Horses and Other Blessings

My Daddy had a lifelong love of horses.  When he was about fourteen, he was able to acquire one of his own.  Her name was Sally. I grew up hearing all about Sally and what a wonderful horse she was.  I always felt a little bit cheated that she died before I was born and I never got to meet her.  I thought we would have been good friends.  She sounded like a horse I could really like.  

I don’t know what exactly constitutes a smart horse, but I think Sally was smart.  For all I know she was just an average horse, but I always considered her to be right up there in horse brain power.  Sally had to be a little bit smart, because she was able to learn some tricks.  One of my favorite stories about Sally is her “Giddy up” trick.  Here’s what happened.  Daddy secretly worked with Sally and taught her to stand up on her hind legs when he said, “Giddy up.”  I always thought that was a great trick, but it caused some trouble.  My grandmother loved Sally, too.  And she liked to ride her because Sally was so gentle.  So, when Grandma decided one day to take Sally for a ride, she didn’t know about Sally’s new trick.  Grandma said, “Giddy up, Sally.”  Sally did.  And dumped Grandma right on the ground.  It was a while before anyone was impressed with Sally’s new trick.  

I grew up knowing all about Sally.  I spent a lot of time wishing for a horse just like her.  If Daddy loved her, then I knew I would love her.  Never did get a horse.  

Knowing how much Daddy loved horses, my brother and I conspired to get him a very special birthday present one year.  My plan to get him a horse like Little Joe Cartwright’s had failed miserably.  But I still wanted him to have a horse.  I talked my brother into helping me buy him one.  My brother and I pooled all of our money – and it wasn’t much.  It wouldn’t even buy a thought of a horse.  But I had a plan.  I knew how much Daddy liked Appaloosa horses and I had seen one at the toy store.  It was a plastic (but nice plastic, keep in mind) horse, but it was an Appaloosa.  We begged Mama to drive us to the store and bought it immediately with all the change we owned.  Neither one of us had a paper dollar bill.  

We wrapped up that horse in birthday paper and presented it to Daddy.  He acted like it was the best present he ever received.  I told him how sorry I was that it wasn’t real, but it was the only Appaloosa we could afford.  Years and years went by and I forgot all about that horse.  And one day, I saw it in his house on a shelf – like it was something special.  Later, I found out that he would never let any of the grandchildren play with it or even touch it.  After Daddy died, I got the horse.  The Appaloosa is now in my house on a shelf – and nobody plays with it – ever.  Want to meet him?  Here he is.

And that is how it is with God and me.  It isn’t necessarily the costly, gigantic blessings that are cherished the most.  It is often the little things – things that wouldn’t mean anything to someone else, but mean a lot to me.  This cancer journey has taught me a lot about blessings.  They come in so many forms.  Cards and notes and e-mails and phone calls and prayers.  My sweet friend who visits me during chemotherapy and brings me lunch.  The people who pray for me when I feel almost too sick to pray for myself.  The care packages that come in the mail.  A cousin who has encouraged me to name my wig.  A special parking space at work near the elevator.  The  list goes on.  And they are all priceless gifts.

I get it now about my Daddy and the horse.  It would appear to most folks to be an insignificant gift, but it meant so much to him.  It was a gift from the heart and purchased with all we had to give.  That’s what God did for you and me.  Gave us His most precious gift from the heart, paid for with all He could give. 

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.   James 1:17

Buck vs. Stubby

My daddy was a first generation American.  His father immigrated from Sweden, passed through Ellis Island, and ended up in Chicago.  That is where Daddy was born.  Daddy lived in Chicago until he was about thirteen or fourteen and then the family moved to Delavan, Wisconsin.  My grandfather owned a business.  If you could make something out of bricks and/or stones, Grandpa could do it.  Daddy worked along with him and learned all about quality workmanship, under-promising, and over-delivering. 

