The Poetry Corner

Despite my best efforts to be disciplined, I am not doing so well with my resolution to add a weekly post to this blog.

I am being reminded why I have never amounted to anything as a writer. It's that pesky discipline thing. There are always a thousand other things you should be doing, and the people in your life are always tugging you in different directions.

To find a few moments of peace, and the energy and inspiration to say anything remotely worthwhile at the same time, just doesn't happen too often.

Hence, the importance of discipline. Which I sorely lack.

Anyway, for today I shall cheat, and post an old poem, instead of conjuring up new words of wisdom.

Do not be alarmed. I write very little poetry, and most of what I do write will never see the light of day. The world is drowning in bad poetry, and I have no desire to add to the cesspool. However, once in a great while something pops out that I feel must be a gift from God, because it just rings so true.

The Lord has led me through some troubled times on my journey, many of my own foolish making. As I look back, I am thankful for the wonderful people he has brought across my path to minister to me when I needed extra attention.

Nickee was one of those people, a very kind woman who befriended me at work when I was struggling mightily through a long period of doubt and depression. Hence the title of the poem. Don't read too much into this. There was nothing unseemly or illicit going on. This was a nice platonic relationship, among several good friendships that I have enjoyed with some kind women at different times in my life.

God is good, and he has been very good to me. So, without further blather, the post for this week...

With Thanks to Nicole

Sometime in a dark little room God will place you
when your heart is all tatter and fray
so that all of the sorrows of life come to face you
while there's no room for running away.

There are shadows of darkness that forever could blind you
and make you forget what you've known.
There are terrors in darkness just waiting to find you
defenseless and tired and alone.

When dreams turn to ashes too many to bury
and grief covers hope like a shroud,
you can give up your heart; it's too heavy to carry --
too stubborn, too cold and too proud.

Yet hope whispers softly, faith flickers undaunted,
though there's no air to breathe anymore.
Then the God of all comfort, who now has what he wanted
sends an angel to open the door.

A Farewell To Max

My dog died this evening.

We had adopted Max in the fall of 1999, when he was about five years old.

Marguerite, a friend of mine, had lived next door to Max’s original owners. They had bought Max as a puppy, and had his papers – he was a full-blooded blonde Chow and they had paid $300 for him.

A short time afterward, when the woman next door died, her husband was so consumed with grief that he moved away, leaving Max behind to be cared for by whoever happened to be renting the house. Max lived on table scraps and neglect, and Marguerite took pity on him, taking him food and water, and trying to find him a new home.

So we ended up bringing Max to our house. It was not easy.
Max had spent most of his first five years living alone in the back yard, with little love or attention from anyone, except Marguerite. He was not used to being around people, and he was pretty much scared of everyone.

The day we picked him up, Marguerite coaxed Max over towards the gate, bribing him with some doggie treats while sweet-talking him. I was concerned about being bitten by a spooked, frightened dog, so I had brought along a muzzle and some dog tranquilizers. We had slipped a tranquilizer into his treats, and after a bit, while he was relaxing and being petted by Marguerite, I got the muzzle slipped over his snout and carried him off to the back of our van.

I could tell Max was nervous, and I just stayed with him in the back of the van and held him during the short drive back to our house. I spent that evening just talking to him and hugging him, and through his drug-induced haze I think he began to realize that he had a new and better home.

It took a while for Max to warm up to the rest of the household. For a while, I was his only buddy on site. Marguerite stopped by a few times to check on him, and he was always happy to see her.

Max had been so neglected, for so long, that he kept to himself most of the time. Sometimes he did not even come to me when I called him. For a while, we were concerned that he would not ever bond with us.

As time passed by, Max became more affectionate. One major milestone was reached on the day that Max came into the house and laid down for a while in the living room. Prior to that he had always stayed outside, and he seemed afraid to cross the threshold from the back porch to the kitchen. But we had finally worn him down. He was becoming a member of the family.

Max was a Chow through and through. He was loyal, loving, yet at the same time, independent and stubborn. You could not make that dog do anything that he really did not want to do. He did not like having medicine put on a sore paw. He did not like sitting still to have his nails trimmed. He did not like being treated like a common dog, and would refuse to sit up and beg for treats.

The one exception to that rule was a pig’s ear. So irresistible was the aroma of a pig’s ear that Max would lose all self-control, and hop around like any common dog begging for a treat. I let him debase himself in this manner on several occasions, but then my conscience began to bother me. I knew Max would hate himself in the morning after forfeiting his dignity like that, so I would simply call him to the back door, graciously give him the pig’s ear, and watch him trot around the yard, snout pointed towards the heavens, pig’s ear lifted high.

After a proper procession, the feasting would begin. Another thing Max did not like: being disturbed while chewing on a pig’s ear.

Once, when I changed his brand of dog food, he expressed his displeasure like this: he picked up the bowl in his mouth, holding it high while he marched around the kitchen table for four laps. Then he walked straight up to me and flung the bowl down at my feet, then turned and walked away. I’m not the sharpest crayon in the box, but I did figure out it was time to get a better brand of dog food.

Max would not do tricks, or catch a Frisbee, or play ball. You couldn’t walk him on a leash, because he would drive you crazy since he was always picking up some stray scent and wanting to wander off to who-knows-where. Another thing Max did not like: being restrained by a leash when he wanted to wander off to who-knows-where.

