I found this recently. It was written by a 14-year old boy, in 1991, as he recalled a memory from when he was 9 years old. I have copied it here, word-for-word...
TO UNDERSTAND my story thoroughly, you need a little bit of background. I spent a large part of my childhood in the farm state of Nebraska. One thing commonly seen in Nebraska is cane-bails. Cane-bails are huge, round, tightly rolled bundles of cane. They are made during the summer so the farmers can use it to feed the livestock during the winter, when everything is covered in snow. Each cane-bail is about five feet in diameter and 6 feet in height. When they are stacked they tend to make a castle that can be up to 18 feet high....
"SON, did you do this?!!" shouted my father as he discovered something I had done wrong. "It wasn't me, Dad...it was my brother."
"Now why would your brother do this? I want it cleaned up now!"
AFTER THE JOB was done I bolted out of my house with speed of lightning. I was running fast and hard, trampling the ground with each step being more powerful than the one before. When the run of about 200 yards was completed I finally reached my destination. As I clutched my knees with my hands and gasped for air, I pleaded my lungs and the air to restore my energy. I fell against one of the massive cane-bails and gazed out into the snow-glazed pasture as the sun set gently behind the horizon with a grace that was incomparable.
NOTHING WAS MORE relaxing and stress-relieving than this place on our farm in the heart of Nebraska. The snow acted as a plush carpet beneath my cold body. I snuggled into the cane. It acted as warm arms wrapping around me, comforting me in the hardest and most frustrating of times. I sat and thought often that this is what heaven looks like. Nothing but snow stretched as far as the eye could see. It clothed the ground perfectly, covering every weed, molding every stone, and providing an astonishing sight that would take anyone's breath away. This wasn't something to be associated with Santa's Workshop in the snow. This was something far greater. Greater than I (and I am sure, most people) can comprehend. An occasional deer would pass by with a fawn running furtively behind. They ran across the snow, galloping as if to music, as they stretched off beyond the point where I could see. I nestled further into the bail, feeling even more secure and invincible than before. New startling sights opened up as I changed position slightly. Now it was a scene of even more beauty. The sunlight still peeking over the horizon acted as a linen sheet of gold, lacing the entire blanket of snow. If only the world could be watching this. I did feel, though, that this was mine, and God had set this sight aside for me, and only me. A lump developed slowly in my throat as I gazed into the snow as if I were gazing into someone's eyes.
LOOKING UP at a tree, I watched the last leaf fly side to side for what seemed an endless amount of time, until it struck the snow delicately. Yet it was powerful the way it landed; Powerful in the sense that it had made an impact-- an impact on me, and anyone who has seen such a sight....there was this leaf, without a care in the world. It was only there to bring a sense of contentment and peace upon me. It was only there for me to see.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
A Bird In the Hand Is Worth What?
I got up a little later than usual today. Shaking off the fog of sleep, I did what I always do first -- made my bed. As I went around to the other side of the bed I heard my cat romping in the living room. Looking through the entry into the living room I saw him joyfully throwing something up in the air. (He often does this with his toys....he loves to play catch with himself...it's really cute to watch.)
So I got dressed for the gym, went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I smiled as I heard Stewie (my cat) playing with his toy. Time for a light breakfast before heading to the gym for a much-needed workout, so I walked into the living room, seeing Stewie rolling around on the floor with his toy....Wait a minute! The "toy" definitely fluttered. Stewie dropped it and stood there looking at his toy. It lay very still now. Looking more closely, I saw that it was a tiny bird - a REAL bird. It was just barely alive.
I was horrified. Stew had brought a truly-dead bird into our home just a week ago. I had wrapped up that little guy in a paper towel and put him in the trash bin outside. It was pretty upsetting!
But this was worse. The little thing was still breathing, but not moving. I picked him up gently and looked at him (her?) There was no visible blood or other wound. Thinking that this little bird would surely die, I wrapped him up carefully and placed him in the waste basket under my kitchen sink. I thought he would just quietly die there, unmolested by my cat. I'd think more about it as I exercised, and figure out whether or not I needed to do something else with his remains. Then, with some reluctance, I went to the gym.
After my workout I went to the grocery store, remembering several items that were needed. Small baggies seemed like a good idea. Then I drove home and immediately went to the kitchen to check-on the bird. The cupboard door was ajar. "Oh no!" I thought.....Stew must have found him and eaten him..... oh yuck! Then I saw movement inside the waste basket and a definite fluttering of wings. He was alive!!!
Once again I picked him up, and he lay perfectly still in my hands. What to do with him? I decided to let him go, but needed to be sure it wasn't anywhere near "Stewie the bird cat." So I walked outside, crossed the parking lot and beyond the cars into a grassy area bordered by a tall, vine-covered wall and thick trees on the other side. I tossed him as far as I could, expecting to hear the impact of his landing on the other side. But, to my amazement and joy, the moment he left my hands he began to fly. He didn't look injured at all. I guess he was just stunned by being held captive first by a cat, then put in the trash by a human. He flew beautifully, up, up, up, over the trees, disappearing from my sight.
That was one tough little bird! I'm not sure what, if anything, I learned from this experience. I will need to really ponder this awhile. It did make me think, immediately, of some very wounded people I know. People who have been severely tossed around in life. They are scarred and afraid, and at times seem to have no life left in them.......but perhaps that's not true. Maybe they will "fly again." We need to not give up on people who are wounded by life - whether with physical illness, or overwhelming depression. I hope I will always handle them gently, remembering the little bird today.
So I got dressed for the gym, went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I smiled as I heard Stewie (my cat) playing with his toy. Time for a light breakfast before heading to the gym for a much-needed workout, so I walked into the living room, seeing Stewie rolling around on the floor with his toy....Wait a minute! The "toy" definitely fluttered. Stewie dropped it and stood there looking at his toy. It lay very still now. Looking more closely, I saw that it was a tiny bird - a REAL bird. It was just barely alive.
I was horrified. Stew had brought a truly-dead bird into our home just a week ago. I had wrapped up that little guy in a paper towel and put him in the trash bin outside. It was pretty upsetting!
But this was worse. The little thing was still breathing, but not moving. I picked him up gently and looked at him (her?) There was no visible blood or other wound. Thinking that this little bird would surely die, I wrapped him up carefully and placed him in the waste basket under my kitchen sink. I thought he would just quietly die there, unmolested by my cat. I'd think more about it as I exercised, and figure out whether or not I needed to do something else with his remains. Then, with some reluctance, I went to the gym.
