Trail Riding Lessons

For several years, the B5 Gang has enjoyed two lovely weeks of camping and trail riding in Brown County State Park.  We go one week every spring and one week every fall.  It’s tradition…and last week was THE spring week. 

Our bi-annual packing experience has been honed over the years.  Since I merely SIT on a horse (I’m no Cowgirl, as any of the other four members of the BG Gang can – and WILL - tell you), Cowboy and the girls don’t really prefer my “help” with horses, tack, or anything remotely resembling equine comforts.  They realize that IF they depended on ME me for this task, we wouldn’t get very far down the trail.  I DO, however, have an important job.  I plan meals, shop for food, and pack the HUMAN comforts for the week. I think they appreciate it…or they WOULD…if ever they tried to go without me. But I digress…

Upon arrival at the campground, the well-oiled B5 wheels were set in motion, and we soon congratulated ourselves on the quickest and most flawless camp set-up in recent history.  We were ready to map our first course for the week.  Girl 1 & Girl 3 started tacking up horses, Girl 2 & Cowboy pulled out the map and a highlighter, and I packed snacks and drinks to-go-style.  Soon we were mounted and stepping out into the wonderful wilderness of Brown County State Park.

Since I no longer have a horse of my very own and was forced to “borrow” a horse I’d never ridden before (I’m not bitter…no, not me…but that’s a story for another day), I was a teentsy bit apprehensive as we made our way up and down trails.  I may or may not have been white-knuckling it every time Harley and I  encountered obstacles…I tried to explain to Harley that I’m a SITTER, not a JUMPER.  Noting my apprehension, Cowboy quickly started advising me.  His little lessons, as usual, eased my apprehension, and it wasn’t long before I finally was able to sit back, relax, let Harley do his job, and just soak up the surrounding beauty.

Cowboy has this innate internal compass.  I swear that man can be in pitch-black darkness, turned around several times, hung upside down by a rope, and STILL accurately point to North.  In contrast, my innate internal compass is limited to “remember to hang a Larry at the loopdy-loop tree.”  Since Cowboy long ago gave up ever trying to teach ME how to find True North (thank the Heavens above), I listened as he quizzed the girls on what they remembered from past lessons.

 

Much to his dismay, with the exception of Girl 3 (who isn’t half-bad), they pretty much inherited their mother’s lack of an innate internal compass. 

 

As we headed back toward camp, Cowboy was naming trees.  Then he was listening for bird calls.  It really is ridiculous what this man knows.  You would think that after 23 years of marriage, I might start learning at least a LITTLE BIT of the stuff he holds in that brain of his, but alas…no.  I just am not gifted with the sense of direction...or sun placement…or trees…or birds…or training horses…or providing medical care for horses…or HORSES IN GENERAL for that matter…no…I can’t teach any of that.  They pretty much let me tag along on trail rides because I’ve been nice enough to ensure they have towels and shampoo…and s’mores…and snacks for the trail.  It kind of bummed me out when I came to the realization that I can’t really teach them ANYTHING about camping or trail riding.  I mean, seriously…I’M THE TEACHER!  I’m the teacher of school subjects, anyway…In all honesty, Cowboy is the teacher of life.  I’m a band-aid-sticker-onner.  Cowboy is the hugger that soothes the wound of the deeper hurt.  I’m the food cooker.  Cowboy shows them how to feed their souls.  In a way I’m really happy that he is all of that for them.  It’s really really cool to watch a dad teach his children, and it’s really really cool to see them interact with him.  But DANG IT…why’s he have to make me look so bad?  I obsessed over this for the duration of the ride.   When we stopped for a rest, it became evident that I would just have to figure out a way to show them how useful Mom can be for this trail riding stuff.  I mean, honestly…I can’t let them think they can start going without me!

The next day of trail riding was much the same as the first…blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…I was starting to get a little jealous.  “There must be SOMETHING I can teach them out here in the wilderness,” I thought.  And then it hit me…I’VE GOT IT!!  I can teach them a very important lesson…probably a girl’s most important lesson of all…a lesson that Cowboy would NEVER think to teach, because he has never had to learn it himself.  And here it is…are you ready…?

WEED IDENTIFICATION

POISON IVY

STINGING NETTLE

Because when you’re three hours away from camp, and there’s not a pit toilet in sight, it’s essential to know what weeds NOT to use!

Happy trails! :)

Viva la Mexico

The B5 Gang split up last week when Cowboy and I embarked on a much-needed vacation. Rising at o’dark-thirty, we tossed a few things in bags, kissed Girl 1, Girl 2 & Girl 3 (who didn’t get out of bed to see us off, btw), and headed to the airport. Everything went right…no traffic, quickly found airport parking in the economy long-term lot, immediately picked up by the shuttle, early check-in sped us through the ticket counter, and upon arrival at our gate were told that we would board early and leave early.  YAY! 

The flight was great…no turbulence, smooth landing. We landed 20 minutes early in Cancun, Mexico, and at 10:00 a.m. it was already a sunny 75 degrees. We easily slipped through immigration, found our bags waiting at the luggage carousel, handed our customs paperwork to the attendant, bypassed the vultures trying to sell timeshares in the lobby, and a driver called us by name, escorting us to his van.

Traffic was light, and in 20 minutes we were at Puerto Cancun. I slipped inside, bought two ferry tickets to the lovely Isla Mujeres, boarded the ferry, and in no time at all the captain began backing away from the dock.  I lay my head on Cowboy’s shoulder, breathed in the salt air, felt the tropical breeze blowing through my hair, and must have taken a bit of a siesta, because before I knew it, we were at the resort. A bellman unloaded our bags, opened his arms wide, and said “Welcome home!”

Ahhh…(deep, dramatic, contented sigh…) There could be only one explanation for the easy-breezy path there…

The entire universe had conspired to put us right there, in that very place, at that very time. This could mean only one thing:  I BELONG in Mexico. I was smiling. Cowboy was smiling. The resort staff was smiling. Even those silly Mayan gods must have been smiling.

Our week was amazing. Views previously enjoyed but erased by the passage of time once again flooded our vision. We took in every morsel of it, intent on memorizing the horizon, the crystal clear turquoise waters of the Caribbean, the reflection of the sun’s rays on each surface, the rumble of the waves.  Each night we fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing at our balcony, and awoke to the same. We soaked up the sun and wiggled our toes in sand. We marveled at sea stars, sting rays & colorful fish. We were captivated by pink sunrises, golden sunsets & burning red full-moon dusks. We watched as streaks of lightning pierced a dark night sky, and a colorful rainbow graced the morning's dawn. We met new friends, learned their stories, laughed with them, cried with them, and shared our common faith in the Creator who blessed us to be there together, embracing the beauty that surrounded us. It was an awesome week.

And suddenly, it was Friday evening…the night before the dreaded moving-out-and-going-home day. Cowboy and I decided to deviate from our normal routine and walk into town for dinner. Mistake #1. Never EVER leave a gorgeous, tranquil, private beach with lovely resort restaurant for a tent restaurant on a public beach. Never. Did you hear me? Don’t. Oh, the food was delicious, it was the experience that was excruciating. Inebriated girls stumbled into the sea and “somehow” lost their bikini bottoms. Men (and woman) blew cigar smoke right over our table. Two 60-something grannies decided to change their bathing suits, nearly losing their towels in the process. And then, as if a sign from above, it began to sprinkle. We walked back to our resort and stepped inside the lobby just as the skies opened up and torrential rains came pouring down.

Saturday morning we tossed our things in our bags, headed to the buffet for breakfast, said goodbye to our new friends, checked out of the resort, and headed to the ferry. Once there, I realized something important that would have been nice to have known exactly one week prior. Had I not been captivated by the easy-breezy path, I might have realized it sooner...I had purchased two round trip tickets for the ferry. Hmmm. Where WERE those tickets? Did I keep them? Did I toss them? As I opened suitcases, searched pockets, and dug through bags, the ferry pulled away from the dock. Darn.

After a thorough search, I came up empty handed. No tickets. Darn again. Cowboy rolled his eyes, approached the ticket booth, and bought two ONE WAY tickets to Cancun. We maneuvered our bags through the waiting area and plopped down on a bench. I opened the front zipper of my carry-on to stow away the receipts for the new tickets and guess what I found. Yeesh. The round trip tickets. Oops. This time a “SANDRA!” was attached to Cowboy’s eye-roll. Yikes.

We boarded the ferry, found a seat on the top deck, and made our way to the mainland as dark ominous clouds began to settle above us. We encountered traffic that doubled our transit time to the airport. We stood in a long line of grumpy passengers at the ticket counter, picked the wrong security checkpoint line, and got stuck behind a woman who apparently “looked suspicious” to the TSA. All the while, unbeknownst to us, a monsoon was fixin to hit Cancun. I’m not kidding. Monsoon.

We ambled to our gate where throngs of people filled the seats and overflowed to the floor. Sheets of rain pelted the windows. Grumpy home-goers were drinking their sorrows away in the airport bars. Annoying announcements were being made over ear-piercing loud speakers. Every flight was delayed by the storm.

We waited. And I got antsy. And we waited some more. And I paced.

Finally, four hours after we had arrived at the airport (two hours after we were scheduled to take off) our flight was called to board. “Just wait, San…no hurry,” said the cowboy. So I waited. Against my better judgment, I waited. I was the 2nd to the last person through the gate, and WHO do you think they chose for a “random search”…?  Me. They opened my carry-on, they opened my purse, they ran a metal-detector over me, they patted me down, and soon after they eradicated the last morsel of my dignity, they let me pass. And Cowboy chuckled. I saw it. And I wasn’t happy.

We descended the stairs to the tarmac where there was a bus waiting. Yes, a bus. The rains were so heavy that they were bussing passengers across the tarmac to the waiting plane. We boarded the bus, and I was mentally preparing to make a mad dash for those flight steps. I was DETERMINED to the be the FIRST ONE to board that dry plane, by golly! The other passengers were either old or carrying babies and car seats, so I was SURE I could win the race to the top.  My adrenaline was pumping…I was on my mark…and then Cowboy reached out, touched my arm and said “Just wait, San…no hurry.” So I waited. Against my better judgment, I waited. And I was the 2nd to the last person off the bus.