Grandpa owned a chunk of land in Wisconsin and had lots of room for animals.  One of the animals was Buck, a dog.  Buck was long-gone to dog heaven before I ever heard of him.  It didn’t stop me from admiring him.  Buck was a pet, but he was also a self-taught guard dog.  He was friendly and loved visitors – everyone was welcome.  You could come on the property, visit, stay as long as you wanted – no problem.  When you left, it was absolutely against Buck’s rules for you to take anything with you.  Even if you had brought it along and it was yours to begin with.  Buck apparently viewed everyone as a potential thief and saw it as his job to provide adequate security service.  I always thought it was very commendable of Buck to be so concerned about his family and their belongings.  And I thought it would be great to have a dog of my own just like Buck. 

One day, our neighbor’s dog had puppies and we somehow ganged up on Mama enough that she said we could have one.  I was beyond thrilled.  I was about to have a Buck to take care of us.  Our puppy was named Stubby and I loved him immediately and unconditionally.  Stubby was no Buck.   There is no kind way to say this.  Stubby was not only a terrible guard dog, he was a thief.  This was in the days when everybody in the neighborhood knew everybody’s dog.  Dogs roamed around and visited wherever they wanted.  Stubby had the unfortunate habit of stealing mops and hauling them home.  It then became my job to find the rightful owner of the mop and return it with apologies from Stubby.  Stubby never reformed; he never turned from his life of crime.  It kept me busy. 

After my brother started school, I ended up being just about the only child on the block still at home.  So, Stubby was my companion and playmate and friend.  He didn’t mind if I dressed him up and pretended he was a girl. He didn’t mind wearing a cap gun tied around his “waist.”  Stubby and I spent a lot of time on the front porch.  He would sit in my lap and I would rock him in a big white wooden rocking chair. Sometimes I turned the rocker upside down and pretended it was a helicopter (with Stubby as my co-pilot), but mostly, I let it be a rocker.   I would sing to Stubby and tell him stories while we rocked.  We shared popsicles and Tootsie Pops and potato chips and Kool Aid.   Late one night, Mama woke Daddy to tell him about a noise she was hearing.  She thought someone was breaking in and she was worried.  There hadn’t been even the tiniest woof out of Stubby the Magnificent Guard Dog.  Daddy went to investigate.  The burglar turned out to be Stubby rocking himself on the front porch and bumping into the house with each backward motion of the rocker.  To this day, I remember Daddy saying, “What in the world has she done to that dog?”  Taught him to entertain himself – that’s what.

I loved Stubby so much that I quit wishing for Buck.  Everywhere I went on foot, Stubby went, too.  Guard dogs might just be over-rated anyway.  Mop stealing dogs don’t come along every day.  And he looked pretty cute in a dress.

By now, you probably know where I am – at the Cancer Center – I spend a lot of time here.  I learned a long time ago to stop wishing for what I don’t have and be thankful for what I do have.  Never wanted cancer.  Always wanted a closer relationship with God.  My journey has given me both.  Maybe, like me, you were wishing for a guard dog and got a bandit.  One thing is certain – if you spend too much time feeling sorry for yourself for missing out on what you wanted, you won’t have time to enjoy what you really got.  And you will forget to praise God in all things.  Don’t get me wrong – I never wanted to have to deal with cancer – but what else can I do?  Instead of talking about trusting God, I am trusting God.  There’s a big difference.  If it hasn’t already, some day your own journey may lead you from talking to acting.  And God will be right there. 

Guard my life, for I am faithful to you; save your servant who trusts in you. You are my God.    -  -  Psalm 86:2

No Erasers Allowed

I met Inez Barker when I was a newly minted five-year-old. My brother started first grade, and I was afforded all the rights and privileges that come with being the room mother’s child-still-at-home. Mrs. Barker was something else. I was mystified, terrified, and awestruck by her. She was the teacher every mother wanted her child to have. It was a day of rejoicing when we learned that my brother would be in her classroom. When I started school, Mrs. Barker was also my first grade teacher. I loved her so much. When I wasn’t scared to death of her.