After my workout I went to the grocery store, remembering several items that were needed. Small baggies seemed like a good idea. Then I drove home and immediately went to the kitchen to check-on the bird. The cupboard door was ajar. "Oh no!" I thought.....Stew must have found him and eaten him..... oh yuck! Then I saw movement inside the waste basket and a definite fluttering of wings. He was alive!!!
Once again I picked him up, and he lay perfectly still in my hands. What to do with him? I decided to let him go, but needed to be sure it wasn't anywhere near "Stewie the bird cat." So I walked outside, crossed the parking lot and beyond the cars into a grassy area bordered by a tall, vine-covered wall and thick trees on the other side. I tossed him as far as I could, expecting to hear the impact of his landing on the other side. But, to my amazement and joy, the moment he left my hands he began to fly. He didn't look injured at all. I guess he was just stunned by being held captive first by a cat, then put in the trash by a human. He flew beautifully, up, up, up, over the trees, disappearing from my sight.
That was one tough little bird! I'm not sure what, if anything, I learned from this experience. I will need to really ponder this awhile. It did make me think, immediately, of some very wounded people I know. People who have been severely tossed around in life. They are scarred and afraid, and at times seem to have no life left in them.......but perhaps that's not true. Maybe they will "fly again." We need to not give up on people who are wounded by life - whether with physical illness, or overwhelming depression. I hope I will always handle them gently, remembering the little bird today.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Letting In of Light
I dearly hope this works; I spent 2 hours earlier, writing a draft for this blog which disappeared off the screen. Now, I will try again, somewhat disheartened for the wasted time, but wanting to write about this subject.
I have been spending quite a lot of time reading a Puritan book titled "The Valley of Vision." It is a collection of Puritan prayers and devotions. My, but those men had a wonderful way of putting things into words. I don't find that kind of engrossing, eloquent expression in contemporary writings. The last few days, there is one particular prayer/devotion that I keep returning to....
It is on Page 50, the title is "Christian Calling." The author writes about the calling we receive from Christ. The fourth line just stopped me. It read: "The second [act of calling] is to let in light." Those words struck home...Let in Light...My thoughts flew quickly to my new church, Veritas, and our pastor, Erik Meyers. His preaching has been the means by which Christ has been letting His light of truth into my cluttered, darkened heart. I love my new church family and especially the young man who preaches the Word on Sunday mornings.
When I was a young child I loved Jesus - for awhile. I'd climb the big Chinese elm tree outside my bedroom window and daydream about what kind of life I'd have. I had decided that I would marry a pastor...I loved the pastor of the Lutheran Church we attended, and so it seemed quite natural that I would want to someday be a pastor's wife. Of course, it was strictly a childish, romantic idea having nothing to do with serving God, but everything to do with being content, myself, with my "grown-up" life.
My first husband was not a pastor, but an alcoholic musician. Our marriage collapsed after just 5 tumultuous years. Two years later, Jesus performed a miracle in my heart and I came to know Him, finally, as a grown woman. He transformed my heart in a moment and I haven't been the same since. Sadly, the glow faded pretty quickly, and I once again became lonely and friendless and looked for worldly answers to my discontent. Then I met Jerry, who was to become my "real" husband. Our marriage lasted until his death separated us 9 years ago. He had become a pastor shortly after our son Erik was born. Jerry was 50 at that time, I was nearly 34. (And so, my childhood daydream came true after all!) Jerry was my hero from our first day until our last, and beyond.
I have digressed. Back to this subject of Light. I have always struggled with a leaning of my heart that makes me worry about being saved. Sometimes I feel saved, other times I don't. This has tortured me a lot. The Light that has come into my life - especially since I moved here to be near my son and his family and even more importantly, to have the opportunity to attend his church on Sundays, that new Light that has come to my understanding, is the security of my salvation. Yes, my son is my pastor. My son AND my pastor. Through his Biblical teaching I have come to grasp the safety I have in God. I am His, and no one can snatch me from Him. That is what happens when we are called; We move from death to life, from darkness to light.
Jesus is the Light; and He is also the Truth. I belong to Him and because of Him, I GET GOD! I not only get salvation, and eternal life, and forgiveness and grace, but I get to know GOD as my FATHER. The more I learn of Him, the more I want to learn of Him. I used to know ABOUT God, and now I KNOW GOD. Huge difference there.
And so, reading further on page 50, these words appear: "Therefore, Lord, I need not search to see if I am elect or loved, for if I turn, Thou wilt come to me." (Such comforting words.) I fail God miserably all the time, but He always forgives me and I am never in danger of losing my salvation because of not being good enough.........I can NEVER be good enough! The very idea is laughable. The unimaginable punishment for all my sin - was willingly borne by Jesus on the cross. The full weight of the wrath of God was poured out on Him that day. Such love expressed! Such sacrifice! Because of that, I don't have to worry about whether or not I'm saved...it was accomplished over 2000 years ago. He didn't make me SAVEABLE that day. He SAVED ME!
What a joy it is to be learning these wonderful truths from this young man, who was once the little boy who'd sneak up behind me in the kitchen and hug me - for no reason at all.
My life has been so full of changes - dramatic changes, not just changes of address. My heart still wanders daily to things of no worth, and I now look to comforts and conveniences, where I once looked for excitement and pleasures, to supply me with contentment, when I should always be looking to the One who made me and knows me utterly. Nothing can be hidden from Him. "Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them." (Psalm 139:16) No one else can know me like this! So why do I persist in my worship of other things? He rescues me from this with his discipline, which I have come to expect, to love and rely on....Also on page 50 of VALLEY, at the end of the page, these words pierce me: "Grant that I may be salted with suffering, with every exactment tempered to my soul, every rod excellently fitted to my back, to chastise, humble, break me. Let me not overlook the hand that holds the rod, as thou didst not let me forget the rod that fell on Christ, and drew me to him." .....The words leave me weak, breathless, humbled.
Reading good, God-centered books will do a lot to put all of life in the right perspective, and there is no book (Not even Valley of Vision) that contains as many powerful, piercing, inspiring words as the Bible. The LIGHT that it brings stirs my heart and satisfies my soul.
"Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I
desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion FOREVER."
Psalm 73:25,26
I have been spending quite a lot of time reading a Puritan book titled "The Valley of Vision." It is a collection of Puritan prayers and devotions. My, but those men had a wonderful way of putting things into words. I don't find that kind of engrossing, eloquent expression in contemporary writings. The last few days, there is one particular prayer/devotion that I keep returning to....