There was a looooong line of people on those steps waiting to board that plane. I was 2nd to the last in that never-ending line. I got wetter, and wetter, and wetter. The man behind me got impatient and began yelling “PUSH ‘EM IN AND RUN ‘EM OVER!” He sounded a lot like Cowboy (ahem). And it was in that moment that I realized…

The entire universe had conspired to put us right there, in that very place, at that very time. This could mean only one thing: Mexico was taunting me. I wasn’t smiling. Cowboy wasn’t smiling. The tarmac staff wasn’t smiling. And I silently cursed those stupid Mayan gods.

Hasta la vista, baby!

I Didn’t Know I Married My Father in Law

After 22 years of wedded bliss with this man I call Cowboy, it has become evident that I am married to my father-in-law.

I first met my father-in-law, Big Dad, over 25 years ago. At the time he was a burly and bearded semi driver, but his smiling eyes gave him away instantly. He teased, poked, and prodded at me, and we quickly formed a bond. I became his daughter.

A natural story-teller, I’ve often shaken my head at the yarns my father-in-law spins. He always has a funny story to tell, and he never fails to deliver increasing dramatics as his audience responds with howls of laughter. Big Dad has never met a stranger in all his born days. The man could talk the ear off a lamp post. And intuition…oh yes…if he gets a feeling that someone is having a bad day, he’ll do something to make them laugh. It’s his duty.

Big Dad is one huge tease. He pokes, prods and cajoles anyone and everyone (nearly to the point of exasperation). To say his is stubborn would be an understatement. He, of course, will deny this to his dying day. And probably the biggest thing of all:  Big Dad hates to be late to anything…that is, unless he is galavanting all over town, visiting and chatting to his heart’s content…then it’s okay to be late. It’s his call. And trust me, when he makes the call, and the man says it is time to GO, he turns completely impatient and you GO…now! There is no waiting, no last-minute chatting, no time for belabored good-byes, you simply GO. If you don’t go, he’ll leave you. I’ve witnessed it. Once when Big Dad and Mom B were visiting us, Big Dad determined it was time to leave. He threw up his hand, yelled “Goodbye!” and headed out the door. Mom B, of course, could not leave without a few parting words, hugs and kisses. By the time she made it out the door, Big Dad’s truck was rumbling down the driveway. Cowboy and I stood on the porch giggling as we watched Mom B chasing Big Dad, laughing the entire way!  

A flashback of this particular incident came to mind a couple of years later when our little family of five was preparing to meet Cowboy’s parents for dinner.  Roughly three times throughout the day Cowboy had stated what time we would leave, and roughly five more times when the bewitching hour was near, Cowboy warned his daughters that the bus would leave with or without them. That magic hour struck, and the girls were still fussing over silliness, not prepared to leave. Cowboy took me by the hand and calmly escorted me to the waiting truck. He turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the parking space, and with a honk of the horn, began slowly driving down the lane. In an instant, three little girls came flying out the door, running down the drive screaming “WAIT!  WAIT!  STOP!”  With heavy sigh and glint in his eye, Cowboy put on the brakes, rolled down the window, and asked them if they would like a ride. We made it to dinner on time. All five of us.

When I first met Cowboy, I couldn’t help but think his personality was a lot like his mother’s.  Kind, gentle, patient, helpful, bubbly and fun…but over the years he seems to have morphed into a younger version of Big Dad…that “left behind” moment was probably the first big indication.

Also like Big Dad, Cowboy is a story teller. Something always reminds him of a happening from his younger days, and time after time the girls have asked him to repeat a story he’s shared before. When the girls were really little, Cowboy would make up stories about a fictional character named “Granny Fletcher.”  To this day I imagine they think she was a real person who did the craziest things. 

Probably the strongest intuition Cowboy possesses is his ability, like Big Dad, to hone in on people’s emotions. We’ve gone to dinner many times when he has turned to me and said “our waitress is having a bad day…I’ll see what I can do about that.”  Generally I groan and say “No, please…leave her alone!” But every time that notion has struck him, he’s turned on the silliness, and we’ve always left the restaurant to the sound of a laughing waitress. 

And harassment teasing…? Cowboy, like Big Dad, has mastered it.  He often approaches drive up windows looking like a…well…a crazy man.  I was with him once when he made his away through a Wendy’s drive-up at lunch time.  When we reached the window he immediately began messing with the cashier, asking for pepper packets, knowing full well that they didn’t carry any. The fun  teasing lasted for several minutes. Finally, the girl said “wait” and quickly returned, flung a gray plastic pepper shaker through Cowboy’s truck window, and laughed “There…take that…are you happy now?” He kept that pepper shaker in his glove box for months.

I can’t even begin to list the things he has done to the tellers at our bank. It’s embarrassing. Truly. I apologize to them every time I visit.

One day this week Cowboy stayed home from the jobsite to take care of some things here at home. Just before noon he announced that he needed to run some errands. Knowing this trip would likely turn into a Big-Dad-style galavant unless someone (a.k.a. ME) was able to intervene, I spoke up, “I’ll go with you.” With a curled up  nose and a frown he looked at me and said “Who invited you?”  Not to be deterred, I grabbed my bag and headed to his truck. We made two stops: TSC and Lowe’s (or, as Cowboy calls it, “Slows”).  He of course teased and poked and prodded the staff at each store, and he of course stopped to talk to anyone and everyone he knew (and even someone he didn’t really know) when the opportunity arose, but I am proud to say I managed to keep him on a narrow path and we arrived home in time to get Lil to her dance class. Success!

One thing I can say is unique about Cowboy is that he has a knack for coming up with the strangest ideas. For instance, this morning Cowboy and I had a discussion. It was a silly discussion surrounding a check. Yes, you read that right, a check…written to me by a friend. As we sat at the kitchen table drinking our morning coffee, Cowboy looked over at the check on my errands pile and said “Wow, she has really good handwriting.”

I nodded.

“No really, look at this…that’s good handwriting.”

Again, I nodded.

“Oh my gosh, look…she used a straight edge to draw that line right there…look at that…” and he held it up for me to see, “she used a straight edge!”

This is where I spoke up. “Oh, don’t be silly, she did not use a straight edge, she simply drew a nice straight line.” 

And then it surfaced…that Big Dad stubbornness.

I listened for several minutes as Cowboy tried desperately to convince me that my friend must use a straight edge to write her checks. I kept shaking my head no. I watched as Cowboy dug through the junk drawer and pulled out a straight edge, laying it across the line drawn on the check, viewing it at several different angles. He continued to insist she used a straight edge. I continued to shake my head no, and I might have sort of laughed. A lot. This must have irritated him a bit, for it was then that he spoke a little louder: “I’ll betcha a hunnerd bucks she used a straight edge!” Seizing the opportunity, I stretched out my hand and said, “I’ll take that bet, partner…let’s shake on it!” 

Soon after, a flutter of text messages began back and forth between myself and my friend. To make a long story short, I’ll just say…I won the bet.

To further expound, let’s just say…Cowboy isn’t over it yet. He contends that she must first PROVE to him that she can draw a straight line without a straight edge. Furthermore, he’s just stubborn enough about this (and tight-fisted enough) that I’m certain I’ll never see my “hunnerd bucks.”

Following this epic disaster of a bet, and a few household chores, Cowboy announced that he was “going to town.” I groaned and reminded him that we had a family reunion at noon and we would leave promptly at 11:30. I don’t think it was a nagging type of reminder, but I can’t be sure.

Really, I knew I should have ridden with him. That little voice inside my head kept saying “someone needs to go with him!” but I had so much to do, and I figured I could always call him repeatedly on his cell phone if worse came to worse, right…? So, away he went. Alone. Disaster in the making.

My first call to his cell phone was at 11:46. No answer.

My second call to his cell phone was made as I made my way through the kitchen at 11:48. While awaiting his answer, I looked at Emma and said, “Is your phone ringing? I hear a phone ringing.” Emma rushed to find her phone, “Nope…not mine.”

Where was that ringtone coming from?  “Emma, there is a phone ringing…I hear it…it’s playing ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’” That’s when it hit me. Cowboy’s phone is programmed with a unique ringtone for each of us, and MY ringtone…you guessed it… is ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’ Wouldn’t you know it…Cowboy’s phone was lying right there on the kitchen counter. NOW WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO?!

I stood for a moment, gathering my thoughts. “What would Cowboy do in this situation?” I asked myself. Then, I took a page out of Big Dad’s book. I looked at my daughters and said “We’re leaving…dad will just have to figure it out.” We jumped in the car, and as we began our descent down the lane, guess who pulled in…grinning.

Flashback: to a time when I watched Big Dad pull away with Mom B running after him. Flashback: that moment I first became aware that I was seated next to a younger version of Big Dad, driving away from home with three screaming girls chasing us. 

Yes, it’s true, I’m married to a younger version of Big Dad. But I just can’t help but love them both dearly, quirks and all.

Blessings & Healing

The song “Blessings” by Laura Story has touched my heart since the first time I heard it played on the radio.  This morning, however, it opened a deeper awakening within me.

As you likely know by now, our biggest surprise, my pregnancy, has ended.  The entire experience was an eleven-week roller coaster ride that started with painful lows, moved into uncertain loops, soared to incredible highs, and came crashing down into devastation.  It has been like nothing I’ve ever experienced before -- both wonderful and horrible wrapped up into one.  It was a blessing that has touched me like no other blessing ever has. 

Since the beginning of my miscarriage I’ve tried multiple times to put my experience into words, writing for what seemed like hours, only to delete all of my thoughts and start over.  I simply couldn’t express the peace surrounding me with enough emphasis.  Something was missing…that is…until this morning.  As I lay in bed reflecting, the song “Blessings” came on the radio.  I’ve heard the song at least one hundred times, but today, when she came to the end of the song:

“What if my greatest disappointments
Or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can’t satisfy?
And what if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise?”

