accumulated in one’s life,
but rather a legacy of character and faith.
Billy Graham

(early 19th century tombstone / Colonial Cemetery / Savannah, GA / Julie Cook / 2014)

****Once again I’ve found myself looking back and re-reading previous posts–
posts that might need to be re-shared…this little story popped out from
all those posts and asked to be re-shared as I’ve gone back and tweaked it a bit.)

Hushed voices whispered across the back porch…whispering from under a
sweltering blanket of an oppressive late August evening.

It was almost 10 PM and the old galvanized thermometer was reading 86—-
It was a most welcomed drop from the triple digits which had only added
insult to injury earlier that day, as a grieving family gathered in a tiny
crowded church.

Her thinning frail hand was now working harder than it should,
waving the paper program back and forth as she hoped to stir up the
stifling night air…or were her hands simply nervous and in need of some
sort of distraction?

The screen door creaked to life, breaking the unbearable silence as
familiar steps began tp echo cross the well-worn wooden planks.

“I thought I told you to oil that door last week”—
her words now taking more effort than she had strength to offer.

“Has anyone seen Ellington?”

“Not since lunch” was the whispered response.
Ellington was named for the legendary Duke Ellington.

He had always loved listening to the Big Band orchestras.
This love began during that most surreal time, back in ’44,
when he and the others waited on their orders.
Orders for when the offensive assault would begin.
Orders that would mark that fateful June day for all of eternity and
perhaps change the lives of his small world forever.

The days leading up to the invasion were passed nervously while everyone
just sat fidgeting, waiting and wondering.
Like the darkening clouds of an impending storm,
the cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air.

There were the endless games of cards, letters written and rewritten home
all the while those same familiar bands were playing over and over..
playing on the only record player aboard ship.
If he ever made it back home, he promised himself,
he’d get himself a dog and name it Ellington.

“I haven’t seen him since we got back from the Church.”
“You know how that dog loved your daddy.”
“How old is he now, 12?
“Yeah, I bet he’s sitting down by the gate still waiting on Daddy to
come driving up the road in that stupid old pick up.
“It isn’t a stupid pick-up!” she shot over her shoulder
at her brother– sounding angrier then she had intended.

“Mama, can I get you some more tea?” she asks as she stands
and stretches muscles now stiff from sitting in the ‘old man’s’ rocking chair.

“It’s not as comfortable as your Daddy would have made you think, is it?”
“No mam, it’s not.
How in the world did Daddy sit out here every night reading that paper of his?
I’d rather sit on a fence post. . .”
Catherine mutters the statement as she gently rubs a weary behind.

“Your Daddy had a bit more padding back there than you do sweetie.”

At 92 she was a woman still full of warmth and grace.
They had been married almost 70 years.
He had actually asked her to marry him in a letter, written from France,
once he knew he had survived the worst part of the war.

It took the letter 6 weeks to make it home.
Six weeks of her not knowing if he was dead or alive.
When her father brought the mail in the house that evening
and once everyone had sat down to supper…
he silently slipped the letter across the dinning room table.

She looked nervously at both her mother and father, and then slowly
opened the thin airmail post, hands trembling over what
this long awaited letter might say.

Suddenly, sending her chair crashing on the floor as she jumped to her feet..
she shouted, apparently to no one present in the room,
“Yes, Yes Yes. . .”

That was August 1944.

It would be two more years before they would marry,
once the war was finally over and he made his way home with several citations,
a silver star and an honorable discharge.

It had not always been an easy life, but it had been a good life.
They had raised 4 decent and caring children on that small farm–
managing to always pay the bills while keeping everyone feed,
especially the three boys.
They even made certain that the kids would have the option of going to college
if they so chose.
And choose they did.

As Catherine made her way inside to the familiar kitchen, pulling open the faded door
to the old Frigidaire, relishing the blast of fresh cool air,
she hunted for the pitcher of tea.

“I thought we were all going in together to buy them a new one
of these last Christmas?!” –Catherine mumbles while lingering in the
coolness of the refrigerator’s contents.

She knew her younger brother had followed her inside.

Gathering the courage to speak his mind, with her back now sufficiently turned
in his direction, her younger brother boldly begins to blurt out his
quasi-rehearsed speech.

“I think you ought to take mom back with you and I’ll take Ellington back with me.
It’s not like she. . .”

This younger brother doesn’t even have time to finish his first thought
before Catherine slams the door to the refrigerator and whips around so fast
that it catches James off guard.

“WHAT?!” she hisses through clenched teeth as she fights back the
angry stinging tears.

She always did have Daddy’s quick temper.

