Lost Love

He hadn't spoken to me in eleven years.
We met in January seventeen years ago. I don't remember it being cold, but it must've been because I wore my oversize coat. I was in eighth grade and patches of clubs and honors littered the sleeves of my jacket. It was a week or so after Christmas, and I was mourning the loss of a family member--a car accident on Christmas day.
Dozens filled the room I walked into, but he picked me out straight away. Before I knew it, he was on my shoulder. He was no bigger than the palm of my hand.
It was a match.
He purred all the way through his flea bath, through the massive hair dryer that fluffed him, through the car ride to his new home. We named him Oreo. I don't know why, seeing as how he is all black, but Oreo fit, and Oreo stuck.
Oreo was born on October 31st, the lady at the shelter told us. A black cat born on Halloween. Throw in a broken mirror and an open umbrella, and we'd be set for life.
When we got home, we gave him the dish that belonged to Nonny before he died on Christmas day. Before Nonny, it belonged to Buttons.
Oreo slept in my bed--often under the covers. He sat on my lap when we watched TV, but when I left for college over eleven years ago, Oreo couldn't forgive me.
He greeted me with hisses and a twitch of his tail. If I came too close, I walked away with scratches up and down my arms.
I spent the last few days at my parents' house, where Oreo lives. He doesn't leave their bedroom now. He's grouchy and old and crotchedy. He's a curmudgeon. He and the dog don't get along. In my parents' bedroom seeing the new furniture layout, Oreo came out from under the bed and meowed. Like I have so many times before, I held out my hand for him to come sniff.
He did.
And then he stretched out in front of me, inviting me to scratch his belly.
He purred.
After over eleven years, Oreo and I reconciled.

The Eggman

"I am the walrus," I said to my sister-in-law. My nephew chewed on his walrus toy.
"Huh?" Blank look.
I added, "Goo goo g'joob."
"Are you talking in a different language?" She turned to her husband. "She's talking in code."
Husband looked at me ready to interpret. I repeated and was rewarded with another blank stare.
What has happened to this country's music education where a reference to one of the greatest rock bands, a band that changed the face of popular music, that experimented, that was one of the few rock/pop/whatever bands that actually had good musicians, reaps confusion? I won't even go into mispronunciations of Wagner and misappropriation of tunes calling a Rachmaninoff a Mozart piece (isn't all classical music either Beethoven or Mozart?) or believing the cell phone company to have composed the Queen of the Night's aria. A whole generation who had hamsters for mothers and fathers that smelt of elderberries.
By the way, this came out of a family reunion of sorts from this past weekend. Laughs, squabbles, stress, and fun. A typical family outing.
Now go away or I will taunt you a second time.

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

A month or so ago, I picked up an article entitled, “Can You Overshelter Your Kids?” Expecting an answer in the affirmative, I was surprised to read a resounding no. The author said of course you can’t based on God’s actions. She explained that the opposite of shelter is endanger or expose and since God never endangers or exposes us, we never can to our kids, therefore you can’t overshelter your kids, by golly, shelter, shelter, shelter!
Huh?
I have to wonder if she’s ever actually read the Bible. What would Job say? Did God allow Job in a difficult, might I even say exposed, position? How about Paul? Was Paul’s life ever endangered? Hebrews 11 and 12 anyone? My goodness, someone was even sawed in half for the faith! In fact, Jesus told us to expect these things.
I’m not saying you drop your kids of in the middle of gang central, kiss them goodbye, and say good luck! What I am saying is that sheltered surburbia with a side game of keep-away may not always be what God intends. Would you never let your kid ride a bike because he might fall off and hurt himself? Would you never allow your kids to participate in ministry because it might be dangerous? Of course, each person has a different role in the play. One may homeschool, another send to public, still another private school. That’s not really the question (although motivations for answering that question are related).
Some of you may say, Heather, you don’t even have kids. You have no idea what you are talking about. True, true. But I can think about these things, and I can attempt to work how an answer that reflects the Truth in this world. I want to live dangerously, meaning, I want to teach my kids, when I have them, to be lights in the world. I want to teach them to love their neighbor unconditionally, even when said neighbor takes advantage of them. I want to teach them to love the Lord their God in the midst of persecution. This type of education may require letting God expose them at times.
Of course, in all this education, I might have to learn it myself first!

Hospital Update

Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers. I'm at the hospital now, and the wireless comes and goes. My dad is doing much better and should be out in a day or two. He and my mom will then stay at our house for a few days before traveling 3 1/2 hrs to the middle of nowhere to go home. It looks like this crisis has passed, although the underlying Crohns issue is still, um, an issue (creativity wanes these days). My mom is now sick from nights at the hospital, so she can't be around my dad until she gets better because he has basically no immune system. Oy vey. Anyway, thanks again.

The Sound of Silence

Let me splain why I went Paul Simon on you guys this week. Tuesday night, we rushed my dad to the hospital. He's had Crohns disease for 35 years, and it's being crawling up from its underground hole the past year and a half again. Tuesday night, bacteria from his intestines (TMI, I know) leaked into his blood stream from one of his many fistulas, and he went into sceptic shock. He's been in the ICU. Today, they're moving him into a regular room. Progress! I haven't had computer access and dare not open my blog reader today before heading back to the hospital. I'm sure it's scary full at the least. I'll be back to normalcy hopefully around Tuesday.

The stork laid down his burden

He rested. And then he laughed and laughed and laughed.
A few months ago, I learned that I had four uncles I didn’t know I had. Yeah, that was an interesting conversation.
Mom calls. “I talked to your uncle today.”
“Um, mom, he’s been dead for a few years.” I google asylums. “Did you have a séance?”
“No. A new uncle.”
Of course. Silly me.
“You have four new uncles.”
Except my grandparents are dead, so I know they didn’t have some sort of second honeymoon and pull and Abraham and Sarah.
“Children of my dad and his second wife.”
So background: my mom’s dad left when she was five (I believe). The last they heard of him was a birthday card he sent for her eleventh birthday. My mom is the youngest of four. Her dad left, remarried, moved to Florida (which they new from the postmark), and apparently had four boys (which they didn’t know until a few months ago). My mom’s biological father is now dead. When he died, the oldest of the four boys, Brent, in addition to raising the youngest, decided to figure out this mysterious background that his parents refused to talk about. Were they in the witness protection plan? Was the mafia after them?
He found us. A long, complicated hide-n-seek game.
My mom and dad instantly loved the new family. Two peas in a proverbial pod. My aunt decided to fly down this past weekend to Louisiana (Brent’s house) to meet them. My mom, hubby, and I surprised her and drove down. One of the brothers, Brian, drove up from New Orleans.
And we laughed and laughed and laughed. Mostly at me, but I’m okay with that. Hey, that’s how things normally go, and being the drama queen that I am, any attention is good attention.
Brent is a bi-vocational pastor. He and his wife, Dee, own a nursery. If you need any planting advice or just want to learn, hop on over to his blog. When it’s late, he breaks out into Beaudroux and Tibidoux (nice spelling) jokes—Cajun jokes told with a Mexican accent (they lived in Mexico for a while). And his nursery is beautiful.
Brian is a driver for NAPA (not the wine country, unfortunately). My favorite thing about Brian: everything reminds him of a song. Sounds like someone we know, doesn’t it?
Bobby and Steven are the two I haven’t met, yet.
It’s fun having family closer than Virginia and New Jersey now.