First graders got evaluated on something called “readiness” for school. The problem was not really so much whether or not I was ready for Mrs. Barker and beginning my education. It was more a matter of whether the first grade was ready for me. Mrs. Barker, you see, had her own ideas about learning. She preferred a “blank slate,” and her ideal pupil was one who had not attended kindergarten. Mrs. Barker did not want her students to waste time “unlearning” bad habits. So, my mother, in anticipation of and praying for first grade with Mrs. Barker, did not send me to kindergarten. Unfortunately for Mrs. Barker, she was not getting the tabula rasa she was expecting in me.

I started first grade knowing a lot of things. I loved books, so I took to reading naturally. The alphabet, sight words, colors, numbers, shapes, letter sounds – all those things were fun to learn. So, I went ahead and took care of that long before I started first grade. My brother helped me and would share all the new stuff when he got home each afternoon. Life was good. I couldn’t wait to go to school and be a real first grader.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Barker found me a little too “ready” for school. I had learned things my own way, and my ways were not always her ways. We might or might not have clashed on occasion. Mrs. Barker had one quality that I found truly disturbing. She hated erasers. All of her students were required to use those big, fat first grade pencils. And they could not have an eraser. If your pencil came with an eraser, you had two choices – you could do what I did and get your daddy to saw it off, or Mrs. Barker would whack it with the hammer that she kept in her desk expressly for that purpose. She got rid of the entire eraser and half of the pencil that way. She would not allow you to erase a mistake. Her method was this – if you mess up when you are writing, draw an “X” over your mistake and do it again. No erasing allowed under any circumstances. Not that it mattered – there were no erasers. I had a hard time forming some letters the way she demanded. Part of that was not my fault. A right-handed child taught by a left-handed mother can create some quirks. I still iron with the ironing board pointing in the “wrong” direction.

So first grade progressed and I did my best to be a good student. I was pretty successful and usually didn’t talk or cause any problems. But, one day, I just got so frustrated about all the “X” marks I kept making to “erase” my mistakes that I couldn’t take it any longer. I said, “I really NEED an eraser. PLEASE!” I said it too loud. Mrs. Barker was not happy with me and I got punished. Sort of. Her version of “time out” was putting you in the supply closet by yourself. I got sent there for my outburst, but it was hardly punishment to me. I had a grand time cutting up construction paper, gluing petals and leaves together to make the most beautiful flowers, adding glitter because it was so pretty. This is the best punishment ever! Who wouldn’t want to do this? This is so much better than adding or spelling. Wish I had found out how to get here sooner! When my time out was over, Mrs. Barker opened the door to set me free. She was most unhappy with me, but even she had to see the humor in it. I was the very last person ever sentenced to the supply closet. From then on, the offender had to sit at a single desk under the American flag – in easy sight of Mrs. Barker.

So, here I sit – once again in the Cancer Center – this time just getting my iron topped off, but still a time-consuming thing. There was a time when sitting still for so long would have been such a burden – and I mean fairly recently, too. I don’t “do” still very well. What I might have viewed as punishment in the recent past has turned into a time when I can reflect on God’s mercy, grace, goodness, and love. I have said before that I have never been more certain of God’s love for me. And today, it is kind of like being punished by spending time in that first grade supply closet. There is an abundance of good stuff here for me and I am thankful for time to reflect on how God uses some of the darkest times to bring us the most light.

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written: "For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered." No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. - Romans 8:35-39


P.S. You know how at the end of the year, teachers will sometimes write notes on your report card? My brother got one from Mrs. Barker that said, “David has been a pleasure to teach this year.” I got one that said, “Susan seems to enjoy art and is very creative.” Hmmm. Wonder what that was about.

Fried Apple Pies

My granddaddy had a lot of brothers and sisters – nine in all.  One of his sisters was Aunt Sissy.  Her real name was Pearl, but everyone called her Sissy.  Everyone except my brother.  Once he found out her real name, that is what he called her.  My Aunt Sissy and his Aunt Pearl.  He could not be persuaded to call her anything else.  She thought it was funny and seemed to like it, coming from him.  Nobody else could get away with that “Pearl” business.