I had a revelation…THAT’S IT…PERFECTLY!  This is exactly what I’ve been feeling but couldn’t express!  Losing Gus (the nickname our baby was tagged with from the first day of our announcement) was a huge disappointment. It was the biggest heartache of my life because not only was I filled with grief, but I watched helplessly as my husband and daughters openly grieved too.  A day that should have been filled with excitement became instead a day of mourning. 

But grief is a funny thing, and in this case, it re-awakened my senses to my greater thirst…Heaven.  You see, although I have relied on my faith and my relationship with Jesus for nearly my entire life, in all of the recent busy-ness of our family life, Heaven had been pushed back into the recesses of my mind, locked away for reflection at a later, less-busy time.  It took our family’s great loss, and the ensuing “waiting” period, a time of intentional, un-plugged quiet, to focus on this one crucial aspect of my longing, reviving my thirst. 

What if the trials of this life are His mercies in disguise?  Our loss was certainly Gus’s gain.  None of us can know the challenges that might have awaited him in this world, and as Brian pointed out very soon after confirmation of our loss, God sees the bigger picture that we can’t possibly know.  It is His infinite wisdom and mercy that sometimes saves us before a greater heartache is revealed.

So here we are, approaching the other side of this journey, and though I can’t yet look back on the fullness of it, I can honestly say I already count myself richer and more joyful because of it.  I’ve learned so many things about myself and my family along the way.  I have absolutely no idea what God has in store for us now, but I know we are bonded in a way that we’ve never been before.  Our future cannot be controlled by us.  It is God’s.  Whatever He has in store, I am willing.

Life is not without heartache, and thankfully, it is certainly not without blessings…each, in its own way, a surprise much like the kind I’ve always resisted in the past.  Through this one particular surprise, and its ensuing heartache, I have come to realize that my journey will be filled with countless surprises, several heartaches, but all blessings in disguise. And I’m okay with that.

Things that make me feel OLD

I wrote this on Monday, April 11, 2011, a day that made me feel really old:

I feel really really old.  Why?

1.  I am pregnant.  At age 42.  I used to be able to ignore my age, but no more…I have never been so obsessed with my age as I have since March 18, the day I realized I was pregnant.

2.  My oldest daughter will soon be 20.  TWENTY!!  I have never been so obsessed with her age as I have since March 18, the day I realized I was pregnant.

3.  My middle daughter is now 16.  SIXTEEN!!  I have never been so obsessed with her age as I have since March 18, the day I realized I was pregnant.

4.  My youngest daughter will soon be 13. TEENAGER!! I have never been so obsessed…okay, I’m sure you get the idea by now…

5.  Brian and I double dated with friends Friday night. I must admit we women acted like teenagers. Sue and I guffawed through dinner, made snarky comments at the theatre, drank coffee at 11:00 p.m., ate cookies at midnight, and texted ridiculous messages back and forth as Cowboy drove me home. I didn’t get to bed until after 1:00 a.m., and I dreamed silly coffee and cookie dreams which woke me repeatedly throughout the night. I had a this-is-what-you-get-for-acting-that-way hangover all day Saturday. It wasn’t pretty. 

6.  Today I’m sore all over and can barely make it up and down my stairs.  This has nothing to do with my pregnancy and everything to do with carrying filled pizza boxes (stacks of ten at a time) five hundred and seventy three miles, then performing fourteen hundred and ninety four squats and bends with said stacks in hand. (Saturday was 4-H pizza making day…it was exhausting.)

7.  I have never felt like sleeping so much in all of my born days.  I attribute this fully to #1, #5, and #6.

8.  Today I called my obstetrician’s office to schedule my first appointment.  The receptionist’s first question was “how can I help you?”  After explaining “I’m pregnant,” her second question was “what is your birth date?” I felt a quiver in my stomach and mumbled “3/1/69.” There was a long pause followed by “Let me transfer you to the nurse’s station.  Your age is cause for concern.”

I feel very old.  I’ve. Never. Felt. So. Old.

Accentuate the Positive

Remember that old song?  Once that chorus gets into my brain, it nags me for hours on end…

“Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative, don’t mess with Mister In-Between.”

Cowboy and I determined years ago to use that as our mantra. After going through a few tough knocks, being treated unfairly, and ultimately paying the price (literally) for someone else’s misdeeds, we found ourselves in a tough financial spot, and we were down and depressed. We carried that burden for several years, and we were not happy people. It wasn’t until we made a concerted effort to embrace a spirit of POSITIVE that we overcame that feeling of defeat. 

We chose to eliminate our negative “this is so unfair” attitude and embrace a more positive “life isn’t always fair” perspective. It was a rocky road, but experience is a great teacher. 

When we are bound by an attitude that everything must be “fair,” we find ourselves concentrating on everything that is NOT fair. In this state of mind, it is really simple to focus entirely on negatives.  But once we come to realize that NOTHING in life is fair, it’s easier to ignore the negative.  Releasing the negative gives us room to focus on the positive.

We are closely acquainted with a family who has a teenage son whose life has always been challenging. There is nothing physical about his appearance that tells you otherwise, but his brain processes thoughts and ideas at a slower pace than most people. When given a task to do, it takes a few extra beats between his ears hearing the directions, his brain registering what was said, and his movements processing the task. His parents and loved ones have learned to adapt to this by creating routines and patterns for daily living. It’s a joint effort that has worked for their family very well. More importantly than how they have adapted, however, is the attitude they have instilled in him. Rather than focusing on the “unfairness” of it all, they have chosen to focus on the positives that surround him…his strengths, not his weaknesses. Their positive outlook eliminates any focus on negatives.

Have you spent time with a person who constantly focuses on negatives? It’s incredibly draining. They are never satisfied; they are never happy; they can’t find joy in anything. Activities or events that they look forward to participating in are a let-down because they are so busy focusing on each and every negative aspect that they can’t enjoy the activity itself.  Cowboy and I have been around people like this, but nothing is more heart-wrenching than watching a child live this type of negative life.

Children need a serious dose of positive outlook while they’re young. Trust me, it is much easier to grow up to become a productive and positive adult if you’re taught early-on how to be a productive and positive kid.  Keep an ear open to what your children are saying.  If they’re being too negative, help them find the positive.  How do you do this?  Pay attention…this is the best part of the song:

“Ya got to spread joy up to the maximum, bring gloom down to the minimum, have faith or pandemonium’s liable to walk upon the scene!”

I Don’t Like Surprises

I have never ever liked surprises…not any surprise of any kind…at all. In 22 years of marriage Cowboy has tried three times to surprise me. The first time he came home from work early and said he was whisking me away for the weekend. I had a meltdown in the car. The second time he called me about an hour before he came home, saying nothing more than “pack a bag.” I had a mini-meltdown prior to his arrival. The third time he gave me nine days to absorb and prepare. He told me he’d learned a few things over the years. 

Keeping this in mind, imagine my surprise at a totally new revelation…me…the one who doesn’t like surprises…at 42 years of age…with three nearly grown children…PREGNANT?  GASP!  Now imagine the ensuing meltdown after realization struck.  It wasn’t pretty.

The first niggling thought hit me on Friday afternoon, March 18th.  I spent the afternoon with my nephew Grant, who is four, while my sister Nikki (who is expecting in July) taught a theatre class for our local homeschoolers.  When Grant and I returned from our excursion, Nikki and I sat talking for a moment about how she was feeling. She commented repeatedly about how quickly her belly was expanding. I put my arm around her shoulders in that big-sister way and said, “Sweetie, we both may have been born small in stature, but our pregnancies always make us big as boats…” and before I could finish voicing my thought, I felt the color drain from my face. Immediately my inward struggle began “Am I pregnant?… Me? ….I can’t be pregnant…can I?…Really, Lord…?…NO!…this can’t be happening…wait…I don’t even LIKE surprises!”  I suddenly felt very queasy. 

That night Lindsay, Lily, my mother, and I went to dinner and a high school play with my aunt Marjorie. I was with my family; I had looked forward to that night; I should have been enjoying it…but I was gloomy and miserable, and I was trying with all of my might to act normal and not show any signs of distress. The night is a blur…you’d have to ask them how it went.

The next day, Brian, his mother, and I drove to Lexington, Kentucky, to pick up Emma from her spring break internship.  I could not carry a conversation to save my soul. I was lost in thought, begging God, hoping my suspicions were wrong, and pushing down that growing feeling of nausea.

On Sunday following morning church services, I sat at the lunch table with my pregnant sister and our friend Carrie. The conversation quickly turned to pregnancy, of course. I was caught between the urge to bawl my eyes out and flee.

That evening, Cowboy looked at me and said “what is up with you?  Are you sick?  Are you upset about something? You’ve been acting strange for days.”  I could only stare back at him.  He continued, “Do we need to go somewhere and talk?”  I will never forget the look on his face when I said “Ummm…maybe…I don’t know for sure…I think I might have some news for you that could quite possibly bring a HUGE life-changing experience around November or so.” At his shrug, shake of head, and the look of “I’m-completely-confused-by-women,” I whispered “I…think…I…might…be…” and I put my hand on my belly.  His glance shifted to my deliberately-placed hand, and when his eyes returned to mine, I was somewhat amused by the wave of realization that I watched slowly roll over him.  There he stood, wide-eyed and speechless. Then he laughed, “YOU? The one who doesn’t like surprises…? Well, SURPRISE HONEY!”

On Monday I decided I had to know for sure, so I trekked to our local CVS and bought a pregnancy test.  Still in complete denial, I figured I had just wasted a perfectly good $10 bill, but to my horror the next morning, that little plus sign appeared.  I slowly descended the stairs to tell Cowboy the news.  Hands shaking, I held up the stick for him to see, and immediately incoherent drivel began tumbling out of his mouth, “What’s this mean?…The lighting in here is terrible…Do I see what I think I see?…Why are you shaking…?”

