Craft Night

I always said I wasn’t going to move away from my beloved farm. Who would want to leave two adorable miniature donkeys that had no interest in becoming a cart-pulling duo and thought that a halter meant, “kick up your heals and run”? Or, the six chickens that laid more than eggs on our front porch? Then, of course, there were the four roosters that insisted the sun came up at 4 AM every day. Our home had the farmhouse charm of plaster walls that hated nails, eroding pipes, and an outdated kitchen and bathroom that I just had to remodel all by myself. Sure, the five acres required Bill to mow every weekend, and the barn needed rewiring before the malfunctioning stall fans started a fire, but that’s all part of farm living.  

Speaking of fires, we were always burning something at the farm, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. There was that time that Katie pulled the plumbing off the barn wall while trying to put out the tractor fire, but that’s another story. Along the fire theme, there was the time the house almost burned down due to faulty electric in the den. Luckily, Bill got Lulu out and put out the fire before it spread. Some of our friends had the audacity to suggest we should have let the house burn to the ground! Then, of course, there were the numerous bonfires that were responsible for Bill’s singed eyebrows. I also miss the sight of teenagers jumping through the blaze during one of my daughter’s epic parties. 

There are many things I miss about the farm: the quiet of the pasture, watching the horses galloping, milking the goats. Well, maybe I don’t miss the time the goat nailed me in my forehead during that one little milking incident.  Thankfully, I didn’t have to go to the hospital despite the fact I was knocked out and lying facedown in the barn for a short time.  I did have a goat hoof-print on my forehead for a week, but I survived.  Even though we had many near misses, like the time the saddle went sideways while Bill was riding the horse, I still miss the farm.

Moving was never on my radar. Living on the farm gave me the satisfaction of practicing veterinary medicine without the hassle of eight years of schooling. In high school, I took Latin so that I could become a veterinarian. It wasn’t in the cards for me to pursue that dream, but somehow, I convinced Bill that farming was the next best thing. So, I doctored my animal charges. I became the queen of birthing goats (even breach). I cured colic in horses and saved many a goat from dysentery. Sure, we did have a small pet cemetery in our pasture, but that wasn’t because my vet skills were lacking.  

Anyway, the time finally came when Bill announced, “We need to move!”  

“What!” I exclaimed, “I just finished soaking the kitchen hardware in vinegar, and the last pallet just went up in the bathroom! We can’t move now, the kitchen backsplash isn’t done, and I haven’t rewired the electric in the dining room!”  

“I’m tired of spending my weekends mowing!” Bill whined. “The farm is not a good place for Jenn in the wheelchair, and Devyn is tired of playing with the chickens.”  

So, after that heated exchange, I finally relented and agreed to look at houses in a neighborhood. My enthusiasm for moving was underwhelming. I continued to paint the kitchen cabinets and lookup goat cheese recipes as if I’d always be on the farm. I never entertained the thought that I was selfish. It seemed I was the only member of our family that loved farm living. Even Devyn’s rooster, RooRoo, couldn’t keep her from begging me to look for a house where there’d be real friends to play with.  

The house hunting brought us to a lovely neighborhood just a couple of miles from the farm. I tried to picture myself on a cookie-cutter block with houses that all had the same paint color, but moving into such a place would be a tough pill for me to swallow! I guess it was the pool and the pickleball courts that convinced me I could consider the move. When Jenn saw the pool and Devyn saw the kids playing, and I saw the looks on their faces, I knew my farm days were numbered.  

The two-story home that we set our sights on had five bedrooms and looked out over a “lake” (it’s more like a pond). Unfortunately, the house had a sold sign out front.  Jenn and I started visiting the neighborhood every day in search of the perfect home. Then, one day, as luck would have it, the “sold” sign in front of the two-story house was missing. I inquired at the office about the house, and I was told the deal fell through. The salesman told me we could buy the house if we sold our house over the weekend.  

“Okay.” I said with conviction, “We’ll get it sold.”  

We sold the farm that weekend. Just like that, we got an offer from the third couple that looked at our house. I know it was because the remodeled kitchen and the pallet bathroom looked so good!  

Now, we live in that two-story house overlooking the “lake.” Now, I have received at least 20 letters from the HOA (about once a month) addressing the wagon wheel I put in the front yard, the kayaks in the back yard, and other various infractions concerning our parking habits. All-in-all, the neighborhood has been a good thing for the family. Jenn loves the pool. Bill is closer to work, and it only takes him about an hour to mow the lawn. Devyn’s friends don’t have feathers, and I have organized a pickleball group. But, perhaps the most surprising change of all is that I am knitting on craft night! Yes, it’s true, I went from milking goats to knitting half a potholder (which has only taken me eight months). Maybe it will be done in time for me to give it to Bill for Christmas next year.