It is on Page 50, the title is "Christian Calling." The author writes about the calling we receive from Christ. The fourth line just stopped me. It read: "The second [act of calling] is to let in light." Those words struck home...Let in Light...My thoughts flew quickly to my new church, Veritas, and our pastor, Erik Meyers. His preaching has been the means by which Christ has been letting His light of truth into my cluttered, darkened heart. I love my new church family and especially the young man who preaches the Word on Sunday mornings.
When I was a young child I loved Jesus - for awhile. I'd climb the big Chinese elm tree outside my bedroom window and daydream about what kind of life I'd have. I had decided that I would marry a pastor...I loved the pastor of the Lutheran Church we attended, and so it seemed quite natural that I would want to someday be a pastor's wife. Of course, it was strictly a childish, romantic idea having nothing to do with serving God, but everything to do with being content, myself, with my "grown-up" life.
My first husband was not a pastor, but an alcoholic musician. Our marriage collapsed after just 5 tumultuous years. Two years later, Jesus performed a miracle in my heart and I came to know Him, finally, as a grown woman. He transformed my heart in a moment and I haven't been the same since. Sadly, the glow faded pretty quickly, and I once again became lonely and friendless and looked for worldly answers to my discontent. Then I met Jerry, who was to become my "real" husband. Our marriage lasted until his death separated us 9 years ago. He had become a pastor shortly after our son Erik was born. Jerry was 50 at that time, I was nearly 34. (And so, my childhood daydream came true after all!) Jerry was my hero from our first day until our last, and beyond.
I have digressed. Back to this subject of Light. I have always struggled with a leaning of my heart that makes me worry about being saved. Sometimes I feel saved, other times I don't. This has tortured me a lot. The Light that has come into my life - especially since I moved here to be near my son and his family and even more importantly, to have the opportunity to attend his church on Sundays, that new Light that has come to my understanding, is the security of my salvation. Yes, my son is my pastor. My son AND my pastor. Through his Biblical teaching I have come to grasp the safety I have in God. I am His, and no one can snatch me from Him. That is what happens when we are called; We move from death to life, from darkness to light.
Jesus is the Light; and He is also the Truth. I belong to Him and because of Him, I GET GOD! I not only get salvation, and eternal life, and forgiveness and grace, but I get to know GOD as my FATHER. The more I learn of Him, the more I want to learn of Him. I used to know ABOUT God, and now I KNOW GOD. Huge difference there.
And so, reading further on page 50, these words appear: "Therefore, Lord, I need not search to see if I am elect or loved, for if I turn, Thou wilt come to me." (Such comforting words.) I fail God miserably all the time, but He always forgives me and I am never in danger of losing my salvation because of not being good enough.........I can NEVER be good enough! The very idea is laughable. The unimaginable punishment for all my sin - was willingly borne by Jesus on the cross. The full weight of the wrath of God was poured out on Him that day. Such love expressed! Such sacrifice! Because of that, I don't have to worry about whether or not I'm saved...it was accomplished over 2000 years ago. He didn't make me SAVEABLE that day. He SAVED ME!
What a joy it is to be learning these wonderful truths from this young man, who was once the little boy who'd sneak up behind me in the kitchen and hug me - for no reason at all.
My life has been so full of changes - dramatic changes, not just changes of address. My heart still wanders daily to things of no worth, and I now look to comforts and conveniences, where I once looked for excitement and pleasures, to supply me with contentment, when I should always be looking to the One who made me and knows me utterly. Nothing can be hidden from Him. "Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them." (Psalm 139:16) No one else can know me like this! So why do I persist in my worship of other things? He rescues me from this with his discipline, which I have come to expect, to love and rely on....Also on page 50 of VALLEY, at the end of the page, these words pierce me: "Grant that I may be salted with suffering, with every exactment tempered to my soul, every rod excellently fitted to my back, to chastise, humble, break me. Let me not overlook the hand that holds the rod, as thou didst not let me forget the rod that fell on Christ, and drew me to him." .....The words leave me weak, breathless, humbled.
Reading good, God-centered books will do a lot to put all of life in the right perspective, and there is no book (Not even Valley of Vision) that contains as many powerful, piercing, inspiring words as the Bible. The LIGHT that it brings stirs my heart and satisfies my soul.
"Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I
desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion FOREVER."
Psalm 73:25,26
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Cats and Other Stuff
I have always owned dogs. Have had wonderful dogs as family pets and companions most of my life. My last dog was a gorgeous, gentle, oh-so-sweet chocolate lab.
We (my husband and I) had had her for 5 years when my husband died. His death was probably the loneliest, saddest time of my life so far. Since Jerry and I had been literally inseparable, it was impossible to imagine life without him.
But I still had Sage, my lab. After moving into my tiny (450 sq. ft.) apartment, over the kitchen of the church where Jerry had pastored, I would sit in my chair for hours at times, blankly staring at the wall and weeping hot, desolate tears. I had been left alone. When you have been half of a whole, it is not possible to feel whole when you have been reduced to just half.
Somehow, I still functioned. I worked in the office of the church, just downstairs from my "upper room." Though functional, my heart was in deep despair.....oh yeah, my heart. I forgot to mention that the day he died, I also had a heart attack.....not making this up! Honest! It really happened that way. My heart attack first, then hours later while I was in the hospital, he died. Darn him! It wasn't a surprise, and yet it was. He had been home, in a hospital bed in our living room, for 18 days. Hospice delivered the comfort drugs I gave him as his caregiver during that time. But he had always seemed indestructible!
....I must have looked like a ghost as I wandered from the office to my apartment, to the office, to my apartment. I didn't talk to anyone about my depression. Only God.
....and my dog. She would sit on the floor next to my solitary chair, and stand up from time to time, lean in to me, and lick the tears from my splotchy wet face. Such a silent, gentle friend she was, looking at me with her giant golden eyes. She just quietly shared my sorrow.
Eight years later I had her put to sleep after watching her for many months, developing painful arthritic hips, loss of balance, and eventually incontinence. We said goodbye just last June. I still miss her.
And now, I have this CAT. After having such a great dog, it has been something of a letdown, getting used to the schizoid temperament of this little furry egotist. His name is Stewart, and he's totally adorable.......looking.
I've had him for about 6 months, and in spite of his mean behavior, I love him.
Initially, he was very hyper - all night long - and would sleep most of the day. Lucky me. I tried to sleep, but he would get a running start from the living room, come tearing into the bedroom, leap up on the bed and land squarely on my chest. Wonderful. I never could figure out what it was he expected me to do. Sometimes, after several nocturnal assaults I would sit straight up in bed, wild-eyed, and yell "WHAT??? WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He would look at me blankly and stroll back into the living room to rest-up for the next attack. I think I went several weeks without a night's sleep.