Yes.  Positive.  Pregnant.  Parents over 40 with three children half-way out of the nest, and there we stood…staring at the little pink plus sign that without uttering a single word told us definitively we would soon be starting ALL over.

I closed myself in my bedroom that Tuesday, March 22nd, and I cried.  I prayed for wisdom, guidance, and most of all DESIRE for the growing baby inside me.  “Lord, I need desire for this child…please give me the desire to be a new mother again!”  I sent crazy hormonal texts to Cowboy…. I can’t DO this! … What is God THINKING?  …  Can I DO this? … WHY????!!!! …  How long do you think we can keep this a secret? … Let’s not tell until June…maybe July… We’re good parents, right? …  This is a miracle, right? 

After about 50 of those messages, I received ONE in return: “We may think we have life all mapped out, but it’s not about us, it’s about God’s plan. It’s all about reconciliation. I love you.” 

I wanted to clutch my hands around his neck, squeeze and shake until his eyes popped out…but instead I sent one final message: “Is THAT supposed to make me feel BETTER?!”

From that moment, there was no end to the odd little conversations that swirled around me.  Had everyone always talked about babies and pregnancy as much as they were now?  What was WRONG with these people?!

For example, that Tuesday night, mere hours after my pregnancy was confirmed, we went to dinner with our good friends, Bruce and Ann.  Cowboy asked if I was up for it.  “It will be good for me,” I said, “take my mind off of this for a while.” No such luck. Bruce just HAD to share the story about a friend who, several years ago, was surprised by his wife’s pregnancy…one they had determined would NEVER happen…they had taken deliberate measures to ensure it wouldn’t. Bruce and Ann laughed whole-heartedly as he related the story. Brian and I just sat stunned.

On Wednesday I saw my chiropractor friend Dr. Julie, who had recently been in contact with another 40-something friend who’d just found out she was pregnant.  “She, like you, has a 20-year-old and a 16-year-old…can you IMAGINE?!” I stood there speechless as the thought ‘Er…ummm…uh…well…NO…honestly, I CAN’T imagine…and by the way, can I get her number….?’ raced through my head.  In the end, all I could utter was a simple “Wow.”

At the dinner table that evening, out of the clear blue sky, Lindsay asked “Mom, what exactly is post-partum depression?”  Okay, God…if THIS is the way you bring me around to DESIRE, you need to try a different approach…seriously…

By Friday I was so far into the denial stage that I had convinced myself something else was dreadfully wrong. I was SURE it must be some kind of life-threatening cancer which caused that dumb pregnancy test to show a false positive. Yes, that MUST be it…I needed to talk to Susan, my nurse friend. As I related my symptoms to Susan and told her about the pregnancy test (denial CLEARLY filling my soul), I saw a look of sympathy cross her face. She cocked her head to the side and gently said, “Honey, you’re pregnant.” I stood stunned. “No, no, no Sue…you aren’t hearing me…I CAN’T be pregnant. I can’t. Something else is horribly wrong.” Another sympathetic (or was that a ‘how-can-you-be-so-stupid?’) look, “No. Sandy. Listen to me. You’re pregnant.” Then she wrapped her arms around me tight, cried with me, prayed for me, and assured me it was okay to feel angry or mad or sad or hurt or whatever I felt…it would all come in due time…God’s timing is perfect. 

On Saturday, March 26th, we had a family luncheon with that gargantuan group of descendants named “Bane.”  Sixty-seven aunts, uncles & cousins gathered at MCL Cafeteria.  Among them all, there was ONE baby present. Baby Bentley. That precious, smiling, six-month-old wonder baby, who in his short lifetime, has already overcome a myriad of challenges. I held him, fed him his lunch, snuggled with him, and the entire time kept thinking “oh wow…I don’t think I can DO this!”  Brian took him from me just as a cousin looked over and said “Does that give you any ideas, guys?”  Another walked up and said “Whoa…did you guys forget to tell us something?!”  It was all in jest, of course, and I half-heartedly laughed, but the entire time I kept thinking “If ONLY you people KNEW!” 

Another Sunday rolled around, and during lunch, my dear friend Carrie and I were playing with toddler Luke.  She shot off the smart-alleck remark “It’s not too late for you and Brother Brian to have another one, you know!”  She laughed. I squirmed.

On Monday, the 28th I saw my massage therapist.  While she was cranking away on my sore shoulder, she said “Sandy, you spend so much time taking care of everyone else…tell me what you ever do for YOU when you have the time.” I nearly cried… TIME? WHAT TIME?  DON’T YOU KNOW I’M STARTING ALL OVER AGAIN?!  I simply answered “I don’t really know…I guess I’ll have to think on that,” then I followed up with an un-voiced prayer…. “Desire, dear Lord, please give me DESIRE!” 

On Tuesday, the 29th, we saw Bruce & Ann again. Ann said “Can you believe your babies will be all grown up soon?  What will you DO when you have an empty nest?!” I simply shrugged my shoulders and said “Oh…I have a feeling Brian and I will always be surrounded by kids.”  

Desire, Lord…Desire….I know I’m selfish…I admit it…but remember, I don’t like surprises!

Sunday, April 3rd. Beautiful sunny day. I sat soaking up the sun in my lawn chair, book in hand. Cowboy walked up behind me, wrapped his right arm around my neck, and placed his left hand on my belly. “I love both of you,” he whispered, then he kissed my cheek and walked away. As joyful tears filled my eyes, the weight of my guilt was lifted, and I felt an odd feeling wash over me.  “What IS this…?” I wondered, “Joy…?  Love…?  Happiness…?” Yes, all of the above, and maybe a just a tiny hint of desire. “Oh Lord, I am so humbled by your gifts…thank you!” 

I am richly blessed, I know this for a fact. I’m beginning to come around.  Maybe this surprise won’t turn out to be so bad after all!

It’s a GIRL!

This little girl was born to Dixie on Saturday, April 23, just before 1:00 a.m.  She is a compact tiny little thing with TONS of attitude.

We still can’t settle on a name…any ideas?

It’s a BOY!

“Pablo” was born to Baby on Sunday, April 17, shortly after midnight.  We are so very proud of this little guy!

He’s a real beauty, and a people-lover!  We can’t wait for you to meet him!

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

The week of April 11 was rough for Cowboy and Girl 2.  Nightly checks at two-hour intervals were beginning to take their toll, and Cowboy was staggering around looking like he hadn’t slept in days.  When he came inside for breakfast following his early morning mare check, he said every sign was telling him we would soon have a foal.  Yep, he was sure it was going to happen TODAY!  He muttered something incoherent like “she’s really bagged up…looks like she’s waxing…soft in the poll…uhh…no, wait…I’M the one soft in the poll….SHE’S soft at the dock!”  (For you non-horse people out there, the “dock,” or top of the tail, gets soft just before a mare goes into the labor…the “poll,” on the other hand, is the top of a horse’s head!) It was very plain to see Cowboy needed a good long night of uninterrupted sleep.  But as we all know, there is no rest for the weary…and good things come to those who wait.

Cowboy and I had a meeting to attend, so arrangements were made for Girl 2 to stay behind and keep an eye on things, and she had strict instructions to text message me if anything started happening.  By 11:00 a.m. I was SURE she must be in the the middle of a tough delivery and she hadn’t texted me yet (the nerve!), so I sent her a message:

ME: “anything happening?”

EMMA: “nope. just moving around alot. how close are they when water breaks?”

ME: “CLOSE! Her water broke?”

EMMA: “no.”

I did a mental eye roll and then a new messaged popped up.

EMMA:  “when i go out to the barn she stands still and munches on hay. when i go inside she starts pacing and breathing hard.”

ME:  “stay out of the barn until she is down on the ground. i know from experience when you’re in labor you just want to be left alone.”

EMMA: “mom…really?…TMI.”

(For those of you not up on the acronym lingo, TMI stands for ‘Too Much Information.’)  I giggled and tossed my phone in my purse.  I would wait.  Good things come to those who wait.

When we returned home from our meeting, we anticipated a mare lying in her stall, but no…Baby stood in the corner, tossing her head at us.  Lifting her nose and curling her lips, she glared at us in defiance as if to say “GET OUT OF MY BARN!”

11:00 p.m.: still no foal. Cowboy scheduled “foal watch” with Girl 1 and Girl 2, and we headed to bed.

12:21 p.m.: I was rudely awakened by a slamming door and sat straight up in bed. I muttered to Brian “I think we have a baby,” as I heard boots running through the family room and up the stairs.  Girl 1 poked her head in the bedroom door, “DAD!  THERE’S A FOAL ON THE GROUND!” Then she turned on her heel and ran back down the stairs.

Cowboy laid, breathing deeply, no movement.  I reached out and touched him, “Brian…there’s a foal on the ground.”  He turned toward me, but laid silent. 

“Brian, are you awake?  Honey, Baby had her foal….” 

Slowly he sat up, and I could see him trying to clear his head.  He stood, walked to the bedroom door, closed it, then returned to the foot of the bed and looked at me. 

“Honey, turn on the light and get your clothes on,” I said, “Do you know what’s happening?” 

“Ummmm…yeah…something is in the house…?”

“No dear, it’s the foal.  Baby had her foal.”

“What?! How in the devil did it get in the HOUSE?"!”

Okay, this is where I realized some SERIOUS intervention would be necessary…so I got a little loud…

“BRIAN! GET YOUR CLOTHES ON AND GO TO THE BARN; THERE’S A FOAL ON THE GROUND!”

That did it.  He jumped as if shocked by a ‘ZAP!’  “Oh my GOSH!”  He grabbed his pants and his boots and took off for the barn.

By the time we reached the barn, the foal was on the ground, Baby was standing over him.  Within minutes, Pablo was up on his long wobbly legs, trying to get around to his momma, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to nurse.  So we waited…and waited…and waited…

At 2:00 a.m., Pablo was still standing, pacing back and forth in the stall, and he still hadn’t found the path to the udder.  I announced I was going back to bed. “I hope he figures out how to nurse soon,” I said, “he sure is a strong little guy; he hasn’t laid down yet!”