I could end this story by saying how sad I am that I left the farm, but that would not be true. The truth is, I have discovered that, despite the HOA, this neighborhood is made up of wonderful people. Craft night at the clubhouse is just code for “get together and laugh with friends.” Do we ever laugh! Granted, my potholder is the brunt of many of the jokes, but that’s okay. The friendships we’ve formed in our new neighborhood are priceless. They are worth far more than a few fresh eggs. I never thought I would say this, but I wouldn’t trade our craft night for all the donkeys and chickens in the world!

Shim and Hir

I need some clarification. In this politically correct climate, I can no longer say him; instead, I must say "shim." Ze, hir, and hirs are all atwitter in this land of hither and thither. I'm unsure, but I think she and he are no longer. Instead, I should say they or maybe you. Can I say you, or is it ewe? It can't be ewe since that would be a female sheep. 

I tried to figure out what was happening in our upside-down world. I found this simple explanation: sexuality (whom you go to bed with) and gender (who you go to bed as) are now flexible. 

Anyway, in light of the new gender-neutral grammar rules, I have written a children's story to explain this confusing new way of looking at the world and the people in it. I didn't use people, though. I used sheep to stick with the ewe theme. 

Shim and Hir

Once upon a time, a ewe didn't know she was a she. 

So, their friend, who was a ram, said, "Ewe, you can call yourself 'shim' since you don't know if you are she or him." "Shim would make you neither or neither (however you want to say it)." 

"Why, that's a great idea!" Said the ewe who didn't know she was a she.

Not long after the ewe became Shim, they and the ram talked for a long time about why the ram had to be a him. So, the ram finally decided not to identify as him and to call theirself "hir." 

Over time, Shim and Hir developed a close friendship. Shim and Hir played sheep games every day. Then, one day, ze became upset with each other when Shim wanted to play "baby ewe," and Hir wanted to play "horn bashing."  

Shim got mad at Hir and said, "I'm not playing horn bashing with you because I don't have horns!" 

Hir retorted, "You are really acting like a ewe!" 

When Hir called Shim a ewe, it made Shim so mad that they decided to be friends with Hir no longer. It came to pass that ze went their separate ways to find new friends with whom ze could identify.

The End.

Two Promises

Three years ago, the world crashed around our family when our eldest daughter suffered a life-threatening brain aneurysm and stroke. While she was on a respirator at the hospital, my husband and I took a short respite from round-the-clock sentry duty to attend the wedding of our friend's daughter. 

The outside wedding was in the afternoon in Florida. The afternoon weather in Florida is known to be unpredictable. Often, it rains with little warning. This afternoon was typical for Florida. 

The rain started with a trickle and soon became a deluge threatening to move the ceremony inside. All the guests were seeking refuge under a nearby park shelter. 

I stood with a friend from the church as we waited out the storm. Denise and I engaged in small talk about the weather, and we wondered aloud if the ceremony would be moved. As we talked, we each seemed preoccupied. The gloomy weather matched our private gloom, and the weather conversation masked the emotional storms we were each facing. 

The awkwardness of our conversation was broken by the easing of the storm as the rain began to subside. It wasn't long before it cleared up, and the sun made a feeble attempt at shining.

"Maybe they will be able to have the ceremony outside after all," I told Denise. "We should both pray that God will send us a rainbow!" 

I didn't need to elaborate. Denise knew what I was saying. It was no secret that we each needed soul calming. Denise's husband and my daughter were both facing an uncertain future. Miguel, Denise's husband, had just been diagnosed with aggressive cancer. Jenn, my daughter, was not breathing independently or responding to anyone. 

After the chairs had been dried off and the guests seated, the ceremony began without a hitch. The bride and groom stood under a huge banyan tree as mist from the rain shrouded them. It was a beautiful scene. From where I sat, I could gaze just above the tree into the cloudy sky. The clouds hung so low that I was sure we'd be soaked at any moment. Selfishly, I prayed for a rainbow before the sky opened up again. 

No rainbow appeared. 

It wasn't long before my eyes began to water, and I couldn't stop my salty raindrops. My tears weren't tears of joy for the bride and groom. They were tears of despair. I desperately wanted God to answer my prayer! I halfheartedly watched the ceremony as my mind drifted to my daughter's hospital bed.