I was still thinking of him as a dog, I guess. Sage would never have behaved like that. She slept quietly all night long, only waking if there was a strange sound she needed to identify. Perfect.
After a few months of this torture, I decided to start putting him outside at night. That worked great - for an hour or so. Then he would sit under my bedroom window and "M E O O O W W W!" nonstop, until I would let him back in again. Some peaceful minutes would follow, then "M E O W W W W!" again, only this time from inside my apartment, inside my bedroom. So, I would obediently get up and let him out. IN. OUT. IN. OUT. IN. OUT.
I endured this monumental abuse for many weeks. Finally, exhausted and frantic, I bought a kitty-door.....a tall, narrow panel that fit between my sliding glass door and the door frame, with a hinged plexiglass "door" at the bottom. I installed it myself. Man, I was desperate for sleep!
This miracle door arrived with special instructions on "How to train your cat to use the kitty door." Well, friends, no instructions were needed. The moment my adorable little savage beast stuck his nose through the swinging flap, feeling and smelling the outside air, he was through it like a missile! It actually was very cute. He'd dash out, dash in, strutting around my apartment, looking at me over his shoulder, as if to say "What do you think about that?!" I was appropriately impressed.
It seemed my kitty problems were over and I was on my way to kitty-owner's bliss. We had a wonderful honeymoon, during which time he was the perfect pet. I thought that my problems were over, and my affection for this little creature was growing every day.
But cats know things. They just do. They know other ways to torture us (realizing we have been hopelessly ensnared by their undeniable charms).
I loved evenings when I would sit in my chair, usually either watching something on my DVR (on TV) or sitting with my laptop perched on the arm of my chair. That left my lap free for my cat to occupy. He'd come up and snuggle, purring as I stroked his shiny black coat. Ah, bliss!
But then, a little over a month ago, this lovely behavior stopped abruptly. It seemed that we were suddenly strangers. He still came and went (as he pleased, of course - through the special entrance I had provided), but he completely ignored me. It was as if I no longer existed. I'd call to him as he bounded in through his very own doorway, and he'd walk past me without even glancing my way.....I was wounded! Wasn't I still feeding him? Was I now invisible? He got his favorite wet food every morning, and at all times had good dry food available to him. He had a huge appetite for a small cat, so I was continually refilling his bowl. I NEVER missed a feeding, ALWAYS greeted him with a smile and cheerful voice when he came in. I still sat in my chair in the evening, pathetically inviting him to come sit on my lap......................Nothing. For over a month. He broke my heart. Darn cat!
Then, last evening, to my amazement, he started acting very cute with me. He wanted to play, so we played. My heart lifted. (Embarrassing to have one's emotions controlled by a cat.) He gave me great eye contact, looking at me with bright eyes. Oh, it made me so happy it was ridiculous. He got up on the ottoman first, stretched out a paw and touched my knee playfully, then pulled it away. It seemed like he was flirting! So cute. Then he inched his way up my leg and snuggled into my lap, purring contentedly.
What strange behavior! As a helpful friend has suggested, he apparently had at last forgiven me for some intolerable offense. Well, I don't care. I'm just happy that our relationship has been restored.
You know, we really are a lot like cats. Only so much worse. I have reflected over the similarities between his hurtful ignoring of me, and my sinful ignoring of the God who loves me. Pondering my own vascillating affection for my Savior Jesus, who literally "gave himself up for me," I am truly ashamed. I think about how I have felt - how wounded of heart I have actually felt - over a CAT. Then I think of my loving, gracious heavenly Father who gives me each breath I take. I think of my rescuer, my deliverer, my savior Jesus, who suffered so horribly and gave his life - taking all my nasty, ugly sin with him, in an ugly death on a criminal's cross! I think of the Holy Spirit who now indwells me, and who is constantly nudging me back toward Jesus, and drawing my attention - sometimes so fleetingly - to all that God has done for me.
So often in my life, I treat God just the way my cat has treated me. I come and go, maybe hearing his call, maybe not, but I just stroll on by, pursuing some earthly satisfaction. How can I love God and still also be so worldly, so self-centered?
WHY does he always pursue me? Why does he always forgive my disobedience, my ungrateful behavior, ignoring the ONE who is so consistently good to me? It is his character. He is pure and holy. All-loving, patient, and faithful. Because of that, I can cry out, as David in Psalm 51, saying,
We (my husband and I) had had her for 5 years when my husband died. His death was probably the loneliest, saddest time of my life so far. Since Jerry and I had been literally inseparable, it was impossible to imagine life without him.
But I still had Sage, my lab. After moving into my tiny (450 sq. ft.) apartment, over the kitchen of the church where Jerry had pastored, I would sit in my chair for hours at times, blankly staring at the wall and weeping hot, desolate tears. I had been left alone. When you have been half of a whole, it is not possible to feel whole when you have been reduced to just half.
Somehow, I still functioned. I worked in the office of the church, just downstairs from my "upper room." Though functional, my heart was in deep despair.....oh yeah, my heart. I forgot to mention that the day he died, I also had a heart attack.....not making this up! Honest! It really happened that way. My heart attack first, then hours later while I was in the hospital, he died. Darn him! It wasn't a surprise, and yet it was. He had been home, in a hospital bed in our living room, for 18 days. Hospice delivered the comfort drugs I gave him as his caregiver during that time. But he had always seemed indestructible!
....I must have looked like a ghost as I wandered from the office to my apartment, to the office, to my apartment. I didn't talk to anyone about my depression. Only God.
....and my dog. She would sit on the floor next to my solitary chair, and stand up from time to time, lean in to me, and lick the tears from my splotchy wet face. Such a silent, gentle friend she was, looking at me with her giant golden eyes. She just quietly shared my sorrow.
Eight years later I had her put to sleep after watching her for many months, developing painful arthritic hips, loss of balance, and eventually incontinence. We said goodbye just last June. I still miss her.
And now, I have this CAT. After having such a great dog, it has been something of a letdown, getting used to the schizoid temperament of this little furry egotist. His name is Stewart, and he's totally adorable.......looking.
I've had him for about 6 months, and in spite of his mean behavior, I love him.
