Dogs Never Lie

In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.

~ W.H. Auden

Madison would be freaking out right now if she were here to see this flood.  She would be tempted to get in the creek but she would hesitate; tuned into the water’s raging energy; connected to the heightened turmoil around her.  She was sensitive like that; dialed in before others even knew. 

 

Like the time she made a big fuss of dragging her blanket and pillow around to my side of the bed so she could sleep next to me.  I noticed the change right away, and I wondered out loud if perhaps I had cancer, or some terrible malaise, because I had heard about dogs that can sense these things.  A few days later I learned that I was pregnant.  She continued to drag her bed around to my side for weeks until one day she didn’t; and, again, I wondered out loud if everything was okay with the baby.  A few days later I miscarried.  She didn’t drag her bed around to my side after that, but she stayed close and loved me through my tears.

 

One time she charged to the edge of the yard and scared the dickens out of our neighbor.  She could be intimidating with her stocky frame—almost 100 pounds and mostly muscle—but Madison just wanted to say hello.  We knew her approach could use some work; still, she went too far that time and she knew better, so when her daddy scolded her bad choice she put herself in time-out; cowering on the little mat in front of the soaking tub in the master bath, shaking and shivering in her remorse.  She wanted to do right, she really wanted to do right, and it killed her to think that she had disappointed us.

 

But she could never really disappoint us, not for long anyway.  No matter the infraction, just one look at her cute little mug and soon we were laughing at her heartfelt expressions.  She could be a real drama queen sometimes.  Mostly, we just loved her and cherished every minute we shared. 

 

Before I came along she was her daddy’s best friend, but she welcomed me with loving paws and big wet kisses.  She even let me paint her toenails in my favorite shades –“Party-in-my-Cabana” pink for the summer and “Fa-La-La-Luscious” for the holidays.  From the way she watched me beautify, I imagined that she secretly wanted to join me in my primping.  And when she walked down the aisle as the honorary ring bearer for our New Year’s Eve nuptials, wearing a big red flower behind her ear, I couldn’t have loved her more if I had given birth to her myself.  I hope she knew that.

 

When she left her condo in the city for mountain dwelling, we teased that she was living the high life in her new retirement home.  More than bacon and eggs—more than anything—she loved being outdoors, and she moved freely between meditations in the sun, chasing sticks and mindless rambling by the creek.  Madison taught me so much about living, about the joy of routine and unconditional love, about seizing each moment and never being afraid to ask for what you want.   I envied her life.

 

Sometimes I still hear the tap of her nails on the hardwood floors and I turn to call her name.  Then I remember.  But like the whispering wind that moves the trees and urges the water downstream, we’ll carry her loving spirit in our hearts forever. 

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Photos by Lori Kennedy Photography.  (c) 2012 Lori Kennedy.  www.lorikennedy.co

 

A Season of Enchantment

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.  That's how the light gets in.

~Leonard Cohen

The orderly wheeled the boy into the playroom on the 7th floor, just as he always did after dinner but before the nurse came to give him his medicine; this was his favorite time of the day.

“Well, hello there handsome. Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you . . .” She smiled, standing by the art table with her hands on her hips. “What’s new with you?”

He blushed, bright red. At 16, he was showing signs of his manhood—small patches of hair growing on either side of his chin—and his voice seemed to get a little deeper each time she saw him.

“Hello Miss V… Doc says I get to go home tomorrow, just in time for Christmas—“

“Oh Jack, that’s wonderful!” She clapped her hands in delight, and then suddenly frowned. “I’m sure gonna’ miss you when you’re gone . . .”

“Don’t be sad Miss V, you know I can’t stay away for long. . .” he said with a seriousness that broke her heart. Forty-two days, that’s how long he had been there this time—his sixth hospitalization this year—at first for a spinal fusion, and then for pneumonia like so many times before. But it was the cerebral palsy that kept him confined to his chair, unable to use his arms and legs.

She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at the drool forming in the corners of his mouth. “Hey, we’ve got some great new art projects tonight,” she said. “We can make a snowman . . . or a reindeer . . . oh, look . . . we could paint one of these ceramic angels or a Santa to hang on your tree . . . What do you feel like doing?”

“Ummm . . .” he contemplated his choices while scanning the room with his eyes. “Can we paint an angel for my mom? ‘Cause she’s an angel to me . . .”

“Of course we can, Jack . . . and then we can wrap it up and tie a ribbon around it, like this—” she said, holding up a cellophane bag with snowflakes on it, and a dark red ribbon for decoration.

“Yeah, let’s do that!” He smiled, eager to get started. Together they collected all of the supplies from the art cabinet that they would need to create his angelic vision—paint, brushes, a cup of water to rinse things off, a hand-towel and a bunch of newspapers to cover the table with. And as she prepared their workspace, she listened to him talking with the other children.

