The Doggie Door to Paradise

This has been a busy month so far. We celebrated May Day (or as non-English speaking freedom fighters like to call it—Cinco De Mayo), my husband had his fiftieth birthday (which he barely noticed cause we worked the whole day), and I was treated to my own special day on the 9th (they called it Mother’s Day, cause I guess I’m the mother of all mothers).

My husband surprised me by purchasing tickets to Hawaii this year instead of planning another cross-country driving trip. So, when we get back I will certainly have many stories to share. Lots of stories—but none that have to do with catching waves or snorkeling, or cliff diving—cause all of those things require my face to be submerged, making it impossible to breathe. I can’t swim and all hope is gone that I will ever learn. I’m not sad about that, just confident. Yes—just like the aliens in “Signs,” my weakness is water.

Of all the things that could kill me while on an island in the pacific, drowning is probably way up there, but hot lava from an inactive volcano could be second. I’m not going to worry my little head about such things though. I’m just going to enjoy the adventure, deepen my tan, and make out with my husband in the surf like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity. (Well, only if we have our own deserted beach. We’re not exhibitionists, you know)

In the meantime, I have been trying to teach my dogs how to go through their new doggie door. That magnetic flap is freakin’em out. But I’m confident that by the time we leave they will have either learned to go through that thing or they will be living at the pound with all the other pound puppies. No, we are not leaving them on their own, but my daughter is suddenly working crazy hours and so they will be left for more hours than a tiny dog bladder can hold for. It was either a doggie door or I was going to roll up all my carpets, cover the floors in plastic, and hope for the best.

I have learned that they will go through the door for treats, French fries, or Apple Jacks cereal. Unlike chickens, they will not go through the door just to get to the other side. So, the trick will be to get them to go at the appropriate time without bribery. The stakes are high, as I would not enjoy returning to a house that smells like the backside of a garbage truck after vacationing in paradise.

So, for those of you who aren’t going to Hawaii, you have my sincere condolences. But I promise I will enjoy myself enough for all of us. And pictures will follow. Of course, I don’t know who is going to shoot the scene of my husband and I in the surf…

Ransomed Dreams

Ransomed Dreams by Sally Johns (Book Review)

When I started reading Ransomed Dreams I didn’t really know what to expect. I’d never read any other books by Sally Johns. The prologue starts off with a bang as the main character relives the terrorist shooting that has left her husband an invalid and herself a fearful recluse. But from the very first chapter this story is totally character driven. It deals with broken things. Broken relationships. Broken dreams. Broken health. Broken trust.

Eliot Montgomery, US Ambassador to Venezuela before the shooting, and his wife Sheridan, now live hidden away from everything and everyone they once knew, in a tiny Mexican village. Eliot lives in a half-drugged state most days, oblivious of his wife’s needs and loneliness. Sheridan lives in fear of the world outside their tiny orbit, resentful of her husband’s pain, and at odds with the path that God has set her on.

When Sheridan receives a message from her older sister that their father is dying, she doesn’t want to go, but the message indicates something more—family secrets to be revealed—so she reluctantly leaves her husband with friends from the village and goes to Chicago for the funeral.

Ransomed Dreams is the story of one woman’s journey through the darkest days of her life, searching for answers from a God she has always conversed with, but now can’t seem to hear. It’s the story of forgiveness and love. It isn’t filled with clichés or easy answers, but with pain, doubt, anger, temptation, and ambivalence, that only Christ can heal, bind-up, or allow the strength to endure.

Ransomed Dreams is a story that grows on you as you delve deeper. There are times I didn’t like the characters very much, other times I could feel exactly what they were feeling. Sally Johns has a way of getting to the heart, cutting back layers one at a time until her characters are revealed—bare, open, and needy. Which in reality is the moment Christ desires to cover each of us with his redeeming love.

Tyndale House Publishers has provided me with a complimentary copy of this book.

It's a Dog's Life

I was sitting here enjoying a cup of coffee when I had an epiphany—okay, maybe not an epiphany. But a really clear insight. This insight didn’t come through a window, cause I haven’t washed them lately. It came as I was watching my dog sleep peacefully in the corner beside me.

Yes, my dog. Rugby is a very needy animal. He craves attention, food, and love all the time. No matter how many times I pet him, feed him, give him fun toys to destroy, and tell him he’s the best dog in the world, he always wants and needs more. Sometimes when I think about it—it seems like a daunting and tiring task.

But aren’t we exactly the same with our heavenly father? We desire attention, long to be fed on a regular basis, ask him for things we need or for situations to change that we deem impossible, beg for his forgiveness when we screw up and ultimately need to know that we are covered by the canopy of his never-changing love.

Unlike dogs, that trust implicitly, we don’t always curl up on our bed each night and rest soundly that our Master will care for us. Sometimes our trust is braided together with selfish insecurity. We only trust as far as we can see. The future is a cloudy, grey sky. What if God doesn’t know what we need? What if he can’t see that things will change and we won’t be covered when the rain comes?

Rugby trusts I’ll be here when he wakes up. He trusts his bowl will always be filled. He trusts I’ll take him for walks and clean up after him. (In fact, he knows I treasure those piles, for I put them in little plastic bags and save them in a large blue container with a lid) He trusts that I will love him and care for him always.

I’m not the perfect master. In fact, I have been known to forget to fill his water dish and don’t realize until he comes into my bathroom and begins to lick water from the bottom of the shower stall. But God never forgets. He is the perfect master. He supplies all our needs. In fact, he knows what we need before we do.

I guess my epiphany is simply about trusting—like a dog. It works for Rugby.

Give Back Program

It’s May Day again, and the protesters are supposed to be out in force in all the big cities across the country. Remember simpler times when May Day meant leaving a basket of fresh, beautiful flowers on someone’s doorstep? Well, flowers are now outrageously priced, so maybe that has something to do with the shift in celebration--but protesting immigration laws? Really? How May Day is that? Not beautiful at all. Just noisy and boisterous, probably unruly and definitely ridiculous.

What if we had a day to celebrate criminals that break into cars and steal stereos? Protesters could smash car windows everywhere, screaming that the law was unfair to keep them from such things, and enforcing jail time for such lawless, sticky-fingered stereo bandits was totally unpatriotic.

Personally, I’d like to give something back on this happy May Day. I think we should have an even-steven exchange. For every illegal person crossing the border and taking up residence in our country, we should send back over the border one of our presently incarcerated citizens. That way the money we pay to feed, clothe, buy workout equipment, and big screen TVs for each prison inmate should about cover the non-citizen’s free healthcare, welfare, internet hookup, and Welcome to America care package. I've heard that they’ve already got so many criminals across the border they’ll never notice a few million more anyway.

But I’m pretty sure it will never happen. Cause no one takes my ideas seriously.

So, instead I planted flowers today. My yard looks very May Day ish—even without illegal aliens sneaking over my fence. Happy May Day!