At 2:15 a.m., Brian joined me in the bedroom.  “The girls are going to watch him until he starts nursing.  I need some sleep.”

At 2:30 a.m., Lindsay popped her head in the door, “Dad, he’s still not nursing and he won’t lay down either.”  Brian sighed deeply and said “Can you give me about 30 more minutes?”  She could.  She did.  3:00 a.m. came around pretty quickly, and she knocked on the door once again.  “Dad…?  Still nothing…I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”  Once again, Cowboy rose, pulled on his pants and boots, and headed back to the barn.

At 5:00 a.m., I went out to see if I could relieve him and give him a chance to sleep.  Church would be starting in 5 short hours, and Cowboy was going to have to preach.  He really needed some rest.  When I got to the barn, he was on his knees milking Baby, trying to save as much of that all-important colostrum he could save.  “He still can’t do it, and he still has not laid down. Dummy Foal Syndrome. I called the vet.”  Three hours later, still no nursing, still no laying down, still no vet.  But good things come to those who wait.  Patiently.  Or…not so patiently. 

At 9:00 a.m., the vet finally arrived to a very sleepy (but still refusing to lie down) and quickly dehydrating (nine hours, no nourishment) foal.  Doc took a quick look, said “He’s too pretty to let anything happen to him, let’s fix this!” And in short order, the colt was tubed, the momma milked, and colostrum distributed directly into the colt’s stomach.  Pablo soon found his way to the ground, took his first nap, and we waited.  At 11:15 a.m., he stood and nursed for the first time!  See…good things come to those who wait!

Following church I asked Cowboy to lay down and nap for a while, but he insisted he would be fine.  I don’t know how he did it, but he got through the day on about 2 hours of sleep.  At 8:45 p.m., his head hit the pillow and he was out like a light. I wish I could say the story ends there.  But no.  At 9:00 p.m., there was a soft knock on our bedroom door, and Girl 2 peeked in.  “Dad…?  You awake…?  Pablo is constipated and really straining.  I think he needs an enema.”  From the lump next to me came a low rumbling growl.  Cowboy sat up…pulled on his pants and boots…mumbled “why do I DO this?” and he descended the stairs, journeying again to the barn.

And guess what…?  We are expecting foal #2 any day!  Good things come to those who wait.

When A Cowboy Travels

Cowboy and I come from a long line of home bodies. We never have been good travelers; we prefer to just be home. This past weekend, however, we were provided an opportunity to expand our definition of “HOME” when we travelled to a little town called Cannonsburg in eastern Kentucky. 

Early in our marriage when we had two tiny children and nothing but time, Cowboy and I traveled frequently to attend church meetings. We have been blessed to meet church people from Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, Georgia, Alabama, and Texas. Once upon a time, when Girl #2 was only six weeks old, we met a wonderful preacher, Elder Glenn, who asked us to visit his church in the Ohio/Kentucky/West Virginia tri-state area. Sixteen years and huge guilty conscience later, we did just that.  It was a visit long-overdue…but I’ll get to that in a minute…first I have to tell you about our welcoming committee in that area of Kentucky. 

Our first official “state” meeting came soon after crossing the border. Two gentlemen in an ancient pick up truck were driving very slowly in the left lane. The truck, decked with a truck-cap-style camper perched precariously on the rusted bed and held in place with bungee cords, had no side or rear view mirrors. The camper was whopper-jawed in a way that made the truck look as if it was strolling sideways down the road. Cowboy determined that Uncle Cletus had bumped a little too hard against one side wall in his sleep, sending the whole kit and kaboodle rolling into a ditch. Poor fella. But as we cautiously passed them on the right, we noted Uncle Cletus looked alive and well as he sat driving that old truck with his nephew riding shotgun, a trusty pit bull between them. It couldn’t have been a more fitting scene had the words “WELCOME TO THE BLUEGRASS STATE” been emblazoned on the back bumper!

Our first “in-person” meeting was with Jimmy, who worked the counter at the Hampton Inn Ashland. His friendly welcoming smile and sweet southern accent diverted my attention away from the first impression of faded blue jeans and a button-down shirt open to reveal what must have been his favorite tee. He gave us our room key, explained that it worked better if you swipe them slowly, informed us that snacks and coffee were around the corner, wished us a wonderful stay, and told us to call the front desk if we needed “anything…anything at all.” And we knew he meant it.

Cowboy and I boarded the elevator, pressed the button for the 2nd floor and made our way down the hall to find the doorplate of our room (#233) adorned with a picture of a white cowboy hat. It made Cowboy feel very special to think they reserved that particular room just for him.

After depositing our bags in the room, we ventured back downstairs just in time to meet up with our church friends Elder Frank and his wife, who treated us to dinner at a nearby Bob Evans, where we met Julie, our waitress. Julie was a lively, fun and spunky red head who called us all “baby,” and high-fived the preacher Frank when she learned he was a Wildcats fan (ahem…who ISN’T a Wildcats fan in Kentucky?).

After taking our drink orders, Julie turned to Cowboy and asked “Where y’all from?” Cowboy replied “Indiana.” Julie looked at him quizzically, then started, “You know, I went to Indiana once with my boyfriend to a big monster truck rally thing that he likes…anyway…it was in Indy, at that Lucas Oil stadium…? I kept sayin ‘what in the world do they have all these huge pictures of Peyton Manning for…do they like him here or somethin?’” Stifling a giggle, Cowboy explained that Lucas Oil Stadium is THE Colt’s stadium… “you know, where they play?”    “Ooooooh” she said, “that makes COMPLETE sense now!”  Julie was a southern sweetheart we Hoosiers couldn’t help but fall in love with. She apparently felt the same since she spent many long moments with us sharing stories about her boyfriend, her church, her daddy, and her Wildcats (the 2009 team was her favorite).

Being the home body that I am, it was evident very early on that we needed to make a stop at the local Wal-Mart.  Being the man that he is, Cowboy dropped me at the door and said he’d wait in the car.  Even in the relative solitude of the car, it didn’t take long before he made a friend.  As Cowboy sat fiddling with the radio, he looked up to see a woman walking toward him, pushing several Wal-Mart carts. She motioned for him to roll down his window.  Surprised by the gesture, Cowboy complied, and she began to explain, “My husband is inside doin our shoppin. I didn’t feel like goin in, so I figured I could gather up the carts while I’m waitin.”  Cowboy wasn’t sure if this was her way of pointing out that he should also find something productive to do, or if she was just being friendly. It turned out to be the latter. After finishing her commentary, she prepared to walk away, but first said “Nice car, by the way!” Yes, there are definitely some friendly folk in that neck of the woods, and they fulfilled their “welcome committee” duties quite well.

Without a doubt, the best part of the trip was arriving at the church for their Saturday night meeting. It was there, in that humble little building that Cowboy finally had the 16-year reunion with Elder Glen that he’d been longing for. Elder Glen proudly announced to everyone that he “knew this young man when he was but a little boy!” (We didn’t have the heart to remind him that Cowboy was a grown and married man with two young children at the time of their first meeting!) In addition to the reunion with Elder Glen and his wife, we met Brenda, Geneva, Katie, Joe, Charlie, and so many many more whose names currently escape me, but whose love for the Lord and their church family was certainly undeniable. They shared with us, hugged us, asked about our lives, our blessings, our church, and our family. They encouraged us with their words of wisdom and their pure hearts.  And it was there, in that little town 4-1/2 hours from home, that we realized we were home. 

This weekend, in Cannonsburg, Kentucky, we found it to be true…home really IS where your heart is. <3

Moments in the Life of a Carpenter’s Wife, Part 1

Cowboy is a cowboy by choice, Carpenter by trade.

The Cowboy Way is my loving husband’s fantasy, and he escapes to it at any opportunity. Who can blame him? A lover of nature and animals, what better way to pass a day than to saddle up and ride the range, strolling peacefully through God’s amazing creation? Sadly, my Cowboy can’t seem to find a range in east central Indiana, and pesky little things like bills can’t be paid living in a fantasy, so he relies on his other incredible talent for silly things like food and shelter.

In our 21 years of wedded bliss, one thing has become strikingly clear to me…a carpenter’s house truly is always the last to be done. Cowboy has often said things like “Honey, I do that kind of stuff all day long, why would I want to do it HERE when I get home?” (Translated: “I have a horse to ride, for crying out loud!”) 

I let Cowboy convince me that we should build a house once. It sounded like a marvelous idea that summer of 1994. What I didn’t know at the time was that my custom-built home wouldn’t actually be finished until May, 1999…just in time for the new owners to move in.

When we first viewed our current home in February 2002, we saw there was plenty of remodeling work to be done, but Cowboy shrugged his shoulders and said “No big deal, that’s simple. We can manage it.”

Mmm-hmm.

Nearly nine years later, this past Monday morning at 9:34 a.m., my cell phone rang. It was Cowboy. “I’m on my way home,” said he, “The project has hit a stall, and I’m going to have a few weeks off. Start clearing things out of the family room, I’m tearing out that rock around the fireplace and hanging drywall.”

Now if I were not a seasoned carpenter’s wife, I would have been soaring…after all, nearly NINE YEARS of looking at that ugly sinking rock wall and stuffing its cracks with steel wool to keep the mice from coming in was a bit wearing on the nerves, but I’m a big girl carpenter’s wife now, and I’m sorry to say I breathed a heavy sigh of frustration as I trudged to the family room grumbling.

Two hours later I began questioning Cowboy as he measured room sizes and door sizes. “While we’re in this mess, I thought we could  replace the trim and the interior doors too. Oh, and I called John to come and give me an estimate for re-painting the entire house. It needs it.”

“Wait!” I said (probably a little too harshly) “Are you SURE you’re not going back to the job site before all of this gets done?” Cowboy shrugged. “They’ll just have to wait until I finish this project.”  Sigh number two passed my lips unchecked…

Mmm-hmm.

