Steele (the Day)

One Year Later

// June 7th, 2010 // 18 Comments » // Family, My Fabulous Life

He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart.

You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion.

~Cicero

It was a year ago that Lucky told us he was ready to go to The Bridge. We were so worried that we wouldn’t know the right time, but he “told” us on a Sunday evening, and on Monday morning we made the call. I don’t think a day has gone by since that I haven’t thought about him. That’s what happens after a mutt spends 14 years wrapping himself around your heart.

I miss hearing his tags jingle as he trots through the house.

I miss his toenails clicking on the floor, and the smell of his Frito feet.

I miss seeing his nose pressing against the window in the breakfast nook when I’m at the outside faucet, getting pupkiss all over, and whining to come out and “help.”

I miss cooking his chicken vegetable soup every Sunday night, the only thing he would eat for his last six months. It was a labor of love (and we haven’t had chicken vegetable soup since).

I miss the sound of his breathing at night as he slept between us, and even his really bad doggy breath.

I even miss his last days when he depended on us for everything and got pretty messy.

Enjoy the “Lucky at the Bridge” video in my sidebar, or read how this hapless little puppy found his way into our hearts for 14 years here, here, and here, or check out other “related posts” below.

Lord, let me be the kind of person my dog thought I was.

Tea today: Stash Ginger Peach

Faithful Foundations

// March 23rd, 2010 // 20 Comments » // Faith

In high school, my youngest son sang in our tiny church’s even tinier choir. I’m not sure if he did it because I begged him to or because he really wanted to worship in song. I will always choose to believe it was both.

He went to practice on Wednesday evenings after grueling football or basketball workouts, and got up for church every Sunday to sing. It was much less of a production than I thought it would be, and he never complained. Yet it was with trepidation every week that I asked myself “Will this be the last time? Will he quit?” As a “jock” and a kid known to have more fun than a kid should be allowed to have, there was a good possibility he would bail on choir and not sing any more. That it would not be “cool” enough. That he would move on. I questioned his faithfulness to his commitment as a mother questions many things in a teen boy’s life.

Concluding. Assuming.

"Oh ye of little faith..."

My faith during that season was a conglomerate of desperate worry over things that might, did and didn’t happen. The sad and stark realization that my baby would be gone soon. The question of “Have I done enough?” hovered relentlessly. How could I be sure that he was leaving the nest with rock-like faith that would carry him and guide his decisions for the rest of his life? (Insert heavy sigh here – you’re never sure). At that time I felt like my own faith was doing a slow-motion erosion because worry would besiege me, often in the middle of the night. The worry was fueled by this wild and crazy teenager in the house. By wild and crazy, I mean wild and crazy.

Thankfully, he stayed in the choir. Faithfully.

"How's your faith now"

There was a song the choir sang, “Find Us Faithful, that always reduced me to tears. One line and one line only has become an earworm for me:

Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way..."

Every mother hopes and dreams that her children will follow the path of a faithful believer. Faithful to God, faithful to family, and faithful to self. More faithful and trusting than she was. It’s not an easy road, and some of the strongest, most faithful Christians and even pastors I know have expressed moments of doubt. I think God expects that, or at the very least, knows it.

There will be seasons of brokenness and weakened or shattered faith for all of us. Our pride, arrogance and determination to do things our way will always be trumped by God’s plans, and sometimes those plans break us. Much like a broken bone that heals stronger, a weakened spirit that has realized survival comes back with an even more resilient faith.

“We turn to God for help when our foundations are shaking only to learn that it is God shaking them.” – Charles West

This post is part of the “One Word at a Time” Blog Carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. Visit the other contributions here.

Tea today: Stash Green Ginger Peach

Priorities

// March 21st, 2010 // 2 Comments » // Family

But it’s just a game, right? I was perusing my Nutshell mail this morning when I came across this picture of UNI coach Ben Jacobson at a post-game interview, posted by Chris Hassel from WHO-TV in Des Moines. It says everything any young person should know about basketball – and life.

Priorities.

Image: http://twitpic.com/photos/hassel13

I once heard Dave Ramsey say “If you show me your calendar and your checkbook, I can tell you what’s really important to you.” It’s my guess if Coach had Li’l Jake on his lap after a game like that, he’s also on his calendar. Just look at that sweet face.