As I stood to leave, I glanced one more time at the sliver of the sky over the banyan tree. It was at that instant that the rainbow came into view. I was momentarily overwhelmed by the sight of it. My husband had to grab my arm to keep me from falling over. 

"You okay?" He asked nervously. 

"Do you see it!" I pointed to the sky. 

"What?" He asked.

"The rainbow!" I said as raindrops started pelting us.

My husband grabbed my arm and started hurrying me toward the shelter.

"I didn't see any rainbow." He said as we reached the shelter. 

"Well, I did!" I said stubbornly. "I prayed for the rainbow, and I saw it! I know that Jenn will be okay because God sent it!" 

Later, at the reception, Denise and Miguel were tearing up the dance floor. To look at them, you'd never know that Miguel had just received devastating news about his health. I kicked off my shoes, grabbed my husband, and joined them on the dance floor. Soon, we were all dancing as if we had no care in the world. 

As the crowd gathered on the dance floor, I danced close to Denise. Over the din of the party, I asked her if she saw the rainbow. Denise smiled at me, grabbed my hand, and led me over to the edge of the dance floor where we wouldn't be knocked over by the swaying mob. 

"Yes, Betty, but there wasn't just one - there were two rainbows!" She laughed. 

"You're kidding!" I yelled over the music. 

"No!" She yelled back. "I'm not kidding. It was a double rainbow! It was only there for a minute, but I saw it!" 

Some might say that God doesn't exist. Some might say that He doesn't make or keep promises. Some might even say that God has nothing to do with rainbows. I know that God answered two prayers that day with two promises. 

God chose to color Denise's and my grief. When He sent that double rainbow, He brightened our darkest hour. God knows when and how to answer prayer. Sometimes He whispers. Sometimes He shouts. Sometimes He's silent, and sometimes He makes us open our eyes to the rainbow's promise.

God never promised a life without pain or sorrow. God never promised the sun without rain, but He did promise strength for the day, comfort for the tears, and light for the way. The day of two rainbows was when God promised something good would always come from the storms of life. 

God gave my daughter a new life. It isn't the life we wanted for her or one she would have chosen for herself. She could be miserable, but she is grateful for the blessing of each new day and thankful that she can live a full life, even from a wheelchair. 

God gave Denise and Miguel three more happy years together: Three more years with their family and friends and three more years of dancing. 

It is not always easy to be thankful. Sometimes, we don't want to thank God! We are commanded to give thanks IN all circumstances - not FOR all circumstances.

I went to my friend's wedding feeling less than thankful. I left the wedding with a promise of God's faithfulness. I was reminded that a spirit of thankfulness is something we must always keep close to our hearts. We learn life lessons when our hearts are thankful - especially in tough times. 

As a mother of five children, there are many days I don't feel thankful. I don't feel thankful when my patience is stretched thin over a new catastrophe in one of my children's lives. While I didn't feel grateful when I lost my son to a fentanyl overdose, I realized that his tragedy propelled me to do my part to help save someone else's child. Thankfulness isn't always something we feel. It's something we must practice. So, on Mother's Day, I urge all moms to thank God for His many blessings and remember his promises.  

Indomitable Will

Creak, scrape, creak, scrape; the repetitive sound goes down the florescent-lit hallway as the walker slowly advances over the spit-polished hospital floor. The movement is slow but steady as each step is carefully maneuvered to keep the walker from zigzagging off course. The final destination is about 15 feet away - a meandering tortoise might reach the door quicker. Still, nothing will get in the way of Jenn's determination. She WILL walk into this room even if it takes her all day! Creak, scrape, creak, scrape; almost there! The smile on her face belies the struggle it takes to make this journey. 

With each creak and scrape, I film the slow progress, and my heart feels like it might burst with joy. I know this struggle all too well. I know how long it took to get here to this day, this hour...this moment. 

Jenn's struggle started almost two years ago. No one ever thought the day would come when she pushed her walker down the hall. Indeed, no one thought it would be this soon! Her smile lights up her entire face: creak, scrape, creak, scrape. 

On she goes. Her braced leg has a mind of its own; wayward and helter-skelter, it tries to veer off course. Jenn doesn't give in. Jenn doesn't give up. Jenn doesn't allow her impetuous leg to rue the day. This day is exceptional! 

The door to his room is just ahead. He doesn't know Jenn is coming. If he hears her, he probably suspects it's just one of the many mechanical assistant machines almost everyone in this hospital wing uses. He would have no reason to suspect that the person operating the contraption was anyone of any specific interest.

I move to the door of his room. I'm shaking. The tears are flowing now - I can't help it. I'm about to open the door to Gavin's room. Courageous Gavin. Fearless Gavin. Audacious Gavin. Gavin the brave! 