It was with a mixture of joy and trepidation that I watched demolition begin in my family room Monday afternoon. Plastic was hung, mortar was chopped, and rock after rock was carried out of the house until all that was left was a gaping hole in the wall to the garage, a second hole in the floor to the crawl space, and the sound of crisp five degree winter winds blustering through said holes, whipping at the plastic barrier. I shivered as I mentally calculated the volume of steel wool needed to fill those holes, and Cowboy explained what he would do “tomorrow.”   

Tuesday dawned bright and early with the ringing of Cowboy’s phone. I stifled sigh #3 as he explained “It’s just a meeting with the architect. I won’t be long.”

Several hours later, as the sun found its hiding place beyond the barn, Cowboy’s truck rumbled back up the drive way and he entered the house. “That meeting took longer than I thought it would…aaaaannnndddd…uhhhhhh…I kinda have to go back tomorrow.” I stood motionless for a heartbeat, then slowly turned to look at the plastic-and-tarp-strewn family room without saying a word. Cowboy’s eyes followed mine, and when I returned my gaze to him all I saw were two big blue eyes and a sheepish grin.  *SIGH!*

…stay tuned…

Comedy of Errors

Some days I think if it weren’t for my sense of humor, I’d have a nervous breakdown.  Honestly, I wonder sometimes why everything I do seems to continue in the pattern of this unending comedy of errors.  Don’t get me wrong, it is never anything completely serious or life-threatening, it’s just a steady stream of tiny maddening nonsensical events that stretch out across my life.

Take, for instance, today….

As you will know if you live in our area, we’ve had an unheard-of amount of rain storms as of late.  The last several times we have mowed our grass, our lawn tractor has operated more like a boat than a mower.  We run outside the moment the sun tries to shine, and driving through mud puddles, we knock down the high grass as quickly as we can before the skies open up and pour down on us again. 

Well, today I was determined to properly cut our grass.  By “properly” I mean cut grass with the push mower around the house and the pool, trim around the trees, and finish the larger areas with the lawn tractor.  A gorgeous day with plenty of sunshine and a lovely breeze, I was ready to be outside basking in the glory of it, even if it meant I was bound for a hard day of manual labor.

When I first pulled the push mower out of the storage barn, I thought it seemed a little heavier than usual.  One flick of my finger against the grass catcher told me why.  Some moron hadn’t emptied the clippings from the previous mowing.  As I tugged and pulled on the grass catcher to free it from the machine, I was grumbling under my breath about what kind of lazy person wouldn’t finish a job properly…and then it dawned on me that no one else in my family had EVER thought to manually cut the grass with the cheap non-self-propelled push mower machine that Brian long ago labeled “Sandy’s mower.”  I guess the moron who didn’t finish the last job was me.  Oops. 

After finally getting the pieces put back together, I checked the oil, topped off the gas tank, and commenced to pull the little stringy doo-hickey thing that is supposed to start the engine.  After five pulls, I wondered why on EARTH no one had thought to invent a push mower with a key start. 

An overwhelming whiff of gasoline told me the blasted machine was flooded, so I waited impatiently before trying again.  Five more pulls, nothing.  Seriously, hasn’t anyone ever THOUGHT to invent a push-button start for a push mower?  Push-button / Push-mower…that would make COMPLETE sense! 

After pull #11 I determined that surely SOMEONE had likely invented an easier start mechanism that didn’t require a pull string and every ounce of my energy and dignity. 

After pull #12, I wondered why I did I not own one of those machines that someone MUST have invented. 

Finally, pull #13 (who says that number is unlucky?) brought the engine to a noisy sputter followed by a puff of grey smoke and the rotation of blades.  Success!

I puttered through the long wet grass, quickly making two passes around the swimming pool, and beginning the third.  Trying to push through the tingling weakness in my right arm from the abuse of the stringy doo-hickey thing, I inadvertently ventured a little too close to the pine tree, causing a lower branch to catch in the handlebar of my push mower.  Not to be deterred, I bent lower, and pushed with all of my might to free my machine from the grip of the tree, which finally broke loose from my forward motion.  The release of that branch caused a comedic event that from beginning-to-end could not have lasted more than one second, tops.  The freed branch flipped like a rubber band into my face, knocking my sunglasses into the air.  My left hand immediately went to the owie on my chin, my right hand shot up to grab my flailing sunglasses, and the gripper bar of the mower, now released from my white-knuckled grip, fell forward, instantly killing the mower’s engine.  I stood there for a breath or two as realization washed over me.  Then, dragging my push mower behind me, I trudged back to the storage barn, mounted the old trusty lawn tractor, turned the key, and voila…

I guess one more quick knock-down of the high spots won’t hurt anything.

Giggles & Laughs

If you haven’t already figured it out, lots of kids come to ride here, and with lots of kids comes lots of stories.  Kids say (and do!) the darnedest things sometimes.

One particular male rider, for example, is a kid who is brutally 100% no-question-about-it honest.  Always.  He says what he means and he means what he says, and you don’t have to ask if he’s joking because he’s not.  Here’s an example:  On a cool day last fall, I walked out to the barn wearing blue jeans, a purple and black striped blouse, and a purple corduroy blazer.  I remember the outfit distinctly because when I said hello to our guest, he did not respond with a hello, but responded instead with “You don’t match.”  It took me a few beats to figure out what he meant, and I am sure I looked at him with a puzzled expression.  He continued “Did you mean to put those colors together?”  I looked down at my outfit, and he again remarked “Your colors don’t match.”  I thanked him for pointing that out and made a quick mental note to never again wear that combination. 

Another frequent visitor makes us laugh every time he is here.  This kid is a riot!  After his first riding lesson, Cowboy gave him the distinct honor of picking manure from a stall.  After a few quick lessons in how to do the job right, the new student willingly took on the task.  A few minutes into the job, the boy crinkled up his nose.  “Ew (‘sniff’) smells like (‘sniff’) Mom’s meatloaf!”  A smiling Cowboy asked:  “So you’re mom’s not a very good cook?”  Still crinkling his nose, and adding a shake of his head he responded “Nope, not really.”

One prankster, while waiting for his sister to finish a riding lesson, was quickly getting bored.  Cowboy gave him permission to jump off the upper level balcony into the wood shavings pile in the arena below.  This is always a treat for our kids, so Cowboy thought it would be harmless fun for this little guy.  As Cowboy continued the riding lesson, he began to notice a moan following every jump into the shavings pile.  He decided to keep an ear tuned to what his little buddy was up to, and as he continued sister’s lesson, he noted footsteps going up the ladder, then a THUD, followed by a deep groan, but every time Cowboy turned around to look, little brother was rolling out of the shavings to climb the ladder again.  Finally, Cowboy asked big sister to stop riding for a moment so that he could turn to watch the action unfold behind him.  Come to find out, the daredevil was diving HEAD FIRST into the shavings, hitting the pile with a THUD, then groaning, he would lay for a moment to regain composure.  Cowboy of course put a stop to this nonsense and made a mental note to find level-ground activities for his buddy’s next visit. 

One student seems to always forget to tie the horse up before leaving the arena, and with each and every reminder of “Hey, did you forget your horse?”  The student responds, “Uh…yeah…well…I taught her how to stand still while I’m gone.”   

Last summer, I took a big bowl full of watermelon out to share with a few of our riders.  One jumped off his horse and high-tailed it to the table.  It seems he loves watermelon.  A lot.  While we stood together talking, eating, and spitting seeds, I asked him about his day at school.  “I broke up with my girlfriend,” he said.  “Oh dear,” I responded.  Thinking I might be able to lend an ear for a difficult discussion about relationships, I asked “Why did you break up?”  He looked up at me and answered, “She doesn’t brush her teeth.”  I choked on watermelon that day.

One day Cowboy pointed to the manure pile out back and asked a student to dump the contents of the wheel barrow.  He watched as the student rammed the wheel barrow as close as he could get it to the mountain of manure.  He wasn’t tall enough to get leverage to push the cart over, so Cowboy watched as the boy stood thinking for a minute, trying to develop a plan.  Finally, he tipped the cart up again, walked around the cart, climbed up ON the manure pile, and pulling the cart toward him, dumped the fresh manure down his jeans and onto his boots before it finally landed in place on the pile.  Proudly smiling at his personal achievement, he flipped the cart back to the upright position and headed back to the barn for another load. 

Our lesson horse Sassy has an incredible gas problem.  Her musical rhythms escalate to monumental proportion when she runs, and if you’ve never been near her when she sneezes…well…be glad.  It’s an explosion out of both ends!  These particular talents lend her the name “Gassy Sassy.”  For some students, it is embarrassing to ride her.  For others, it’s absolutely the funniest thing ever.  One day, as Sassy was running around the arena, a new student stopped dead in his tracks to watch and listen.  With a sudden burst of clarity he exclaimed “HEY! She sounds like my dad!” 

While talking to a student before lessons one day, I learned he had a lot of cousins.  In an effort to make conversation I asked if any of them went to the same school as he.  “Yes,” he admitted, “but there’s one family who just moved in.  They have the same last name, but they aren’t relatives.”  He stood silent for a moment, then continued.  “I really wish they would just go back where they came from.”  Shocked and curious, I asked him why.  “They’re just too nice.  They make the rest of us seem even MORE redneck than we already are!” 

Every now and then we come across quiet kids who rarely speak.  Some are shy and don’t want to talk; some just don’t have much to say.  When one girl began riding here, Cowboy thought he’d NEVER get her to talk.  She rode for several weeks without speaking, and Cowboy got a bit impatient, so one day tried a new approach.  Merciless teasing went on and on throughout her riding lesson. She would smile, but wouldn’t say anything.  As she prepared to leave that day, Cowboy shouted across the barn, “See ya later, Brat-a-cus!”  She stopped, turned back to look at him, and yelled, “Bye Old-a-cus!” Smiling from ear to ear, she turned on her heel and departed.  I’m not sure if Cowboy was more stunned by the comment or the sound of her voice, but he hasn’t had any trouble conversing with her since! 

