A New Heart, a Beer Can and a Broken Flip-Flop

A New Heart, a Beer Can and a Broken Flip-Flop

There is an amazing story I heard on the radio about a cardiologist who allowed a pastor to observe a surgery he was doing on a patient.  After the doctor had done all of the technical/surgical things he had been able to do, he leaned over to the patient, a woman, and whispered to her, “Okay, I’ve done all I can do – now you have to take over, tell your heart to beat again…”   And Christian songwriter Danny Gokey took that inspiring vignette and penned these lyrics:

Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away
Step into the light of Grace
Yesterday's a closing door
You don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
And tell your heart to beat again

I cannot begin to tell you what these lyrics have meant to me in the last eight months.  As some of you may know, I was the victim of a group lynching at the place where I should have been the most emotionally safe:  the church where I did part-time ministry.  I was misconstrued by one group of people, who ran to the power brokers and complained, who in turn went to the pastor, who called me into a private meeting that was not in fact private.  It was five people – two of them very angry, having already jumped to conclusions that I was a bigot.  They did not use the word, they painted the picture – and it was skewed by second and third-hand interpretations.  They did not respect me as a professional educator and minister and try to understand what I was saying to them.  They just shouted at me while the pastor sat there and let them do the dirty work. 

As my brain and emotions reeled from the treatment I was getting, I tried to re-group and figure a way that I could continue doing the job I loved under the eye of people who had stopped loving me a long time ago…. The same people who stand there week after week and sing a song that has the lyrics “all are welcome in this place.”  The hypocrisy was painful. I had presented over the past seven and a half years what I know to be the philosophy and teachings of Christ, and subsequently the interpretation of that by the Roman Catholic Church.  They on the other hand refused to listen to what our party line is, thinking somehow they can endorse something else.  Well, you can’t say you are this, and in actuality be that. 

As I left that room, I could feel my heart being rent in two inside me.  It was scary and horrible at the same time.  Some dear friends supported me, and one of them went in to the room to give them a clearer picture of what they were doing to me…. in a pretty direct and loud fashion.  And she was met with, “that wasn’t what we intended.”  As anyone who has been through this sort of experience will tell you, you cannot cross back over a bridge that has been blown up.  So I resigned.  And thereupon became, in a particular sense, “churchless.”  I still believe what I believe.  I still am who I am.  I still value what I value.  And I could not do that with that group of people watching for me to cross their own lines…. So I have been a nomad on Sunday mornings looking for a church to worship in, while at the same time, not looking to put down roots or trust too quickly that I have found my spiritual home.  My spiritual home, in fact, I carry within me. It cannot be a building or a particular group of people because I have learned that this will, in the end, fail you.  As my great grandmother once said in her broken Polish accent, “peoples is peoples.”

As I travel on Sunday mornings to find the faces of faith in a variety of different congregations, I am feeling a little better.  At times I have even been entertained or inspired by some pretty good homilies.  And other times, not so much.  I have been to multi-million dollar churches with a congregation so large they have to have four Masses to accommodate their people – and each with a different style or flavor to it.  You know, the 9:00 am has the guitar music; while the 11:00 am has the organ, etc.; the pastor and associate banter back and forth creating a friendly vibe – they keep it light.  I found a sweet little back country church where the priest actually faces the East (symbolic of waiting for Christ’s return) and consequently with his back to the congregation as he does the Eucharistic prayers.  It was like attending the Old Latin Mass, only in English, well mostly.  

I attended an evangelical Protestant church mid-winter that had a congregation of 25.  Twenty-five, period, end of sentence.  And half of them walked in 20 minutes late.  I found that kind of entertaining.  All these years I beat myself up for showing up five minutes late, like somebody cared, and half their church is late!  I liked the music; I liked the sermon, but then the next three weeks were going to be about marriage and that is kind of not on my grid right now so I continued my sojourn. 