Initially, he was very hyper - all night long - and would sleep most of the day. Lucky me. I tried to sleep, but he would get a running start from the living room, come tearing into the bedroom, leap up on the bed and land squarely on my chest. Wonderful. I never could figure out what it was he expected me to do. Sometimes, after several nocturnal assaults I would sit straight up in bed, wild-eyed, and yell "WHAT??? WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He would look at me blankly and stroll back into the living room to rest-up for the next attack. I think I went several weeks without a night's sleep.
I was still thinking of him as a dog, I guess. Sage would never have behaved like that. She slept quietly all night long, only waking if there was a strange sound she needed to identify. Perfect.
After a few months of this torture, I decided to start putting him outside at night. That worked great - for an hour or so. Then he would sit under my bedroom window and "M E O O O W W W!" nonstop, until I would let him back in again. Some peaceful minutes would follow, then "M E O W W W W!" again, only this time from inside my apartment, inside my bedroom. So, I would obediently get up and let him out. IN. OUT. IN. OUT. IN. OUT.
I endured this monumental abuse for many weeks. Finally, exhausted and frantic, I bought a kitty-door.....a tall, narrow panel that fit between my sliding glass door and the door frame, with a hinged plexiglass "door" at the bottom. I installed it myself. Man, I was desperate for sleep!
This miracle door arrived with special instructions on "How to train your cat to use the kitty door." Well, friends, no instructions were needed. The moment my adorable little savage beast stuck his nose through the swinging flap, feeling and smelling the outside air, he was through it like a missile! It actually was very cute. He'd dash out, dash in, strutting around my apartment, looking at me over his shoulder, as if to say "What do you think about that?!" I was appropriately impressed.
It seemed my kitty problems were over and I was on my way to kitty-owner's bliss. We had a wonderful honeymoon, during which time he was the perfect pet. I thought that my problems were over, and my affection for this little creature was growing every day.
But cats know things. They just do. They know other ways to torture us (realizing we have been hopelessly ensnared by their undeniable charms).
I loved evenings when I would sit in my chair, usually either watching something on my DVR (on TV) or sitting with my laptop perched on the arm of my chair. That left my lap free for my cat to occupy. He'd come up and snuggle, purring as I stroked his shiny black coat. Ah, bliss!
But then, a little over a month ago, this lovely behavior stopped abruptly. It seemed that we were suddenly strangers. He still came and went (as he pleased, of course - through the special entrance I had provided), but he completely ignored me. It was as if I no longer existed. I'd call to him as he bounded in through his very own doorway, and he'd walk past me without even glancing my way.....I was wounded! Wasn't I still feeding him? Was I now invisible? He got his favorite wet food every morning, and at all times had good dry food available to him. He had a huge appetite for a small cat, so I was continually refilling his bowl. I NEVER missed a feeding, ALWAYS greeted him with a smile and cheerful voice when he came in. I still sat in my chair in the evening, pathetically inviting him to come sit on my lap......................Nothing. For over a month. He broke my heart. Darn cat!
Then, last evening, to my amazement, he started acting very cute with me. He wanted to play, so we played. My heart lifted. (Embarrassing to have one's emotions controlled by a cat.) He gave me great eye contact, looking at me with bright eyes. Oh, it made me so happy it was ridiculous. He got up on the ottoman first, stretched out a paw and touched my knee playfully, then pulled it away. It seemed like he was flirting! So cute. Then he inched his way up my leg and snuggled into my lap, purring contentedly.
What strange behavior! As a helpful friend has suggested, he apparently had at last forgiven me for some intolerable offense. Well, I don't care. I'm just happy that our relationship has been restored.
You know, we really are a lot like cats. Only so much worse. I have reflected over the similarities between his hurtful ignoring of me, and my sinful ignoring of the God who loves me. Pondering my own vascillating affection for my Savior Jesus, who literally "gave himself up for me," I am truly ashamed. I think about how I have felt - how wounded of heart I have actually felt - over a CAT. Then I think of my loving, gracious heavenly Father who gives me each breath I take. I think of my rescuer, my deliverer, my savior Jesus, who suffered so horribly and gave his life - taking all my nasty, ugly sin with him, in an ugly death on a criminal's cross! I think of the Holy Spirit who now indwells me, and who is constantly nudging me back toward Jesus, and drawing my attention - sometimes so fleetingly - to all that God has done for me.
So often in my life, I treat God just the way my cat has treated me. I come and go, maybe hearing his call, maybe not, but I just stroll on by, pursuing some earthly satisfaction. How can I love God and still also be so worldly, so self-centered?
WHY does he always pursue me? Why does he always forgive my disobedience, my ungrateful behavior, ignoring the ONE who is so consistently good to me? It is his character. He is pure and holy. All-loving, patient, and faithful. Because of that, I can cry out, as David in Psalm 51, saying,
"Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love;
according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin!
For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.
Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight..."
-Ps 51:1-4a
That is my prayer to you, oh Lord. That is my confession. Thank you for your grace, to convict me of my sin. You have just used my silly cat to illustrate my adulterous heart! Help me now, my God, my dearest love, help me to seek you more diligently, and love you above all else.
"Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and renew a right spirit within me."
-Ps 51:10
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Usefulness of Pain
I held the prescription bottle up to the light to view the level of its contents. Getting pretty low. A sense of dread filled me as I considered the inevitable increase in pain if I stopped using this miracle drug. I hadn't wanted to reorder it. Had hoped that by the time it ran out the painful season would have passed.
When difficult pain is present, there is a heightened tendency to focus on oneself. It becomes difficult to think of anything else. Pain produces the anticipation of more pain, which causes us to think about the pain and become unable to concentrate on anything other than the overwhelming desire for the pain to just go away. I call it "Pain-induced self-centeredness". It is never good or profitable to be self-centered. We are all that way anyway, by our sinful nature, but it becomes enormous when physical pain is unrelenting. Tears come at times, and we can wallow in a lake of self-pity.
How utterly useless this is! We feel so justified in complaining about our pain. It's easy for us to do this, and others will usually agree that our misery is understandable, considering our painful circumstances. This sympathetic reaction to our pain may be, for the moment, gratifying; but it only encourages us to continue wallowing.
There are some good things to understand about pain....it can be a very excellent warning system, telling us that certain parts of our body have a problem. It is helpful in diagnosis. Complaining about what God has given us is at the very least, ungrateful. At its root is selfishness. It is so easy to justify our whining behavior when we really are in considerable pain.
What could be the spiritual/emotional value of pain? Well, for me, in dealing with the daily pain I have with arthritis, I try to use it as a signal to focus on other things - primarily to focus on GOD. I remember that all pain, no matter how brief or lasting, cannot extend past this life. It's good to join Job in saying/thinking "Shall I accept good from God and not trouble?" We know from God's word that in heaven there will not be even the memory of having had pain. How wonderful that is to look forward to! So, Pain Causes Us to Be Less Fond of our Earthly Bodies, and long more and more for heaven, where "every tear will be wiped away." By whom? By God himself.