At the end of one particularly giggly lesson, Cowboy was bidding farewell to a posse of girls.  He teased them by saying “I think from now on I’ll just call you my boys.  Can I call you my boys?”  One of them shrugged her shoulders and responded, “Can we call you grandpa?”

They say laughter is the best medicine.  If that’s true, then one thing is certain…our daily dose is high enough to keep us healthy for a very long time!

You are Loved

I took an incredibly heavy heart to bed last night, and I begin this day and this post with it just as heavy.  In my quest to pour out my heartache to the Lord through my writing, I’ve concluded that this post must be specifically directed to pre-teen and teenaged kids.  

Today there is no room for silly quips and funny names, because this is serious stuff and I hope all of you take note.  This is for you.    

In this adventure of daily living with all of you, our “adopted” kids, Brian and I receive a lot of joy.  Each and every one of you knows you can come to us and receive a hearing ear.  You can tell us anything, ask us anything, and we will share in your joys and heartaches.  But the joy is the easy stuff, right?  What about the hard stuff?  What do you do with all that junk? 

That junk (the bad stuff) is what we call a “Jordan.”  It’s like a huge river that is too deep, too wide, and seemingly impossible to cross, but with a little help from your true friends and God, you can cross that Jordan to experience the incredible blessings that are waiting for you on the other side.

In your lives you are going to experience some pretty gnarly “Jordan’s”.  Maybe you already have.  There are choices to be made every single day, and those choices can have life-long impact.  Each decision you make has a consequence.  Each consequence affects your life.  Maybe for just a day; maybe forever. 

So how do you know you’re making right choices?  Sometimes the choice might be hard at the time, but deep down inside you know the answer.  If you go with your gut, it’s usually right.  Sometimes maybe your gut doesn’t really know, and you end up making a wrong choice out of ignorance or inexperience.  That’s okay.  You will get another chance to make that one right.  But the BIG ones are the ones you KNOW in your heart are wrong and you do it anyway.  These conscious wrong choices only lead to further heartache.

Take, for example, drugs.  All of you know in your hearts you should not experiment with these things, right?  I mean, seriously…haven’t you heard all of your life that drugs are bad and you should leave them alone?  Of course you have.  But when your best friend encourages you with “come on, just this once, no one will know…aren’t you curious what it will feel like?” 

This is a big Jordan, guys.  This is where your decision will make or break your reputation, and possibly your entire life. So, what’s it gonna be…your friend, or your convictions?  Think for a moment…what are the possible short-term consequences? 

1.  if I side with my friend, no one ever has to know…it will be just once…what can it hurt?

2.  if I side with my convictions, I’ll make my friend mad and he/she will probably laugh at me, make fun of me, and call me lame. 

Neither of these possibilities sound so great, right?  But let’s look at long-term consequences:  

1.  You get caught.  Someone is watching that you didn’t know was watching and they snitch…or your friend gets pulled over for rolling through a stop sign on the way home and the cop notices something just isn’t right.  What happens?  You’ve just walked right up to an even BIGGER Jordan.  You’re in deep trouble.  You spend a long and intense night at the local jail waiting for your parents, who will likely never trust you again, your school gets the news, teachers start watching your every move, you get labeled a trouble maker, get kicked out of sports, and your peers all laugh at your lameness for getting caught.  But wait…wouldn’t they have laughed at my lameness for not doing it in the first place?  Yeah.  True friends?  Not in my book. 

Now let’s move on to the next possibility. 

2:  You don’t get caught…which is worse.  Why?  Because you will think “why not try it again?  It was a bit of a thrill and I’m in control.”  You can easily stop doing this when you want to, so it’s no big deal, right?  Wrong.  Some people can’t stop.  Some have a chemical predisposition in their bodies that cause them to become addicted to stuff immediately.  Does your body have that?  How do you know?  You don’t know.  You don’t know until you try it, and if you try it, it may just be too late.  Then how will you stop?  You won’t.  You can’t.  Not without professional help, and even then the chances are very slim.  And this little trip brings you to likely the biggest Jordan you could have ever imagined in your life.  Your grades begin to slip, you lose interest in all sports and activities, parents begin to wonder why they can’t trust you, teachers start watching your every move, you get labeled a trouble maker, and your peers all laugh at your lameness for being a druggie.

Hmmm…anything sound familiar there?  Yep, this is the deal guys…get it through your heads…In this situation YOU WILL BE LABELED LAME NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO.  But in the beginning, at the very first choice, saying NO could’ve made you lame for like 1 week.  Maybe 2.  The other choice makes you lame for a lifetime…years and years and years.   

Get this:  YOU NEVER HAVE TO GO BACK AND CHANGE A RIGHT ANSWER.

It’s kind of like a long algebra problem with lots of steps.  If you start with a wrong answer, the next step is harder, and then because that one is wrong, the next step is even worse, and the whole thing is one huge mess by the time you get to the end.  That’s when horror strikes, because you have to start ALL OVER and do the whole thing AGAIN!

But if that algebra problem starts with the correct answer, it’s smooth sailing…and you never have to start over or fix anything.

Let’s move away from the drug example for a minute and talk about premarital sex.  Awkward?  You bet.  Get over it…we’re talking about it here and now.

The boys often get picked on when it comes to these kind of examples, and I don’t think that’s fair, so I’m stepping outside of the box:  Let’s say you have a new girlfriend.  You’ve been dating for about 2 weeks (if that long) and she pipes up and says “Just so you know, I don’t plan to “wait” for marriage, are you okay with that?” 

So we come back to your decisions.  What’s it gonna be?  Your reputation or your conviction?  Short term consequences:

1. You can side with your girlfriend and be the big man on campus.

2. You can side with your convictions, make the girl mad, and your friends will hear all about it and call you lame.

Decisions, decisions.  What are you gonna chose?

Long term consequences: 

1.  You get caught.  Either by a protective-yet-clueless daddy who now wants to take your head off for “hurting his sweet innocent little girl” or by getting the girl pregnant.  Oh wow, this is good stuff here.  Aren’t you glad you chose to be big man on campus?  I mean, you’ve got a rip roaring stinking mad father breathing down your neck on one side, or you have a baby that is yours to take care of for 18+ years.  All for one night of thrills.  Isn’t this lovely?  And guess what?  Your friends (who thought it was really cool at first) either don’t want to hang out with you because Big Daddy is always breathing down your neck (why would they want to fight your battles?), or they want to hang out with you and you can’t…because you have to work…because you have a baby to take care of.  Guess what else?  You are now lame for either one of those reasons. 

Are you beginning to see the cycle yet, guys?

You are going to be labeled lame for any right decision you make, but I’m going to stress this again:  YOU NEVER HAVE TO GO BACK AND CHANGE A RIGHT ANSWER!

Now let’s say you’ve had some things happen throughout your life that just flat aren’t fair.  Maybe you’ve done nothing except deal with the consequences of someone else’s wrong decisions.  The examples are endless.  Divorced / unwed parents; absent fathers / mothers; dead fathers / mothers; drug-addicted or alcoholic family member; maybe your struggle is more intense…maybe you have been violated sexually and are trying to cope.  Those kids up there^ who are dealing with every-day choices when it comes to drugs and/or sex have it easy, don’t they?  They think it’s rough living in their shoes, what if they tried walking in yours for just one day?  

Your history and your life is horrible, and I am so very sorry you are dealing with the junk that goes with that.  Your Jordan is big and strong and deep, and you can’t possibly cross it alone.  Find help for your situation, please.  Find help.  And when you have found good solid adult help, focus on this:  Happiness is a choice, and it is one you must consciously and continuously make every day of your life.

Life will deal blows to you for the rest of your walk on this earth.  You will have some small Jordans and some big Jordans.  Life is never easy for anyone, and for some it’s harder than most.  This is where your choices have the biggest impact on the rest of your life. This is where you must decide to claim your life for yourself.  This is where you must create your own destiny.  Stop living the life someone else has mapped for you.  It’s history.  Start living the life you want NOW.  Cross that Jordan and find peace.

A very wise young woman, who I never had the opportunity to meet, once wrote “Live the life you love; love the life you live.”  She grew up with hard knocks most of you will never experience, and she made a conscious daily decision to be happy.  Her world didn’t move her, so SHE moved her WORLD.  She was right where she wanted to be, and her life was GOOD!  One tiny bad decision ended her life in the blink of an eye.  This is how fast it can happen.  One blink.  What will you choose?

Are you happy?  Could you be happier?  What single thing can you change to make yourself happier?  You have but one spin on this planet, and God has the ultimate plan for you. You will stand at the edge of many Jordans, but with each RIGHT decision, your blessings will grow, while each WRONG decision will take you to a bigger more difficult Jordan.

Cross your Jordans wisely.  Find a true friend in an adult who can aid you and mentor you.  Embrace the blessings God has for you on the other side of every big decision.  You will never regret choosing happiness.

Now finally, know this:  You are a treasure.  A worthy, golden, incredible, awesome creation.  It takes the good stuff and the bad stuff to make you who you are, and God did not create you without a purpose.  Find it.  Embrace it.  Feel it.  Know it.

You are loved.

Granny, We Miss You

This weekend marks the third anniversary of our final earthly visit with a lovely lady most people knew simply as “Granny.”  Brian’s grandmother, Martha Verda Williams Lane, was one of those angels God sees fit to bless us with during our spin on this planet.  A 33-year widow and 19-year cancer survivor, she endured many heartaches in her lifetime, but her faith, courage, and perseverance always prevailed.  Trying times didn’t break her, they polished her in a way that added to her already stunning inner- and outer- beauty.

Granny was born in the little town of Boston, Indiana, on November 12, 1922.  She was the youngest of six children of Frank Jesse Williams and his wife, Mary Alice.  She met and married the love of her life, Ralph Lane, in 1946, and together they raised three children, Debbie, Daryl, and Jerry.  If, as they say, the love we RECEIVE is any indication of the love we have GIVEN, then to simply say Granny was a loving person would be a gross understatement.  She was adored by her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, siblings, and friends.