Aunt Sissy lived in a big white house with a porch that wrapped around three sides.  My favorite side was the one with the swing.  The house really belonged to my great-grandmother - that would be Nanny.  Her name was Sally, but even my brother called her Nanny.  Uncle Reese (Aunt Sissy/Pearl’s husband) also lived there.  They had boarders who lived there and certain meals were included for the boarders.  Everyone ate at a huge table at the same time.  Boarder or not, if you wanted to eat, you showed up at the table with your appetite and on time.  Aunt Sissy did most of the cooking.  But she only did it once a meal.

When I was a child, I think people must have been made of sterner stuff.  Nobody with a delicate constitution would have survived some of those meals.  Here is why.  At Aunt Sissy’s house, they observed a weekend ritual that would probably kill us today.  On Saturday, they did all the cooking for both Saturday and Sunday.  The food for Sunday’s lunch went on the table on Saturday, but it didn’t get eaten until after church on Sunday.  It just sat there all night and through the morning, everything covered over with a tablecloth or two.  After lunch, it got covered up until time to eat again that evening - after growing who knows what kind of micro-organisms all day.  Nothing got heated up.  You just ate what was there at whatever temperature it happened to be.  If you didn’t like it, you didn’t have to eat.  Simple.  Nobody got coddled.  Not even the paying guests.  I have no idea what they ate for breakfast – but whatever it was, it was not cooked on Sunday morning.

I think Aunt Sissy was credited with being a pretty good cook, but there was one thing she made that was just awful.  Fried apple pies.  At least that is what she said they were.  You wouldn’t have known it.  They weren’t pies as much as they were just big gobs of greasy dough with some apples inside.  We mostly didn’t like them at all, except for my brother who LOVED them.  He praised them so much that every time we went for a visit, Aunt Sissy would whip up a batch just for him.  And send them home with us – in a brown paper bag that very quickly developed large greasy patches.   Before we could drive the sixty miles home, the greasy spots grew wider and wider until they met one another and the whole bag was soaked.  No way would I eat one of those things.  Even as a kid, I knew they were just – wrong.  

One of the things I loved about Aunt Sissy’s house was the old organ.  It was the kind you had to pump with your feet.  I didn’t know the first thing about reading music or playing an organ.  I just knew it had lots of knobs to pull on, lots of keys, and made the greatest noises ever.  I didn’t even try to use it for the intended purpose.  My goal was to make it blare the longest, loudest, most continuous racket possible.  I was usually very successful.  Nobody else really appreciated my organ playing.  I think most people viewed it the same way I viewed the fried apple pies.   Pretty awful and completely unnecessary.  I was sentenced to sit in the porch swing more than once for my organ playing escapades.  

Sometimes I think God must look at me and see a human version of those fried apple pies and organ playing.  I don’t think He is ever surprised at who is making all the noise or conjuring up some sort of inedible mess.  I think He loves me (and you) just the way we are.  He sees us just like my brother saw Aunt Sissy’s fried apple pies.  He loved her and he might have loved those awful pies because she made them especially for him. When we are feeling pretty worthless, God looks beyond the commotion and sees the person who caused it. All the noise and failures in our lives can fit into His perfect plan for us.  He sees our hearts.  That is what matters to Him.  Aunt Sissy was a terrible fried apple pie maker.  But her heart, well, that was something else.  

So - sitting through another chemotherapy treatment now and I’m pretty sure God knows what’s in my heart.  This is not where I would choose to be – except for how close it brings me to my Heavenly Father and how assured I am that He loves me –even the noisy mess that I can often be.