The pain I have is usually quite manageable, with the help of alternating anti-inflammatories with more serious pain medication. At times, I don't need the pain medication; the anti-inflammatory is enough! Those are what I call "pain-free" days. It's still there, but I'm so used to it, that when it is at its low ebb, it seems to be gone, unless I think about it.
Ah. Think about it. Very often, this is a big part of the problem -- we think about it too much. So much better and more fruitful to pick up my Bible and read God's word. Better to open a book and read the spectacularly-expressed words written by the Puritans, hundreds of years ago.
To the heart that Christ has changed, pain creates in us an automatic empathy with others who have various types of pain. We become more compassionate and interested in the problems of others. It is always a good thing to take our minds altogether off ourselves and onto others.
Since I live alone, I have realized how easily I can become depressed. And what is depression at its root, if not total self-absorption? When there is no one else here in my home to look at, talk to, interact with, I can go to my default of looking at myself. So, when I am home it is important to occupy myself with doing things and thinking about things other than ME.
So much more can (and has been) said about this subject. Wonderful books have been written which are far more insightful and interesting than the words I have written here. But it seemed good today, in a time when I have a minimum amount of pain, to write some of my own thoughts about it.
As more than one wise person has said, "DON'T WASTE YOUR PAIN. USE IT!"
When difficult pain is present, there is a heightened tendency to focus on oneself. It becomes difficult to think of anything else. Pain produces the anticipation of more pain, which causes us to think about the pain and become unable to concentrate on anything other than the overwhelming desire for the pain to just go away. I call it "Pain-induced self-centeredness". It is never good or profitable to be self-centered. We are all that way anyway, by our sinful nature, but it becomes enormous when physical pain is unrelenting. Tears come at times, and we can wallow in a lake of self-pity.
How utterly useless this is! We feel so justified in complaining about our pain. It's easy for us to do this, and others will usually agree that our misery is understandable, considering our painful circumstances. This sympathetic reaction to our pain may be, for the moment, gratifying; but it only encourages us to continue wallowing.
What could be the spiritual/emotional value of pain? Well, for me, in dealing with the daily pain I have with arthritis, I try to use it as a signal to focus on other things - primarily to focus on GOD. I remember that all pain, no matter how brief or lasting, cannot extend past this life. It's good to join Job in saying/thinking "Shall I accept good from God and not trouble?" We know from God's word that in heaven there will not be even the memory of having had pain. How wonderful that is to look forward to! So, Pain Causes Us to Be Less Fond of our Earthly Bodies, and long more and more for heaven, where "every tear will be wiped away." By whom? By God himself.
The pain I have is usually quite manageable, with the help of alternating anti-inflammatories with more serious pain medication. At times, I don't need the pain medication; the anti-inflammatory is enough! Those are what I call "pain-free" days. It's still there, but I'm so used to it, that when it is at its low ebb, it seems to be gone, unless I think about it.
Ah. Think about it. Very often, this is a big part of the problem -- we think about it too much. So much better and more fruitful to pick up my Bible and read God's word. Better to open a book and read the spectacularly-expressed words written by the Puritans, hundreds of years ago.
To the heart that Christ has changed, pain creates in us an automatic empathy with others who have various types of pain. We become more compassionate and interested in the problems of others. It is always a good thing to take our minds altogether off ourselves and onto others.
Since I live alone, I have realized how easily I can become depressed. And what is depression at its root, if not total self-absorption? When there is no one else here in my home to look at, talk to, interact with, I can go to my default of looking at myself. So, when I am home it is important to occupy myself with doing things and thinking about things other than ME.
So much more can (and has been) said about this subject. Wonderful books have been written which are far more insightful and interesting than the words I have written here. But it seemed good today, in a time when I have a minimum amount of pain, to write some of my own thoughts about it.
As more than one wise person has said, "DON'T WASTE YOUR PAIN. USE IT!"
Thursday, February 24, 2011
A Very Real Emergency
The following will illustrate just how uneventful my life has been lately. Otherwise, why on earth would I write about such a ridiculous subject?......
I had discovered it was plugged (or just not working properly) several hours before going to bed for the night. Had stayed in that little room (well, really it was off-and-on) for hours after making this terrible discovery.
You see, for several days I had been (as the TV commercials so tactfully say) "irregular." Due to this and my growing discomfort, I had been taking not one, but several, "remedies" for my malaise. Always at bedtime, in hopes that there would be very satisfying results the next morning. Each morning, after swallowing my remedy-of-choice the night before, I would rise, expecting, hoping for results. And now, after several days, still no results. So I increased the dosage of yet another remedy-of-choice. Surely this would work. I was really getting worried about the whole thing.
Before retiring I went into my chamber one last time, and discovered, after pulling the handle, that it just would not flush. Hence, the several hours of plunging and waiting, plunging and waiting. No flush. Yegads! What should I do? It was too late to call the apartment offices. So I just went to bed, hoping it would fix itself as I slept.....but remembering the heavy dose of the night before.
Morning came and I went directly to check the situation....still no flush. It was too early to call the office, so I waited nervously, plunging into the stubborn water many times. What is wrong? I took the top off the tank....nothing wrong here, everything's connected and should work perfectly. The tank would empty and fill just the way it was supposed to. But no flushing was happening in the bowl. How embarrassing. But it was about to become moreso.
Finally I was able to get an answer in the office. "This is an emergency!" I nearly shrieked into the phone to the startled 20-year-old on the other end. "This is Roberta Meyers in 107, and my toilet won't flush." She began to carefully ask me routine questions....Did you try this? Did you try that?
By that time I could feel overwhelming surges in my abdomen. Twisting, insistent pressure building and building. "I need for someone to fix this, and in the meantime I need to come to the office to use your bathroom." I tried very hard to sound nonchalant, as if it hardly mattered. But I'm sure I must have sounded as desperate as I actually was. "Of course," she said sweetly. "You are welcome to use our facilities, then I'll send someone to your apartment to fix your plumbing problem."
No time to get dressed. This was, indeed, an emergency. Put a coat on over my pajamas (which really look more like sweats), and put on some slip-on shoes, and carefully ran out to my car, not even locking up my apartment as I left. Raced up to the office, the car slamming each time I drove - too fast - over the berms placed strategically to prevent speeding. I was sure I wouldn't make it.
