The Wall

"Some times people put up walls, not to keep people away. But to see who cares enough to tear those walls down."

I ran across this quote a couple weeks ago. But its truth hit home late last night.

I'd just finished reading a bedtime chapter with Noah, hugged him good night, turned off his light and went to load the washer one more time before going to bed.

Water was running. Suds were forming. I was turning clothes inside out and checking pockets for tissues, gum wrappers and the like, when Noah popped up beside me, looked up into my eyes and said, "Thanks Mom! "He grabbed me in a BIG bear hug and held on tight. I hugged him back and asked, "For what?" He whispered his reply and went back to bed.

Tears ran down my cheeks. This time, they were ones of joy. Hours earlier, I'd shed ones of despair.

Noah had tormented me all weekend long, pushing boundaries to see whether I'd cave into his demands to veg on the couch with the TV remote in hand, play computer games, eat sweet snacks, forego skiing, homework, church services, Sunday School and just about anything else that wasn't HIS idea. This afternoon when his tactics turned toward causing physical damage, I took him down onto the floor in a bear hug to physically restrain the spirited nine-year-old beast within. He lashed out in a struggle reminiscent of ones I had with my youngest sibling in her preteen years.

Oddly enough, that sister (now a successful career woman, wife and mother of two) called me yesterday. Among other things, we discussed those trial-some times. She reminisced, "I remember you (three) girls all got mad when Mom let me do things that you had to wait years to do. You said, I was too young. None of you wanted to do anything with me. SO, I know what Noah is going through... competing for attention with two older brothers."

In short, she understood why Noah was building walls of discontent.

My sister's savior was our mother. When Mom made the conscious decision to take her youngest under wing, things slowly began to turn around - but not without heartaches along the way.

Noah's short retreat to his room gave me time to vent and pray. I was making mini pizzas when he returned for the next go-round. Fortunately, he picked up the bag of Canadian bacon in truce and fixed two pizzas to his own liking. When supper finished, I offered Noah the chance to "earn" Pokemon cards for his collection by helping me put away laundry. "I don't want to," he snapped. "You don't HAVE to," I replied. "But that's how the boys built up their collections - by helping."

"Oh FINE!" Noah said running folded towels, pants, shirts and socks to various closets and dressers throughout the house. "Count Mom. Time me!" And so the game began. With three cards to his credit, Noah hopped in the shower. Then, Isaac offered Noah use of his PC to play the game that started the whole afternoon tantrum. I shook my head, "Noah's still got homework: math and a Valentine's mailbox for his class party.

"Math's not due until Tuesday," Noah quipped. I nodded, "But you need to start your mailbox TODAY - I'll help you." I dug out a shoebox, glue sticks, scissors and wrapping paper. Noah chose shiny red for the outside and penguin print for the inside. He explained how he wanted a regular mailbox door with a paperclip latch and a few penguins for applique. We worked together for two hours to see his vision through.

When it came time to make the door latch, I had to walk away. Noah INSISTED on using Dan's jackknife to make two slits in the door and attempted to spin the paperclip through in key ring fashion. I was certain the cardboard would tear, ruining our painstaking work. "It's the process not the product," I reminded myself as I paced - out of his sight - in the kitchen.

Noah beamed showing off the finished product.

He pointed to the paperclip I'd bent into a U shape.

He'd decided to insert and twist the ends to secure the tab.

"What do you think?" I asked.

He said, "Nobody else is going to have a Valentine's mailbox like THIS one."

Too true. The penguin appliques on the mailbox door wore glasses just like Noah. And he wrote out stickers with his name and "Peek-a-Booo!" to surprise his classmates when they insert their deliveries.


Noah hopped in bed. We read. He held out his arms for not just one but two long hugs. "Thanks for helping me with my box, Mom."

"Thanks for letting me help you," I said. Walking to the washer I thought about Saturday's struggle: tearing the TV remote out of Noah's hand, offering him the option of staying home with his ill dad and playing alone outside all afternoon (No Way!), ordering him to put his foot into the ski boot to check for proper fit, demanding he put on his winter clothes and coaxing him into the truck to come as my trail guide.

Yes! You can ride the chairlift by yourself, come find me on the bunny hill, let me know which runs are in the best shape and lead me to them. I NEED YOU, Noah!"

Oh so, carefully chipping away at the wall... letting it fall...

In that BIG bear hug by the washer, Noah whispered, "Thank you for everything, Mom, especially taking me skiing yesterday."

Tears of joy, love and hope.

My youngest child - on respite. And so, to me returns this quote:

Who cares enough to tear down The Wall?

Happy Valentine's Day!

Sign of the Times?

There's a cat "mrah-EOW"-ing at my door. She wants out. Am I ready for what she wants to bring in?

If I let "Tickles" out,

two months from now,

we'll have a basket of Spring Kittens.


We just finished placing her fall litter one week ago.

Promptly after Thanksgiving, I started advertising. I took advantage of our area newspaper's offer to run a classified Give-Away ad for one week at no charge. The result? Two calls. No shows.

I wondered, "Is this: A Sign of the Times? A struggling economy? Pre-Christmas hustle? No one with energy for a pet? Time to have Tickles fixed?"