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.  -  Luke 12:34

Cochise, The Cartwrights, and Me

My daddy loved the horse that Little Joe rode on Bonanza. It was a black and white pinto and its name was Cochise on the show. It had another name in real life, but it was Cochise to us. My favorite was Chub (ridden by Hoss, of course). I thought Sport (ridden by Adam) had pretty feet. Buck (ridden by Pa) seemed a little prissy to me. Anyway, I always wanted Daddy to have a horse just like Cochise, so I decided that I would get him one. My plan was pretty simple, but full of flaws. I was about eight years old when I hatched this idea. As far as I was concerned, it was a brilliant scheme. I would marry one of the Cartwrights. Then, I could find out exactly where they got Cochise and ask them to get one for Daddy. They were rich and they could afford it. I didn’t care which one I married. Adam, Hoss, Little Joe, or Pa – made no difference to me. Secretly, though, I was hoping it would not be Pa. He wasn’t so fortunate in the wife department and had already had three of them to die on him. I was thinking that I might fare better with one of the sons. It wouldn’t be a bad life. I could live at the Ponderosa and make trips to Virginia City to shop. I wouldn’t have to cook, because Hop Sing was there and he was already the cook – and I suspected he was responsible for the laundry, too. The house was huge and nobody would stop me from sliding down the banister of that big staircase. I always admired Adam for building that house and having the good sense to include that great big fireplace.

One night while we were watching Bonanza, I told Daddy about my plan to get him a horse just like Cochise. To his credit, he didn’t laugh out loud. He did point out, in a very kind way, that the Cartwrights did not actually exist. What?? They do, too! I see them every week right there on television. They live in Nevada, for crying out loud. It’s a long way from Alabama, but so what? It still exists. And if I have to move there to get Cochise, so be it. Besides, if they aren’t real, my plan is doomed! I knew Daddy wouldn’t lie to me. I never felt quite the same way about Bonanza again. No Ponderosa in my future. My relief at not having to marry Ben Cartwright and meet an early doom did not overshadow my disappointment at missing out on that horse for Daddy.

I think God probably enjoyed all those plans, plots, and schemes I devised in my childhood. How thankful I am that I don’t have to depend on my own brainpower and abilities! And how thankful I am that God is always there - whether I am in a mess of my own making or otherwise – to rescue me.

Today, as I sit in the treatment room at the Cancer Center all plugged into bags of medicine, I am reminded of how much God loves me. This is not my life as I would have designed it, but I have never been more certain that God is going to take care of me. Your journey is not the same as mine, but it doesn’t mean it is easier. Just as difficult as cancer – only different. I loved my Daddy enough to marry Pa Cartwright. My Heavenly Father loves me so much that He gave me His Son. And He holds me close and comforts me – especially when my plans get all messed up. He loves you that much, too.

The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with his love, He will rejoice over you with singing.   Zephaniah 3:17

Cucumbers and Bleeding Hearts

I first discovered the Curb Market when I was a child.  My grandmother and I would venture there on Saturday mornings to buy cucumbers.  We would take the cucumbers home and turn them into pickles.  The whole process took nine straight days of tending to those cucumbers, slowly transforming them into sweet pickles.  I don’t even like pickles – not any kind of pickles – but making them is fun.  Folks have booths at the Curb Market where they sell things like corn, tomatoes, peas, and butter beans.  And cucumbers, of course.  I especially loved to watch the machine that shelled peas.  I really didn’t mind shelling peas, but I hated shelling butter beans and thought it would be worth the price to let the machine do it.  My grandmother didn’t think so.  In our family, we shelled our own peas and beans.  

Some of the people at the Curb Market had plants for sale.  They weren’t fancy like you would get at a nursery.  They were mostly just things rooted at home and stuck in used clay pots.  There was one that I loved.  I looked for it every Saturday that we went.  The lady who sold them said it was an old-fashioned Bleeding Heart – the vine type.  It had white flowers with red centers.  If I had asked my grandmother, she most likely would have bought me one.  It never occurred to me to ask.  

