One Lucky Dog

It’s pathetic, really. The way we gush and carry on over a stray mutt. 

But she’s our stray mutt – and I would argue that she is probably the most well-loved and pampered mutt across this country. Or at least in the southernmost states. 

The vet tells us to make up our own breed for her – she’s one of a kind. Of course, we already knew that. Her fine pedigree causes her hair to be wiry all over, with the exception of the top of her head where a fluff of hair sticks up proudly like a mohawk. Her tail is curled and poised like a show dog’s, but her ears are floppy and too big for her small face. Her chin has gray hair so scraggly and long that it appears she is trying to compete in a goatee contest, and her frame is too small for her tall legs. In other words, she’s perfect. 

Grover Mae doesn’t know how lucky she is, although we try to tell her often. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets hugs and kisses until it becomes obnoxious. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets to choose where she will sleep at night – a cozy dog bed nook, or snuggled in between the pillows of a comfy couch, or even better, on top of her human’s legs in a bed that was once only meant for people. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets a birthday party, complete with a home-made cake and cards. 

No, Grover Mae spends her days happily chasing squirrels and begging for doggie snacks, not once stopping to think about how her life could have been so different. 

If we hadn’t decided to keep her. 

But we did. We couldn’t resist her the day she wandered into our backyard, skinny and shaking. Amelia threw her toddler arms around Grover Mae’s flea infested neck and cried, “Can I keep her?” with all the emotion a little girl can have. We relented to that tiny but strong-willed girl, and bought the dog a blue collar since we knew it was a boy. Hence the name Grover (we later had to feminize it after a quick check from the vet who was disappointed in our knowledge of dog anatomy). And then came the sickness with worms, and even worse, Parvo. And a stay in the doggie ICU. And lots and lots of dollars later. 

Perhaps Grover Mae could have never found our yard that day. And she would be so lonely without us. She would never know the love that comes from somewhere deep down, the love that is shaped out of pure joy and selflessness. She wouldn’t know that she was missing out on all the hugs and kisses and snuggles on the couch. She would never understand all that she was losing by not being with us. 

I tell her all of this as she sits on the couch beside me in the early hours of the morning and I stroke her belly. I tell her how wonderful her life is because we are in it, how lucky she really is that we saved her all those years ago. I tell her that she would be missing so much if she weren’t here and how life is so much better with humans in it. 

She looks up at me with these perfectly round, big brown eyes. She cocks one floppy ear slightly higher than the other. She lets out a little whine to tell me she knows the truth. 

She knows who saved whom all those years ago. She knows who would be so lonely if she had never shown up that day. She knows who the lucky ones are. 

“Good,” I tell her as she settles back down on my lap. “I’m glad we have that straight.”

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The Faces

Dear Son, 

Tomorrow will be 8 years since you have been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It doesn’t seem possible, really, that it’s been almost a decade since that day. But time has an amazing way of moving on. I guess it’s God’s grace to us – that we keep having days and nights and seasons and years after a nightmare. 

I thought that by now the memories would fade a little, but they haven’t. I still remember every single detail. I remember the way you looked at me in the doctor’s office when you asked me what was wrong with you. I remember those blue eyes of yours opening up wide when I told you that we were going to have to take you to the hospital.

I remember driving in pounding rain and thinking that the sky’s tears were no match for my sobs. 

I remember the numbness I felt in the hospital room. I remember hoping that other people were praying for us because I had no words in my heart. I remember curling up around you in the hospital bed, my arms wrapped around you and my shoulders folded in over you, like I could somehow protect you from what was to come with my body.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

I remember the shots. All the shots. I remember you asking how long you would have to have needles jabbed in your arms, belly, and legs and I didn’t know how to tell a 5 year old that it would be for the rest of his life. I remember you thinking you only would have diabetes for a short time, then you would be well and have no more needles poking you.

I remember the day you realized this would never end. 

I guess those memories will never shrink for me – they will always trigger fear and helplessness and anger. And maybe I’ve subconsciously made a choice, all these years later, to try to not let those memories take hold of me and control me. I can’t give them power anymore. 