“Hi Lauren, how are you feeling today?” He asked, listening intently to her reply. And then to Kevin, “Did you beat your dad at foosball last night? I knew you would!” He laughed. And as Jenny’s mom prepared to wheel her back to her room for bed, Jack called after her, “That sure was a brave thing you did yesterday—donating your bone marrow like that. You’re a hero! Get some sleep tonight.”

Miss V felt a lump forming in the back of her throat as she fought back tears. She did that a lot lately, swell up with emotion and cry. It had been a tough year for her in so many ways, and she knew that her problems paled in comparison to the limitations of Jack’s life. Still, something about his tenderness and concern for the others hit her hard. She felt a little guilty for bemoaning her fate, and she swore to herself that she wouldn’t cry in front of the children. She just couldn’t. She was supposed to be there to help them—that’s what volunteers do—not melt into a puddle of tears in the middle of the playroom.

“Miss V—are you ready?” Jack interrupted her thoughts, now that he was settled in at the table.

“You betcha!” She smiled, blinking back her tears. “What color shall we paint with first?”

“Purple for the angel’s robe . . . and then maybe some blue,” he said, exercising his artistic freedom.

For the next half-hour they sat together, talking and laughing quietly, as she painted the ceramic angel and he directed her hand. Occasionally she would lift the angel into the air for his inspection, since he couldn’t move his head, and he didn’t hesitate to tell her when she had painted out of the lines or missed a spot.

“Sorry, sorry . . . I do that sometimes . . .” she said, laughing at his sudden bossiness.

“You have a beautiful smile, Miss V. You should smile all the time—“

Now it was her turn to blush. She had always been so good at looking after others, complimenting them, making them feel special, but his simple acknowledgement caught her off guard.

“Thank you, Jack. Nobody ever said a nicer thing—“

“Well I like you, Miss V. You talk to me like normal—when we’re sitting here like this—and I almost forget about my . . . condition. I swear it's the greatest gift ever!”

“You’re a good guy, Jack—wise beyond your years— and I like talking with you, too. . .” she said, clearing her throat as she blinked back more tears. “Speaking of gifts—what’s Santa going to bring you for Christmas this year?”

“Miss V,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper so the littlest ones wouldn't hear. “Don’t you think I’m too old for Santa?”

“Well of course not, Jack!” She teased. “Santa’s all about granting wishes . . . Surely there’s something you want special this year?”

Jack got real quiet like he does when he’s thinking hard about something. Then after a time he said, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Nothing?” She asked, shaking her head in disbelief because she had never heard of a kid who didn’t want something for Christmas.

He sat quietly before he spoke. “Well, sure, there are things I want but I know I’ll never get them, so I just try not to think about it—what I don’t have.”

“What kind of things, Jack?”

“Like walking.  I would love to get up out of this chair and walk—run—as far and fast as I can. I would love to paint that angel myself. Every time I see my dog I want to throw the ball to him and rub his head—he really likes it when my brother does that. And I want to hug my mom because she always does such nice things for me. I want to shake my dad’s hand like a man . . . and play video games with my little brother.  I want to hold a book and turn the pages, one by one, as I read them. I want to go to the bathroom by myself without that guy having to help me—“ he whispered, rolling his eyes toward the orderly sitting in the corner chair. “And . . .”

“And what Jack?”

“I can’t tell you.” He whispered, a mischievous grin forming on his lips.

“Sure you can—“

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I promise,” she said, making a cross in the air above her heart.

“I want to kiss a girl—“ he whispered.

“That’s not funny at all, Jack. In fact, it’s one of the most natural desires in the world—“

“And I want to fall in love with her . . . and I want her to love me back.”

Overwhelmed with irony, she didn’t even try to hold back her tears for she understood his greatest loss—she felt it—the loss of freedom and choice. As for love, well, she wanted the same thing and she told him so. Sure, she had had some great boyfriends and some success in her life, but the one thing she wanted most of all—the one thing that money could not buy—was true love. She thought her heart might explode into a thousand little pieces with the longing he expressed. She knew it well. And she put down her paint brush and hugged him tight in his chair.

“We’re not so different, Jack—you and me—the heart wants what it wants.  But love is alive and well in both of us and we must never give up.”

“What do you mean, Miss V?”

“Well, you know how you talk with the other children and ask them how they’re doing—how they’re feeling?”

“Yes—“

“. . . and the way that you smile and laugh even though there are things about your life that you might want to be different?”

“Yes—“

“. . . and the way that you feel about your mom and dad and your little brother?”

“Yes—“

“Well, that is love in its purest form. It’s a bright light, Jack, and it shines in you—”

“And it shines in you too, Miss V—like the way you help the children here at the hospital. . .”

“Exactly,” she said, and they smiled at each other. “We must never let our lights go out. We must never stop loving, even if others don't love us back.”

By then, the ceramic angel was finished—nearly dry—and she pulled some ribbon through the hole at the top so that he could hang it on the tree. She held it in the air for one final inspection. They agreed—it was good.

The orderly stood and moved toward the table. “We should probably get going Jack. It’s time for your meds.”