Last week I went to a far-flung place with a big, traditional physique as far as the building goes.  The deacon gave the homily.  I just remember that he started out by saying how long some material things last, and that eventually everything gives way to time and the elements…. including us.  And he launched into making a point about us preparing for the moment of our death, when we meet our Maker.  Except he gave no practical tips, like say, pray the rosary every day or read ten minutes of the Bible every morning.  So, I just stopped listening.  This is a privilege I am allowing myself in my middle years:  if you stop being interesting or don’t get relevant within the first eight minutes, I am no longer interested.  It’s just the brain screening out the extraneous in order to last longer itself. 

At the end of the Mass, the pastor got up and said something kind about the homily the deacon gave.  He then remarked that, as the congregation was aware, he himself is a card-carrying, lifetime member of alcoholics anonymous.  (I love him for his authenticity.)  He said:  Deacon told us that a beer can left in the woods lasts about 80 years and I am pleased to report that I have just turned 81!  In other words, he outlived the beer can.  The entire congregation chuckled at that – it was great.  And I love it when a group has a sense of humor and doesn’t let their “church-iness” put a veneer on their sense of humor.  Nonetheless, I was and still am not ready to meet and greet new people.

 

I tried to slip out the side door where he was saying good morning to people.  I tried very hard to be invisible.  I don’t even know by what childish magic my brain thinks that someone in an adult body like mine can become invisible by just moving quietly around a group of people.  Well, the next thing that happened was my pretty black flip-flop with the fake diamonds on its strap just BROKE.  I could not manage to get a flat foot on the ground and did a series of awkward, Big Bird-like movements to maintain my balance and grab the flip flop without falling over on the sidewalk.  I walked back to my vehicle with the flip flop in one hand and a barefoot on the ground as well.

It is likely that my predicament was not un-noticed by the very people I was trying to skirt.  However, it is for sure and for certain that Someone Else has not left any of my predicaments and awkward scenarios unseen.  He is watching (and probably was laughing divinely) and I feel loved by Him.  That’s all that matters now.

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When Hump Day is on Thursday

When Hump Day is on Thursday

They say some things are best left to the imagination.  But I have to admit, my 30 second exposure to reality as I drove to work this morning is something that my imagination never would even conjure up.  I guess I am still getting used to living in the real country.  Permit me a digression before I really tell you what view I was treated to enroute to work.

It always –and I mean ALWAYS – irritates me when people from out of state talk about New York in terms of “the City.”  NYC is such a small –and allow me a bit of spirited derision here – miniscule, and consequently congested and overwhelming (to me), part of the interesting things about this state.  In fact, they wouldn’t even have the right to call it “The Big Apple” if it wasn’t for the fact that almost ALL of the rest of the state grows some of the greatest apples in the nation. 

Even the history buffs tell you that there was some sort of a fight when Downstate wasn’t allowed to be the Capitol of New York – Albany claimed the prize.  Although, if I had been in charge, I would have moved the Capitol to a more central location but, silly me, I think in terms of fairness for the entire state and not just for some.  At least the State Fair was put in a central location.  Someone had their adequate dose of coffee the morning that decision was made.

So all that being said, I do want to reiterate the point that a vast part of this state is incredible agricultural property:  dairy farms, horse ranches, corn fields, apple orchards and (gasp) vineyards that take your breath, if not your sobriety, away.  Frankly, there is not enough gasoline to fill a lifetime of my vehicles in order to satiate my desire to see it all.  The greatest thing that could happen to me right now would be to win a brand new vehicle with zero mileage so I could start all over in my travels to take in every borough and country lane.  And need I speak of the miles of antique stores and flea markets on Route 20 – that route cuts clean across the state and is the coolest road to drive when the leaves are changing colors in autumn!  Even up into our own forests of the Adirondack mountains, there are adorable little gift shops and corner pizza places and creeks a plenty.   And yet …

And yet when I pull out of my driveway and travel less than a mile down the street, the oddness of reality strikes me.  I glance across to my right and I see something that at first does not make sense.  I’m thinking:  “Why does that cow look awfully high up in the air?”  And as my eyes re-adjust in a split second to the entire picture, here’s what I realize.  It isn’t a cow.  It’s a bull.  And the bull is standing ON a cow, ahem, and he is quite serious.  And there are farmers in the doorway of the barn watching to make sure that the goal is achieved.  And I wonder if they laughed at the expressions on the faces of those of us who drove by and saw fifteen seconds of “Life on a Dairy Farm,” and inadvertently dropped our jaws ….