So now before I think of the tears and the pain and the grief, I remember something else. When I think of your diagnosis day, I remember the faces. I see our doctor’s face, sad but kind as he told me we would be ok. I think of nurses’ faces in the emergency room, smiling at you and telling you how cute you were. I think of a doctor who we had never met before staying late and waiting for us at the hospital, her face stern but caring as she walked in the room. I remember the emergency room doctor’s face, assuring us that he would do everything possible for you to begin this journey in a positive way. That he would not scare you or hold you down or traumatize you with needles. 

Do you remember those faces too? I hope you do. Because those faces were the faces of God that day. And I don’t want you to ever forget that. I want you to remember that when the light was taken out of our lives, the faces gave it back to us. 

During that awful time, I thought God had abandoned us. I thought He was far away and that I would never see His face again. 

Son, I was so very wrong about that.

God was there, shining His face on me as He does to all of us. That day His face was brown and pale and old and young and dark-eyed and blue-eyed. Of course I didn’t know if was His face then, but now I can see it so clearly.

I’m sure you know by now, but there will probably be other bad days in your life as you grow. It won’t always be happiness and good times. But when those days come, I want you to do one thing – Look at the faces that are helping you and showing you kindness and surrounding you with love. Look hard at those faces to make sure you remember. And if you stare long enough, I bet you will see the face of God.

Love, 

Mama

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Take Those Pictures, America

As many of you already know, I had grand plans this year for our Summer of America. After a year of sitting at home thanks to Covid, I was ready to be on the move. It was time to see the country. My extensive traveling tour took us all the way to the Grand Canyon in the West, to the middle of Florida in the East, then back again. We racked up 6,000 miles on the road this summer. We created a playlist of favorite songs, packed a lot of snacks, stayed in roadside motels and mega-hotels, and made the best memories in between.  

I learned a lot about our country as we drove those miles. Mainly that people are people no matter where they live or what they look like. There are poor people and rich people. Nice people and mean people. People who have a ready smile and easy laugh, and people whose faces are hard and set in place. 

The accents might be different, the clothes and shoes vary depending on the climate. The skin tones are dark or light. The food changes from state to state (green or red salsa, anyone?), the art depicts the local culture, and the landscape transforms from stone to sand to green. 

But there is one thing that I noticed everyone had in common no matter where we traveled – we love taking those pictures, America. 

From the top of the Grand Canyon to the corner of Winslow, Arizona, we pose and smile as soon as someone whips out their phone. We love to snap a picture of where we’ve been, proof that we stood on that very spot at that moment in time.

We probably took thousands of photos this summer and I watched hundreds of other families do the same. We would all stand in line in a certain spot, next to a statue or a historical marker or a giant bunny you could sit on. And I noticed that there were a few unwritten rules everyone seemed to innately understand and follow while taking these pictures.

1 – No cutting in line. Wait your turn. Don’t sneak around the side and try to grab a picture. Go to the back of the line and be patient. No one likes a line-cutter.

2 – Don’t hog the picture spot. Take a few photos of your family and move on. People are waiting, so don’t be rude. 

3 – My favorite rule of all. Offer to take the picture of the people in front of you. Grab their phone and say a few cheesy things like “We made it to the Top of the Ball of Yarn!” Become a photo expert and take some shots close up then far away. Giggle with the strangers as you hand them back their phone and say “See you at the Jackrabbit!” 

I watched family after family have their pictures taken by strangers. And you know what?

It gave me a little bit of hope that our country was going to be ok.

If we can trust someone we’ve never met to hold our very expensive phones and be the coordinator of our most precious possessions – our family pictures – then maybe, just maybe we can trust each other in the big things too. Maybe we have more faith in our fellow countrymen than we like to believe. Maybe America is not such a bad place where all we do is argue and call each other names. 

Maybe the real America is found somewhere near a Giant Jackrabbit – In a line of families all waiting to take a photo.

Maybe someone offers to take a picture of your family and you hand over your phone and after a few shots you ask where that person is from and they say Utah and you say Louisiana and then you invite each other to visit your state sometime. Maybe you decide to snap a picture with that person from Utah just for the fun of it. And you don’t ever know her name or why she’s on the road or who she’s voting for or what she believes. But you know she took your picture. And she smiled a lot. And she told you that you had a beautiful family. 

And maybe that’s all we need to do for each other. Offer to take someone’s photo. It might just be the start of learning to love our neighbor again. 

Say Cheese, America. 

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