Aaron's mama cat is most content raising babies. They're always playful and friendly. And since we started newspaper advertising for "Free Kittens," we've found "Good Homes" for all within the week-long run.

This time I questioned, "What's to be done? I can't keep SEVEN cats!"

"Have you tried Craig's List?" a family friend asked. "Of course, you'll get some responses from freaks."

Kittens Online.

I was skeptical.

My doubts heightened when I registered. Website administrators warned against offering "free" kittens, bunnies or any small pets. They advised: Charge at least a small re-homing fee to guard against abusive people and others who feed "free" critters to their pet snakes.

Cautiously, I wrote and posted:

Five playful kittens, litter-boxed trained, will be two-months-old Christmas Eve and are ready for placement in good homes.

Inquiries slowly rolled in.

Among the first questions was: "Are they FREE?"

As the red flag waved, I replied "Yes, to those offering a good home. We're warned against people using kittens for target practice or snake bait."

Appalled, the inquirers often launched into their personal histories with cats and other animals, sometimes listing the vet clinic they’ve used to keep their pets’ medical records up to date. In return, I told our family’s history with Tickles and her grown, neutered son, Blizzard, who was now convalescing in our house after leg surgery as well as these kittens’ birth story on September 24, 2009.

From that rapport, we found adoptive homes for all five kittens.

Our calico female was a Christmas present to a girl in Wisconsin. Her brother got a gecko. Our first orange male was a house-warming gift for a young man who wanted a pet at home waiting for him. The second orange male was the HIS part of an engaged couple’s HIS and HERS pets. Hers was a poodle pup. The third orange male was part of a family cat-n-dog set. Two weeks after the adoption, Mom wrote that the two now curl up together. And the fourth male – once the timid runt – spent two weeks in our house with Tickles and Blizzard gaining social skills. To our pleasant surprise, a local family whose son is in my Sunday School class, adopted “Tiger” to fill a spot on their MOUSER team.

A Sign of the Times?


If the sign is

Craig's List

and painted

with PATIENCE,

then

YES!



So-o-o-o.... I'm wondering, do I open the door? Marh-EOW!

Point to Ponder

"Often when we begin to do something difficult or challeng-
ing, we change our old ways a little but before long are back where we started – no change, no improvement in us or our society. I am struck by how in many ways Francis managed to transform Church and society by changing himself."

I read those words of a Franciscan nun this morning

thinking
about
the
challenges
I
have
set
for
myself,

renewing
my
commitment
to
them

and
pondering
the
idea

(click image above)

of adding a few new ones.

I thought again.

Maybe I should focus on adding

just ONE
challenge

and
stick with it, for good.


Happy New Year from Along Life's Road.

Merry Christmas!

We
woke
this
morning

to
old-fashion,
Christmas-
card
scenery.


Eight inches (20 cm) of fresh snow covered the ground and flocked the trees.

Dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt, Aaron ventured out into the elements.

There he discovered the WARMTH:

34°F (1°C) and sticky, spring-like snow.


He began to make
a Christmas snowman
and an unusual
Minnesota memory!

Merry Christmas from Along Life's Road via WebCam coverage.

Husband's Humor

It was December 20th, a couple hours after directing the Sunday School Christmas program. Dishes and laundry were piled high. Lunch was over and my husband laid on the bed comfortably enjoying the start of his two-week vacation.

I opened my laptop, started a new document and typed: "Hi, my name is Dan. My wife has assigned me the annual Christmas letter" and sat the works on his belly. He read the opening line and said, "What? Those haven't gone out yet?"

I shook my head, "Who's had time?" He grimaced. I handed him our family photo saying: "Use this for inspiration and make 'em laugh! We all need it."

Three hours later, I was making copies, writing brief messages, addressing and sending off this Husband's Humor!

***

Hello, My name is Dan:

I’m looking at a photo. Perhaps you are looking at it too. It’s a picture of a family. There’s the old man, old before his time. The beard and sideburns – turning a snowy white. The “French” hairline – in fast retreat behind the Maginot line. The jowls – best described as resembling a basset hound. The shoulders and chest caving, as if under a heavy weight. A forced, teeth-gritting smile adorns his lips. How could this happen? Perhaps the photo holds the clues.

Standing next to the old man is what appears to be a beanstock. (If only a person could climb it and find the hen that lays golden eggs.) But no, this beanstock hasn’t quite reached the clouds yet. Instead, after turning 15 in August, the beanstock started driving. So far, this experiment has been uneventful and even the insurance adjustor seems bored by it (or just waiting to drop the hammer until the actual driver’s license arrives). The beanstock has gained notoriety as the only form of plant life to captain a high-school cross-country team and play forward on the basketball team. Inside his sophomore class, the beanstock is also known for his academic and musical accomplishments. But at home, he remains modest, quietly sulking between his room and the refrigerator. More sunlight, some nitrogen and we may be able to harvest him next year.