In retrospect, where did I think that pasture full of baby calves came from, anyway?  The storks are too busy delivering to the hospitals to work on the farms as well!

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A Mind is a Terrible thing to Waste

A Mind is a Terrible thing to Waste

Why is it that I can remember every stupid or ugly thing I ever said for the last few decades (at least the one I am aware of) and yet, for the life of me, I cannot find the bunch of bananas that I bought at the store last night?  I have turned this house upside down for about 20 minutes.  I have gone out and checked the car.  I have checked the garage.  I have left no cubby unexplored.  And, to quote the old song:  Yes, we have NO bananas.

I have bought bananas three times in the last three days.  I am doing a little shopping gig where I grocery shop for other people who have no transportation – due to a variety of reasons – and I have been in four different grocery stores in three days.  Three of us have purchased bananas.  Two of us are enjoying them.  But as for me, my bananas are, well, driving me bananas.

I don’t blame the dogs for things that are missing at my house.  It is not that they – well at least one of them – the very one who has her own facebook page – would not drop to the level of eating chimpanzee food.  It’s just that they are – scratch that – SHE is partial to the last three slices of bread in the bag sitting on the edge of the counter.  Other than that, she prefers bologna or peach slices to bananas.

There is no evidence that the bananas made it into the house.  I am okay if they accidentally went out with the trash this morning.  What I am NOT okay with is if I find them in the house in a few weeks or so.  You follow my train of thought on this, right?

A few weeks ago at work there was a brief conversation about forgetting things.  And I wanted to ask the person who was saying that, “I’m sorry, I can’t quite conjure up your name at this moment…”  People know who I am because not unlike the horses in the barn down the street, my name is engraved on the wall above me.  But I forget who I am occasionally too.  Twice now I have left my house keys in the door at night.  I hope I at least locked the screen door.  For moments like that, I truly thank God that I live in the country and not in the city.  I also have a 3-alarm, state-of-the-art security system second to NONE that I know of.   The alarms are quickly tripped-off, move at lightning speed, and emit toxic fumes only sometimes during the middle of the night. 

Today a funny thing happened.  You know those comic strips that are almost identical, posted side-by-side and you have to figure out what is missing in one of the pictures?  I love doing those.  I hate it, though, when I have to do it in my own backyard.  I have nothing to compare it to except what it was the last time I was paying attention.  And as previous paragraphs indicate, midlife is putting some cobwebs where hi-speed cabling used to be in my brain.  So, today, I was cleaning up the raised beds – my Martha Stewart moment right before I re-painted the bureau in the garage with ocean blue chalk paint – and hauling brush to the back of the lot and I thought, “something is really wide-open about my yard today.”  I did not have my glasses on.  I confess that at a distance “this” looks like “that.”  The other day I drove by a herd of baby cows and thought one was lying alone on its side.  Later in the week I realized it was a big log.  Love it.  Anyway, in my yard I saw something lying near my shed.  What the heck?  It was my TIRE SWING.  Branch gone.  Just the tire lying neatly on its side. 

I only have two suspects.  And one of them cleared himself already.  The other one is probably thinking, “how long until she notices it is gone?”  By my calculations, it might be three days:  Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  I hope that it got taken down because the tree limb was bad – and not that he thought I didn’t want it.  It actually reminded me of my late uncle who used to have all us cousins to his house almost every weekend of our childhood and we would blaze around the yard on a motorized mini bike or takes turns on the tire swing.  It was great fun.  And I have two young nephews who come to visit once a year and they would enjoy that tire swing.  In a way, I was handing down a legacy.  Now I just have an old tire on its side and a frayed rope.  Sigh.

Now what was my point of all this, anyway????     