I roared into a parking place in front of the doorway, yanked my keys out of the ignition and ran into the office to the restroom. The door was locked. Of course. Tears were threatening, in my despair. "Use your pool key" yelled the 20-year-old, helpfully.
At last. Relief, so welcome, just narrowly escaping utter disaster. It is amazing how common, ordinary things can take on such huge importance, and then disappear once again into insignificance once the urgency has passed.
I calmly strolled by the receptionist, pulling at the back of my bed-hair, which had been tangled and smashed into a matted swirl, perfectly resembling a storm one might view on the weather channel. But I didn't care. The critical problem of the morning was resolved.
Minutes after getting back home, getting dressed, making my bed and trying to coif my hair more acceptably, the knock came at my door. It was Pedro, my favorite handyman. I opened the door. "Good morning. I'm here to fix your toilet." Wonderful. Just after the knick of time. But I was happy to have him here, confident that he would work his magic as he had many times before in my little apartment.
...and he did. It now works perfectly. And I am feeling great....Just like in the ACTIVIA commercials. Suddenly I'm graceful, mobile, elegantly skipping around my little haven, nearly delerious with relief.
...as I said, not much has been happening here....I hope I have not offended the faint-hearted. I'll write something way more serious the next time. I promise.
I had discovered it was plugged (or just not working properly) several hours before going to bed for the night. Had stayed in that little room (well, really it was off-and-on) for hours after making this terrible discovery.
You see, for several days I had been (as the TV commercials so tactfully say) "irregular." Due to this and my growing discomfort, I had been taking not one, but several, "remedies" for my malaise. Always at bedtime, in hopes that there would be very satisfying results the next morning. Each morning, after swallowing my remedy-of-choice the night before, I would rise, expecting, hoping for results. And now, after several days, still no results. So I increased the dosage of yet another remedy-of-choice. Surely this would work. I was really getting worried about the whole thing.
Before retiring I went into my chamber one last time, and discovered, after pulling the handle, that it just would not flush. Hence, the several hours of plunging and waiting, plunging and waiting. No flush. Yegads! What should I do? It was too late to call the apartment offices. So I just went to bed, hoping it would fix itself as I slept.....but remembering the heavy dose of the night before.
Morning came and I went directly to check the situation....still no flush. It was too early to call the office, so I waited nervously, plunging into the stubborn water many times. What is wrong? I took the top off the tank....nothing wrong here, everything's connected and should work perfectly. The tank would empty and fill just the way it was supposed to. But no flushing was happening in the bowl. How embarrassing. But it was about to become moreso.
Finally I was able to get an answer in the office. "This is an emergency!" I nearly shrieked into the phone to the startled 20-year-old on the other end. "This is Roberta Meyers in 107, and my toilet won't flush." She began to carefully ask me routine questions....Did you try this? Did you try that?
By that time I could feel overwhelming surges in my abdomen. Twisting, insistent pressure building and building. "I need for someone to fix this, and in the meantime I need to come to the office to use your bathroom." I tried very hard to sound nonchalant, as if it hardly mattered. But I'm sure I must have sounded as desperate as I actually was. "Of course," she said sweetly. "You are welcome to use our facilities, then I'll send someone to your apartment to fix your plumbing problem."
No time to get dressed. This was, indeed, an emergency. Put a coat on over my pajamas (which really look more like sweats), and put on some slip-on shoes, and carefully ran out to my car, not even locking up my apartment as I left. Raced up to the office, the car slamming each time I drove - too fast - over the berms placed strategically to prevent speeding. I was sure I wouldn't make it.
I roared into a parking place in front of the doorway, yanked my keys out of the ignition and ran into the office to the restroom. The door was locked. Of course. Tears were threatening, in my despair. "Use your pool key" yelled the 20-year-old, helpfully.
At last. Relief, so welcome, just narrowly escaping utter disaster. It is amazing how common, ordinary things can take on such huge importance, and then disappear once again into insignificance once the urgency has passed.
I calmly strolled by the receptionist, pulling at the back of my bed-hair, which had been tangled and smashed into a matted swirl, perfectly resembling a storm one might view on the weather channel. But I didn't care. The critical problem of the morning was resolved.
Minutes after getting back home, getting dressed, making my bed and trying to coif my hair more acceptably, the knock came at my door. It was Pedro, my favorite handyman. I opened the door. "Good morning. I'm here to fix your toilet." Wonderful. Just after the knick of time. But I was happy to have him here, confident that he would work his magic as he had many times before in my little apartment.
...and he did. It now works perfectly. And I am feeling great....Just like in the ACTIVIA commercials. Suddenly I'm graceful, mobile, elegantly skipping around my little haven, nearly delerious with relief.
...as I said, not much has been happening here....I hope I have not offended the faint-hearted. I'll write something way more serious the next time. I promise.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Vicks Vapo-Rub for Chickens
Found this, an excerpt from a letter to my mother, written April 6, 1982.....
As you know, Mother, we have chickens. At the moment there are 21 of them occupying the chicken house on our farm. You've seen pictures of them. Well, I have been learning a lot about these incredibly dirty creatures since taking charge of them. (Wow, was I green! But I'm learning.)
Chickens are not one of your more elegant birds. (How do you like that "your" in there?) Some of them may look fairly impressive with their bright red combs and beautiful feathers, strutting about the chicken yard. But they are really nasty, and quite low-class (for birds). Perhaps you're wondering why my low view of chickens...Well, let me tell you.
ALL chickens enjoy simultaneous eating and defecation, and many of them will engage in those combined activities while standing IN the chicken feed, which all are eating. Nice, huh? And they do both of these things CONTINUOUSLY during waking hours. Naturally, they are completely unaware of the filth into which they thrust their beaks. (...at least I hope they are unaware of it.)
What I have just described are the ATTRACTIVE qualities of chickens. Now, on to the unattractive: Chickens are canibals. Forgive me. I could think of no softer way to put it. When our chickens first came here from Oberlin, Kansas, there were 26 of them; all beautiful Rhode Island Reds, the kind that produce those great brown eggs we love. Well, Mother, we now have 5 less. Our dog Luke killed 2 before Jerry figured out a way to prevent them from digging their way out of the chicken yard. The other three have expired under mysterious circumstances, while locked inside the chicken house - at night. I began noticing that several of them had grossly-molested bottoms. (An UNmolested chicken bottom is not much to shout about.) Then I saw that they were pecking at each other in a frenzied manner. Yes. They were pecking at each other's bottoms. According to Chicken Veterans around here, they (the chickens, not the C.V.s) will gang up on any one of them which is bleeding, then peck it to death. Horrible! Disgusting! But listen while I tell you why this behavior occurs...