This was by far, the best “shot” of the game.

Congratulations, Panthers!

Tea today: Green with Hawaiian mango

What are you up to, God?

// March 16th, 2010 // 13 Comments » // Faith, Family

Sunday at church, Pastor John talked about how God is always working around us, and sometimes we just miss Him. How do they always seem to know things like that about you? I miss most things, actually, as I take way too much for granted. I’m also sort of a Space Ranger, which doesn’t help the Kingdom much.

I resolved to pay more attention, starting with some spring cleaning. I wasn’t looking for God in a cluttered closet, but if He was there, I was determined not to miss Him. Since this was actually Spring cleaning, circa 1999, I had quite a job in front of me. Apparently it wasn’t the hill I wanted to die on for the last 11 years.

I gutted two closets filled with my trash and another’s treasure. Sheets for twin beds? Nope, none here.  Round tablecloths? I haven’t had a round table for 20 years. Rubber crib sheets? I think not.

Any other time, I would have thrown things in Goodwill bags and mindlessly sent them away. Not this time. Some precious kiddo memories were in that closet. Who saves those things? Apparently I do. Or did. Or still do because I took pictures of the things I pitched.

It wasn’t without a few tears that they went into the gifting pile, but I clung to memories of a tow headed boy reading his picture Bible at bedtime snuggled in those Sesame Street sheets.

Or a beautiful girl’s braided little head cozying in her animal sheets with Cheer Bear.

The kid with a mullet (because that’s what defined a real baseball player of the 80′s) and the innumerable boxes of baseball cards he so coveted.

Lest you think I threw those baseball cards in the bag, fear not (said the Lord). You can bid in the comments section below (the Lord didn’t say that part). Lots of rookie cards, including all the players before they got outted for steroids.

I somehow just strayed from my reminder that God is always working. Did I miss Him?

He apparently showed up in the garage as it got cleaned, too, because He placed on Ron Burgundy’s heart that clutter, grit, and winter sand are not my love language.

Shiny. Shiny is my love language.

Pastor left us with the question we’re to ask ourselves every day – if something good happens, something bad happens, or if nothing seems to be happening.

“What are you up to, God?”

He had been there providing me with a calm, peaceful day with great memories. No A-Ha moment, like I found a Jesus Cheeto lost in the back of the closet, or found Jesus’ face on my toast and went “Whoa, there He is!! He showed up!” I never understood that Jesus toast thing anyway, because I thought those discoveries were people who were seeing what they wanted to see, and quite frankly, the guy in the toast looked more like Fabio than Jesus.

That evening I flopped in the chair with my computer, TV was off, but Ron Burgundy came in and flipped it on to Iowa Public Television where there were having a benefit of sorts. They were playing old songs from the 60′s & 70′s – Herman’s Hermit’s, Tommy James, Beatles, Peaches and Herb, and others. Great music that I loved, my parents hated, and my own kids never knew. Or so I thought.

Peaches and Herb belted out Reunited just like I’d remembered. Not 5 minutes later my phone beeped. I glanced at it and see my Sesame Street sheet/Bible boy has updated his Facebook status. This boy, who over the years has had the lion’s share of my prayers and for good reason. Unbeknownst to me, he had traveled hundreds of miles to western Kansas to visit a friend and colleague over Spring break. His status indicated he had arrived.

“What are you up to, God?”

Tea today: China flower

The tweet heard ’round the world

// March 13th, 2010 // 8 Comments » // Family, My Fabulous Life

When Nick beautified my blog, he put the analytics right in front of my nose. I’ve never really looked at hits and referrals much, other than to attempt to track down a spam comment or two. Last evening, Ron Burgundy tweeted about me revamping my blog and today when I opened up my dashboard it was apparent that tweet screamed like a banshee (read: my blog had been dying).

Hit to hit. Back to back.

Lest you think that’s a baseball reference, RB used to be a DJ in college. Gotta start somewhere.

Apparently I married up.

For the person who found my blog searching for “fundamentalist logic meets the ozone layer,” there’s nothing here. Sorry.

Ever had a tweet heard around the world?