Granny was always willing to give of herself in whatever way she was needed.  A talented seamstress and quilter, she spent several years lending her time to 4-H clubs coaching young ladies in the craft of sewing. She used her craft in many ways over the years.  Nearly every Christmas found us unwrapping special hand-made gifts: stuffed animals, quilted table runners, and doll clothes to name a few.  She taught me how to sew.  We spent many beautiful days together sharing, laughing, and talking as she introduced me to various stitches, materials, and methods.  It was during those precious moments that I learned the most about this amazing lady.

Granny experienced what was likely the most difficult day in her life in April of 1974, when her husband of 28 years unexpectedly passed away.  She mourned his passing, but found that by making a conscious effort she could transform her grief into active love by doting on her grandchildren.  And believe you me, there was a lot of doting!  She cheered from the bleachers of every baseball, softball, volleyball and basketball game, sat smiling through every Christmas program, took pictures of every prom, graduation, and wedding, and made herself available to them any time they made their needs or wishes known.  Whatever her grandchildren did, Granny was there, cheering them on and loving them.  Still, she was never satisfied with the amount of time she devoted to them.  She confided in me once that she always felt like she could have done more. 

Soon after Grandpa died, Granny got a job as a sewing machine operator at Kabert Industries, a business near her home.  Her responsibiilties there were a great fit for her talents as a seamstress, but the time she spent working took her away from those she loved most, and she regretted that.  What she did not factor in to this self-proclaimed weakness, however, was her gift to the ladies with whom she worked.  If there was ever a need for a “mother figure,” she was the first one to step up and fill the role.  They loved her as their mother.  During her funeral visitation hours, we were blessed to hear many “Granny Stories.”  We learned that several ladies from work had gone home with her during the great blizzard of 1978.  She fed and housed them until they could get home to their own families.  None of us remembered her mentioning that little act of kindness, but we were certainly not surprised by the news.  She had a knack for making everyone feel special.

Granny certainly made me feel special the first time I met her.  I was a junior in high school, just a few months after the passing of my own very special grandmother.  Brian had informed me that I would be meeting his grandmother, and I will admit that I was a little nervous at the prospect.  My nerves had no place in that high school gymnasium that night.  I was immediately struck by the twinkle in her eye as she greeted Brian with her signature “Howdy Sugar!” I watched enamored as he left my side, and there, in that public place with so many of his teen-aged peers surrounding him, he planted a sweet kiss on her forehead and wrapped his arms around her in a tender hug.  The love they showed each other in that simple greeting spoke volumes to me.  The moment we were introduced, she opened her heart to me, offering me the distinct honor of being adopted into her circle.  Not needing to be asked twice, I jumped at the opportunity.  She held a special place in my heart from that moment on.

In the fall of 1986, when Brian went away for military basic training, I was truly lost and lonely.  Granny always made sure I knew I was invited any time her family planned to be together.  When Brian’s graduation from Basic/AIT approached, she and I both jumped at the opportunity to journey to Ft. Benning, Georgia, with Brian’s parents to witness his graduation.  We were bed mates in the hotel room that night, and I remember giggling far into the late hours of darkness.  It was upon our return home from Georgia, with Brian in tow (I don’t think either of us let him out of our sight during that trip!) that Brian dubbed her “Granny,” a name that stuck from that moment on.

In 1988, Granny lost her left eye in her first battle with cancer.  The whole family gathered together in the midst of a nasty ice storm, rallying around her to nurse her back to health.  Those days seem like a lifetime ago, but it’s a memory none of us will ever forget.  She was so sick, but she came away from that painful period stronger than ever, and we rejoiced in her good health.
On Christmas Eve, 1990, when she was given news of the impending birth of her first great grandchild, Granny was overjoyed!  She immediately began sewing maternity clothes, baby clothes, and baby blankets, and she gifted me over and over again with her loving thoughts, funny stories, and praises for the growing child inside my belly.  The birth of each great grandchild thereafter was met with the same bubbling excitement.  She always claimed that while grandchildren were wonderful, great grandchildren were even BETTER!  My three girls will certainly attest to the fact that she was a key component in the joy of the years of their youth.  From tea parties to euchre games, sewing lessons to knitting lessons, always-full cookie jars to homemade noodles, visits with Granny were a splendid experience!  

One day she came to pick up our oldest daughter for a day of fun.  She had the entire day of activities planned.  She met Lindsay at the door, stepped backward off of the porch step, lost her balance and fell straight down on her tailbone, bouncing twice on the concrete.  I ran to help her up, begging her to sit for a while and give us both time to determine if she was okay.  “Oh NO!” she exclaimed, “we have things to DO!” and off she limped to her car, buckling Lindsay inside and driving off.  Later that evening she was in so much pain that she conceded to a trip to the emergency room.  X-rays concluded that she had a broken pelvis.  When I learned this the next day, I tried to scold her for not allowing me to investigate her health further before she spent that entire day in pain, and she interrupted my scolding with that signature grin, “Oh now” she said, “we had a GREAT day!”

Granny was just as enthusiastic over her great-grandchildren’s activities as she was her grandchildren’s.  There wasn’t a horse show or dance recital that took place without her.  She gave countless good luck kisses and congratulatory hugs, and proudly watched everything they did.  
  
Granny’s love was certainly not limited to her grandchildren and great grandchildren.  She attended the annual Grandparents Day at Hagerstown Elementary School and became an adopted grandparent for any child whose grandma couldn’t attend.  She spent many joyous days with her sisters, her brother, and her sister-in-law, Helen. She had a close bond with all of them, and she was deeply saddened by the loss of each, one by one, until she was the last surviving member of her family.  When her daughter-in-law’s health began to fail from the effects of multiple sclerosis, Granny stepped in as her day nurse.  She took great care in seeing that Ellie’s needs were fulfilled while Daryl was away at work.  It was a long and difficult battle for Ellie, and the loss of her affected Granny greatly.  She told me once that she didn’t really understand why God hadn’t seen fit to take her instead of Ellie.  I told her I couldn’t begin to understand God’s wisdom or ultimate plan, but that it would be revealed one day, if ever He saw fit to let us in on His secrets.   
Her influence in her family extended to her niece Greta and Greta’s daughters Julie and Lisa.  Their times together were a source of joy for Granny, and we were always anxious to hear of the events of the days she spent with them. 

In 2003, Granny was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy.  Quickly following this was a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease, then came her first of several strokes.  She was admitted to a nursing home on two different occasions, undergoing intense physical therapy both times.  While she was recuperating, Lindsay and Emma continued to show their horses without Granny, but they always called her at the end of the day to report their news.  She enjoyed those phone calls, but not as much as the girls did!  They just loved sharing their excitement with her. 

During her second “tour” of the nursing home, Brian and I weren’t sure she would ever get home again.  An incredible amount of damage had been done, and she was so weak.  True to form, she proved us wrong, and she worked until she was able to go home under the care of a home nurse. 
We visited Granny as frequently as we could, and we always came away happier just from being with her.  Frail as she had become, she was always cheerful and joyful.  I’ll never forget our visit in her home on Christmas Eve, 2006.  The girls and I arranged to do the cooking for her, so we arrived early to begin meal preparations.  She came scuffling to the door with her walker, dressed in a pink sweater and brightly flowered lounge pants.  I told her how pretty I thought she looked.  She looked at Lindsay and said, “What do you think?”  Lindsay replied that she too thought she looked very nice.  Granny responded with “Don’t you think I look sexy?!” Lindsay and I, completely caught off guard by her exclamation, doubled over in laughter!  When we were finally able to wipe our tears, we looked up to see tears of laughter streaming down her face as well, and our giggling began anew.   

In early May 2007, Brian visited Granny, completing a few odd jobs around her house.  As they were talking she pointed to her flower bed and said she wished she could work in her flowers.  That’s when Brian noticed a strong little maple seedling growing up in the middle of her flower bed.  He asked if he could dig it up.  “Sure, take it,” she said.  As he bid her farewell and climbed into his truck to leave, he said “Thanks for the tree, Granny!”  She threw her head back in a groan, “No, no!” She said, “You don’t ever thank someone for giving you a tree! It’s SURE to die now!” Brian just shook his head and laughed, apologized for thanking her, then headed home to plant his new tree.  A few weeks later we hosted a picnic gathering at our home on Memorial Day.  When Ronnie and Debbie arrived, we were shocked to see Granny with them.  Brian helped her out of the car and escorted her to a soft rocking chair on the back patio.  After she settled, he pointed to his tree, “Look there, Granny,” he said.  “It’s the tree you gave me from your flower bed.”  She giggled, “It’s still alive?  It won’t be for long!” and she commenced to tell everyone the story about her silly grandson not knowing that he shouldn’t thank someone for a tree.

We enjoyed our day with her; it’s a time we will treasure forever, because it was the last time we were able to visit with that angel lady.  Two days later we received a phone call that Granny had another stroke, had slipped out of consciousness and was being transported to the hospital by ambulance.  The news was not good.  We rushed to the hospital and spent a few moments tearfully saying our goodbyes before she slipped away.

As happens with every tragedy in life, the next few days were a blur.  People came and went, her belongings were sorted, her sweet little house sold, and we were left in a fog of sadness and memories.  All that summer, Brian watched his tree closely.  It began to wilt, and soon looked as if it would die.  He watered and pruned, wanting desperately to save that tree, then finally left it alone after coming to the conclusion that it was only right for his tree to die, because Granny told him it would. 

I often wonder if Jesus talked to Granny about Brian’s attempts to save his tree that summer.  If so, I’m certain she asked for a special miracle to be bestowed just so that her grandson could be built up, because against all odds, that tree now thrives in its place in our yard, three years after Granny tried to convince him it would die.  I’m not surprised.  Granny was never foolish enough to sacrifice someone else’s happiness for the sake of being “right.”  As Proverbs 14:1 says, “Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.”  Granny was wise.  She lived her life in the continual building of her house…a house that stood on a strong foundation of love.