So . . . fast forward thirty years or so and I am in Tuscaloosa, Alabama having lunch with my friend Ronny Johnston - a friend with a green thumb.  We passed by a nursery and it reminded me of that Bleeding Heart.  I told him about it and he said, “Somebody at work has one in their office.  I’ll just get you a piece and you can root it.”  I had my reservations.   I love plants, but I sometimes kill them.  And I never know how it happens.  But he was so enthusiastic that I thought it just might work.  That little cutting rode 100 miles in a styrofoam cup of water sitting in the cup holder of my car.  I had doubts about it.  For many, many days after it got to my house, I thought it was going to die.  It got all droopy and some a lot most almost all of the leaves fell off.  Things were looking grim, but I persisted.  I put it in a glass jar so I would be able to see any roots that had the courage to appear. Every day I inspected it and said encouraging things to it.  Nothing happened.  Finally, when there were two (2) leaves left, I conceded defeat.  I had made my peace with it and was ready to give up, throw the whole thing in the trash, and forget about it.  A Bleeding Heart was not in my future.  I picked up the jar to give it one last look and I saw what amounted to a miracle.  There was the tiniest thread of a root emerging from that cutting.  Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure that it was a root, but I somehow convinced myself that it certainly was and put that jar right back on the kitchen counter.  It deserved a chance.

After I was sure that there were plenty of roots growing, I planted the Bleeding Heart in its own pot.  I was ready for that thing to bloom.  I waited and waited.  It did not bloom.  It grew and grew and grew.  It did not bloom.  It had magnificent leaves and sprouted all sorts of new vines.  But it didn’t bloom.  I fed it, watered it, put it in a nice place where it would get sun but not get too hot, checked on it daily, and told it how much I believed it could do it.  It still didn’t bloom.  How is this possible?  I have done everything right.  It isn’t dead.  It is growing like crazy, but where are the flowers?! What more could that thing want?  Turns out, it just wanted time.  The first year, I got nothing.  The second year, I got beautiful blooms.  Lots and lots of them.

All I really needed was patience.  It wasn’t about me and what I could do for that Bleeding Heart.  It was about letting that Bleeding Heart do exactly what it was designed to do – bloom at the right time.  That is exactly how it is with us and God.  Sometimes, we push and fight to get our way when we really just need to let God do what He needs to do.  I am SO good at giving my problems to God.  I am EVEN BETTER at taking them right back.  That whole trust and obey business - it is a daily struggle for me.  Maybe it is for you, too.  There is a Chinese proverb that says, “Don’t push the river; it flows by itself.”  I have a real tendency to push the rivers in my life when all I need to do is let God plot the course for me.  He knows where He wants me to go.  You, too.  Get ready to bloom.

I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry.

--Psalm 40:1

And if God cares so wonderfully for wildflowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you. Why do you have so little faith?

--Matthew 6:30

P.S.  Keep praying!  Surgery on March 23^rd at 10:00 a.m.

P.P.S. Just before the first freeze of the winter, I cut back that Bleeding Heart and put the vines in a jar to try to root some more plants.  Here are some pictures  Those things are blooming in the jar!!  I think God is telling me something.

Big Plans

The summer when I was seven years old, I came up with a plan that I was absolutely certain would catapult me and my family straight into a lifetime of riches.  It all started with a vacation to the Smoky Mountains.  There were all kinds of things planned for that trip.  But the best part was something that wasn’t planned at all.