“Wait . . .” Miss V said, pointing to the bright light coming from the window across the room. “Before you go, let’s make a wish on the Christmas star . . . what do you say, Jack?”

His eyes danced with possibility.  “Do you think wishes really can come true, Miss V?”

“Yes, Jack, I do. Maybe not exactly as we wish them, or in the timeframe that we would like for them to come true . . . and I think sometimes we may get something that we didn’t wish for but that ends up being better for us in the long run . . . but, yes—I do believe that wishes can come true . . . especially when they come from your heart . . . especially at Christmastime. After all, it's the season of magic and miracles,” she winked, and she kissed him on the cheek before bending down to unlock the brakes on his wheelchair.

Then together they moved toward the light.

By Melissa Johnson

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*This story was inspired by my little friends at Children's Hospital in Denver, Colorado.  To find out how you can make cash or in-kind donations of toys or art supplies, please visit their web site at http://www.thechildrenshospital.org/.   Happy Holidays!

Who's that Lady?

Every now and then beautiful angels appear cleverly disguised as ordinary human beings.

~ Adele Basheer

They say that guardian angels walk among us--always with us--guiding our thoughts, actions, what we see and hear; showing up at just the right time with just the message we need to hear.

One of mine appeared to me as a Gina Rowlands look-alike.

I was driving cross-country, headed west, when, somewhere outside of Memphis, traveling North on I-65, I found myself in a massive traffic situation. I strained to find the I-40 freeway exchange that would take me towards Colorado. There was so much traffic, and not one sign pointed to I-40. In fact, I saw nothing even remotely similar to the directions I carried.

Now I've driven in some crazy places. Generally speaking, traffic doesn't scare me. But this was different. Cars were flying past me, left and right, cutting sharply from lane to lane as they all tried to be in the right place at the right time to make their freeway exit. It felt like this road led everywhere and nowhere all at once. The thought of missing my west-bound exchange and trying to navigate my way from the other direction unnerved me. So I made a split-second decision and took the next exit. I had no idea where I was, but I knew that stopping sooner than later would allow me to look at my road atlas, get my bearings and perhaps avoid a traffic disaster.

As I neared the end of the exit ramp I saw nothing--I'm talking ghost town as far as the eye could see--except for an old, abandoned gas station, its windows covered with boards and unruly weeds and grass growing between the cracks in the asphalt. It was sketchy, for sure, but broad daylight, and I thought it would be okay to stop there for a few minutes and get myself sorted out.

Sitting in my little sports car--motor running, windows up, doors locked--I spread my atlas across the passenger seat, looking between my written directions and the small detail of the map. Just then, a car pulled up--a dark blue tank of a Cadillac--driven by a woman with white-blonde hair, pulled back in a large bow. I noticed that she had a handicap decal hanging from her rear-view mirror as she circled my car, finally stopping on the passenger side with a gesture suggesting I roll down my window.

"Honey, you need to get outta here right now," she said in her thick southern drawl.

Her excitement caught me off guard.

"Where are you headed?" She asked.

"I'm looking for the I-40 exchange, headed west," I yelled through the open window.

"Well, honey, you need to follow me; I'll take you right to it. But you need to go now. You need to leave right now," she repeated calmly through her smile. "I'll drive you to your exit and then I'll pull over and point where you need to go, it'll be an awkward left turn but I'll let you know when we're getting close."

"Okay," I said, feeling slightly nervous but grateful for her help. Who is this woman and what is she doing in the middle of nowhere? I wondered. "Wait, what's your name? I want to thank you for helping me."

"Just call me your guardian angel,” she said with a wink and a smile, tipping her head. “No thanks necessary. Come on now, let's get moving . . ."

She pulled out of the parking lot, driving slowly at first, and we meandered some 3 miles down these winding, nowhere roads--a few turns here and there—then, true to her word, as we neared the exit, she pulled off on the right-hand shoulder of the road and stuck her arm out of the window, waving wildly and pointing left, motioning for me to exit. And off I went.

For the next two hours I drove in complete silence--no music, no cell phone chit-chat, no distractions--just me and my awe-filled thoughts of wonder about this guardian angel. And though I had no way of knowing what could have happened—what would have happened—had she not appeared, had I lingered in that parking lot one minute longer or entered the freeway one second later, in my heart, I knew that she had saved me from misfortune.

As we move through life, I think it’s important that we keep our eyes, ears and hearts open—all of our senses, really—to the messages around us, even those that come in unlikely forms. You never know when someone you encounter may be an earth-angel, there to help you, protect you, teach you or bring you into higher levels of yourself.

No matter the form, experience has taught me well. Angels, indeed, walk among us . . . or drive, as the case may be.

By Melissa Johnson

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This article is dedicated to my beloved Grandfather, Karl Mason. April 9, 1919 -- July 17, 2008. In your new spirit form may you be a guiding light for others, just as you were here on earth. Happy Birthday.