Tea today: Good Earth Pomegranate Superfruit

Happy Birthday, Mr. Burgundy

// February 13th, 2010 // No Comments » // Family, My Fabulous Life

I wanted to do a sweet, poignant interview with Ron Burgundy about his big birthday today. I was all prepared for him to impart his usual wisdom and light, cheer and good will, but none was to be found. I wanted him to tell you how age is only a number and not a condition. How every year has been the best year yet. How grateful he was that I gave him the thinnest years of my life.

Nope.

I’m “airing” this anyway, because it’s his day and he deserves all the attention.

“Will you answer a few questions for me? Your thoughts about turning (ahem) sixty?”

“No.”

“Why not? I need to write a blog post and you’re the only blog fodder I have this week. How does it feel to be turning sixty?”

“Terrible. Depressing.” (Shifts ice bag on ankle).

“Why?”

“I’m old.” (Heavy sigh).

“Sixty isn’t old. Not any more. By the time your dad was sixty he was pretty sick, and by the time my dad was sixty he’d had two heart attacks and a triple bypass. You’re still running marathons and doing extreme kickboxing.”

“I don’t want to be sixty. You hear all the time about people who die at 60…62….”

“Do you have any regrets?”

“Yeah, I wish I’d have saved more money.”

“There’s still time. The guy who invented the frisbee just died and he was 90. And look at Colonel Sanders.”

Silence.

Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up dead people. He’s obviously a better interviewer than interviewee. Whatever.

Go wish him Happy Birthday on Twitter or Facebook and maybe he’ll think sixty isn’t so bad by the time he hits sixty-one. I think he’s still pretty awesome. He can out-kick, out-lift, out-bike, and out-run all of our kids and his young wife. Here’s my favorite picture of him from vacation.

I dare anyone to age so gracefully. I just love this guy. The fact that we’ve been together for 38 years in no way makes him old. It just makes me happy. Isaiah 40:31

Tea today: Good Earth Pomegranate Superfruit

Christmas Stories

// December 19th, 2009 // No Comments » // Faith, Family

Our house is as decorated as it’s going to be this year. In other words, the tree is up.

And every ornament tells a story.

That was a good year – First Baby, First Christmas.

“I don’t remember…”

// November 3rd, 2009 // No Comments » // Faith, Family

I’m joining Bridget Chumbley and Peter Pollock this week for their “One Word at a Time” Blog Carnival. Stop by Peter’s blog and see all the great entries on this week’s word:

Car keys. Dental appointments. Birthdays. All relatively unimportant when you look at remembering life. And love. And forgetting how to do both.

I clearly recall the first time my dad told me “I don’t remember.” Those three words told me so much. The cold reality of finally humbling himself to the ravages of Alzheimer’s was so evident in his eyes.

He would have no more yesterdays to remember.

He was aware of his dilemma for a while. That vague, obtuse state of mind when you know you can’t remember.

He knew he wasn’t the meticulous, sharp-penciled accountant he had once been, though he’d spend hours scrawling random numbers in ledger books for no other reason than he could. There was a whisper of familiarity there. He struggled with pride and was able to fool a lot of people for a long time because he was so brilliant, and didn’t want anyone else to know his debilitating secret. He did this for many years until one day he just up and said “I don’t remember.”

The white flag of surrender was flown.

That was so painful for me. It was easier when he’d call me for the umpteenth time and ask me how to microwave popcorn, like it was the first time he had ever asked. Or for him to refer to one of my boys as “what’s-his-name” in a joking manner, pretending he really did know of whom he spoke. Or when he’d say “Hi There” and make you think he knew who you were.

Eventually everyone was named “There.” Some knew his ruse and some didn’t. His amiable disposition always took him far.

We had some fun with Dad’s memory and lack thereof. After all, it was what it was. Coping wears a dark, humorous cloak sometimes.

He remembered where his stockbroker was and drove downtown to see him. What he didn’t remember is that you don’t stop your car in the traffic lane, shut it off, and just walk in the office.

He remembered that he didn’t want anyone to eat his turkey sandwich, but didn’t remember that he hid it in an old dresser down by his tool bench. Mom found it several years after he was gone.

He remembered how to drive, but he never remembered where he put the keys. That was to everyone’s advantage. Eventually when we intentionally hid his keys, he gave up looking for them, thinking he was the one who had lost them. It was all in the name of love, safety, and the preservation of his dignity. We kept him busy studying the driver’s manual so he could “get his license back.”