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Pet Adoption in America 101 - #3 - My Bird-Brained Ideas

Pet Adoption in America 101 - #3 - My Bird-Brained Ideas

There are undercover bird police in your area.  You can giggle about that if you like, but they exist.  I will tell you how to flush them out of their coveys:  advertise that you have birds for sale, OR reach out to adopt a bird from a local shelter.  I am the voice of experience.

A few years ago I had a delightful pair of peach-faced lovebirds that I brought to New York from my visit in Arizona.  Keilah was a green male peach faced, and Lucia was a bright yellow red faced (Lutino).  They were kind enough to breed some adorable little babies that I subsequently sold for such a low cost it should have been called “a donation.”  Nonetheless, their contribution to my household, really helped me break-even on the bird seed cost for quite a few months.  And I loved those little baby birds – so darned cute! 

One day I got a call from a woman in Rochester.  She wanted to come out and visit when she was in my area.  I said, “Sure, no problem.”  I was kind of surprised when she came to my front door with a man, and a camera slung around her neck.  She asked, “I love birds, do you mind if I take pictures?”  It was a weird request to walk into someone’s house to “look” and end up taking photos.  Nowadays they probably use clandestine cell phones to shoot pictures and don’t tell you they are doing it.  I am happy to say the cages were clean…. With more than 2 birds, the phrase “clean cages” is translated into “continual vigilance.”  I could clean one cage a day at this point and run out of days before I run out of cages.  Do the math.

It was not until they pulled out of my driveway without purchasing a bird that the wheels in my brain started to turn.  Who does that?  Who goes into a stranger’s house and takes pictures of their birds?  If you want nice pictures, go online and download some.  Then it dawned on me: they were bird police.  These are people who “rescue” birds from homes they find, in their infinite wisdom, are “unfit.”  I truly don’t know how they seize birds FROM people’s homes, but I know that they DO in fact do that. 

I own a bird that was previously in Nursing Home ministry and then in a private home, and then came to live with me …. via the back of a van in Scranton, Pennsylvania.  Ah, the adventures of my younger days.  But he is a beauty.  And in order for them to release him to me, I had to practically make marriage vows regarding the care and socialization of the bird.  As far as I know he still has no complaints.  It is too bad that he himself didn’t make some vows to me like, “I will not terrorize small children who yank their hand back with my cracker still in it,” and “I will not pierce the ear of visiting guests with baseball caps on.”  I still apologize to that friend – the bird must’ve thought the red cap was a wing coming near his cage – and the rest is history:  he flew in a circle around the man, pierced his ear for free, and flew back to his cage.  Now the bird doesn’t get let out when I have visitors.  Hoo boy.

My last run-in with the Bird Police was only recently.  I will not tell you where, but I will tell you how.  Again, my previously stated premise in article 1 of this series was:  It is easier to adopt a human child from a foreign country than to adopt an animal in the United States.  Read it and tell me of any other conclusion you could draw.

I have not seen an advertisement for cockatiels in a long time –primarily because raising puppies was on the grid and I had reached capacity with the birds.  Then, my female cockatiel died and the two male birds she lived with were whistling for her for days.  Well, not continually, just during daylight hours.

So I thought I should get back into the business.  Or, more aptly, get THEM back into business.  I found it next to impossible to find the birds for sale online.  Finally, I found one in a shelter.  I initiated an email of interest.  This began a volley of voluminous emails back and forth.  Well, they’d ask one question, and I had to respond in detail. 

My first email went to a contact person, who then referred me to the Adoption Case Manager.  She questioned whether I was willing to drive to where they were to get the bird.  Given the fact that finding the bird was getting really challenging, sure, I’m willing to take a scenic two hour ride to pick it up.  Oh, by the way, did I mention an adoption fee?  Well, my mother is probably reading this so I won’t quote figures, but let’s just say it was:  less than a pet store; less than 3 digits, and a hair more than I would have charged for it if I was selling it.  But by all rights, it should have been FREE because it was, in a word, “used.”  Unknown age.  Unknown history.  Etc.  Here’s the other kicker:  the quantity of information they gather about the “adoptive pet parent” is more than you know about the bird itself.