Max did like getting his ears scratched. And his back scratched. And like all Chows, he liked to maneuver himself around so that the back-scratching turned into a butt-scratching – well, actually, an end-of-the-back-above-the-tail-scratching, but we always called it butt-scratching. Anyway, he liked it a lot. I don’t know how long he could sit there being scratched, because my arms always wore out before Max’s back did.

He was just a sweet dog, a dog that wanted to be loved, and who became part of our family. I am going to miss him.

He was aging, of course, and was getting arthritis. His hearing wasn’t good, and his eyesight was dimming. But until this evening, I had no clue of any major problems. Earlier today Max seemed lethargic, and I thought he was trying to vomit.

Before we left for a family get-together this evening, I took a few minutes to pet him and talk to him out in the back yard. I told him I was sorry he wasn’t feeling well, and I scratched his ears and back, wishing that I could do something to make him feel better. He just stood there quietly, and then I petted him one last time and left.

We got home later this evening, and right before I went to bed, I thought I would check on Max, and maybe let him in the house for a while to warm up. (Chows are furry dogs, and they love the cold weather, so he stayed outside most of the time.)

Stepping out the back door, I saw him lying on his side, right outside the porch. I called to him. I knew something was wrong. He was lying so still. I reached down to pet his neck. He was already stiff and cold. Some time between 5:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. this evening, Max laid down for the last time.

I am so glad I took the time to talk to Max and pet him one last time before we left this evening. I wish there was something else I could have done for him, but I had no idea he was so ill.

We never know how much time we have. We never know how much time anyone else has. It is a good idea to keep short accounts. Whether it is a pet, a spouse, a good friend or neighbor, we never know if we may be speaking to that loved one for the last time.

Another good reason why God tells us to always speak in love.

Learning Our Lessons

I had to apologize to my granddaughter the other day.

She spent the evening with us last Friday, and we had breakfast together on Saturday, then we played games and puzzles for a while in the morning before her mom came to pick her up.

She is a sweet five-year-old, but as all children can be, she was a bit of a pill during her visit. She has a pretty smart mouth for a child so young, and I have warned her, just as my grandpa used to warn me, “Someday that smart mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble!”

Her little smart mouth had been grating on me most of the morning, but I was trying to be pleasant and not make a big deal about. Eventually, though, I ended up doing the worst possible thing.

Instead of being a mature responsible adult and dealing with her at the outset of her offense, and nipping it in the bud, and controlling my irritation, I did, as I have already confessed, the worst possible thing. I snapped at her - rudely - right before she left to go home, which meant she could stew over the sting of my rebuke without us having a chance to discuss it.

Bad grand parenting. Two thumbs down.

It bothered me all week. I could still see the hurt look in her eyes, and I could still feel the limp, hesitant goodbye hug that I got before she left to go home.

God has a good reason for giving us a conscience. We should feel bad when we do something that hurts someone else. Guilt is a powerful motivator towards proper behavior.

Well, guilty I was, and guilty I felt. There was really nothing to do but humble myself before a five-year-old and ask for forgiveness.

I had my chance the following weekend, when we took Miranda and her younger cousin Zeke to the model train display at the Garfield Park Conservatory. The kids really enjoyed watching the model trains, and we had a nice time roaming through the tropical forest planted in the large conservatory greenhouse.

I grabbed a few quiet moments with Miranda while we were at the conservatory and grandma was chasing little Zeke down the forest’s pathway.

I asked her if she remembered me getting upset with her the week before. Of course, she did. I sat her on my lap, and looked straight at her. “Miranda,” I said, “I am very sorry that I hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you right before you went home. I love you and I never want to hurt your feelings. Will you please forgive me?”

I could feel the strain between us being erased.

“I forgive you, grandpa.”

Now that I had cleared the air, we were free to talk about why I was upset, and that her behavior had been inappropriate, and I even warned her that I would be paying closer attention in the future to her attitude, and that she would be in trouble right away if she was being a smart-aleck at our house.

Miranda was fine with all that. She understood it was fair, and she understood that we expected her to behave with good manners.

And then I got a good hug. A good hard warm “I-love-you-grandpa” hug, the kind of hug that grandpas live for. I was so glad at that moment that I had not quenched the pangs of guilt that my God-given conscience had been prodding me with.

I wonder if all of we grandparents and parents should examine our hearts more closely, and search out offenses against our children for which we need to ask forgiveness. If we love our children enough to humble ourselves before them when we blow it, we not only obtain forgiveness, and right a wrong, but we teach them an object lesson about repentance and mercy.

How will our children ever learn to repent if we do not teach them the concept by demonstrating it with our own lives? How will they learn humility unless they see us behaving humbly? How will they learn forgiveness if we never give them an opportunity to forgive?

Children need boundaries. They need discipline. They need to learn responsibility. They need our guidance and our love. Perhaps most of all, they need our good example.

So I beg you all to love your children. Do all of the “tough love” parenting stuff that God calls you to do. But when you mess up, as I guarantee you will (and probably on a daily basis) do not be too proud to humble yourself before that child and seek forgiveness.

God has a lesson for both of you to learn from the experience.