There's no describing Gavin - Just like there's no describing Jenn. God found a way to put these two indomitable spirits together in this cosmos. Together, they each faced insurmountable odds and, together, each triumphed. 

Gavin was Jenn's first-grade student - her favorite (she always reminds me). He was born with Cerebral Palsy and faced many obstacles in his young life. Jenn was chosen as his teacher because of her unique way with children who face challenging situations. I have no doubt that God's mighty hand was at work when Gavin became her special charge. 

Although Gavin is now nine, he has kept in touch with Jenn for years. Jenn taught with Gavin's grandmother, and he often visited Jenn in her room before and after school. When Jenn suffered her brain aneurysm, Gavin frequently came to the hospital. He always told me that someday he and Mrs. "P" would do physical therapy together. 

There were days when we had doctors tell us that Jenn's prognosis was bleak - but Gavin the brave would always tell me that Mrs. "P" would get better and walk again someday. He never wavered in his belief that he would one day walk side by side with his teacher.

Over this past year, Gavin has had some major surgeries. We learned Gavin was going to St. Joseph's Hospital in Tampa for his most recent surgery. Since Jenn goes to Tampa General for her outpatient therapy, I called Gavin's grandma. I asked her if we could stop and see Gavin at St. Joseph's on Monday. We were already on the road, and I expected that we could visit Gavin after Jenn was done with her therapy.

Imagine my surprise when Gavin's grandma told me he had been transferred to Tampa General Children's wing for therapy! Jenn was excited to learn Gavin was next door to the building where she does her treatment! Not only that, but Jenn had put on her "team Gavin" tee shirt that morning! 

It's a good thing that I called Gavin's grandma on Monday because, in true Gavin fashion, he was already amazing all the doctors at Tampa General with his determination and grit. They were already discussing an early release since Gavin had made tremendous progress. This last surgery was very serious because it involved his spine. He wasn't expected to walk for at least three weeks. However, on the day of his surgery, he stood. The day after his surgery, he walked. 

Now, this day, this hour, this moment has come. I open the door. Gavin's face lights up as Jenn appears in his doorway. She gradually makes her way step by step into his room. Gavin sits up. Slowly, painfully he moves to place both feet on the floor. Then, taking his father's hand, Gavin stands. 

Deliberately, Gavin places one foot in front of the other and haltingly walks over to his teacher. Each of them has walked a path that few of us will ever have the privilege to experience. They have traversed rugged terrain not meant for the faint of heart. Many people grow weary from life's struggles, but Gavin and Jenn never become disheartened. Jenn's favorite word is "perfect," and Gavin's famous saying is "Never give up." They are the perfect "never give up" team. I've learned from them that facing trials is about the fight in your heart and the heart in your fight. As Gandhi so aptly put it: Strength does not come from physical capacity but from an indomitable will.

Slippers

I opened my top drawer this morning to find three pairs of ugly tread socks staring up at me. No regular socks. No underwear. No bras. Only these reminders of two hellacious weeks in a hospital bed listening to the constant presence of the beep...beep...beeping machine reminding me that my broken heart was at least beating for now.  

“Why is my underwear not in here?”  I thought to myself. Then, I answered my question, “Because you’re too sick to do your laundry!”  

“Damn slippers!” I shouted as I slammed the dresser drawer.

Anger is my constant companion these days. I can’t say that I was furious at the slipper socks. I might not have even been infuriated that I couldn’t do laundry. I hate doing laundry, after all.  

No, the anger isn’t at the slippers. It’s at the slipping. It’s at the slipping away of my life as I knew it. It’s at the slipping away of my daughter’s life as she knew it. The anger is deep. It is a level five on a river of rapids that ram helmeted thrill-seekers into jagged rocks at will.   

Slippers keep you from slipping, but I’m not slipping. I’m tumbling. I could put the hospital slippers on, yet I have to wonder if they will protect me from the fall of my life? When your life is tumbling and falling, what do you do? Do you slam drawers and curse at inanimate objects? I do. I find myself yelling at dishes that I can’t pick up to put away because they are too heavy. I find myself cursing the bed sheets for not putting themselves on the bed. I scream at the vacuum because it is not an iRobot Roomba on autopilot that knows the carpet needs cleaning.  

Screaming at inanimate objects is uncomplicated. They never yell back at you or argue. No matter what I say to the dreaded tread socks, they sit silently in the drawer, taking my abuse. The dishes do nothing unless I throw them. The vacuum remains still.