Sitting in front of the beanstock is the bassmaster. The bassmaster watches too much Outdoor Channel and entertains fantasies of being the next Roland Martin. He began the 09 season by spearing his first northern and ended it by shooting his first woodcock. But he isn’t all grub worms and spinner baits. The bassmaster also played tackle for the 8th grade football team, and is getting all fired up for basketball season, measuring in at 5’ 10” with a wicked 4” vertical leap, he plans on dominating the boards. He practices by strutting like a rooster while intoning, “This is my house!” The old man responds, “Then why not vacuum the floor and pick up your socks?” The bassmaster was selected to join the high school band on their trip to Nashville this spring. As someone who struggles to maintain composure with his brothers on an hour-long car trip, the bassmaster will probably face expulsion after a bus ride to Tennessee.

Over in the opposite corner I spy a real poser. Thoughtful, composed, mischievous. “Isn’t he a little Dickens?” as the church ladies say. Dickens, ha! More like Torquemada. This grand inquisitor is responsible for more than half of the old man’s slouch. In between dodging his homework and raiding the cookie box, the Dickens amuses himself by stealing the old man’s pillow, hiding the TV remote and attempting to pull gray whiskers out of his beard. And to top it all off, he informed the old man that he has no intention of ever moving out of the house. This is OK, because the old man plans to apprentice him out as a carpenter or electrician and put the little bugger to work on home improvement projects.

In the center, right where she should be, is the crazy old woman, so described by the bassmaster because of the cackle and hoot she emits when teasing him about his many girlfriends. The crazy old woman has slowed down a bit, with no international travel or “part-time” work this year. Instead, she contents herself by folding four loads of laundry a day, buying and preparing $300 worth of food a week, and sneaking away to the vet to have emergency surgery performed on one of the mangy cats that live in the screen porch without telling the old man until the bill comes due. She is of course also very busy conducting Sunday School programs and baking cookies. Too busy, in fact, to write a Christmas letter.

So that brings us back to the old man, who enjoys composing Christmas letters nearly as much as he likes reading them. Despite being battle worn and haggard, despite being eaten out of house and home by a tapeworm-ridden gaggle that puts away more chow than a Great Dane coming off a Lenten fast, despite the crack of the whip and the pounding of the drums, the old man, if honest, would say that just like Grandma, he’s feeling rather spry. And he has good reason. Aside from a few compressed vertebrae and pinched nerves, everyone is in good health. In spite of the generally awful economy, the tribe has a roof over their heads and shoes on their feet. And despite not having one room in the house where he can find a minute’s peace, he realizes peace and joy are incompatible, or as Grandpa might say, there’s plenty of time for peace in the cemetery.

So the old man raises his glass and toasts some Christmas cheer for all the old men out there, old before their time, forced to write Christmas letters on a Sunday afternoon when they would rather be watching football or cleaning the toilet.
What, you wanted notes on family vacations and awful career updates and tales of MRIs and bunion surgery? You’ll have to wait till next year, when the old man has enough folding money to bribe the Dickens into writing the Christmas letter for him.
Merry Christmas, and if I may part with one piece of advice for the New Year: never try to change the bandage on the surgically reconstructed leg of a male cat by yourself.

Dan of the DWIAN clan

With warm wishes from Wendy and the hope of delivering the Gift of Laughter! May you find the babe in the manger working his wonders this season and throughout the year.

The Good Shepherd

The prophet Isaiah foretold
that through the family of


David the Shepherd Boy
turned King,


the Lord would
dwell among us.






David's descendants journeyed to their ancestral home remembering his words in Psalm 23:

The Lord is my Shepherd
I shall not want.
He makes me lie down
in green pastures,
he leads me
beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul....





God's Son was born

and laid

in a manger.


(Our "Mary" noted
this little guy
was filling in
for "Baby Jesus.")




Angels came down from Heaven announcing the Good News







to
shepherds

tending

their
sheep

at
night.




And a Star
led
Wise Men

bearing
gifts

from
the East

to
the Child.





"How Quietly"
the choir sang as the Nativity cast joined in with "Away in the Manger."

Meanwhile The Good Shepherd with his silvery shepherd's crook (in the background) made his way through the congregation



as the pianist played.


Then he announced:


"I, Jesus, am
the Good Shepherd.

The Good Shepherd
lays down his life
for the sheep."





Extending great thanks to ALL who participated in the Sunday School Christmas program. From the participating children, helpers, teachers, musicians and their families to the pastors and congregation who supported us in prayer, service and song, YOU made the performance a wonderful testimony of what we can do together as a church family to honor our Lord and Savior. May the joy of Christmas shine in you throughout the year!


And giving thanks for capturing these photo blips of three-weeks' work before my camera died. Resurrection or replacement will determine the next entry Along Life's Road.

Amber Waves of Maize

Oh beautiful
for spacious skies
for amber waves of grain
for purple mountain majesties
above the fruited plain.

America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good
with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea.

***

I couldn't help humming "America the Beautiful" today as the sun rose and lit the flag stationed on our neighbor's mailbox. Just beyond, the morning rays struck another neighbor's mature cornstalks, highlighting the field's rows. The flag-corn combination reminded me of soldiers standing at attention saluting our American flag amidst Amber Waves of Maize.

Giving thanks (for morning walks and more) as Thanksgiving draws near here Along Life's Road.