A VITAMIN DEFICIENCY. My, how grateful I am that HUMANS don't respond that way. Just imagine how busy all the proctologists and gynechologists would be if everyone with a vitamin deficiency began gouging away at the nearest derriere. Appalling!
Well, you can imagine how eager I was to find a solution to this atrocious behavior. I won't list all the suggestions that came my way, only the two which were within my ability to perform. The first has to do with Vicks Vapo-Rub. One of the much-esteemed C.V.s told me that if I would rub (excuse me, RUB??!!!) Vicks Vapo-Rub onto their violated parts, it would discourage the others from further assaults. Well, Mother, as YOUR daughter, you will surely know what my first reaction to that idea was. I couldn't even THINK of it without becoming faint! But all the other suggestions involved expensive vitamin supplements, and various other things which were, for us, totally out of the question. So for 2 more days of horror, I watched, as my beloved chickens attacked one another....each day with more lust, more excitement. I couldn't stand it. So, a few weeks ago I took the jar of Vicks from its place in our medicine cabinet and walked out to the arena where my precious feathered charges were gorging themselves on each others' wounded behinds. It was awful beyond words.
Have you ever chased a chicken? Well, they're even more difficult to catch when you're threatening them with a Vicks rub. I chased, I panted, I swore (silently, of course), but one at a time I captured them, holding them upside down with my left hand while smearing this odorous cream on their featherless bottoms. I winced with each stroke, imagining how it must sting. (NO ONE, not even brainless chickens, wants that camphorous cream there!) Some of them squawked and squirmed quite a bit, others just gave me a dirty look and muttered things under their breath.............but I treated each one. It took a long time, and the chicken house reeked of camphor by the time I finished. But this bizarre treatment did work! ....for that afternoon. The next day they were at it again.
I'm happy to say that my chickens are now getting their feathers back and are treating one another with admirable civility. You see, we found a less-arduous way to prevent the murderous pecking: We have added green alfalfa to their daily diet. (Had I only known..........)
If anyone had EVER told me that one day, as I neared the age of 40, I would find myself willingly in a filthy chicken house, tenderly rubbing Vicks Vapo-Rub onto the wildly-protesting, oozing, bleeding chicken crotches, I would certainly not have believed it!
Write soon. I love you and miss you soooooooooo much, my sweet Mother.
Roberta
As you know, Mother, we have chickens. At the moment there are 21 of them occupying the chicken house on our farm. You've seen pictures of them. Well, I have been learning a lot about these incredibly dirty creatures since taking charge of them. (Wow, was I green! But I'm learning.)
Chickens are not one of your more elegant birds. (How do you like that "your" in there?) Some of them may look fairly impressive with their bright red combs and beautiful feathers, strutting about the chicken yard. But they are really nasty, and quite low-class (for birds). Perhaps you're wondering why my low view of chickens...Well, let me tell you.
ALL chickens enjoy simultaneous eating and defecation, and many of them will engage in those combined activities while standing IN the chicken feed, which all are eating. Nice, huh? And they do both of these things CONTINUOUSLY during waking hours. Naturally, they are completely unaware of the filth into which they thrust their beaks. (...at least I hope they are unaware of it.)
What I have just described are the ATTRACTIVE qualities of chickens. Now, on to the unattractive: Chickens are canibals. Forgive me. I could think of no softer way to put it. When our chickens first came here from Oberlin, Kansas, there were 26 of them; all beautiful Rhode Island Reds, the kind that produce those great brown eggs we love. Well, Mother, we now have 5 less. Our dog Luke killed 2 before Jerry figured out a way to prevent them from digging their way out of the chicken yard. The other three have expired under mysterious circumstances, while locked inside the chicken house - at night. I began noticing that several of them had grossly-molested bottoms. (An UNmolested chicken bottom is not much to shout about.) Then I saw that they were pecking at each other in a frenzied manner. Yes. They were pecking at each other's bottoms. According to Chicken Veterans around here, they (the chickens, not the C.V.s) will gang up on any one of them which is bleeding, then peck it to death. Horrible! Disgusting! But listen while I tell you why this behavior occurs...
A VITAMIN DEFICIENCY. My, how grateful I am that HUMANS don't respond that way. Just imagine how busy all the proctologists and gynechologists would be if everyone with a vitamin deficiency began gouging away at the nearest derriere. Appalling!
Well, you can imagine how eager I was to find a solution to this atrocious behavior. I won't list all the suggestions that came my way, only the two which were within my ability to perform. The first has to do with Vicks Vapo-Rub. One of the much-esteemed C.V.s told me that if I would rub (excuse me, RUB??!!!) Vicks Vapo-Rub onto their violated parts, it would discourage the others from further assaults. Well, Mother, as YOUR daughter, you will surely know what my first reaction to that idea was. I couldn't even THINK of it without becoming faint! But all the other suggestions involved expensive vitamin supplements, and various other things which were, for us, totally out of the question. So for 2 more days of horror, I watched, as my beloved chickens attacked one another....each day with more lust, more excitement. I couldn't stand it. So, a few weeks ago I took the jar of Vicks from its place in our medicine cabinet and walked out to the arena where my precious feathered charges were gorging themselves on each others' wounded behinds. It was awful beyond words.
Have you ever chased a chicken? Well, they're even more difficult to catch when you're threatening them with a Vicks rub. I chased, I panted, I swore (silently, of course), but one at a time I captured them, holding them upside down with my left hand while smearing this odorous cream on their featherless bottoms. I winced with each stroke, imagining how it must sting. (NO ONE, not even brainless chickens, wants that camphorous cream there!) Some of them squawked and squirmed quite a bit, others just gave me a dirty look and muttered things under their breath.............but I treated each one. It took a long time, and the chicken house reeked of camphor by the time I finished. But this bizarre treatment did work! ....for that afternoon. The next day they were at it again.
I'm happy to say that my chickens are now getting their feathers back and are treating one another with admirable civility. You see, we found a less-arduous way to prevent the murderous pecking: We have added green alfalfa to their daily diet. (Had I only known..........)
If anyone had EVER told me that one day, as I neared the age of 40, I would find myself willingly in a filthy chicken house, tenderly rubbing Vicks Vapo-Rub onto the wildly-protesting, oozing, bleeding chicken crotches, I would certainly not have believed it!
Write soon. I love you and miss you soooooooooo much, my sweet Mother.
Roberta
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