Screaming at people isn’t as trouble-free. I’ve learned the hard way that bubbling anger should never boil over onto spouses, children or anyone else that happens to be in the line of fire.  

I know that anger breeds indiscriminately. If I’m not careful, anger bunnies will hop all over this house, competing with the dust bunnies I cannot vacuum. How does one herd rabbits? I could google it. I could put on my tread socks and chase the anger, but it might strain my heart too much.  

I could write about my anger, but that would give life to it. Wait a minute; I am writing about it. I am angry that my life has been taken from me. I am angry that Jennifer, my beautiful daughter, struggles to regain her life. I am angry! I am angry that I cannot pick up Jennifer’s daughter, my granddaughter, and hold her like I used to.  

I am even more outraged that Jennifer cannot pick up her daughter because she is paralyzed on her left side. The thought of Jennifer’s daily struggles breeds my anger bunnies to the point where I cannot escape their floppy-eared presence and thumping feet...thump thumping in my brain. I see them. I feel them. I cry over them.  

Should I feed them? Should I feed the anger bunnies? Should I give them more and more fodder by writing about them? No.

I could give in to the anger. I could succumb to the slipping. I could wear hospital slippers as a constant reminder of my broken heart. I could continue to yell at everything that reminds me of what used to be. I could yell at everyone who reminds me of what I cannot do. I could grieve regularly, but what would that accomplish?  

Yes, I’ve lost a lot, but what have I gained besides three pairs of hospital slippers? I have gained a new perspective on life. When I’m not angry, I’m grateful and even hopeful. When I’m not chasing anger bunnies, I’m pursuing a bright future full of cute little donkeys that make me smile.  

I have lost so much. Jennifer has lost so much. There is no escaping that fact. Dwelling on that fact could cause me to spend the rest of my days trying to herd anger bunnies. I don’t know, but I’m guessing that herding rabbits is futile, even if you’re wearing non-slip slippers. 

Bud

His greeting was always the same, “Hey, Little Bit,” followed by a big bear hug. I guess I was “little bit” to him, standing five feet tall (on tippy toes) next to his six feet. I thought of him more like a dad than a friend. He became such an intricate part of our family that the kids thought of him as Grandpa Bud.  

We could always count on Grandpa Bud to be in the cheering section of every sporting event for each of our kids (even though he didn’t know a lick about sports). Grandma Carol, on the other hand, loves sports and made valiant efforts to instill a love of sports in Grandpa Bud. She claims she gave up after Bud asked her one day while watching an NFL football game, how many of the guys had last names of “Riddell” (the helmet manufacturer).  

Bud entered our lives when our kids were little and remained with us as our family grew and grew with foster and adoptive children. It fits that our children were in his and Carol’s wedding as flower girls and ring bearers (God knows we had enough kids to make up two bridal parties!). The circle of life came full circle when Bud and Carol represented the grandparents at our daughter’s wedding.  

He always made each of our kids feel special and loved. He was a man of few words, but he never missed an opportunity to speak encouragement at the dance recital or the graduation. His gentle kindness won the trust of Nurjahan, our little girl from Bangladesh, who was terribly burned by acid. In her culture, it was forbidden to be alone in a room with a man who was not a relative. Over time, she would sit on Grandpa Bud’s lap while he read her stories.  

If I were asked to come up with one word to describe Bud, it would be gentle. He was always gentle and kind. I never heard him raise his voice or utter a mean word to anyone. He was also fun.  

For a man his age, he was up for anything. We’ve been on camping trips, hiking in mountains, tubing, and canoeing. I’ll never forget the time he was canoeing with my daughter, Jennifer, and the canoe tipped. Carol and I were not very compassionate as we laughed our heads off! Then, we realized Bud couldn’t swim, and his hat and hearing aids were floating down the river! All was not lost, though, and we managed to rescue Bud and his belongings.  

I have so many beautiful memories of Bud. I feel so blessed to have had him and Carol in our lives all these years. He lived a good, honorable life. He loved his country and served in the military in WWII. When he wore his WWII veteran hat, he was often approached by strangers that just took the time to say, “thank you.” I want to take the time to say, “thank you.” Thank you, Bud, for the joy you brought into our lives. Thank you for your loving ways. Thank you for always being there for my family. Thank you for teaching me that gentleness and kindness are a sign of great strength of character. You will be greatly missed and always treasured.  

Someday, I hope to hear that greeting again, “Hey, Little Bit!” Until then, rest in God’s arms, my dear friend. 

In Loving Memory
Bud Treiber
April 1, 1922 - October 8, 2015