The unnatural course of events

When I decided to go ahead and drag the trash can to the curb, I had no idea I would enmesh myself in an unusual ethical dilemma involving cause and effect and my impact on the natural order of things.

But there in the grass, next to my driveway near the spot where I put the trash can and recycle bin each week, sat a gray, wren-like bird - obviously injured, as it didn't fly away even as I passed within a foot of it.  So I had Teri bring me out a piece of bread to see if it was interested in eating some crumbs, while I tried to figure out if there was any way I was going to be able to help it.

Meanwhile, across the street, two teenagers strolled down the sidewalk - one twirling a long stick of some sort - trailed by a black-and-white cat walking in the neighbors' yards.  The cat stopped to stare at one neighbor's house in response to the ruckus their dog started raising at its presence.  About that time, the bird must've decided I'd gotten too close for it's comfort, as it attempted to fly away, getting about halfway out into the vacant traffic lane before apparently remembering it couldn't really take wing at present.

The cat, of course, immediately recognized dinner, and made a beeline for the bird.

Well, normally I'd have no problem with a stray cat having its way with an injured bird - all part of the natural course of events - but in this case I felt somewhat responsible for having raised the cat's attention when the bird had just been sitting there inconspicuously until my curiosity disturbed it.  I couldn't just watch the cat pounce on the poor, injured thing.  So I ran out into the empty street and raised a ruckus, and the cat ran past the bird and me, through my yard, and hid out under my car, obviously waiting for the big creature to go away so it could get to its meal.  I was having none of that.

But as I chased the cat from under my car into the next-door neighbor's yard, I noticed that the thing looked fairly young, perhaps an older kitten.  And it soon approached and rubbed against my leg on the way by, so it seemed to be a friendly one, to boot.  Meanwhile, my wife, fearful of cats for quite some time now, stood guard over the injured bird, which we'd manage to chase back onto the grass before decatting my car.  And upon my daughter's arrival home, she made the observation that this young-looking cat was also pregnant-looking.

Well, our attempt to catch the bird wasn't working out too well, and here I was with an injured bird and a hungry, friendly momma-cat on my hands, along with a far greater sense of responsibility for things than a less-neurotic person probably would have felt.  Perplexed and grasping for a solution, I started walking up the street in the hope that the friendly cat would follow, fully expecting that if she did she'd likely follow me back home, too, but hoping maybe she wouldn't.  In that case, maybe we could then figure out what to do about the injured bird.  Somehow I got lucky on both scores with the cat, who finally sat down in a yard about a block away and decided in the manner that only cats understand not to trail me home.  Then I found a third bit of luck, in a way, with the bird: when I returned from up the street I couldn't find it anymore.

So nature will probably still take its course: some critter will probably eat the bird, and a young momma cat will probably find a meal, but at least I won't feel like that injured bird became supper primarily because of my intervention!

Nazareth missed the point

They included it on the U.S. version of Hair of the Dog, and it was probably their biggest hit.  They got the title right, at least, even if they were wrong in most of the lyrics.  Yes, love hurts.

I used to think that maybe that was only true when one or the other of the lovers (a word I'm applying more broadly than its senses of romance or sexuality) failed the other in some egregious way, or when tragic circumstances intervened to knock presumed destiny off its rails.  I've seen enough of the former, unfortunately, including being the offending partner, and have fancied myself the victim of the latter.

I've known better for some time now.  It seems to be part of the nature of love, of making ourselves vulnerable, that hurt becomes an inescapable part of it.  Those unwilling to hurt are incapable of loving well.  I started to post on Facebook a trite and overstated observation that love only hurts when you do it right, then realized how utterly ridiculous such a statement would be.  The truth is far more nuanced:  love's hurt is best and most worthwhile when you do it right.

Sometimes in this life we're blessed with the opportunity to love another, in family, in romance, or in friendship - the best marriages, including my own, combine all three - and to end up feeling the pain that results from whatever life happens to bring along the way.  Such pain is a gift, a small taste of the Father's great love for us that motivated God to move heaven and earth to be reunited with us, for our own sake.  To walk closely in God's love with a precious brother or sister for a priceless time that draws to its proper close is an exquisitely painful and unspeakably beautiful experience.

Auf wiedersehen, and vaya con Dios

Sorry to mix languages, but these two seem appropriate.

I believe I owe you the deepest and most sincere of apologies, though: I'm so sorry that I waited to nurture our friendship until I could see your departure approaching on the horizon, that I basically wasted the majority of your time here that could have been used to forge our friendship much sooner.  But I'm also convinced that it all happened in God's good time, and I'm so joyfully amazed at how you've become one of my very closest friends so quickly.  And I'm pretty pleased with myself for managing to follow through when, however many months ago now, I suggested that I'd be sure to cherish every available moment with you and your family before you left.