“Tomorrow, Dad,” I’d respond when he asked when he could take the driving test. Tomorrow never came. It never does when you don’t know there was a yesterday. But that never dimmed his hope of looking forward to tomorrow.

Dad struggled to recapture the past, to keep alive some memory, but neither was to be found. Our desire was to make his today pleasant, knowing that he would never again have another yesterday.

Today I remember him in gratitude and prayer. And I so appreciate all the yesterdays he gave me. Remembering them is a cherished gift.

Join us for the upcoming “One Word at a Time” Blog Carnivals here.

Tea today: Jasmine

I ? NY

// November 1st, 2009 // No Comments » // Family

A year ago I chased Ron Burgundy and our daughter all over Chicago while they were running the marathon, trying to figure out the train system and snap the elusive father-daughter photo. My directionally-challenged self failed miserably.


With this year’s marathon Kate fulfilled a life-long dream of going to New York, though I don’t thing she ever intended her “dream trip” would include a 26.2 mile run with 42,000 of her closest friends through the Big Apple and the boroughs. 


We weren’t invited able to go on this trip. She went with a gaggle of her Des Moines friends and left Mom and Dad behind. I wasn’t too concerned. She’s a grown woman with just a little ADD and a disdain for anything that resembles boredom. A frightening combination to travel to the Big Apple, indeed. But she has dependable friends, some of whom are familiar with the big city.


I was pretty calm about things until last night when she called and said “I don’t remember training for this.”


Oops.


She was so struck by the big city, seeing STOMP on Broadway, and looking forward to crashing the Today Show next week, that the thought of running a little marathon today was not foremost in her mind.


As I followed her on Athlete Tracker, the marathon’s servers crashed. Surely they knew her mother would be sitting in Iowa wanting to know where their daughter was on a Sunday morning? 


They didn’t hear my screams. I was so frustrated, I sent a tweet out about her at the starting line, and fortunately a friend of mine was able to log on to the site, scream “GO! GO!” at her computer monitor while on the phone with me, and send me screen shots of her progress late in the race.


She crossed the finish line, sent me a text saying she survived, bemoaned the hills, and made me proud – again. What grit. She later said she about threw up with 3 miles to go.


“I think it was the Snickers bar the guy handed me on the course.” That’s my girl. Never lure a dietitian with chocolate on a marathon course.


Here’s a shot of her finishing up in Central Park, dressed in a green bubble suit. Doesn’t she look fabulous? (You may need to click the image to view her).

They are always your babies, aren’t they? 

Death Stinks

// October 14th, 2009 // 11 Comments » // Faith, Family

If you’ve been hanging out here for a bit, you may remember Harold. He’s nearing 50 years old and has been with us for over 30. He’s far more than a jade plant – he’s family. With our below-freezing temps, it was time to snuggle him in for the winter.

Sadly, I think we were too late. The frost hit us hard the night before. Though we brought him in while he still looked healthy (actually, Ron Burgundy brought him in and I supervised), his limbs are starting to brown and wither and I fear that he has seen his last days.

Jade is also known as a friendship tree, lucky plant, or money plant. Through the years I have been blessed with dear friends, a wonderful puppy named Lucky, and a good job. I don’t see it as an accident that Lucky went to the Rainbow Bridge this year, and it now appears Harold might join him, or wherever it is that plants go to die. It is not a coincidence that in the past 3 months I have also seen 3 old (yet young) tennis friends go to Heaven’s gates.

God is never surprised – I shouldn’t be either. But the plans are His.

And Harold stinks. Stinks like death. As in compost. Unfortunately, his winter home is right next to my bed and it’s the last thing I smell at night and the first thing I smell in the morning. This air can’t be healthy. Compost was meant for the outdoors.

Harold may surprise me again. He’s rallied before, just like Lucky did many times after being given his death sentence by the vet. But Harold’s gigantic pot is cracked, and I can’t find another one to fit him. Consequently his nourishment is limited, and I can’t find the right way to patch a clay pot. The only saving grace is that he has an offspring in my kitchen window that is thriving. Perhaps little Harry will live on and carry Harold’s legacy.

I’m just not quite ready to see him go yet. But that smell can leave any time.

“The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.”
~Isaiah 40:8

Tea today: cheap generic green from somewhere but it’s good.