“Are you crazy!? she practically screams as she proceeds to unleash
the full wrath of fury laced with the pain and frustration built from
the past few days..
unleashed all upon an unsuspecting yet well meaning,
if not clueless, younger brother.

“I’m not taking her anywhere and you’re certainly not taking that dog back to Boston.
You want to just kill both of them right now?
Taking them from here, especially now, would certainly do it.”

James, now a bit frightened, doesn’t recognize the ranting woman
standing across from him.

“Oh I get it”…Catherine continues.
“Robert knew you were coming in here didn’t he?

James nervously twists his wedding band.

“I bet you both have been planning all of this when Daddy first got sick.”
“He’s out there right now ready to tell Mama ya’ll’s plan isn’t he?”
“And Paul???”
“What about Paul?”
“He’s not even here for Christ’s sake.”
“He can’t even get a plane out of Venezuela for the funeral and you two
have already moved her and that dog!
How dare you James!”
Catherine is now seething in a mix of anger, pain and sorrow.

And just as quickly as the furious storm is unleashed upon a hapless younger sibling,
the rage thankfully subsides.

Catherine suddenly feels as if all the energy, all the anger,
all that once was is now mingled with a terrible heaviness of  immense sorrow.
Any remaining energy has now simply evaporated from her very tired body—all the while
a tempest wind has suddenly and thankfully vanished…
taking all of the energy from the raging storm with it.

Her brother, her younger brother,
is no longer looking at her but rather standing with both hands stretched
out on the counter, his arms are painfully straining to hold up his now
very weary lanky frame–with his head cast downward, he mumbles
“I just thought the boys would like having the dog.”

Catherine, reading the pain in his words, reaches her hand to cover her brother’s.
She’s amazed by how much James looks like a much younger version of the man
she lost only yesterday.

She begins slowly…
“It’s not like Daddy owed any money on this place.
He paid it off 10 years back when he sold off the cows.
Mr. Johnson has been paying them for the hay—
and Randal and Wilton pay Daddy for renting the fields,
plus they’re giving them a percentage of the corn.
They can now simply pay Mama.”

Catherine is now looking at James with the compassion that can only be found in that
of a protective older sister while she begins her stance of conviction.

“I know you think Richard and I never can agree on much…
but the one thing we do agree on is Mama and Daddy.
I know how much Richard loved Daddy and he in turn has only wanted the best
for both of them.”

We’ve talked about it.
I’ve got enough years in at work.
I sent in my letter of resignation last month.
I’m going to stay with Mama for as long as she needs me or wants me.”

“With the girls now gone, the house is really more than Richard and I need.
We’ve talked about letting Robert list the house and we’ll just come back
here to the farm until we find something smaller.”

“Richard can commute to the college.
I can stay a month, six months, a year…”

“And you can go back to Alice and the boys…
buy the boys a dog, but Ellington has got to stay here with Mama!”

“Robert is less than two hours away in Des Moines,
he can be here when and if I need him.”

By now a wealth of tears has finally come to both weary faces.

Whoever would have thought this pair of once rough and tough siblings
would be standing at the counter of the kitchen,
the same kitchen that had once witnessed a myriad of mud covered frogs
swimming in the brand new porcelain sink.
Or a lethargic lizard placed in the freezer for safe keeping.
Or one too many missing cherry pies from a lone windowsill
And what of those late night secret ins and outs of restless teens,
teens who were now sadly finding themselves, all these many years later,
deciding the fate of an aging mother and dog.

“Look at it this way” Catherine interjects attempting to put a much
needed smile back on her younger brother’s face..
“this will finally give Mama the chance to teach me how to make that
famous gooseberry jam of hers.
You know how much she always resented Daddy for turning her only daughter
into a 4th farm hand, dashing all her hopes for a little feminism
on this male dominated farm.”

James lifts his tear-streaked face to meet his sister’s glance.

“You know how I hated that crap” he sheepishly replies.
“Yeah, I know, just as much as Daddy did.”…
Catherine now gently squeezes her brother’s hand.

James is now wide eyed as he stares in disbelief at his sister.

“Yep”, Catherine states matter of factly, “he hated it”

Catherine continues, “he said it reminded him of eyeballs covered in sugar,
but he’d eat it any way cause he knew how hard she had worked on it”
By now that captivating yet distinctive boyish grin was slowly returning
the face of a man whose heart was breaking.

“I suppose that’s what happens when you love someone for 70 years”
sighs a very tired Catherine who is now smiling back at her equally
tired kid brother.
“You’d eat anything they cooked and in turn love an
old hound dog named Ellington.”