I'm hopeful for our friendship, for many reasons.  I know the chief one should be our shared faith, but can't help feeling a little more tangible comfort simply in living in the 21st century, when we have convenient ways of staying in close touch with one another.  I'm encouraged to learn that I've become someone who can have such a close friend without longing to make that relationship what it should never be, and I owe you my thanks for allowing me to discover that.  But mainly, I believe that you're going where God would have you, to continue to nurture you and your family.

Still, that hope won't keep me from being sad that I won't be able to hug you, to see your understanding smile or feel your reassuring pat on the back when you know I'm feeling challenged.  I know that this move is a lot more disruptive for you than it is for me.  Still, I can't help thinking about times I know I'll miss you, of how I'll be reminded of your absence.  Those reminders all involve wonderful parts of my life that will still be wonderful, but will now be missing someone who helped make them even more special.  I won't list the ones I've already thought of, but they are many.  You've touched so much of my life.  Yet my overarching feeling is not sadness, but gratitude for you.

I hope we get a chance to spend a few moments alone before you go, in which perhaps it will be okay to shed a tear of thanksgiving for the priceless gift you are to me, and to be reminded that you will always remain my dear friend and sister in Christ.

Create in me . . .

I know that it has long since been time to recommit myself to banishing the last traces of my stepfather's attitudes from my life.  Yet for the life of me I find myself clinging to his perspective.  I don't blame this on him, as it is entirely possible I'd have embraced the world's point of view even without him; after all, I'd certainly already taken steps along that road when he entered my life.  So even though I've never acted in accordance with those attitudes, chasing after cheap gratification in ways that casually disregard my loved ones and any commitment to purity, that part of me that still feels that I've "missed out on the 'fun'" has got to go.

I can't root it out myself, Lord.  Help me.

What a wonderful day!  We were expecting to be blown out of sailing by winds that were just too strong to be in everyone's comfort zone.  Instead, we were able to go out for a day sail of a couple hours.  Yes, the winds were pretty strong, and even using only the mainsail we were heeling over pretty well and moving right along.  I got some time at the helm, and really enjoyed it.  But before too long the winds were picking up a little more, and we headed back in.

After docking in an alternate location due to the high winds making it too challenging to get into our slip, and after helping two other boats get into theirs - though the wind was slightly less during their dockings - we had lunch on the boat, then headed back to the trailer for some relaxation time.  After a nice nap, our hosts' friends came over and we enjoyed a wonderful dinner together, played cards (Polish rummy), and called it a night.  Oh, and I think I probably drank more in one day than in almost any recent week, though gradually throughout the day, so was never felt at all even tipsy, let alone inebriated.  

Am hoping we'll be able to get in a little more time under sail today!

Learning to live with myself

A lesson that's so hard to learn

Even locked down in a prison

There's a cellmate with friendship to earn

It's harder to face up to the mirror

Leave all the habits on the shelf

Until He gives me the call

The hardest of all

Will be learning to live with myself - Merle Haggard

No more night light

As a courtesy to one another, my wife and I typically leave a light on in the bedroom for whichever one of us goes to bed last.  (I'm almost always in bed before her.)  We have a clip light in a window behind a curtain which serves this purpose pretty well without casting so much light into the room that it keeps us from going to sleep.  Those curtains are a fairly heavy material, so they also block and diffuse the morning sunlight pretty well.

So when I woke up, I was surprised to see that it was already daylight, and that Teri was up and out of the room already, to the point that she'd neatly pulled the sheet and covers up on her side of the bed.  The dog was out of the room, too.  I couldn't figure out how I'd slept so much later than she had.  I knew I hadn't heard her alarm, and figured she hadn't just gotten up and gone out to the sofa during the night - as each of us tends to do out of courtesy for the other when we're having trouble sleeping - as she wouldn't have made her side of the bed in that case.  Finally I rolled over to look at the clock, and was shocked to see I'd slept past noon.  I didn't panic over being late for work, as it didn't register that today was a work day.  But finally everything coalesced into an accurate picture of reality: it was only a little past midnight.

And, of course, the light in the room was from the light I'd left on for her when I'd gone to bed 90 minutes before.  I'd apparently fallen asleep quickly and soundly.  From now on, she's going to have to make due with the light from the hallway which, on the other side of a closed door, should keep me from having such a complete - or at least completely misinterpreted - awakening.