So all the questions led to:  I need to contact your veterinarian.  My response was along the lines of, “I don’t see WHY, because I don’t vet my birds.  By the time a bird looks sick, it is already at the edge of darkness.”  I give her the phone number because I am both patient and curious.  She responds back that I have two un-spayed dogs and cats that do not have their vaccinations up to date.  Instead of asking me these questions directly, she called the Vet’s office.  Really?  And the result, which I was surprised at was that this would block the adoption process.  Yeah, are you kidding me?!

My response back was rather curt, and rather lengthy.  At that point I decided that I needed to, as the moderns say, “speak MY Truth” more than I needed to adopt this bird.  And that truth read like this:

here are my very simple explanations for my care of my animals:
> 
> My 2 Female dogs have not been spayed because I breed them.  The oldest dog was spayed upon her adoption.
> The first one, Bethany, is scheduled to be spayed on 3/11.  She had two litters.  She is 9 years old.  The second one, Madeline, is from the first litter of Bethany.  Madeline will be bred when she comes into heat.
> Because of my reputation with the people who have bought puppies from me in the past, I already have half the prospective litter sold already.  I SLEEP IN THE BASEMENT with the puppies for the first three weeks of their lives to make sure that everything is fine - I am very particular about my pets' well-being.
> The dogs are up to date on vaccinations, heartworm meds, and flea meds.
> 
> The cats are both in the house.  The one year old cat is up to date on her vaccines.  I only vaccinate my cats for rabies since they are 100% in house.
> One cat is 14 years old.  Every day left that she has is a gift.  There is no reason to put any more chemicals into her aging body for any reason - other than if she was in pain.  
> 
> It appears that the rescue would have to research me in some way to make sure I am a good provider for the animals that share my home.  I get that.  But there comes a point where it becomes just plain frustrating.
> 
> these are my simple answers.  I am educated.  I have a job.  I have animals that I care for.  I am not a hoarder or an abuser.  That's the best I can do for you.

What was the end result, you wonder?  Well, she invited me to call her at 9am the next morning to see if we could “work it out.”  I did not make the phone call.  I was just plain frustrated with the process and it had moved me into the Land of Bad Mood.  Once I get there, it is best I go home quietly and leave well enough alone.

Oh wait, I forgot the very last straw:  they asked me to take a video of the Bird Room at my house since I live too far away for them to make a “home visit.” 

So now you know why I am a tad bitter about the Rescuers and their adoptive process.  The story does not really end there, though.  It ends somewhere on the back roads of Pennsylvania with my good friend and I looking for a Bird Farm that was advertised online.  Oh, I found it.  And as she said to me as we drove home:  “It was so dirty I’m surprised you bought one of the birds.”  My thought was that if you are raising hundreds of birds, there is going to be a little bit of seed on the floor – it doesn’t really count as dirt.  (Really, the birds were all bright-eyed and healthy looking.)  

It is because of this very devil-may-care attitude I sport that my very own grandmother used to say to me, “I am going to come to your house and let the window open and all those birds go.  Maybe then you will find a husband.”  That comment always could slay me, especially since one of my friends, who has been married 30 years, STILL can’t get her husband to pick up his dirty socks off the floor.  Plus, there are no pre-dating applications that question you about your indoor livestock.  Maybe I shouldn’t let that slip out.  The bachelors may contact the rescuers and then I will be mad at EVERYBODY.

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The Touch of God

The Touch of God

Many years ago in a land far, far away, I had the Perfect Job.  It included travel to islands & amusement parks, teaching (my first love), retreats, and being around teenagers.  I was a full time youth minister.  It is only now 30 years down the road that I realize it was the Perfect Job.  And now that I have the confidence, humor, and ability to hold the attention of at least 50 kids at a time, I realize those are things I wished I had more of back then.  In other words, I wish I had the Ability and the Opportunity simultaneously …. But perhaps that is how you develop the ability, over time.

I was speaking with someone new in the ministry last week and we were talking about reading lists.  I said to her, the first book I read on the job was called, “You can sell anything by telephone.”  In fact, it was so helpful that one of my dearest friends said:  “The reason I volunteered was because Chris wouldn’t let me off the phone until I said YES.  She could sell toilet products to Eskimoes.”  Um, I think the phrase is:  “refrigerators to Eskimoes,” but hey, whatever they need, I’ll give them a call!