Along the way we kept seeing signs for some sort of a petting zoo with “exotic” animals.  The sign that really got my attention was one for a five-legged cow.  I couldn’t believe it.  What a great vacation!  Just as soon as I saw the five-legged cow sign, I started begging to stop in and see that wondrous animal.  And then I saw the next sign -  it seemed almost too good to be true.  The same place had a two-headed pig!  Unbelievable.  Who knew that such marvels even existed?!  Please, please, please, Daddy – can’t we stop?  Pleeeeease.  Pleeeeeease! I won’t ask for anything ever again.  Really.  Ever.  Daddy stopped.  We all piled out of the car.  Mama and Daddy already knew that this was a critter style freak show.  They tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen.  Are you kidding me?  There were signs!  There were pictures of the animals drawn on them!! They couldn’t put those signs up if it wasn’t true!   Well . . . yes, they could.  That five-legged cow – the one that was supposed to be walking around with four legs in the usual places and one coming squarely from its belly – oh, my.  Disappointed doesn’t begin to describe my feelings.  That fifth “leg” was barely a hoof sticking out of that poor cow’s hindquarters.  And then, of course, there was the matter of the two-headed pig.  It wasn’t even a live animal that they were trying to pass off as a two-headed pig.  It was two pig heads stuffed and mounted – just like you would do to a fish or a deer head.  Even my gullible seven-year-old brain figured out pretty quickly that those two heads had not started life on the same animal.  I could not have been more disenchanted.  I had been hoodwinked.  My attitude was in the tank.  And then . . . I saw the bear.  Everything changed.

There was a gift shop at the “zoo.”  Seriously, it wasn’t much of a gift shop.  It was on par with the five-legged cow and two-headed pig.  But, in front of that gift shop, standing in the dirt and gravel parking lot, was something that made up for all my disillusionment.  It was an Indian with a bear.  A live bear on a leash.  In the days before being politically correct was more important than anything else, there were Indians.  They are now Native Americans.  This was an Indian.  He was all dressed up in buckskin-like clothes and a magnificent headdress full of feathers.  He scared me half to death.  But, he had a bear cub on a leash.  And . . . it drank chocolate milk.  Yep.  You could buy bottles of YooHoo or something like it in the “gift shop” and the Indian would then give the bottle to the bear.  That bear would turn it up and drain the whole bottle in a few seconds.  It was awesome.  I loved that bear.  I wanted one just like him.  

I knew we would be millionaires in short order if I had my very own chocolate milk drinking bear.  There would be so many people who would want to give him chocolate milk! I might even be able to teach him to drink Dr. Pepper or at least something more exciting than chocolate milk.   I could charge each person just a tiny bit of money and we would get rich quick.  I knew that my grandmother would make me an Indian outfit if I asked.  I was certain that nobody in Alabama had any sort of a milk-drinking bear.  This was a great plan.  I just needed a bear.  So, I asked Mama if she would get me one for my birthday.  Mama said, “No.  Absolutely not.  Bears are wild animals.”  She said no?!?  I should have asked Daddy.  So, I did.  His answer:  “No.  I thought you wanted a Barbie.”  Pleading was to no avail.  Now what.  No five-legged cow.  No two-headed pig.  No bear.  This was headed straight toward being the worst vacation in history.

Nonetheless, I still had lots of questions for that Indian.  Where did you get him?  What’s his name?  Does he like anything besides chocolate milk?  Can he use a fork?  Does he sleep in your bed? How old is he?  Does he bite? Does he have any toys? Can I have him?  And that Indian didn’t answer any of them. He never said one word.  I concluded that he was an Indian who spoke only an Indian language and he just didn’t understand English.  I had seen Indians like that on television.  I think it is much more likely that he took one look at me, saw a bottomless pit of questions, and decided that playing deaf would get rid of me a lot quicker than anything else. I left that “zoo” empty-handed except for the consolation prize of a bottle of Nehi Grape.  

Some of the problems I bring to God might seem as foolish to Him as my request for a chocolate milk drinking bear.  I am thankful that God understands my needs and listens to my prayers – even when I must seem to Him just like I seemed to that Indian -  yet another bottomless pit of questions and petitions.  I am thankful that He doesn’t lure me in with promises that He won’t deliver.   I am thankful that when I am facing something scary, He has already given me His promise of love and protection. A sweet Internet friend sent me this verse:

 So do not fear, for I am with you;
   do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
   I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41:10

If you are keeping up with my ongoing journey, my cancer surgery will be on March 23^rd.  Psalm 91 is my prayer. Pray it for me, please.  And, I really like Isaiah 41:10, too.