One of my working principles for culturing both volunteers and the teens was always this:  I will not ask you to do anything that I myself am not willing to do.  With this in mind, there were two young men that, as the time got really close to make their confirmation, reported they had not done their community service hours.  Are you kidding me?!  Why they waited that long, I will never know …. not unlike some people who would be in the Procrastinators Anonymous Club but never got around to filling out the paperwork.… So among the three of us, we decided to visit a nursing home to fulfill the hours there.  I went with the boys.  We had to come back with our rabies vaccinations, I mean, proof of TB shots, before we could start doing whatever it is that we were to do there.  I had no clue.

One man, a tall, thin, nonverbal Native American in a wheelchair, got a very big charge out of my teen Mike pushing him around the hallways.  When Mike paused to chat with me, the gentleman would make a huge pointing gesture with his arm as if to say, “Onward!”  and the pushing around continued.  I myself went into the recreation room.  My lesson for the day was there.  Except, I wasn’t the teacher; I was the student.  Apparently the Almighty gets a big charge out of role reversals and making us see things through a different person’s eyes.

Two women sat at the table with paints and projects.  Perhaps this initial vision is what turned me against nursing homes (for myself).  As an amateur painter at heart, I couldn’t imagine being old, in-bound, and given only three bad colors (think: brown, garish purple and avocado green) to paint with and crappy little pieces of children’s figurines that someone already wrecked.  That was the first impression that stuck with me:  how trapped they must feel!  Even people who aren’t artists need better colors – or at least primary colors to mix and play with.  Someday, I’ll be organizing a break-out from my nursing home to go to one of the craft stores to get real supplies!

The two ladies in front of me, however, were not really painting anymore.  No surprise there, given what I just shared with you, right?  What was most striking about them, as I stood behind listening to their conversation, was the personality difference.  It was like a lesson in spirituality:  namely, acceptance with joy brings peace.

Louise sat in the chair and forced out the bitter words, “Here I am in this place and my kids are off living their lives.  I don’t deserve this.”  She raised a fist to the sky and addressed the Almighty, “Why don’t you just kill me?!”  It was too much like someone living out the bad advice from Job’s wife in the Old Testament, “Job, look at all your suffering.  Why don’t you just curse God and die!”  I stepped back a pace, afraid the Boss would take her up on the request.  I was too young to get struck by lightning. 

She re-grouped her powers and continued, “They brought me to this place.  They took my cat <insert a lump in throat here> and put her to sleep … and then they brought me here.”  My eyes widened.  I considered my own household at the time:  if someone put my dog down … they’d need an elephant tranquilizer to get me to the nursing home.  To use the redneck expression best fitting it:  “I’d tear the place up.”  You know how our minds are:  we consider, we are horrified, we plan for the unlikely.  Nonetheless, I get slight chest pains as I type this. 

She tried for a third, brief rant:  “I hate my life.  I want to die.  I have no friends.”

What do you do with that?

And ever so sweetly and quietly, the woman who sat in the wheelchair next to her reached her hand over and placed it on Louise’s arm.  “Oh, Louise, you have me.  I am your friend.”  <excuse me I have something in my eye. >  Louise turned her weathered face to look at Suzie with her shining, yet wrinkled cheeks and silver bun of hair on her head.   “Suzie, you are a good friend.  Yes.  A good friend.” 

Suzie offered a new perspective, “Louise, we have lived our lives and now our children are trying to live theirs.  They have jobs, …. And we can be happy here.  I thank God for my life.  And I thank God for you.” 

Louise was not an immediate convert.   Yet she did soften and the comfort of her friend took on a new meaning for her:  she was no longer alone because someone dared to touch, to care, to speak.  And as for me, I drifted away …. Far, far away to another place and time and yet they live in my mind eternally as that one moment.  The poignancy of compassionate love – really, the touch of God to a human heart – and I see them again as I left them.  And then I think about the bastards that killed her cat. 

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